March We were up at am to catch a bus to Villarrica. It was a seven hour ride on the oldest roughest bus in all of Paraguay. We were off the asphalt for most of the journey, driving down a red dirt road of washouts, dust, semi trucks hauling cattle liners, ruts, buses and people standing on the side of the road everywhere to flag down the bus.
It was so rough that the bus was un-sleepable, even on 5 hours of sleep the night before, and bags fell from the overhead storage down onto the passengers below. It was terrible. As we would stop in towns, locals would come onto the bus to try to sell us things, like food and drinks. Some of those locals were pregnant 13 year olds.
At a stop on the way, I got off the bus for a breather. The bus driver attendant made me get back on the bus, telling me in Spanish that it was not my stop and that I had gotten off in the wrong town. I could not respond, so as I climbed back on the bus full of Paraguayans, they were all laughing at me, and smiling at the dumb gringo who almost got off in the wrong time.
Oh, how the whole bus liked thatβ¦. It was the most entertaining thing that had happened to most of those people in weeks! When we hit the asphalt again after about 4 hours of straight dirt, it felt like we had arrived at the road to paradise. There was an actually layer or red dust on the tops of my shoes. What a rideβ¦. Paraguayans are not used to tourists, and we are not used to locals who do not try to cheat and scam us at every chance they get. Irmante and I are not hassled any more than anyone else by hawkers.
When we were at the bus station this morning, I felt bad for the ticket salesman who was just trying to help us find our bus as Irmante and I were not following him of giving him an ounce of respect as he tried to lead us. It is difficult to not be on your guard all of the time.
