A local bus from Foz took us there across Friendship Bridge, through passport control on the Brazilian side, customs non-existent, guards smiling and friendly - probably joking about el Gringo going over to the dark side - and then onto Paraguay where the stamp was smashed into passport then back on bus and into Ciudad del Este, or City of the East, sprawling chaotically up and over the riverbank, still dense jungle back in the 1960s, now the world's third largest free trade area behind Miami and Hong Kong, all of which operate with minimal taxes and an endless supply of cheap yet quality products plus the inevitable warehouses chock full of counterfeits. These mostly electronic goods come directly from the economic tigers of Asia, and today it is the Taiwanese and Koreans who have followed their products and make up a majority of the population in one of the strangest places I've ever been to. There's even a nearby town named Presidente Franco ... I mean, come on.
The Hotel Executive has a wooden interior, pictures of elaborately dressed and coiffed famous Paraguayans hang on walls, an iron lift with gate crashes down into the lobby, the room has creaking floorboards with a well-worn rug on top, bed linen stiff and starched, and an ashtray sitting with majestic defiance on the desk. It was easy to imagine business deals being done in here in shirtsleeves and tie amid a fug of cigarette smoke.
With an eye for Latin American dodginess, US TV show Miami Vice used the city as a location and from the window I looked out onto streets devoid of humankind other than the occasional SUV prowling sycamore-lined avenues, the upper foliage giving protection against sun now pounding the pavements.
There was certainly money out there, in the high-end vehicles, neat and tidy apartment blocks, smart office facades and showy boutiques often advertising with Chinese calligraphy, watched over by a vigilant man in uniform holding a big gun. Foz, within spitting distance just across the river, was a world away from this place.
Needing cigarettes to smoke in the room, as well as a place to get money to pay for said smokes, I took a wander, but it was a Sunday and Sundays in South America mean people religiously stay at home after morning mass in church, so most places other than pharmacies are closed, meaning I had to take a chance in using a cash machine - I'd read about people getting mugged by pillion passengers on mopeds, sometimes getting a cosh on the head as well as a lost wallet, or a broken bottle in the face - while the room had no safe and even if it had I wouldn't have used it after dealing with dodgy Pedro on reception squinting at me in a surly manner when I exited earlier. This was important belongings down the front of underpants time in an air of covert disquiet.
A wad of colourful banknotes in pocket and still in one piece I ventured further and found a grocery store open, outside which sat a man chatting, selling cigarettes and newspapers from a cart, with an armed guard, and beyond was a small park where younger men sat in shade, shifty eyes on me flashing the cash, so despite the presence of a big gun I about-turned, mission accomplished, and made my way back to the cool of the hotel's ceiling fan, stopping to sit under a tree to decide if Ciudad del Este was really as dodgy as I was imagining. Before long someone had bummed a smoke and loitered too long, checking me out: unshaven in scruffy blending-in-and-not-looking-like-he-has-any-money attire. Bollocks to this ... back to bed for siesta.
Waking in early evening, stomach rumbling, scruffy attire thrown on, I found a new, this time friendly, receptionist who pointed me in the direction of a restaurant, which turned out to be a casino and disco too, where I munched on a beef kebab and watched a handful of punters try their luck on the fruit machines.
When a DJ turned up and began spinning discs while singing badly along into a microphone, some sort of del Este karaoke, I left and found a coach outside the hotel unloading a pack of tourists who stood shouting and laughing in both street and lobby, so I smoked outside, and watched a man in shorts, vest and flip-flops amble up to an open car window and reach in. There was a volley of abuse from the driver who sped off ... no shots fired.
The next morning I checked out a day early and was surprised when the shifty receptionist of yesterday handed me back $25 for the room. Bingo!
On the border the taxi was pulled over by a man in uniform with a large gun hanging from his shoulder who told me to open my bag which he then began to search, stopping when he looked inside the plastic bag holding dirty clothes.
Safely back at the Taroba Hotel where the peace was palpable only 5 kilometres from the previous hotel, the receptionists hooted with laughter when I told them where I'd been ... "And you are still alive!"