A Paraguayan Pitstop

Posted on by Tom Lloyd-Jones
San Ignacio Miní reduction, NE Argentina: a vi...
Image via Wikipedia

Having been dropped off at the hostel, back over on the Brazilian side of the border, I got my things together and, three buses down the line and with darkness having already set in, found myself at Paraguayan immigration in Ciúdad del Este, separated from Brazil by the Rio Paraná. Paraguay was going to have to be short and sweet – it was already Tuesday evening, and by Thursday night I had to be in Argentina and on a bus headed for Buenos Aires.

I found myself a hotel – no hostels in Paraguay, not a single one – and immediately landed n my feet. The señora offered to cook me dinner, free of charge, using the food I´d brought over the border with me; there were Arabic TV channels on the box; best of all, however, was that out in the courtyard was a group of Brazilian gaúchos from Rio Grande do Sul who invited me to a plate of barbecued ribs and a beer: South America, the best continent in the world, bar none. They came to Ciúdad del Este once, sometimes twice a week to buy goods to then sell back in Brazil. Not for nothing is the city known as ´the supermarket of South America.´ I was hoping to find a few bargains myself the next day.

First port of call the following morning was the Itaipú Dam, 15km north of the city and still, at least the 3 Gorges Dam in China is fully up and running, the largest hydroelectric project in the world. The tour itself, though free (!), was a bit of a disappointment, but the site is undeniably impressive. The water channeled through the dam powers 20 turbines and, incredibly, Paraguay needs just two of these turbines to generate enough energy to satisfy the demands of the entire country, such is the lack of industry within its borders. The other 18 are used by Brazil, yet account for less than 20% of its energy needs.

Back in town it was time to find some deals. The microcentro was a bustling warren of stalls, malls, shops and alleyways. It was fun to simply wander around, surrounded by hectic, vibrant, seemingly more authentic South America. By midafternoon it was time to skip town and catch the bus to Encarnación, 4 hours south. Onboard was cramped – my legs ddn´t fit in the space in front of my seat – sweaty and overcrowded, with people stood shoulder to shoulder in the narrow aisle. I loved it – proper travel! And at proper prices: after the European level costs in Brazil this was back to Bolivian prices.

After a night´s sleep in Encarnación I was up by 7am and had a rapid wander around town. Aside from a small museum dedicated to exhibits of and explanations on the Chaco War with Bolivia there was little to see, the pretty main square aside, so I caught the bus 30mins out of town to the ruins of the Jesuit mission of Trinidad.

The day was a stunner, cloudless cerulean skies, a soft warm breeze blowing and still early enough in the day for the sun to not be beating down. As I wandered away from the highway and along dusty roads several locals pointed me in the direction of the ruins. After eventually finding them I had the site virtually to myself, and was able to amble my way around them, spending what has to be one of the best hours of my trip revelling in life´s simple  pleasures. It was like the very best English summer days can be – the air was pleasingly heavy, somniferous almost; bees thrummed amongst the flowers, which in turn exuded sweet aromas; birds chirped in the trees; off in the distance the low growl of a lawnmower. The ruins too were spectacular, spread over acres of perfectly maintained grassland: the enormous roofless main church; the colonnaded squares of the community; and the bell tower, which afforded views over the site and on to the idyllic gently undulating countryside around. Despite being in deepest darkest Latin America the scene was decidedly Anglo-Saxon: my Paraguayan detour had been more than worth it for that hour alone.

Soon, too soon, it was time to catch a bus back into town and from there over the river and across the border to the Argentinian city of Posadas, where I hoped to have time to visit the Jesuit ruins of San Ignacio Miní an hour outside of town.

