The End Is The Beginning Of The End : Posadas to Yapeyú : Thurs 2nd Jan

Four hours is never enough sleep. Going to bed at 5am and trying to rise at 9am is futile. Crawling from bed with burning eyes and an empty stomach, needing a taxi to the bus terminal for an 11am trip to Yapeyú, our designated half-way spot to Concordia, our designated half-way spot to Montevideo. So many stops all because there is nothing direct.

Getting dressed is painful. Getting organised is worse. Making sure that we haven't left anything behind is a bloody joke. We bid farewell to Tim and Lees at 8.30am somehow, the Bavarians are barely alive and heading back to their volunteering project in Puerto Rico, and we don't even remember to lift the delicious chimichurri sauce or cayenne pepper marinade from the fridge on the way out the door. It is not easy to get hot sauce in Argentina.

Our taxi arrives and we watch the minutes drip away as we jolt down side streets and main avenues, and my frigid memory of where the bus terminal is seems shakier than before. We pull up well after 11am and any hope we had of getting to Yapeyú by mid-afternoon is gone.

After an empanada or two, and some agua con gas, we book onto a bus leaving at 6pm. Nothing much to do but hang around, try and sleep in the waiting room upstairs, watch animals tearing each other to pieces on Nat Geo Wild on the plasma tv, and when we eventually feel human again head to the restaurant downstairs for a sandwich or two. When these fail to satisfy we have to leave the station and get a decent milanese across the road. Very tasty, and plenty left for the onward journey.

6pm rolls up and we, semi-flawlessly, roll out of Posadas and head south.

The sun falls from the sky quickly around here. Not much to see in between anyway.

Yapeyú appears off a roundabout, a tiny town of a single main street, an a two-space bus terminal. This is not a metropolitan hub. Selected from a few towns as it is the birthplace of quasi-deity Jose De San Martin, or El Libertador De La Republica de Argentina as he is known round here, Yapeyú is something you imagine rather than visit. But in the late night glow of streetlights, and the barking of tiny dogs that freaks Sarah out, we stalk back up the road to the edge of town, and by torchlight make our way down the long, lit, but cow-pat-ridden path to Pousada Altos De Yapeyú. Another barking dog blocks our way, but once again bounds out of the way as I show my determination to get to the front door, and Mario appears after a wait to let us in. The Pousada is fresh and clean and as good as anywhere we have stayed yet. I already wish we were here for longer. But then I have felt that way everywhere, why should this be any different? I have spent my life endeavouring to leave the party before it becomes stale, before the fighting begins and everyone goes to bed.

We need a hotel for the next night in Concordia. Life doesn't make it easy when the power cuts out twenty minutes later. We look dazed and close our eyes; no AC or mosquito-plugs working, and a dog barking in the distance. But it doesn't last long, and half an hour later the power kicks in, we book a hotel and collapse into an incredibly comfortable bed.

Incredibly Thick Calabresa On A Pizza : Posadas : Wed 1st Jan 2014

New Year's Day is a long, slow occasion when you aren't at home and you've nothing to do. All shops are shut, everyone is probably with their families or sleeping off a night in a club dancing to music they haven't heard since 2012. There are only so many things to do, like learning how to play whist, or going to the only supermarket that is open and making a big pot of pasta salad (in a European style of course, very different from how I make it, but then thats Europeans for you! They have that weird love of mayonnaise too).

The Bavarians are all desperately hungover and, when they do appear intermittently, interrupt our video calls back home. Fortunately their bravado is balanced out when my father asks one of them 'Do you put your towels on the sun loungers at the pool?'. The Bavarian is stunned into silence, and returns to his litre bottle of Stella.

After lunch we make a start on the dishes. A glass falls to the tiled floor and explodes. Georg's foot is suddenly in a pool of blood, a small shard having caught his ankle. Nurse Sarah is quickly on the scene, the foot is elevated, cleaned, and gauze applied. All Georg has to do is keep his foot up to stop the blood running to his foot. Fat chance.

The girl who owns the hostel tries her best to get an ambulance, but its the siesta on New Years Day and the doctors are all asleep. I am fairly sure he needs stitches. Our temporary patch-up won't last, and doesn't, and once again we are mopping blood off the tiles. At least it puts in some time. Eventually we get some paramedics out, who are unamused by the Bavarian's antics but are polite and clean the wound. Naturally it is tiny when washed down with saline, and easily bandaged up. Big bottles of Brahma are an effective anaesthetic.

