Circle to Circle

by Shirley Hardy-Rix

  It’s an interesting sideline for the staff at the hostel and it makes the application process very simple.

  Back at the Brazilian consul we hand over 161 pesos each (about $30), photos and our passports. Tomorrow we’ll have our visas for Brazil.

  Now the business is done it’s time for the real reason we came here — Iguazu Falls. We opt for the bus. This means we can wear casual, cool clothes rather than bike gear. And our friends Ken and Carol from Brisbane, who’ve been travelling through South America on their motorcycle for the past three years, had their helmets stolen off their bike in the car park here some time ago. The thieves lifted the bike cover and used bolt cutters to cut the cable securing the helmets to the bike. They lost expensive helmets and their blue tooth intercom system.

  •

  Our first sight of the Iguazu Falls is in the distance, through some trees. Wow, wow, wow! The path winds around taking us right next to the falls. It’s madness — there are so many people here. We can’t hear each other over the roar of the falls. We can feel the spray on our faces. It’s the rainy season so the rate of water cascading over the falls is immense — they say more than 1,700 cubic metres of water per second. We just can’t believe we’re standing here at the base of the falls.

  We get into a boat to actually go under the falls. We’re fitted out with life jackets and given a waterproof bag for all of our valuables. The trip into the water is incredible. It’s like they turn a fire hose on you, and you can’t keep your eyes open, the pressure is so strong. We disappear totally into the water — twice. Then we move to one of the side falls and go into the bottom of that sideways. It’s amazing. And we’re soaked. There’s not a part of us that’s not wet through: our shoes are soaked; our shorts are soaked; our tops and my watch. Some smart people put their shoes in their waterproof bag. Even smarter ones wore plastic ponchos. We’re not among them, more’s the pity. We have to dry out before we can get the bus back to town. Tomorrow we’ll come back and go to the top of the falls.

  Brian: It’s Australia Day. It’s not a day we celebrate overly at home but we’re both conscious we’re a long way from Melbourne this morning. There’s no Pavlova or lamb chops for an Australia Day feast so we put homesickness behind us and head back to the falls.

  A little train from the gate takes us to the walkway over the Iguazu River. The waters are calm but we can’t be far from the falls. We can hear the water roaring and see the mist rising from Garganta del Diablo — the Devil’s Throat.

  When we finally see the falls words fail us. It gives us a totally different perspective. A rainbow glistens in the mist hanging over the torrent. The only drawback is the crowd pushing and shoving to get to the front to get a good look. Once they get there they’re not keen to let others in.

  Manners go out the window and I get the elbows working to open a gap for Shirl to push her way through to the front. It’s hard to take it all in. These falls are massive.

  We make our way back to the river, away from the madness of the falls for an ecological trip down the river in a rubber rowboat. Our multi-lingual guide, Juan, doesn’t speak English but really that isn’t a problem. The most wonderful part is just drifting along in the silence. It’s only a 35-minute ride and we wish it’d last forever.

  The National Park isn’t just about the falls. There are monkeys, coatis (racoon like creatures), birds and colourful butterflies. The river waters are so clear you can see huge fish and tortoises. It’s one hell of a place.

  •

  Shirley: We’re going to cross into Brazil today to sort out the visas for Brian’s shortcut through Paraguay and decide to take the public bus. The backpackers at the hostel say it’s an easy trip so we give it a go, leaving the bike tucked away in the garden.

  The bus stops at the Argentinean side of the border and we get our passports stamped and then hop back on the bus. It drops us at the Brazilian border. They admire our visas and stamp our passports, but the bus isn’t there when we come out of the office. Now we just have to wait for the next bus into town. What were we thinking that this seemed like a good idea?

  There’s a time difference so we automatically lose an hour. Waiting for the bus I wonder if we’ll get to the consulate in time to get the visa processed today. When the bus arrives we jump on and hop off when it gets to ‘central’. It seems like the best place.

