It was time for a new country!!! Our 3 months visa’s were about to expire so a duck across a border was due. Only 15 miles from our camp by mid-morning we’d packed camp, loaded the bikes and zotted through town, easily following the signs for Paraguay. The border itself lies across the Rio Parana, accessed only by the interestingly named ‘Friendship Bridge’, a heaving, honking, smoke-belching sprawling mass of people, cars, trucks and good-laiden supermarket trollies, all fighting for space. Post Africa this whole experience had a somewhat familiar feel. Literally thousands of people cross hourly. We joined the ‘mess’ and eased our way through, heading for the Customs building slap in the middle of all this. The day was about to get longer. We spent an hour in the mid-day heat and humidity trying to find an official who’d stamp vehicle import papers. The official consencus was either that we didn’t need to get the stamp or that it simply couldn’t be done here??? We’d been travelling long enough to know better. After what seemed like an age I managed to find a Federal Policia, who agreed we needed the stamp and who knew where the office was…at last. The ‘sorry for itself’ off white building carrying the ‘Do Not Enter’ signs all over it, is the customs office. With newly installed computers and helpful staff 20 minutes later our exit stamps had been tagged and bagged and we were on our way to Paraguay.

Back on the bikes we were signalled to join the bike line by the red faced official. Now this was a first even for us. A cordoned off holding area is reserved especially for motorised bikes. We joined the revving crowd and grinned at our compartriates conspicuously. The horn honking strarted. By now we were at 200 strong.The fumes from 200 + 2-strokes were overwhelming. At last the lone official dropped his white flag with all the ceromany of a Formula 1 starting official, we were off. Elbows met faces, foot pegs touched and countless brazen moped riders bounced easly off Touratech Aluminium panniers. Shit…this is different. This whole proccess is repeated every 10 minutes from both ends of the bridge. Our bemused grins were now causing cramps in our cheeks. So much fun!!!

Parked up on the other side we’d found the customs building and talked the heavily over-weight brown uniformed official into action and into his dull green sullen office. Now Paraguay officially doesn’t accept the ‘Carnet’ but big sweaty George (no idea what his name was but he looked like a George) was adamant he use the Carnet. We politely explained we didn’t have them, they’d run out and we’d not renewed as Paraguay didn’t use them. Sweaty George looked resigned. “…with no carnet, I have to go to 3 offices to get papers and stamp and much work” he signed painfully”. “How long you here for”, George asked. “Just a few days to see the dam” we replied, a little unsure as to whether we’d given the right answer. “OK, go” fat George grunted as his face contorted sideways as he jostled with his man tackle, pulling desperately at his trouser crotch which was clearly giving him cause for concern. “No papers” we asked, making sure we understood him correctly. Fat sweaty George gave us a cursory nod as he left the room to do battle with his damp trousers and under-cack issue which by now was causing him real problems as his crotch wrestling match was now a two-handed issue. We left quickly…!

Ciudad dell Este is a mad place, where thousands of Brazilians come each day to pick up cheap electronic goodies (ex-import duty) to turn into a quick profit back home. We didn’t hang about and pushed through town quickly, the heat was taking its toll. 6 miles North of town and we dropped down onto the small dirt track that led to the Dam administration office (it’s actually signed as the Zooalogical facility find it at GPS: S25 26.678 W54 37.904). We’d heard of free camping out by the dam but needed to pick up a permit first. Clasping our newly printed permits we were soon back on the main road, eager to set camp and pour ourselves out of our sweat soaked riding gear. 8km down the red dry dirt track, our new home awaited, camping Tati Yupi (Part of the Itaipu Binacional find it at GPS: S25 22.135 W54 34.863). What a find…large clean shower facilities, info centre and a dozen or so small roofed areas complete with electrical sockets. With our permits handed over we quickly set camp and spent the rest of the evening watching the pink sky line turn black as the Sun set over the water.

Started to pack but too hot to do much again until later in the day – we’d had a few casual conversations with Juan, a young local lad working at Tati Yupi and a self proclaimed bike nut, immensely proud of his black and silver Honda 125cc.

With enthusiastic bike stories swapped Juan had invited us to his families home for dinner and we’d gratefully accepted. A little humbled by Juan’s repeated appologies for his families poverty.

By 7:00pm we were heading back down the dusty track to the main road, Juan’s enthusiasm had convinced Lisa to ride her own bike. Juan had insisted that his parents would love to see both bikes…how could we refuse.

Crossing countless small dirt intersections we were on the outskirts of Hernandarias a small local town North of its larger cousin. Juans Mother and sister’s alerted by the noise of the bikes was already at the front of their small wooden home and greated us like old friends. His sisters giggled as encouraged by Lisa they took turns sitting on her bike.

As the night closed in we moved to the back yard of the home. The inside would have consisted of nothing more than two rooms, one for sleeping and possible a bathroom of sorts. The kitchen was a ramshackle construction built from discarded wood. Old glass bottles full of pimiento laden concoctions lined the dusty shelf.

At Juans request we’d brought the lap-top. Juan was keen for us to share some of our photos with his family. I’d left the battery back at the campsite…Duh! With my problem explained Juans father had popped inside found two large bull-dog clips and with dodgy looking electrical wire attached had climbed the nearest electrical pole attached the cables and jumped 15 feet down, offering me a plastic holder to plug into. I had no idea what voltage was flowing through this set-up, but after all the effort to get power I couldn’t refuse. The lap-top beeped and wirred to life effortlessly.

The squaking chicken that had 30 minutes ago been running around the back yard was now skinned and splayed across the small metal grate. Fat spitting as it cooked over the bag of charcoal Juan had picked up en-route. Without running water, electricity etc, his family had taken us in and cooked a feast fit for a king, which made later questions we’d answer as to the value of the computer, bikes and helmets so much more awkward. The helmets alone would be more than Juans father would earn in a year. It just doesn’t make sense. But as we experienced in Africa the most welcoming, generous people are so often those with the least.

With our evening coming to a close Juan had departed and shortly returned with his good friend, whose name for the life of us we can’t remember. Things were about to get a little…interesting as conversation turned to personal security. Juans friend asked, with an air of complete normality “how many guns do you have”. “ None” we explained. “I have 5” his friend exclaimed proudly. “ but I have only used two of them” he continued. We weren’t about to ask why. “You want to see them” the friend asked acting cooly through his broadening smile. “yeah, can we get a photo with you and your guns?”. And so the evening continued.

With the camera out the bare chested friend took a well rehearsed pose, toting a gun in each hand and frowning at the camera. We declined his repeated offers to fire them.

By 1:00am we were flagging and with our sincere thanks given to our gracious hosts we followed Juan back through town. We weren’t leaving just yet. The cheering from the bar on on our right had caught our attention, well that and 20 or so tit-flashing female soccer palyers, all completly wasted and celebrating their recent football victory. We’ll stop for a beer Lisa shouted over the noise of the bikes. The roar of approval that erupted when the ladies recognised one of their own dismouninting the F650GS was World class. That was it…Lisa was in. Beer was thrust into our hands and we spent the next hour celebrating, cheering, dancing and being hugged very tightly as drunken soccer starlets talked me into giving them rides up and down the town high street. Well, it seemed rude not to.

Before we’d left Lisa had been hugged by every palyer and given a team shirt and even one of their prized victors medallions. Bizare but fantastic. We finally crashed out back in the tewnt at 3:00am.