When the dust settles and the Bavarians all retire, we settle down to learn how to play cards. Sarah has difficulties with the different suits. Tim (our Frenchman in Dublin) reveals his love of Bridge. I do my best to persuade him to start playing competitively.

Tim, Sarah and Lees.

Around 8pm Sonya announces she is going to book a table at a rather nice Pizza restaurant. A dozen of us sign up. At 9.30pm we arrive at a rather suave establishment.

When the Bavarians first spotted us they pointed at me, Norn Iron football shirt, green shorts, on a green chair, drinking black beer (Quilmes Stout) and said "He is from Ireland!" It was true. In the restaurant we found a wall we could hide against. Everyone was amused.

Sarah and I, Japanese style.

Sonya, Sebastian, Jonas, Me, Georg and Laura.

Where is Daniel? After a bottle of delicious Malbec, who knows? We were very amusingly reminded by our group's resident Argentinian that 'Just one or two beers here, ok?', then the waiter was delighted when we selected a local wine from the menu. As Irish travellers (ummmm....) we carry the weight of the world's expectations of our island on our shoulders. Fortunately for our livers it is impossible to get drunk down here. It's all lager, which is refreshing rather than intoxicating, and now we are in the Southern Cone we can enjoy some wine (which is impossible in the humid heat of the middle of the continent).

George and his bloodied foot. It was his birthday the following day.

What a fine day, full of all the adventures and drama we wanted from this trip. We have made good friends too; Sarah has been invited by Sonya and Laura to visit their village, south of Munich and barely north of the Alps, where she can sing The Sound Of Music all day long. I, by contrast, am invited down to enjoy Octoberfest with these boys in their very traditional town, with proper lederhosen and music. Somehow it is 5am and we are discussing the greatest guitar solos ever.

What's Spanish For 'Hootenanny'? : Posadas : Tues 31st Dec 2013

Tuesday, the New Years Eve of the 31st of the December of the 2013. I have never been so hot on New Year's Eve, nor had my sleep so disturbed by an AC unit that thought its job was to help me look like Han Solo encased in carbonite. My toes had an inch of ice around them, and the single sheet on the bed was supplemented with my towel and as many clothes as I could throw on there. Far from perfect start to the day.

Some parts of this blog are notable for the absence of photographs pertaining to that specific time. Perhaps on those occasions we are fulfilling our daily ablutions, or glaring at each other the way two people who are stuck in each others' company for six months with barely another human to speak to do, or sometimes we are typing up things like this, when nothing is really going on that is worth writing about. Also, quite a lot, we are drinking a lot of beer or, like this exact moment, wine, and we don't want to give you an unfavourable impression of the hardships we are undergoing here (lets just say Sarah has foresworn ever getting on an Ulsterbus ever again, having been spoiled by the likes of Crucero Del Norte here).

However, on this particular day, we have no photographs because we were running around (figuratively) like blue-arses flies trying to get money changed before we crossed into Argentina. It goes like this:

If I go to an ATM in Argentina, the exchange rate is A$10.5 pesos to the pound. If I go to an Casa de Cambio in Paraguay with Guaraní I get A$1 to every 460-500 Guaraní. At an ATM in Paraguay I get P$7500 to the pound, or rather approximately A$15 to the pound, after all that mucking about.

The Casas De Cambio in Paraguay advertise their exchange rates on boards outside the office. At P$500 to the peso we get approximated A$14.5 pesos to the pound, substantially better than the official rate in Argentina (commission is already built into the exchange rate, which is nice). HOWEVER it has to be done in cash. And it's New Years Eve in South America. Everything is closed (didn't bloody think of that yesterday, did I?)

We walk around the world to try and find the little exchange place that we saw yesterday, but it refuses to be found (how very Paraguayan). Eventually we make our way back to the main Plaza De Armas and begin to fret when it appears all banks are shut. Stumble upon a Moneygram offering A$1 for P$480, which is very acceptable, and attempt to change our cash. Ah, but we need our passports. And when do you close? In one hour? There's a phrase that springs to mind that rhymes with 'clucking bell'.

Back to the hostel in a massive flap, twenty minutes away, and gather our stuff together, check out (marginally later) and with passport in hand I run back to the Moneygram. I do not recommend this course of action, however I was suffering from terrible swollen fingers and legs, and Sarah had advised that this was due to poor circulation. I didn't have any trouble with circulation at the end of that run let me tell you (though I had sweated away a gallon or so of valuable water). I amuse Sarah (later, much later) with reminiscences of Birds Of A Feather's Dorian "Horses sweat, men perspire, women glow". We were sweating.

