Where does truth lie?

It occurs to me, especially on this truly wet Wednesday in Paraguay, that, in my sporadic scattering of often Brahma-fuelled emails, written under mango trees, by river, or under starry southern night skies, I may have, somewhat gushily, and because of its easy alliteration with Paraguay, used the adjective paradisal (= ideal, idyllic, of great beauty and happiness) once or twice too often and given the impression that here was such a place.

Well, let me now set the record straight.

Paraguay is not paradisal. It can be hellish! In fact, barely a toad´s jump north from where I am, an area the size of Wales is known as the Green Hell. 

Bits of here are very nice, when it´s not too hot, humid, or hit by tropical storms. A profusion of plants and creepy crawlies love it here and thrive, tangling and climbing all over one another, eating each other too, and often bits of you!

This flora and fauna also likes to inhabit human dwelling places. There are two toads in my second bedroom and three frogs in the bathroom. When it rains, they croak. Freaky, esp in the middle of the night. Two giant moths spend the day camouflaged flat against the wattle and daub wall and the night trying to mate with the light, scattering showers wing dust over my keyboard.  Beside my wooden table, there´s trail of termite tunnels, which enter all parts of the house and lead who knows where. If I drop a crumb of food, ants appear out of nowhere and haul it away, to who knows where. There may be a whole network of ant and termite colonies right below my feet, my bathroom, my bed, who knows where!

On the first day here, I had to cut back inga tree branches, vines, and liana-like creepers that were finding their way under the pan-tiles, through the wooden shuttered windows, and into the house. This stuff, which looks like it´s growing metres a day, makes English ivy and Russian vine look backward, unadventurous, and slow.

Outside, feral dogs roam, lie in the middle of the road, or chase English men out for a run. Litter lies everywhere. Plastic bottles and bags, in their thousands, blow across village plazas.

Many houses are shabby, dilapidated, and uncared for. Last night, the power went off five times, and most of the morning today we had no running water. Among the people, what some might call tranquilidad, might equally well be called weariness, lassitude, indifference. Even mañana might be meaningless.

And as for the food, well, fresh fruit apart, it´s meat, meat, and more meat, mostly tough and coated in some sort of greasy schnitzel-fry stuff. Even in restaurants, meat and fish are often ruined by frying and fat. A decent salad is unheard of. (Am craving an LSF supper!)

Riding horses rubs your legs in wrong places and when swimming in the river, invisible things nibble you, underwater, and on the bank, hot sand gets between your toes! If you sit under a mango tree, or almost any tree, things keep falling on you, like insects, sticky bits, or bird droppings.

As for culture, apart from great harpists and good gaucho sing-songs, there´s nothing really ruinous or high-art to satisfy the more sophisticated traveler here.

In fact, but for satisfying curiosity, and the veracity of what I write and say about Paraguay, I cannot imagine many of you enjoying anything or any time here. It occurs to me that my only reason for coming here is therapeutic, trying to work out why I was a happier child here than in England.

There you have it. Which way does truth lie?

Hope you all know what´s meaningful, good, or not, where you live.

Am off now, to buy more ant poison.