I did, just. Onto the bus, over the Paraguayan border, a long wait on the Argentinian side, onto another bus to Posadas´ bus station and from there on to San Ignacio. By the time I arrived the sun was already low in the sky. It thus didn´t help that I couldn´t actually find the ruins; when I eventually did I found them encircled by a huge fence. I didn´t have time to find the entrance so vaulted the barrier, trying the appease the rather large guard dogs that greeted my arrival on the other side. Breaking and entering into an historic site – this was like Sacsayhuamán all over again, the only difference being that I actually intended to pay this time.

Sure enough, within a minute I heard whistling and saw a guard running towards me. He wasn´t happy for some unknown reason, and marched me off to the ticket office. I explained to him that I´d been unable to find the entrance and had always intended to pay. He seemed to have understood my predicament, before leaving me with the staff at the ticket office with the killer line “I just caught this guy trying to break in. Deal with him, would you.” Cheers pal.

Fortunately they were somewhat more accepting of my excuses and after handing over my cash they let me back in. I cast a quick glance over the contents of the site´s museum and then wandered round the ruins themselves. Bigger, better preserved and with information boards every 100 metres or so, it was unfortunately also packed with tour groups and, while undeniably impressive, lacked the unspoiled charms of Trinidad.

Back to Posadas then. Creamfields festival down in Buenos Aires was only two days away!

Misrata 22nd August 2011

Posted on by Tom Lloyd-Jones

Things are finally coming to a head here in Libya; the end is nigh for the Colonel and his regime. I’m sat watching Al Jazeera’s rolling coverage of events, showing images of people celebrating in Freedom Square on the waterfront in Benghazi juxtaposed with the news that the revolutionaries have taken control of swathes of Tripoli, having even reached Gaddafi’s beloved Green Square.

This was the way it had to end, armed uprising in the capital, the residents liberating themselves, spilling their own blood for the revolution, rather than having to suffer the indignity of waiting to be liberated by their countrymen. Developments have been swift in the last few days; swift and decisively one-sided. Ten days ago talk was of military stalemate, the rebels unable to advance either in the east, or in the Western Mountains, or here in the Misrata enclave. The only solution was a political one; dialogue with the Gaddafi regime. How times have changed.

As I write this Mustafa Abdel Jalil, Head of the National Transitional Council, has just announced the capture of Seif El Islam, Gaddafi’s eldest son and heir apparent. The regime is more than just crumbling, it is about to be swept away.

The turning point came about ten days ago: in the Nafusa Mountains the rebels came down from the mountains, their sights set on the coastal city of Az Zawiya 85km away, which had tasted freedom for two brief weeks at the start of the revolution, the uprising there brutally crushed by Khamees, Gaddafi’s most militarily astute and bloodthirsty son. If they reached the city the war would surely change – not only would they receive support from the population, but also, significantly, they would then be a mere 50km from Tripoli. Gaddafi’s generals knew this, and would surely do everything within their power to prevent the revolutionaries reaching the city.

I assumed that it would take them days, weeks, to advance. Instead it seemed to take no more than hours; the first footage coming out of Az Zawiya showed hundreds of fighters, far more than there had previously been in the Nafusa Mountains. The NTC had obviously been busy over the past two weeks, flying and ferrying combatants from the east into Tunisia and then on into the mountains.

In Misrata too the pendulum had swung in the revolution’s favour. Boats unloading munitions, tanks and weaponry had been docking regularly at the port, for so long the only means of access to the city. The city’s airport, out of action since mid March due to its proximity to the front lines and subsequent risk of rocket attack, had seen massive military planes starting to land on its runway, the word QATAR spelt out in huge letters on their underbellies so nobody was in any doubt as to their origin. They would spend no more than 10 minutes on the runway, enough time to rapidly unload supplies and armaments before taking off once more.

Things were building.

On Thursday 11th August a massive coordinated offensive was launched towards the town of Tawergha, to the south of Misrata. For months Tawergha had been the launching pad for all the Grad rockets fired into Misrata on a daily basis, and for months the rebels had been unable to take it. Yet on the 11th, just ten days ago, it fell within hours. And since then momentum has been building inexorably, exponentially.