At Moneygram I have a pleasant chat in Spanish with the guy at the counter who has noticed the Israeli stamps in my passport; he lived there for two years working on a kibbutz, and I am once again surprised by this little country that no one ever goes to. Our exchange done, we did each other a happy new year, and I run back to the hostel. I am quite sure I do not smell very good right now (aside: for what its worth, I have been using Nivea roll on deodorant here, and it hasn't let me down yet).

So far, frantic but successful. Out the door, onto a bus bound for the border. A lot less hectic that at Ciudad Del Este, here we pull into a small slip road outside town, where Sarah and I get quickly stamped out of Paraguay, and jump onto the next bus, gliding across the bridge into Argentina. The view is pretty fancy, but no chance of photos as we cling on for dear life underneath the weight of our rucksacks. Customs at Posadas is formal, everyone off the bus and into a queue in a small office, where we are politely asked our business, but let into Argentina without bother. So far all border checks have been straightforward, and any little pieces of paper the guidebooks have suggested mean life-or-death for the wandering backpacker have be utterly unnecessary. You still get a small fear when you are doing it, but nothing untoward has happened yet. It's very much business as usual.

Our bus gets a good going-over by the Argentines, and once we are all cleared we climb aboard and cruise into the town of Posadas. The bus takes a quick right turn and deposits us close to our hostel, the only one in the city (and it shows). Hostel Linda is a little rough and ready in places, for example our toilet could have used an actual flushing mechanism rather than relying on us to pull the plug out, and the rooms are on the small side, but then we aren't paying a fortune to be here (especially after the exchange rate).

Showered! Changed! Clothes are washed and I have just lost a small sock down the plughole! But according to the guy on duty today it isn't a problem! I have less socks now. Time for a walk to the shops. Some shifty looking children hanging around the communal area ask 'Where are you from?' and I recognise their German accents. I attempt some German. We all realise this is futile as these guys speak English. We make plans to celebrate New Years together later on over an amount of beer and bad craic. Out we go.

Big metal statue at the artesian market celebrating the Argentina addiction to Yerba Maté.

We walk and lots of things are closed. Nay, everything is closed. We find a small and not very good cafe for lunch where Sarah gets a terrible hotdog and I have a reasonable milanese sandwich. We also have to drink Budweiser which upsets me a bit.

Afterwards we resolve to find a supermarket and get supplies for that evening. We again encounter the problem that to buy large bottles of beer in South America you need to trade in the equivalent number of empty big bottles. Instead we pay a deposit. Big bottles of Quilmes are $12.20 each with a $6 deposit. And buy 2 get 1 free. Nothing to complain about.

At the hostel we discover our troupe of Europeans has expanded to include a Frenchman who lives in Dublin, a girl from Barcelona, another from the Netherlands, and a Paraguayan who looks a lot like Jack Black in Nacho Libre. Sarah has a run-in with an grumpy Italian with a beard in our room who just skulks around looking disgruntled. The young Bavarians are good fun, but spend the whole time here either intoxicated or suffering the ill-effects of it. The girls are serious and the boys are carefree, lounging around the pool or sleeping. A few beers are imbibed, video-chatting with home takes place, and best wishes are offered;  then all us Europeans become friendly, and head out to a bar at 11.30pm in search of the new year.

Instead of a fiesta we find this giant caterpillar. Posadas is deserted. We wander to the riverside and find a few forlorn souls sitting and watching the Paraguayans pull in the new year with all the gunpowder they could find. The difference is unnerving on our first night in Argentina. Is this the stark reality of life here? Just a lot less fun that everywhere else? 

Laura, Georg, Sarah, Azarah, Sebastian, Tim, Lees, Sonya and Jonas.

We walk to the city centre, and theres a deathly silence there too. A local guy and girl appear, and lead us to the other side of town again, where at least this time we find a bar, yet it is as deserted as everywhere else. It turns out that Argentines don't go out til 3am. We are 2 hours too early. The Italian guy follows the girl into the bar and we all decide to say 'to hell with this' and go back to the hostel, where a bottle of sparking Argentine Rosé wine ushers in the new year for Sarah and I. Plans are afoot to catch up on correspondence the next day and find out if Posadas is really the end of the fun as we know it.

Happy new year everyone :)

A Pile Of Old Bricks : Encarnacion and The Jesuit Ruins : Mon 30th Dec

I am in the frustrating situation now of being days and days behind everything that I want to say. There are good reasons for this, as you will see, but for now it is enough to know that Paraguay is two countries ago, Uruguay and the price of Uruguay has arrived, and some details which made up the time in-between is lost forever, except in the form of photographs. Luckily I have a lot of photographs.