  Now we’re in Foz do Iguazu, Brazil, where they speak Portuguese, with no local currency, no idea where we are or where we need to go. Top this off with the fact we don’t have a Portuguese phrase book and the stress levels begin to rise.

  We try and get a cab to take us to the bank and the consulate but the cabbie directs us to the supermarket to get money. There are five ATMs but we can’t get money out of any of them. Unlike ATMs in Chile, Argentina, Uruguay and so many other countries there’s no ‘English’ option. This makes the instructions on the screen worthless.

  I’m close to tears but that isn’t going to help anything. Off we walk, in search of a bank. We keep asking for directions in Spanish and eventually get to a bank where the security staff help us with the ATM. The final direction that baffled us is to re-enter your PIN to get the cash. Bloody hell — it’s so simple when you know how.

  Cashed up we find a cabbie who’ll take us to the consulate for 15 Real. We don’t really know how much that is ($6.50), but we aren’t in a position to argue.

  Brian: After a short ten minute cab ride we’re at the Paraguayan consular office — or so we think. We walk up a pathway where there are men sitting around smoking and drinking mate. Shirl finds a small window open and asks a man sitting at a desk if we’re in the right place. No, we’re at the back door.

  We eventually find the right entrance and a lovely young lady assists us with our application. For a single entry visa we must deposit US$130 into their bank account at the bank four blocks away. Then we have to wait for the consulate staff to have their lunch before we can come back and complete the application.

  To enter the banking chamber there’s a revolving bulletproof glass door with a hatch where we have to deposit anything metal. I forget I have the camera. The door won’t unlock while this piece of metal is on my person. After this little hitch we take a number and wait.

  When our number is called we go into a screened off area and make the payment. It’s a lot of palaver.

  Back at the consulate we have to hand over a credit card to prove we have sufficient funds. After sitting around for an hour we get the visa.

  This shortcut better be worth it or I’ll never hear the end of it.

  •

  Negotiating the border with the motorcycle is easy. After the obligatory photo at the Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay border we head to the border post. It’s a drive-through — just like McDonalds.

  Within minutes we’re riding across the bridge spanning the Iguazu River. The border is in the middle: one side is painted with the Argentinean national colours of blue and white; the other side is in the Brazilian national colours of yellow and green. Theoretically you shouldn’t stop in the no man’s land between borders but we can’t resist this majestic river and the multi-coloured bridge.

  Now we’re in Brazil the only map we have is the one in the Lonely Planet guidebook. Luckily our hostel is in the same street as the Paraguayan Consulate so I manage to get there without a hiccup.

  Shirley: We’re old enough to be the other hostel guests’ parents, but we’re behaving like teenagers ourselves. The heat’s beaten us and we’re going to live dangerously and change into lightweight pants and a long-sleeved T shirt to ride to the Brazilian side of the Iguazu Falls. It’s stinking hot and any thought of riding in all our protective gear takes my breath away. It’s strangely invigorating yet I feel very naughty and oh so vulnerable. I can tell Brian is taking extra care but I still feel very strange riding without all the gear.

  We take a double-decker bus to the viewing points for the Iguazu Falls that are about 15 kilometres from the gate. Brian�
��s a little sceptical and keeps wondering aloud if this is going to be worth it after the fabulous sights on the Argentinean side of the falls.

  The pathway takes us up and down steps and inclines that hug the cliffs. The views are spectacular, even better than we imagined.

  You do get a completely different perspective of the falls from Brazil. Rather than the raging torrents of water, you get to see the width of these massive falls. They’re more than two kilometres wide and more than 60 metres high and made up of about 300 individual falls.

  Going nuts with a camera, we walk out onto a viewing platform and are hit by the spray. We don’t rush away from this cool experience before making the trek back to the bus and the bike.

