To
borrow from Voltaire, if magical realism didn’t
exist, Paraguay would invent it. Only it would be
even darker and more nightmarish than what we have
on the shelves today.
Like all dream worlds, Paraguay lies detached from
the world beyond. Indeed, despite living in a landlocked
country, Paraguayans see themselves as living on
an island and even use terms like “islands,”
“coasts” and “bays” to describe
their country’s outer (dry) margins. As John
Gimlette tells us in his hugely addictive At
the Tomb of the Inflatable Pig: Travels Through
Paraguay, “Paraguay is not merely isolated,
it is almost impenetrable. Small wonder that it
has become a refuge to Nazis, cannibals, strange
sixteenth-century Anabaptists, White Russians and
fantastic creatures that ought long ago to have
been extinct.”
He’s not exaggerating.
Gimlette had visited Paraguay in his youth, and
as the fearless young often do, he found its violent
political flavor intoxicating. At the Tomb of
the Inflatable Pig is his account of what he
found when he returned, years later.
At
the Tomb of the Inflatable Pig is decidedly
not the memoir of a bemused Englishman wandering
wide-eyed through the Third World. Gimlette’s
own presence is too small to count as a memoir,
and his account mixes healthy doses of well-researched
history—both old and recent—with his
observations.
From Asunción (the country’s capital
and its largest city) to Eastern Paraguay (where
most Paraguayans live) to the Chaco (the sparsely
populated, arid span of grassy plains, scrub and
salt marshes where the horrific Chaco War raged
in the 1930s), Gimlette offers a solid, well-detailed
look at the country’s sharply divided regions.
(The Paraguay River splits the country in half.)
The narrative’s course is casually paced,
and Gimlette uses his contemporary settings as jumping-off
points for extended historical writing that gives
the book much of its structure.
Paraguay’s history is not happy. Conquistadores
arrived in the 1500s, and many soon abandoned their
search for El Dorado in order to dabble in polygamy
with the locals. The region remained under Spanish
rule until 1811, but even then the newly independent
nation didn’t become a bastion of democracy.
It declared its first ruler a dictator for life,
and he was followed by a series of dictators remarkable,
even among dictators, for their sadism and insatiable
greed. “Between 1870 and 1936,” Gimlette
writes, “there were thirty-two presidents
(two assassinated), six coups, two successful revolutions
and eight failures.”
Nevertheless, with all that (seemingly) fertile
land shimmering from a distance like an unspoilt
paradise, Paraguay became a hotbed for both left-
and right-wing groups looking to form their own
often desperate, ill-conceived utopias—a place
of last resorts, as one soil scientist put it in
conversation with Gimlette. Among them was a group
led by Bernhard Förster, Nietzsche’s
brother-in-law, who tried to establish a master
race there in the 1880s. Förster committed
suicide without Nueva Germania doing much to purify
the human race or preserve human culture, but his
widow became, decades later, a popular figure among
Nazi party leaders. She gave Hitler her brother’s
walking stick, and as Gimlette points out, “the
Third Reich supported thirty-one schools in Paraguay
and educated 1,161 children; it sent books and brown
uniforms and bales of swastika flags; a pastor called
Carlos Richert toured the country emulating the
Führer with his own piping version
of the Nuremberg rally.”
Hitler also had German soil scattered over Förster’s
grave in Paraguay.
In turn, Paraguay, which boasted the first Nazi
party to be created in South America, declared war
on Nazi Germany only after the Nazis were clearly
doomed in 1945, and Nazi war criminals found it
a convenient place to hide after the war. Gimlette
even puts in a little travel time tracking the movements
of Josef Mengele, Auschwitz’s Angel of Death,
who spent time in Eastern Paraguay.
A
fair amount of the appeal in travel writing comes
down to the writer’s descriptive powers, and
Gimlette’s talents are wickedly formidable.
His descriptive passages are nicely telegraphic
and evocative, as we see in this scene from the
book’s Asunción section:
The San Lorenzo fair was in its third and last
day. It was like trudging into a giant hangover.
The air was muzzy with roasted offal and disjointed
songs and the farm-hands—the peones—were
dreamy and broke. Ancient, battered fairground
machines whirled emptily around our heads, animated
scrap. Some of the peones were still
colourfully drunk. Others were already tucked
up in their hats and leathers, snuggled into doorways
and gutters. Around their feet nipped flurries
of icy sand, brought in on a goose-pimpling southerly.
Blunt with rum and poverty, they slept on.
He also has a good eye for visual comedy, as we
see here in this passage in which Gimlette talks
a grocer into giving him a ride (for an inflated
price) after he missed a bus:
He was soon packing me into his fancy new pick-up,
with his wife out on the back. I was pleased that
she was coming because it took the hard edge off
our transaction, turning it into more of a family
outing. Mrs. Berera brought her swimming costume,
a beach towel, a garden chair and a bottle of
frozen cherryade. It was obviously an excursion
they’d enjoyed many times before and Mrs.
Berera wasn’t the least perturbed when her
chair slid backwards and forwards across the truck
as Lino whirled along in a tornado of red volcanic
gravel. We tried to keep an eye on her in the
mirror but sometimes Mrs. Berera slid completely
out of view and it wasn’t until the next
fold in the earth’s crust—and the
reversal of centrifugal forces—that she
made her stately reappearance.
He can also be amusingly harsh with the people
he meets. In this passage, he encounters an American
who, he writes, “loathed me from the start”
primarily because he hated humankind in general:
Our lives had been thrown together by mutual
contacts in Asunción and a particular source
of irritation was that I was British. As we drove
along, he probed at this.
“It is true you drink your beer warm, like
piss? What you got a queen for?”
It was like discovering that The Catcher
in the Rye wasn’t just a nightmare,
that
Holden Caulfield had emerged from tortured adolescence
and was now a tortured agronomist in central Paraguay.
Just in case he can blush, I’ll call him
Garth (although his real name was Brian). In Garth’s
world, there were only two redeeming features:
plants and insects.
“This is the fuckin’ ant capital
of the world. More species than anywhere else.”
He particularly admired the insects that devoured
mankind.
For centuries, Paraguay has done just that: it
has devoured a variety of humans who sought to change
it, for better or worse, and it has carried on,
ravenously unaltered. But the outside world is impinging
on Paraguay, and it is, Gimlette predicts, about
to change forever. What, pray, could be next?
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