Here in the Misrata enclave the town of Zlitan had proved a huge stumbling, block in the rebels’ quest to march on Tripoli, the population unwilling to see their city become a pile of ruins, a new version of Misrata. The fighters had reached Zlitan’s outskirts weeks ago, but had been forced to wait as negotiations took place with town elders on whether they would join the rebels in their fight. Once Tawergha fell, however, it was only a matter of time.

Sure enough on the night of Thursday 18th, just three days ago, the offensive began, continuing through Friday. Almost 40 fighters were killed, many of them friends or relatives of guys in the office. Mohamed, knew two of those killed, one of whom had been an English student of his and was just 19. These aren’t soldiers after all; they’re civilians fighting to rid their country of its hated dicator. Yet Zlitan was liberated.

The rolling news is still playing in front of me; Al Jazeera has announced the capture of Sa’adi, Gaddafi’s son who paid millions of Euros to play for Italian Serie A side Perugia, and who dissolved Benghazi’s Al Ahly football club and destroyed its stadium for allowing a donkey onto the pitch, in reference to his somewhat leaden footed footballing skills. Sa’adi couldn’t take a joke; tonight the joke’s on him.

The end has come so fast; faster than anyone could have hoped for. Gaddafi’s regime, after holding out for so long against the odd couple of armed civilians and NATO jets, has imploded. It’s being reported that hundreds of Misrata’s fighters, with naval support from NATO, were last night shipped to Tripoli using launches to get them into Tajoura, one of the capital’s districts opposed to Gaddafi from the start.

It’s going to be fascinating hearing the stories that come out of Tripoli in the coming days and weeks, as we find out to just what lengths the dear Colonel went to stifle opposition and paint for the world a green-tinted picture of doting devotion to the Brother Leader.

I’ve just been up on the roof, fireworks going off all around the city. They’re interspersed with celebratory gunfire, red tracer bullets blazing crimson trails up into the night sky. They’re beautiful you know, and silent. I think they’d be a welcome addition to Guy Fawkes Night; might petition the government on that one when I get back to the UK.

Tripoli has risen up. The end is hours away. Libya, you’re free.

Why I left Dubai, quit PR, and became a tour leader in Central America

Posted on by Tom Lloyd-Jones

This subject matter might come across to some as a slightly self-indulgent post with which to kick off my latest blog venture. Tant pis. It’s one that I want to write, and one that I hope will answer a few questions.

I’d like to take you back to just over a year ago. October 2013 to be precise. I was in Dubai, working away for mega-PR firm Edelman and heavily engaged in the final few weeks of run-up to the 2013 Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. The project, though glitzy and interesting, was taking its toll. 7 day working weeks, commuting from Dubai to Yas Marina Circuit (YMC-home of the Abu Dhabi GP) every day. Leaving the flat at 7.30, not back before 22.00. Tough certainly, but with the F1 weekend only a few weeks off I knew I could get through it and then look forward to some (relative) downtime afterwards.

Here’s the catch though – when you work for a PR agency, you are constantly at the client’s beck and call. That means phone calls at midnight, missed meals to fit in ‘emergency’ meetings (to all those working in PR and Marketing, an emergency meeting is needed when there’s a risk of a terrorist attack or risk of contagion spreading, not to decide which radio DJ is going to offer tickets to your event to listeners). Most PR agencies also aim to work for as many clients as possible (more clients, more money) and look to get their staff working at optimum capacity. This is corporate speak for hopelessly overstretched, under-resourced and yet still expected to deliver. Day after day. Week after week. Can’t find the time? Work late. Still can’t find the time? Work weekends.

Thus it was that I got a phone call from my line manager while in the pits at YMC, working overtime comme d’habitude and in the middle of showing journalists round the circuit. She was checking in to see whether I’d completed drafting the latest press release for one of our clients, an undersea cable-laying firm (insert joke as appropriate) and one of the most soul-destroying accounts I had the privilege to work on in my time in the UAE (the US weapons manufacturers were definitely also up there).

