Screaming into the night

Monday night, in the black of night, at the shadowy squishy edge of a lake in the middle of Paraguay, we shoved our Hobie cat into the inky warm water and screamed off into the darkness.

It was the irregular ‘whenever-we-have-enough-boatloads-on-holidays-or-summer-weekends-twilight-sailing-regatta’ at Ypacarai Yate Club and this night, the occasion was a national holiday (Paraguay is 99% Roman Catholic … with coincidentally the highest per capita number of rent ‘em by the hour motels imagined) – celebrating Nuestra Senora de los Milagros.

The legend, in a nutshell, tells of a native Guarani man pursued by enemies, and in really deep doodoo until the Virgin Mary appears and hides him behind a big tree. In thanksgiving, the Indian cuts down the tree and carves a statue of the Virgin which, for over three centuries, the devout have worshiped every year on this day, at a basilica in Caacupé.

Leaving Asuncion Monday evening we had passed thousands of the pilgrims, swinging their coolers and guampas, laden with knapsacks, as they hoofed it toward their destination some 30-miles (as the karakara flies) east of the capital city. Rickety stands covered with tarps dotted the highway (again – this is taking liberty with the term 'highway') selling food and drinks for the travelers; some of whom would walk all night to pray for jobs and good health at the foot of the statue, then turn around and head home. Others would spend the night -- a flock of some 300,000 ‘camping out’ on the cobblestone plaza and streets, sidewalks or grass (and this being a developing country: without the benefit of porta-potties … ).

But for us, it was the lure of a nighttime sail and asado at the clubhouse with friends, that brought us out of our enclave in Mariano Roque Alonso, to a rendezvous point in Luque, past the camino of the gaudy ceramics -- with miles of brightly painted Baby Jesuses and wise men displayed alongside Porky-the-Pig, spotty Dalmatians, and the omnipresent frogs (what the pink flamingo is to Florida, the frog is to Paraguay) -- to Areguá, and the shores of Lago Ypacarai.

The regatta goes something like this: meet at the stately lodge at the end of the rutted dirt road, kiss everyone twice while you stumble through greetings in Castellano, French or English, stand around slapping mosquitoes for two hours waiting for enough people to make a regatta (by this time it is nearly 10PM), spend 20 minutes getting the boat ready (there are no lights), 15 minutes whooping your head off as you race across the blackened lake (there is no moon) towards two specks of light on the other side, search (and search … and search …) for the buoy to round, then scream back, soaking wet, to the swampy shore, debark, shower, and barbecue. Insane but wildly fun and even Luiz – who had bravely invited me to crew despite my short but statistically discouraging history with small-boats -- said it was one of his best nights sails ever. Ta da! Hence I have become one of few people to actually go sailing in Paraguay, the land-locked nation in the middle of South America.