From the start of this sub-adventure, it´s clear the rules and guidelines are different than anything we´ve encountered thus far. We´re off the gringo trail. Normally, this would be good for me, but my mother´s nervousness is infectious and she grips my arm uncomfortably, staring with wide eyes as our assumed safety is put more and more in jeopardy by my sense of curiosity and desire for an additional stamp to my passport.
Ciudad del Este (¨East City¨) is just over the border into Paraguay, and a mere twenty minute drive (through Brazil) to reach from Puerto Iguazu, Argentina. The city does have a little more going for it than a simple stamp on the passport — for decades, it represented a lawless region close to both Argentina and Brazil where massive transactions of drugs and other contraband could take place. It´s uncertain from guidebooks just how much this still happens, but over time, a tremendously large open air electronics black market formed around the city (likely assisted by the fact that CdE is the third largest commercial tax-free zone in the world), making it one of the shadier publicly known tourist attractions in South America.
In addition to all of those fun facts, it´s believed (though unsubstantiated) that the city is al qaida´s foothold in South America, and the starting point of a bombing attack on Argentinian Jews several years ago. So it´s got that going for it, which is good…*
One of the only shots I managed to get of Ciudad del Este, due to confusion and a fear of brandishing my camera
The same bus station in Puerto Iguazu that services the falls twice an hour also handles longer voyages, as far north as Rio and as far south as Ushuaia. About every two hours, one of these buses makes its way over the border into Paraguay. Times are listed, but based on the fact that it´s currently 12:20 and we´ve been here for close to an hour, it doesn´t seem like the 11:45 bus to Ciudad del Este is on schedule. Expectant passengers sit slumped over benches and against walls, waiting without any visible sense of motivation.
All of that changes as the bus pulls in and the scattered patrons jump up and run towards its entrance en masse. The concept of a line has no meaning here. I clutch my mother´s arm and fight forward through the cone of people attempting passage onto the aged bus. It´s too chaotic for my mother and she´s visibly displeased. I tell her this is a standard aspect of South American travel to ease her worried mind, without making it apparent how much I, myself, hate these ordeals.
The bus is full, and much like the ride to Lujan, the driver takes passengers beyond what the seats can accomodate. Halfway through the trip, we stop at the border of Argentina to get our passports stamped. Despite requiring stamps into and out of Argentina, none are required for passing through Brazil, which takes about ten minutes. Sadly, we pass directly through Paraguay´s checkpoint, sans stamp.
There´s an immediate shift in the urban character of the environment. Foz do Iguazu, Brazil, is very much like Puerto Iguazu in Argentina — nice, upscale buildings, well-manicured yards and foliage, and a general sense that other than the weird language on the buildboards, one could be in any number of eccentric North American towns. The crossing of a single bridge into Paraguay changes all of that. A grayness settles in over everything. Brick and cinder-block buildings are squat and dirtier than across the river, with a sense of age to them.
We pass through the city and then to its outskirts on the way to the bus station. To the right is a large field, piled high in places with garbage. A tent city has been organically erected here, and there´s no doubt that its denizens aren´t Paraguay´s equivalent of the Boy Scouts.
¨Oh, Yance, I don´t like this. This isn´t good…¨ My mother grips my arm.
The money changer in Ciudad del Este. My mother has me put the camera away before I get a better shot
At the bus station, no one is willing to help us. The bus driver is singularly unfriendly, leading us to stereotype him as a Paraguayan and not Argentinian, simply to allow the latter to keep their role as ¨universally nice.¨ Our money is no good here, and it´s been so long since I´ve done a border crossing like this that I neglected to lookup exchange rates — a novice error. Men offer to sell me money, but I´m immediately wary; as the only gringos here, we stand out tremendously.
¨What do you want to do, Yance? Whatever you want to do is what we´ll do. I´m fine with whatever,¨ she says.
My mother is not fine with whatever, but she´s willing to play along to help me satisfy my perverse curiosity. We hire a taxi to bring us to a restaurant, but apparently only one is open in the entire city, and it´s atmosphere is ominous at best.
¨Please not here,¨ she says. I tell the man to keep driving. The only other restaurant in town that is open is, strangely enough, a Pizza Hut. I tell the man to keep driving.
All the storefronts where the infamous market should be buzzing with vendors are shut down. This is the place where you can supposedly get an iPod for half-price (where everywhere else in South America it´s double the price), if you´re willing to take the chance that said iPod doesn´t explode within three days of purchase. And there´s not a single vendor open. I ask the vendor where my black market is at and he responds something about ¨Domingo¨ and ¨Pascua.¨
Of course. Sunday. It´s easy to lose track of days of the week when traveling.
I look up ¨Pascua.¨
Easter.
Shit.
My mother´s discomfort is visible now, even to the driver, and he offers to take us all the way back to Argentina for the equivalent of 30 dollars. The bus ride for two people is approximately three.
¨Do it!¨ she says.
He stops at a money-changer before leaving the city to convert our bills into Paraguayan money, and the changer refuses to accept them. He asks if we have any other money. We don´t. I take a picture of the transaction and my mother hisses at me to put my camera away.
The driver seems nice enough. We´re a more difficult fare than he´d first anticipated, but goes to a second changer that´s willing to work with us. Leaving the city, he drops me off at the immigration office for my sought after stamp, though I find no success inside. The official can´t stamp my passport unless I apply for a visa. ¨How hard are they to get,¨ I say. ¨You can´t have one,¨ he responds, and looks away.
Epic Paraguay fail.
¨Let´s not do anything like that again,¨ says my Mom as we arrive back at our hostel.
¨No problem,¨ I say.