I was honest with my manager, and told her I hadn’t been able to do the work as I was working flat out trying to keep the Abu Dhabi GP clients happy. Apparently this wasn’t good enough. Although I quite obviously had no capacity to do a decent job of working on any account other than the Abu Dhabi GP, and was not going to have capacity for at least three weeks, I was still expected to write some inane fluff about the exciting new developments in the undersea cable industry.

Things became remarkably clear in that moment. I finally got it. The work never stops in the PR industry. There’s always another story to concoct, another release to distribute, another account to service. Even if all this constant hamster-in-a-wheel tail-chasing is to the detriment of whatever other work you are doing. It was never going to stop. I might be lucky and get a break of 2-3 days after the F1 weekend; following that it’d be straight back into the hamster wheel.

Realisations like this tend to pose questions of a profound existential nature – was this what I wanted to do for the rest of my life? Hell, was this what I wanted to do for the next few months?

The answer, irrevocably, was no. Life, in its most sublime, simplified essence, consists of experiencing the joy of each moment. The sheer bliss of simply being. It is diametrically opposed to the constant stream of social media chatter, the corporate rat race, the ever-revolving hamster wheel that we are told is what we should all aspire to.

I needed to quit my company, leave Dubai and pursue a professional path more likely to bring me happiness. The thought terrified me though. I had no real idea what the next job could be. My Dubai friends virtually all worked in PR and saw me as another PR professional, someone defined by their job. I’d been in Dubai for less than a year, and didn’t know whether I should look for another job in the city, head back to the UK or look to find work where I really wanted to be based, Latin America.

Decisions, decisions.

I spent the weekend working, preparing for the following week. Yet when I woke up on Sunday (the first day of the working week in many Muslim countries) morning I was gripped by genuine fear. Just thinking of the claustrophobic office environment, all silence save the background hum of printers and people typing, was enough to know that I didn’t want to walk through that door. Didn’t wanted to be ‘greeted’ by a room full of people too busy working on their client’s latest insane request to even look up from the flickering screens. I couldn’t do it.

I instead drove to a restaurant I regularly used as a workspace over the weekends and set up for the day there. If my boss wanted to call me, let her call me. There was no way I was going into the office. I settled down and began to work. The whole while though my head was spinning. Not being able to go into the office on the first day of the working week was a sign that all was not well.

And so I decided to do what your average Millennial would do at a time like this – watch some YouTube videos. These two, to be precise:

I’d watched both before, but now both Steve Jobs and Alan Watts seemed to be speaking directly to me. The message was incredibly powerful, clear and immediate.

13 minutes and 35 seconds later, and I knew I had to quit my job. Not tomorrow, not some time soon, and not once I’d got the next job lined up. I had to quit my job that day. Done, dusted, time to find a line of employment I was truly passionate about.

Ergo Central America, ergo tour leading, ergo the latest chapter in my life.

Fast forward one year and I am happier than ever, having finally realised my dream of sharing my love of travel with others by leading tours around Costa Rica.

Thank you Steve Jobs. Thank you Alan Watts. You changed my life – here’s hoping you continue to change many more.

For anyone who finds themselves in a similar situation, where they’re not happy with their job and yet are terrified by the prospect of handing in their notice and unsure as to what else they could do, all I say is this. Do it. Be brave. Your long-term happiness is far more important than short-term uncertainty. The ideal situation would be to quit and have your next post lined up, but this isn’t always possible. If not, take the plunge and back yourself to find something that will truly make you happy.

The inimitable Kahlil Gibran put it beautifully –

‘When you work you are a flute through whose heart the whispering of the hours turns to music

To love life though labour is to be intimate with life’s inmost secret

All work is empty save when there is love, for work is love made visible’

Life is too short to not do something you love!!