Surreal Paraguay

Cro Raka,
Times Foreign Correspondent

For a surreal time, visit the nonexistent country of Paraguay. Its name, here in the South, is like pronouncing a rare type of bubblegum that everyone has heard but nobody has tasted. We even claim it to be but a myth.

I tasted it. It tastes raw, like well-processed gasoline or moth with garlic salt.

In the region of the 'Great Chaco,’ the government installed decently-sized mirrors in remote areas of wilderness to make it seem “that much more remote”, as the specialist, Ernesto Playas confirmed. Locals warned me of vipers, venomous bugs, and lions… They also invited me to hunt the latter. I politely refused, thus was warned that I'd be eaten if I held too many secrets.

In Philadelphia, Paraguay, in exchange for hearing her dreams, a specialized dame would listen to secrets, write them down, and the paper would turn into wasps, fly, and sting your enemies. “Two birds, one stone,” thought I.

Downwards, in the capital, Asuncion, walls in the city center are painted with fantastic murals that come alive. They are mostly sick of staying still and, very un-patriotically, desperately wish to leave the country. Most people shun these murals, for nationalism is important here.

• “Pst, foreigner,” said a mural of a teddy bear to me.
• “Ah, me?”
• “Take me with you on your travels, away from here… I can cook and sing.”
• “No dice, painted friend.”
• “Devils. How about some coins then?”

Poverty is also problem in Paraguay. The murals are so poor that some have to live in shacks with aluminum roofs and rusted boat parts as furniture.

Even southward, in Encarnación, lives a man of 72, Harold Galile, that dwells in youth hostels and sips on yellow tea night and day. Unfortunately, he has swallowed a broken record player, thus tells the same story again and again.

He tells the tale of American alchemists in the 50s. Apparently they came in to inspect the grand vaults of jewels stashed by Paraguayan royalty. They analyzed, weighed, inspected, and left. Later, they returned with replica jewels— identical in every way except light as plumage.

“Ipso-facto, the old switch-aroo,” said Harold for the 167th time. He then stares at you, and politely asks if you wish to hear a story… and best you say yes.

For more articles by Cro Raka, click here. To get in touch with this writer, email raka@surrealtimes.net.

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