Mass Transit - Part Three, That's my In-laws' House

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My in-laws' house is somewhere in here.

After generously and in a VERY norteamericano sort of way, paying my taxi driver. I walked across the street to wait for what was probably the 'last-chance-bus' to home. Shortly, after I crossed, my taxi driver friend follows with some of his compañeros. He says they want to be sure that I get on the right bus. I am sure at this point that they all figure they will be handsomely rewarded for their efforts.

As the bus pulls up, they all mutter something in Guaraní. I say thank you and get on the bus. The taxi driver follows. He says he wants to be sure that I get off at the right stop. He talks to the driver in Guaraní. I imagine my whole saga being re-told, probably missing some parts and fabricating others.

I proceed to the third seat on the right, because my in-laws' house, when it passes will be on the right. I sit with my head and shoulders OUT THE WINDOW. I do NOT want to miss the stop this time.

I recognize each turn.

I finally see the half tires on the neighbor's property line. This is IT!. I pull the cord as he turns the corner.

On the road I see the silouette of my father-in-law. He is standing in the road in front of his house waiting for me. It was very prodigal son-like.

I get off the bus. He comes over to me. He looks very concerned.

I realize that the taxi driver gets off with me.

"How are you getting back?", I ask.
"You're going to drive me", he replies.

I look at him, puzzled. He laughs.

"No I'll walk", he says.

We all laugh.

I did NOT think that was funny.

He and my father-in-law talk a bit as I go inside. I think they ended up knowing each other - a friend of a friend of a friend etc sort of thing. Or at least that's what they SAID!

As I go inside, I am pleased to see my oblivious children. I am sure that any talk of my troubling MIA-ness was all in guaraní in the home, so they never realized that daddy was missing in the paraguayan campo. I could sense that my in-laws were worried.

As we lay in bed that night, my wife grabbed me. "I was worried for you Papi", she said, "I was praying the whole time."

"Aah!, What were you worried about? If I can do NY city subways, I can do Paraguayan colectivos!"

I am such a norteamericano.

There is a sequel. It happened 3 days later. I'll save it for another post.

Mass Transit - Part Two, Kilometro 21

Please be strapped into your chair as you read this. I do not want anyone getting hurt as their laughter knocks them to the floor.


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This is Kilometro 21.

On the left, the large white building is the gas station with the tan building being a sort of 'convenience' store. On the right of the dirt road, you can barely make out some taxis parked on the corner, with some garages for repair/storage of those taxis just to their south on the dirt road.


I can't believe I was able to locate this place on Google maps!


So here I am standing at Kilometro 21, (not my in-laws house). It is just before 9 pm. The buses I am told, run until 10. I am waiting for the bus to come by. I know the bus I was on was "no longer operating for the evening", but there are multiple buses that run the same route. I know what it looks like. It always stops here. There are other people waiting.

Two words: Taxi driver.

Oh, he seemed so helpful. I knew when he approached me that he was just looking for a fare from the norteamericano. I explained my recent adventure to him. He asked about where my in-laws lived. I gave him the half-tire-my-property-line-Paraguay vs Germany-Vicente-Felipa-three-turns-in-from-the-church 'directions'. He ended up being the only Paraguayan who did not pretend to know everyone in town. He looked puzzled. He calls across the street to some other taxi drivers. About 4 of them now are all talking Guarani seeming as if they are attempting to figure out the great mystery of the ages. One of the younger ones says something and they ALL say, "Oh yes, yes. I know where that is!" "Oh, Great!" I felt more secure with his uncertainty. He assures me that he knows where this church is and that the young kid actually KNOWS my in-laws. Heh.

Two words: It rained.

As we get into the taxi and drive off, it starts raining; not a lot, but raining. This rain is only the manifestation of the humidity I had been 'enjoying' all evening. I am 6'1" and 280 pounds. I sweat. Humidity condenses on me. He was shorter, but just as stocky for his height. Perspiration? We were equal.

I am not so sure what kind of car this was. It seemed to be a mixture of several different cars all put together in one of those garages. I realized as we drove off that this vehicle was a stick shift with no first gear. We jerked violently to a start. We were off! As we drove along toward the church, which is on this same road, the rain really started coming down. He winds up his window, except for a crack at the top. I follow suit. He is not using his wipers. We make a turn. I tell him that the church is straight ahead. he assures me that my desired destination is that way.

The car stops. "Is that it?" he asks. I look out the window to see a church. Nice church. Not the church. "Oh, OK", he replies. "It must be the one that is that way. We jerk to a start. We're off again. The rain is really coming down now. He takes me to about 4 different churches. None of them are the right one. If you knew the make-up of this area or any back roads towns in rural Paraguay, you would understand my amazement at the fact that there were even so many churches and that he knew where so many were! I keep trying to explain to him that the church that I am referring to is back on the 'main' dirt road. He assures me again that Fernando and Felipa live that way, and he knows how to get there. Oh, Father! Please come to my aid. It's Vicente and Felipa! Who knows who this Fernando and Felipa are. I am sure they are very nice people and may even take in a lost norteamericano for the night. But my wife and children are at Vicente and Felipa's house.

Three words: Mechanic for hire.

So as we are driving in the manifested humidity, we too big sweaty men in this Toyo-nissa-onda-ford taxi, the windows are fogging up. Now, as I said, he is not using his wipers. Had he used them, he may have avoided the fogging up of his windshield. Now, he is not using the defroster either. Such the foreigner I am! The car stops; and stops in the most secluded, darkest spot on the planet.

He reaches under his steering wheel. Again, I am thinking 'easy prey'. He fiddles around with something.

