Gran Chaco

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So I spent a few satisfying days in Filadelfia, in the heart of the Gran Chaco, but I felt something was missing. Fair enough, the infrastructure to reach the many northern hardly accessible national parks was basically non-existent, so that was a no-go… but I was in the core of Paraguay’s countryside without really having seen the true countryside. That had to change.

I stared at the crinkled piece of paper two cheerful Belgian chaps had pushed into my hand earlier that day. Estancia Paraguaya*. I knew calling that number had consequences… the sum of a farm + in the region of the Gran Chaco + within a Mennonites community + who thrive on the meat and dairy industry made it quite obvious to me. I was headed to a meat farm where innocent cattle was brought into life to subsequently die for our pleasure (taste), shattering my vegan heart into a thousand pieces. However, my fingers were already moving over the keyboard, controlled by my subconsciousness. This memory had to be made, good or bad, I can’t close my eyes for everything.

In order to understand a country, to dive into a culture, you sometimes have to submerge yourself into standards that are not your own, going beyond your own ethical judgment or life spectrum.

While sweat glued my hair against my forehead and mosquito mouths kissed my sun-dried skin I held my carton sign above my head to create the only available shadow. 45 degrees, why are people voluntarily living here? There were hardly any cars, but I was determined to let the first one stop for me, as walking with 2 backpacks in the unforgiving midday heat is something my north-European body is simply not made for.

An approaching growl of a distant motor… honking of a vehicle… squeaking tires forming a chalky cloud of dust. I did it. The first car, it stopped.

And it wasn’t only going to drive me a few kilometers in the right direction, it was going to drop me off right at the farm’s doorstep, 20km out of the way. A round-faced man ran towards me, his bulky belly wetly clinging to his damp blouse. I must be Stephanie, welcome home.

Once I threw my hefty backpack into a corner and installed myself in front of the ventilator with a loud groan of satisfaction the man entered the big living room to ask if I would join for lunch… he just finished cutting the meat off the calve he just slaughtered, it couldn’t possibly be fresher than that. With a whitish shade I shook my head, “veg… vegan” I stuttered. The man had to process that for a while and then replied with a deep chuckle, “Right, you’re the one that’s keeping my Christmas bonus away! Come on, I’ll show you around on the farm instead, snackst du Plautdietsch?

While water dripped of his forehead he preceded me to the stables, all the while recounting the pure pleasures of day-to-day farming and rural life. This is a happy place where cows graze freely, just like in the commercials, he reassured me.

I heard the distressed mooing fortifying. Are you sure about that? That doesn’t sound happy. That blood on the floor… that doesn’t look happy to me either. What is that flesh floating into it anyway? “Oh, testicles, we’re castrating our young cattle.” I closed my eyes and recalled how my male cats got castrated. Unconscious needless to say, I wouldn’t want my dear pet to be in pain, just like I wouldn’t enjoy having my own vag sliced open without anesthetics (or at all). That’s however not the case when you’re a cow.

I found the perfect spot to camp, smack-bam beside the lake in absolute solitude, the breeze shielding off all mosquitos… If your tent is wind-proof, that is. The plastic poles of my pathetic excuse of a tent were swiftly broken into two pieces when the first blow of air stroke besides it, which meant I had to pitch my repaired monstrosity at the only wind-free place at the yard, on the dreary cement path at the back of the house.

Well, I wasn’t going to sleep that night anyway, so why would it matter? After I watched the orange sun set from the top of a hill covered in wild greenery, overlooking the entire campo, I ran into the Belgian boys again.

They just returned from a wildlife-spotting-trip with the farmer’s wife, during which they could admire Chaco’s abundant fauna from quite close up as the touring car they were in had ran over a few mammals itself. Which “didn’t matter, as there were enough animals anyway.” Mildly shocked they chewed on their dinners, reflecting on an unusual yet interesting day flushed away by a communal bottle of wine.

The night brought a whole new spectrum of sounds and vibrations, which triggered my fresh-made friends and I to explore the ranch’s life in obscurity. Embellished with head lamps and torches we disappeared into the darkness to see what the outdoors had in store for us.

Frogs, insects and a wide variety of spiders, is the answer to that. Not the (distant) pumas and ant-eaters we hoped for, but that couldn’t rain on our parade. I’m always surprised how with zero resources and in the middle of bloody nowhere the best parties spring up without prior notice. It was 8AM when I decided to see what my temporary bed looked like, to conclude I couldn’t sleep at all anymore anyway.

I wasn’t in the position to leave. If the sleepiness might kick in unexpectedly it’s better to be already lying in a hammock, just in case. So I stayed.

I needed another full day floating in a lake in between the swarming wildlife of the Gran Chaco. Who doesn’t?

* Pseudonym.

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