Peru, Bolivia, Argentina, Paraguay

Ciudad del Este / Borders / Black Markets

From Argentina, my next step was to be a border town in Paraguay
called Ciudad del Este. From there I planned to travel back to
Asuncion, the capital, and then catch my flight home.

CDE made the list of places to see because it has popped up in the
news, off and on, as a concern for American law enforcement. The
tri-border area has been a smuggling hub since the mid-1960s with the
opening of the Friendship Bridge, directly connecting the Paraguayan
city of Ciudad del Este with the Brazilian city of Foz do Iguacu.
Supposedly the vast majority of all imports and exports of Paraguay
pass over this bridge. Since 1991, this flow has been augmented by the
MercoSur regional trade agreement between the three countries
mentioned and Uruguay. It is currently the third largest tax-free
commerce zone in the world after Hong Kong and Miami. Half the city is
a shopping mall: junk shops with knock-off electronics, jewelry,
clothes.

CDE pops up in the US news because our Southern border is porous and
vulnerable, and because, in a throw-back to the Monroe Doctrine, Latin
America feels like our backyard. There is, you see, a fairly large
Muslim community in CDE. And there is, these days, some speculation
that not only is money being funnelled from CDE to terrorist
organizations, but maybe there are Al Qaeda operatives there and
training camps in the jungles nearby, etc. (And lions and tigers and
bears! Oh my!) I don't recall any of the articles mentioning any proof
of those claims. The most tangible evidence I recall on this topic
comes from a mid-90s bombing of a Jewish center in Argentina. Eighty
four dead, hundreds injured, executed by bombers who entered through
the triple border area, supposedly part of Hezbollah, ergo supposedly
backed by Iran, etc.

Of course, as a consummate outsider all of that would be off-limits
and likely wholly invisible to me. I figured, though, that I could get
some kebabs or a shawarma.

So, off to CDE. Unfortunately, the easiest way to get there from
Puerto Iguazu, in Argentina, is to cut through Brazil and then cross
the aforementioned Friendship Bridge right into downtown CDE. Easy, if
not for the USD$135 visa requirement for Americans.

A note on borders: Borders are a sort of fiction. We draw them on maps
and talk about them as if they're impenetrable walls through which
even ideas and languages might struggle to pass. They're not. They're
an artifice, a fanciful construction given weight and import by people
who believe in them. For people who LIVE on them, they're a part of
daily life, often crossed without a thought.

The Somalis of eastern Ethiopia are separated from the Somalis of
Somalia by a border. A serious, somber border, given the bad blood
between those two countries. That border is a piece of rope, fraying
in the heat, strung between two little posts in a no man's land
stretch of plastic trash and dust. You can hardly even find the
'immigration' offices on each side and there might not be anyone there
once you do.

How many Pashtuns give a shit about the Durand Line? 'Given weight and
import by the people who believe in them.' That the US military stops
pursuit of militants when they reach that border, sensitive to
political concerns with the Pakistani government, has given that line
a power that it hasn't had in years. That's true both for the military
and the militants. But without that, without the rules of engagement
changing when a line on a map is crossed, who even would've noticed?

Anyway, with this sort of garbage rational in mind, and with those
famous last words -- 'What's the worst that could happen?' -- echoing
in my head, I decided to go for it. I took a public bus to the border
and got my Argentina exit stamp. I chatted with some Brazilian guys as
we passed Brazil's immigration control and then, just like that, I was
in Brazil. A few hours later, I strode past Brazil's other immigration
control -- head up, look purposeful, stride, don't stop -- and walked
right into Paraguay.

I crossed the Friendship Bridge alone at night with my small backpack
slung over my shoulder. After all the news articles, I felt like I was
walking straight into a 'wretched hive of scum and villainy.' It
would've been pretty easy for someone, or a pair of people, to toss me
over the edge, 50m down into the river. A few minutes earlier, a fat
Brazilian woman had told me not to cross the bridge at night because
of how dangerous it. She pointed a finger at her temple like it was a
gun. BANG! She hadn't made any sound, but she didn't need to. (I
wonder, in retrospect, what the onomatopoeia for a gunshot is in
Spanish or in Portuguese? I'm delighted that chickens, in different
languages, make sounds from cockadoodledoo, to cucucaru, to pio pio.)

I thought about her warning as I walked. I can hardly believe I
haven't been mugged yet. I take all of these careful precautions.
Strong body language, no pausing, no guide books or maps, backpack
small enough that I can still sprint, minimal showing of
money/affluence, stay near other people, avoid groups of young men,
look just unstable enough to not be worth it, lock taxi doors, get out
with all my stuff before paying, the more suspicious someone seems the
quicker I need to befriend them, share, talk, seem human, empathize.
Blah blah. The list goes on. Still, it's bound to happen eventually.
It feels a little like virginity: 'It probably won't be a big deal
but, c'mon! Get it over with already!' At this point it's the sword of
Damocles. I've walked through all sorts of shitty places alone -- not
just Bed-Stuy at night, Billy Joel. What's the universe waiting for?

The next morning, with the city seeming far less sinister in the
daylight, I walked around the markets for a few hours. I noticed pairs
and groups speaking Arabic but didn't find any kebab shops. I asked a
woman how to say "mosque" in Spanish but the best should could offer
was "church (iglesia) for Muslims."

At one point, my head thick with thoughts of smugglers and black
markets and terrorists, I asked a man selling air rifles if you could
buy real guns in CDE.

"Further down," he said. "In front of the Chinese restaurant."

I went. One contact handed me off to another, who nodded into a crowd
from which two men emerged.

They stood too close to me. "What're you looking for?"

Only pistols, I said. "What calibre? 9mm?"

I haven't seen a single person in South America, police or military or
otherwise, carrying anything larger than 9mm. Often the police here
are armed with .380 revolvers. I decided to push a little and see if
anything larger was available. I asked if they had .45s.

"No problem. What brand? Colt? Come with us. We'll take you to the
black market right now. You can ride on the back of my motorcycle."

Fuck. I felt a brief moment of shock. I hadn't expected things to move
this fast. There was no way I was getting on the back of some shady
guy's motorcycle, him thinking I had money and reason to buy pistols,
and letting him drive me around Ciudad del Este to some unknown
location. That's not just a good way to end up mugged; it might even
be a decent way to end up dead.

Unfortunately, I think my surprise show in my body language. One of
the men immediately offered, instead, to conduct business in a
restaurant. "Very relaxed, safe," he said.

Mentally, I was already back-pedaling. I nodded as sagaciously as I
could manage and told him I understood. I said I had to speak with my
friend (male -- thank you, Spanish, for letting me say that without
saying it) who was waiting for me Right Now. I looked at my watch and
said I'd return in an hour, to this spot, and talk to the guy with the
red hat again.

I walked away.

One of the two men followed me for the first five minutes or so. I
confronted him and told him I'd return in an hour and reminded him
that I had to talk with my friend first, "ALONE." He agreed, again,
and asked if I wanted any cocaine as well? I walked to one of the
Paraguayan military outposts a few hundred meters away and talked with
the highest ranking person I could see outside. I wanted to be seen
talking with him. I spent the next half an hour changing directions,
cutting through buildings, doubling back, going through bottle-neck
areas and then waiting, hidden, to see if anyone followed.

I never went back by the Chinese restaurant.

A few hours later, I grabbed the last seat on a bus on its way out of town.

posted by daviduri @ 12:44 PM