  •

  Back at the hostel the ‘young’ people are playing some terrible head-banging music but before we know it stops because it’s happy hour. We’re won over by the smooth-talking barman’s offer of the first drink for free — and it’s the Brazilian national cocktail, the caipirinha. It’s a refreshing and remarkably potent combination of sugarcane spirit, lime juice and sugar. Delicious!

  So much like the pisco sour — one caipirinha is refreshing, two are moreish, and three are verging on lethal. Four and you’re guaranteed a heavy head in the morning.

  Brian: I have to admit to a soft head this morning, as does Shirl, and we’re suffering just a little. We’re obviously tougher than the young backpackers. We’re the only ones at breakfast until one of the young girls arrives, and tells us she’s very worried about her girlfriend who lost count after 10 caipirinhas last night. She can’t get out of bed. We give some sage advice about how to deal with a hangover. It revolves around a sweet, sugary soft drink. Pity they don’t have potato cakes in Brazil.

  •

  The other reason to come to Foz is to visit the bird park, just near the falls. It doesn’t disappoint. It’s much cooler under the canopy of trees, wandering through habitats for some of the most exquisite and endangered bird species. We spend a pleasant afternoon watching the birds, especially the flamingos and the scarlet ibis.

  There are a couple of species that are on the edge of extinction because man continues to destroy their natural forested habitat. And the bloody poachers. It beggars belief that there are people who are happy to slaughter these birds for their vivid feathers.

  There’s a great saying here along the lines of ‘man needs Nature, but Nature doesn’t need man.’

  •

  Back at the hostel we can’t resist another caipirinha, but restrict ourselves to two. We need a good sleep for tackling Paraguay in the morning.

  Through Paraguay and back into Argentina

  29 January – 4 February 2012

  Brian: I’m convinced riding through Paraguay is by far the quickest way to get from the Iguazu Falls to San Pedro de Atacama in Chile, which is on our ‘not to be missed’ list.

  Crossing the bridge that separates Brazil and Paraguay we take the lane set aside for motorcycles. It’s a tight squeeze. The locals ride much smaller bikes and it’s no mean feat to get through without scraping the panniers on the concrete dividers.

  We’ve been told to make sure we get our paperwork checked and passports stamped because most people who cross at this border are locals heading into Paraguay for the cheap shopping. The paperwork doesn’t pose any problems. No queues, no forms to complete — just a couple of stamps.

  We cross into Cuidad del Este, which is a shopping hub, a town of markets, shops and moneychangers. Touts walk right in front of us trying to coax us into their car parks and their shops. It’s madness, very reminiscent of India.

  A couple of kilometres down the road and it all changes. We’re in the countryside — green and peaceful. Even the drivers seem good. One bus does overtake us so close I could lift my elbow and touch the side, but most leave plenty of space. It’s a pleasure to ride here.

  There are plenty of roadblocks and checkpoints but the officials just wave us through. They seem to be more interested in buses and trucks than us, except for one, who signals us to stop and walks around the bike checking it all out. He asks to see our passports and our yellow fever certificates. It’s a first. I get the feeling he just wants to check out the bike more than anything else. All’s good — our paperwork’s in order.

  Shirley: It’s lunchtime and I’m hungry. The roadside eateries on the highway look pretty good so we pull up alongside a little shed with an awning and a couple of chairs and tables shaded by a massive tree.

  The owner is very pleased to have us stop at his establishment, and keeps asking if I need to use the baño — bathroom. I’m right, thanks.

  We try a local favourite — a corn meal patty stuffed with meat. It’s very tasty. Two patties with two cans of soft drink cost the equivalent of $2. These roadside stalls are definitely value for money.

  When we leave, the man offers the use of his facilities again. I can’t imagine where the toilet would be and never find out.

  It’s getting hotter and the closer we get to Asuncion the heavier and crazier the traffic gets. The GPS decides we need to experience some of the real Paraguay and, for some reason, takes us off the highway and through a small town with no footpaths, just ramshackle stalls and plenty of buses. It’s market day and it’s crazy.