The engine dies.
The lights go out.

He pulls out a wire from the dashboard and connects it to whatever he was fiddling with under the steering wheel.

The radio, the wipers and the defroster all come on.

We sit there a while, in the dark.

He says nothing.
I am praying.

The windshield clears up.

He disconnects the wires again; dead car, no wipers, no defrost, no radio, no engine, no lights

He reconnects the other wires. The car starts, the lights go on, we violently jump over first gear and we're off again!

After our late night local Capiata church tour, I finally convince him at 9:30 to take me back to Kilometro 21 (not my in-laws house) so that I can at least make one final attempt to get on the last bus. He obliges me. We finally both agree on one thing: Kilometro 21 is (say it with me); that way!

I can now see 'kilometro 21'. It is well lit, there is a gas station, some taxis, some people hanging around, loud music. That is not my in-laws' house. We arrive. He charges me the equivalent of $1.40 for my 45 minute church tour. I pay him the equivalent of $7.00.

It has been almost 3 hours since I last saw Julian.

To be continued....

Mass Transit - Part One

I recently read a blog online and it reminded me of my own little experience with Mass Transit, albeit, in Paraguay. It was my first time in Paraguay and my first time venturing out alone. A great majority of Paraguayans depend on a 'transit system' of 'colectivos'. I found this picture of one online but it really does not do the whole experience any justice. They are more than a colorful bus. They are a crowded yet economical, hot yet convenient method of very public transportation. A good description of a ride on a colectivo can be found in the second paragraph of this post. I went to the Super Seis to buy some food for the family. I knew I could do it. I went with my wife's cousin Julian. I love Julian. He is one of the most energetic, positive people I met in Paraguay. He is really going places. From the moment we got on the colectivo, Julian was announcing the arrival of his friend (me), the norteamericano! Everyone was so impressed, or so Julian thought. I let him be. He was having a great time. When we got to the Super Seis in San Lorenzo, I bought Julian lunch. We sat and talked for a while. We hung out in San Lorenzo. I did my food shopping and we headed back. The sun was setting and Julian asked me if I knew where to get off for my in-laws house. If he got off earlier, he could catch another colectivo to his house and he would get home quicker. I told him no problem. The bus could stop at the corner of their property and I knew I would recognize that. You have to pull the cord to stop the bus as there are no set stops.

Four words. It got dark fast. I thought I recognized the silohuette of my father-in-law standing by what could have been his front entrance, near what was possibly the corner where I definitely wanted to stop. But I wasn't sure. I figured since these colectivos run back and forth all day, I would just wait until we came back this way again and get off then.

Two words. Last stop. When the colectivo got to the 'depot', or the owners oversized yard, the driver looked at me, his sole passneger and asked in Spanish, "Where are you going?" I responded with the only familiar address I knew: Kilometro 21.

OK, so kilometro 21 is NOT an address, per se. It is actually a point on the main (paved) road where the gas station is. This is where you turn into the miles of back-country, cobblestone or dirt roads which weave their way through the countryside. It apperently is NOT my in-laws address. Well, it's where we always mailed their letters and stuff. Come to find out that all the mail for all of these people living back here goes to one location; on the main road. They have to pick it up from there. If you are ever going to Paraguay, be sure and watch several early episodes of 'The Waltons' first. You will be better prepared.

So this kid (15?) gets on the bus. He and the driver speak to each other in Guarani. That's an indigenous langauge that I do not speak. I only speak castellano (spanish). He smiles at me knowingly. I have heard of the dangers of being out in these areas at night and I am not liking how things are panning out here. Another man gets on the bus. The kids speaks guarani to him. He laughs as he looks at me. Easy prey, I am thinking. I am really going to have to call on Jesus soon. A woman gets on the bus. Everyone speaking guarani. Everyone laughing. OK, so now I am the butt of some early evening guarani joke, which will probably become folklore in later generations. She looks at me with concern. They speak some more. The bus driver waits for 2 more guys. He starts the bus. "OK", I think, "we're off." I won't miss the stop this time!

The woman explains to me that this bus is no longer operating for the evening. The driver is taking some of the bus 'company' employees home for the night. One of the employees lives near kilometro 21 and he will be sure I get there safely. Whew!

I get off the bus with this guy and he asks me where my family lives. I tell him, kilometro 21. He looked very confused. We start walking. I explain to him where my familia lives the best I can AND as it should be explained to any respectable Paraguayan. You see, they don't give directions in Paraguay like we do in the states. Try to follow along. As I said, I explain where my in-laws live: On the corner where the man has his property line dilineated with the half tires sticking out of the ground so people won't drive on his dirt; around the corner where the lady has a tienda with a TV in the front of her house and the other night when Paraguay beat Germany, everyone was watching in front of her store; it's three turns in from the church where they have the banner out front announcing all of the activities for semana santa; their names are Vicente and Felipa Ayala. "OH! I know where that is!", he says. We keep walking. We pass the church that is three turns out from their house. Yep! walk right by it! I am pleading with him to recognize the church as I do. He insists that kilometro 21 is that way; past the church. Then we pass another place; a house to which my father-in-law and I walked so that I could check my email; they have internet, for a fee. "Wait!" I say. "I know this place." I explain my previous day's journey to him. He continues to insist that kilometro 21 is 'that way'.

We pass by several other familiar sights. I don't bother saying anything because I know that kilometro 21 is that way.

I can now see 'kilometro 21'. It is well lit, there is a gas staion, some taxis, some people hanging around, loud music. That is NOT my in-laws house! I thank him and walk the rest by myself.

It has been about 2 hours since I last saw Julian.

To be Continued...