Today is Sunday. 6 days ago and 1063km away from here we took these photos. I discovered the difference between Panettone and Pan Dulce (quite a substantial one, in terms of quality and price), I discovered that Air Conditioning can freeze you as easily as cool you down, and I did quite a lot of clothes washing in the baking sun of Encarnacion. After a weekend wandering the little streets and wanting a kebab, on Monday we decided that it was about time to do something touristy. We would go to the local Jesuit Ruins, and I would eat a kebab.

The cathedral beside the hostel.

Went to the bus station in Encarnacion. Looked confused and asked a lot of people which bus takes us to Trinidad, a small town outside Encarnacion, where the first set of ruins are located. Eventually some fat local catches my eye and shouts "Trinidad!" at me. We hand over a quid each a step onto a bus that is a halfway between metal hell and coach heaven. A few kilometres and 40 minutes later we step out onto a hot road in the middle of nowhere. Luckily we spotted this sign on the way, and were not waiting for the shouts of "RUINAS!" that the guidebook assured us there would be.

The ruins are a wee walk through a very inconspicuous, though well kept, hamlet.

Someone is very fond of sunflowers. First ones we have seen mind you.

Here is a map showing just how much of South America was in the hands of the Jesuit communities. If the Spanish crown hadn't been so utterly paranoid about what they were up to, this would be a very different place indeed.

Eventually we get to the little ticket office and view some maps and things. There are three sets of ruins, those of Trinidad, Jesús and somewhere else that I can't remember, that isn't in any guidebook and no one talks about. The ticket is $25000 for all three sites, valid for three days. A bargain in anyone's book.

Ordinarily I don't think ruins are that interesting, and I wasn't prepared to be impressed by these either. However they are in excellent condition, and on a huge site. This particular part is the enormous church at the top of the town.

Clear influence of the ideas of the indigenous Guaraní intermingled with those of the Jesuits.

After an hour or so we exit the ruins and, having previously informed the ticket office of our plan to go to Jesús and see the rest of the ruins, we met our chosen driver Andres, who was a bit of a character and drove a half-trailer half-motorbike. It was as rickety as it sounds, but we enjoyed it over 8KM.

Before departing Trinidad we enjoyed lunch at a little cafe, where I had an extensive conversation with the guy behind the bar, who spoke no English, and I learned a lot of new words. Most important to understand is that Paraguayans, all Paraguayans, think of their country as 'muy tranquillo', or very calm. Thats exactly what its like too. It is hard to imagine anyone here has a hobby that doesn't consist of sitting on the street just checking out whats happening.

A friendly cow, just wandering around outside the cemetery.

Attractive local house.

Arrive at Jesús. Discover that, rather that a whole bunch of different ruins, here we have one enormous, unfinished, and very well preserved church that the Jesuits never had time to complete before being kicked out of the country.

The day is done. We ride back to the main road with Andres and hand over $70000 for the experience. A few moments later a bus turns up and we cruise back into town, hot and sweaty but contented with having achieved something for a change. We notice an exchange place offering P$460 to Arg$1, and resolve to head back there the next day (this is unimportant now, but very important tomorrow). At the hostel, showered and feeling happy, we mosey back down to the artificial beach to catch the sunset, which we are reliably informed is charming.

Ah, lovely. We wander back to the little beachfront bar we spent the previous day in, and enjoy a final  beer. The electricity dies as the sun disappears, and for fifteen minutes the local kids just kick balls up and down the sand without the slightest idea what is happening. Suddenly everything is lit, and families begin to gather themselves together and head for home.

Nothing much left to do but wander back into town to get some dinner. It was tempting to cash out at Tony The Pastie's joint (or Empanada Antonio as he is known here), but we saved ourselves for this delicatessen, pictured below, and Sarah drank a lot of hot sauce. Yes, this man is carving kebabs on the street.

We relax for a while and consider having another. Cars drive up to the kerb and order their kebabs (or Lomito Árabe as they are known) and they are made fresh to order (so to speak). It is funny to think of the Paraguayans having a fair few things they could teach us back home about how to live.

Another end of another day. Feeling pleased with ourselves. Tomorrow we leave Paraguay and head into Argentina. We are sad to leave here, but Posadas looks fun from this side of the water, and we need to move on towards Uruguay. We collapse into a big sleep; tomorrow is New Years Eve, and we don't want to wait too late to cross the border.