Our adventures began as a whim some two years ago. I suggested naively that it would be fun and enlightening to take the visiting Justices and Zuhars to Paraguay on our way to visit the brethren in far Southern Brazil. And furthermore, perhaps it would be educational and fun to take a trip to Argentina as well. In the end we DID visit these countries and we did get an education but I’m not sure it was all that fun.

Now that that long-ago-planned trip is a reality, we stopped at the border Brazilian immigration office. As any foreign traveler would expect, we found out that to visit Paraguay we would need to officially leave Brazil and enter Paraguay with our passports duly stamped. We got the Brazilian exit stamp without much problem, and at no cost. So far, so good.

The real education began as we crossed the Bridge of Friendship out of Brazil and into Paraguay. What is it with all the teenage boys dressed in vests that looked “somewhat official” trying to help us find parking. Please notice the phrase “somewhat official”. In a city of corruption and contraband, to appear “somewhat official” is vastly important. But I ramble. For the life of me I could not understand why everyone was preoccupied with my finding a place to park. I came to visit and see the city, not stop and park. Time after time my half-opened window was filled with a hodge-podge collection of eager faces chatting away in Spanish & Portuguese hoping to sell me on the idea of using a referenced place to park. Consistently I firmly refused to fall into what I perceived as a tourist trap. I thought everyone else in the car was just about as confused as I was.

By the time we were across the Bridge of Friendship an official policeman told me to pull over. I did. As I got out I was swarmed again by more of the “somewhat official” collection of chattering teenagers of Paraguay-Indian-Spanish extract. They informed me that I needed to get my passport stamped by the Paraguay custom officials to prove that I was entering the country of Paraguay. This I knew but why were they so interested in telling me? Later I learned that the reason that they were so eager to do me a favor was to get a tip for the favor. It began to look like money was king and getting it was the name of the game. For some reason I began to feel we were in another city where graft ruled, namely: Babylon. The only difference is that this one is south of the equator.

Trying to do things legally, I led my entourage to the badly-lit, ancient office of the immigration department in Paraguay. We found the proper line and duly waited. When Sister Lee Ellen and another one of our group of sitting ducks had given their passports to the lower-level officials at the window an excited air of interest began to buzz among the higher-level officials sitting at desks in the back of the room. Soon the highest ranking official motioned for all of us to come into his trap, excuse me, I mean office.

We all dutifully filed in. He asked us our business, looked at our documents, made a quick Babylon-styled calculation and dropped the bomb: if we desired to have our innocent passports graced with a visa to permit us to visit Paraguay we would have to cough up a humble $200. Having checked on this procedure previously to our trip we all knew better. There should be no official cost. We refused to pay. Our decidedly negative attitude to fork over $40 a piece encouraged this high official to have an equally negative response: No pay? No entry stamp in your passport! We left without any negotiation. Cooperating with graft was not acceptable to our mindset, at least not yet.

As we left the immigration department feeling quite upset, once again we were among the teenage tip-seekers. They informed us that the high official was a liar and would you please tip us for the information? Wondering about the problem of our not getting an entry stamp in our passports I asked another border custom official what I should do. He said, “Come on into the country and do what you want.” He informed us openly that officially we were not in the country, but to not worry, “when you leave you need no exit visa since you really did not enter. You are not here”. Thus was our welcome to Paraguay! With the absence of legal absolutes was it any wonder that I thought we were in a Babylon?

Back in our car and a little more confused, but more decided to be independent, we set off to explore the city before us. With the city before us and we tourists ready to enjoy the sights, all would be well if it were not for the traffic. In the hour that we had entered the immigration department to have our passports stamped, until the time we stoically left the Paraguay Border office, it seemed that everyone who owned a car in South America had arrived in Paraguay and were stuck in the traffic right in front of us. Being stopped we were an easy target for those dear teenagers chattering away wanting to help us find a place to park while we shopped. It began to dawn upon me that in this city we probably needed the help they could offer. Very clearly this part of the world danced to the tune of a different drummer. Thus fifteen-year-old Juan Carlos became our guide for the rest of that morning.

I figured the rest of our group could get out of the kombi to shop while I waited in traffic with 15 year old Juan. I would catch up with them later. Juan, I learned, was one of 12 children whose father had “taken a trip” 4 years ago. Several of his siblings worked as guides with him also. The Lord blessed the time stuck in traffic with grace to preach unhurriedly of Christ to Juan. He admitted he had never heard of Christ before. I planted, we pray another will water even as we all seek the Lord to give the fruit of salvation in this soul. We pushed and shoved our way through the traffic until we finally made it to the beloved parking lot. There I paid the daily rate to leave my car in a protected place. Out of the Kombi we were soon rubbing shoulders with people of all ages and ethnic backgrounds who were either eagerly selling or fanatically finagling the price. Vendors had their wares attractively displayed in booths set up halfway on the sidewalk and halfway in the street. The intersections provided an added opportunity of gouging the unsuspecting and naive tourists from all over Brazil. With the street virtually blocked with traffic, making a way slowly through the opportunists salesmen, I was reminded of doctor reports describing the dangers of cholesterol buildup in the arteries of a pre-heart attack victim. Juan carefully negotiated me through this mass of humanity and goods and soon I was rejoined to the rest of our group.

The group had done pretty much most of their shopping while Jaun and I waited in traffic so back we went to the parking garage. No one had messed with the Kombi, so either this garage was really an honest place to park, or no one had time to do anything. What could anyone do to our Kombi anyway you ask? There is no radio to steal and no luggage to pilfer. However, there are four tires to steal besides the Kombi itself. The Lord kept us and our Kombi safe.

Back out in the traffic, Jaun told me that he could bribe the two traffic guards at the traffic circle to get our lane moving. We thought that was in order so we burped up about five dollars worth of Brazilian currency. After Juan returned our lane began to move while the two guards huffed on their whistles and aggressively directed traffic. With a wave of their hand here, whistle, and a hand flapping there, whistle, they moved the traffic through chocked arteries ever so slowly. Because we misinterpreted a signal from the second policeman, we had to go through this ordeal twice.

Soon we found ourselves at the Federal Police parking lot beyond which our guide could not go. We bid him farewell with a twenty-dollar bill and found our way out of the country being directed by official uniformed policemen through a back entrance onto the Bridge of Friendship and into Brazil again. We did not need to get an exit stamp in our passports since we had not received an entrance stamp. Remember? We were not there.

Later I wondered if the choked traffic was actually provoked by the same policemen who benefited from the greasing of the palms by those who needed to get somewhere. If this were true perhaps the burglary of the vehicles parked on the street was orchestrated by the owners of “safe” parking garages. There is no reason for this not to be as it seemed.

Back on Brazilian soil, and I being still shook up with all the shenanigans in our Babylon, I drove right through the Brazilian customs department without stopping. Only later did I perceive that we all would someday have a problem with not having our passports duly stamped with a proper entrance stamp. A day later and several miles down the road we stopped at the border of Argentina and explained our problem to the Brazilian Federal Police there. They understood our explanations and kindly got our passports up to snuff thus closing this chapter on our trip to Babylon and back.

Written and edited by Missionary Calvin Gardner with helpful commentaries from his traveling companions