  •

  We survive another ride in manic traffic where every driver seems to have his heart set on killing us. In the city we find the hotel easy enough, but the doors are locked and it looks very empty. This can’t be right. A man comes out of a shop next door and walks with me to the corner to point out the right hotel. Brian rides slowly behind us.

  The hotel doors are locked here too but I’m buzzed inside. Brian parks on the footpath outside the entrance. I’m always concerned about parking for the bike and chose this hotel because of its parking.

  The parking, it seems, is not here at the hotel, but around the corner under the supermarket. Brian takes this news much better than me. I’m not happy.

  Brian: Our room is enormous and very luxurious. After unloading the bike, and a cold shower, Shirl has calmed down so we walk to the supermarket to check out the parking for the bike.

  The security guard tells us someone’s there 24 hours a day and we can park the bike in front of his little office, where he can see it. This is going to be fine.

  We need to change some Uruguayan pesos for the local guaraní. We couldn’t change them in Brazil and we have to try a couple of changers here before we find the Casa de Cambio (the House of Change), which will do the exchange for us. The walk takes us into the heart of the historic area of Asuncion. It’s quite charming, shabby but charming.

  We could change US dollars right on the street. The moneychangers are everywhere, operating under the watchful eye of the police. It’s either legal or ignored. They openly tout for business and have bags of money around their waists. I guess they won’t get robbed if they have the police nearby.

  •

  When we shift the bike to the car park all fears that it’ll go missing are erased. When we park, right outside the security box, a man drives a forklift over carrying a pallet of flour bags. He deposits the pallet behind the bike. It isn’t going anywhere.

  The security guard gives us a wave.

  •

  Dinner is fine, the wine good, but the menu a little confusing. The main course arrives without a problem, but the ice-cream we think we ordered for dessert turns out to be preserved fruit in a sickly sweet sauce with cheese.

  Oh well, it’s another of Shirl’s taco/pizza moments.

  Shirley: While it’s a little shabby, the centre of Asuncion is a delight. Some of the buildings are crumbling into ruin, some have been beautifully restored.

  At the Plaza de los Heroes we visit the tombs of some of Paraguay’s war heroes. The congress buildings, old and new, are indicative of the country’s desire to maintain a democratic government. The impressive Palacio de Gobierno was home to the dictator, Francia in the early 19th century. He was paranoid,
to say the least; he had food and drink tasters, slept in a different bed every night, ruled that no one was allowed to get closer than six paces from him. Anyone who lingered too long outside the gates of this beautiful palace was shot. Today we’re not allowed to wander down the side street but there’s no problem with us taking photos of this very impressive building.

  It’s impossible to feel threatened here in Asuncion. There’s literally a policeman on every corner.

  •

  As night falls we watch the darkest clouds converge on the city. I don’t think I’ve ever seen clouds as dark. It buckets down. If it’s like this in the morning we’ll need to rethink our plans to leave Paraguay.

  Brian: The storm seems to have rained itself out overnight. It’s still overcast, hot and steamy which isn’t going to make for a good ride today. And it’ll be a long one with yet another border crossing.

  When I get to the car park a man magically appears with a forklift and shifts the pallet of flour so I can get the bike out. You can’t beat this kind of secure parking area.

  At the petrol station I get the usual questions about the bike: how much does it cost? How fast does it go? How much gas does it use? How big is the tank? People are fascinated by the bike and our journey, even the maids and the receptionist come out with their phone cameras to get a photo of themselves with the bike before we head out of town.

  •

  The road from Asuncion to the Argentinean border is a maze of one-way streets. Thank goodness for the GPS. When the road turns to dirt we find chaos reminiscent of an Asian border crossing and presume we’re actually at the border. There are long lines of trucks and cars and hawkers selling everything from food to wiper blades. We can’t find the immigration office because we’re not at the border yet, there’s still a half a kilometre to go.