There is peace in the valley. It is as if all the rogues and ruffians, grifters and lifters, shovers, shouters, looters, corrupters and flouters of social norms had been redirected at an earlier junction. As if diablo's little imps and thieves and torturers and bandits had been lured to greener pickings, to richer spoils; leaving a few near-heavenly acres of remote urban existence to play out a parallel-style universe (at least to the casual eye) of quietude and gentle calmness, tucked up along the banks of a currently seething, flooding 3km-wide Parana River. The little Argentine town of Goya (Godja, to the tongue) plies its slow trade alongside the 4,880km-long waterway that in turn divides Brazil, Paraguay, Uruguay and Argentina, harbouring the Iguazu Falls halfway along its stretch for good measure. A flat river-plain town,
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