Paraguay v Trinidad & Tobago from a little town near Itaipu 20 June 2006

It was a cloudy hot day for Paraguay's last match in the Cup. I woke worried and paranoid, feeling trouble in the air. We had heard more and more about crime in Paraguay and I was still a little nervous following our minor scare after Brazil's match with Australia. We'd just changed rooms in our hostel and learned that the previous tenants had taken the keys and so, for the moment, we could not lock our room. It added to my sense of insecurity. I implemented my usual risk management plan of securing everything inside (and to) a cupboard with padlocks and chains. I also left a few bucks on a desk to act as a decoy and offer up an easy hit.

We waited beneath a billboard dedicated to Brazil's performance in the World Cup to catch our bus across the border to Paraguay. I had been terribly amused by the billboard boasting Brazil's success over Croatia when we first arrived into town, but now that it had been updated to include the defeat of Australia, it didn't seem like so much fun.

We were already wearing our identical Paraguay tops and felt like fools still on the Brazilian side of the border. Indeed, we were regarded as such.

"What about Brazil? asked a passing fellow.

"Brazil before, I said pointing up the billboard (telling not quite the whole truth), "Today¦ Paraguay!

I wanted to get over the border as soon as possible so our displays of affection would be better placed and appreciated. We wanted to see some restoration of Paraguay pride and so thought that an appropriate location to watch the match would be Paraguay's proudest place: Itaipu - the world's largest hydroelectric plant!

I'm not really any dam fan, but our friends from Paraguay, who made us promise that we would visit Itaipu, have been enjoying the local electricity for a while. I've been pleased with the quality too. I imagined the dam structure would be impressive as well.

We boarded with the right change, negotiated the turnstile and sat in the back. We were familiar with this bus, but I felt more nervous all the same. The sky was dark and the last time we had crossed the border to Paraguay, it was a public holiday in Brazil. This time, the bus and the roads were full, difficult and slow.

I felt tense. Sally and I quietly shuffled around our possessions in the back of the bus so that we could easily hand over a bag if we had to.

Even going over the bridge seemed more frightening to me. I noticed how very high up we were and how slight the railing. Watching the water far down below, Sally and I discussed what to do about immigration. The last time we had visited Paraguay, we had passed over the border both ways without having our passports checked or stamped. This proved no difficultly for that visit, but given the feel of the day, we thought we should do things properly this time.

We jumped off the bus immediately on the Paraguay side of the river and entered the immigration office with concrete floors and blackened windows. We handed our passports through a small hole to a large gentlemen who fondled them like he'd never seen one before.

"Austria? he asked like a confused postal worker.

"Australia, I said.

The clarification did not seem to help. He told us to wait and took our passports away. I really hate it when that happens. He returned, indicated we should wait, and then started to deal with others in line. I lingered at the front of the queue, eager to not let him forget us, straining to see through the black windows to see where our passports had gone.

"This wasn't worth the trouble, I said to Sal.

By my reckoning, there were now about two hours until match time. I was already feeling anxious and immigration control was making me more so. I couldn't seem to calm down. Everything seemed to have a sinister feel. I'm not entirely sure why. I think I would still blame the little scare from two days before. That, and perhaps the low heavy clouds.

In time, someone returned with our passports and spoke with the original man. He stamped each one twice, wrote our details in his 'entrada' book and returned the passports to us. Stepping back into the street, the taxi drivers were upon us. I understand and respect the technique ' I'm an election campaigner! ' but the approaches made me defensive. We had planned to get a taxi to Itaipu, but now I decided I wanted a bus.

"It only takes one taxi driver to set you up, I said to Sal continuing with the paranoid theme. "A busload requires a whole conspiracy.

"You're starting to make me nervous, said Sal.

"I know, I'm sorry.

But I wasn't yet ready to stop. I decided we now needed to go and visit our Paraguayan friend Latetia. I remembered her pointing out the shop where she works and I wanted her confirmation on the match time and how to catch a bus to Itaipu. No-one else could be trusted! Not the Lonely Planet; not the Internet; not even myself.

We went to the shop, 'American¦ something'. It turned out to be an entire mall which seemed to grow and grow as we walked, looking for Latetia who we had only seen once before and when rather drunk. I thought I had some idea of her look, but so many women around seemed to share her pretty dark features. The main thing in our favour was that we knew Latetia was five months pregnant. We were walking around seeking a bump.

We visited dozens of stores displaying electronics and cameras. All seemed to have so many staff to peruse. At one place, we were suddenly surrounded by so many eager assistants, that I thought it worth a shot.

"Chica? Latetia? I asked, demonstrating her low growing belly with my hands.

A young woman smiled and nodded and pointed up.

"Upstairs?

"Si!

"There's an upstairs? I said to Sal.

There was, and we found it, and continued our search. Again, in a department store, this time emboldened, we started asking around. For all of the staff working in the mall, the community must have been rather tight because it did not take long until they had us at Latetia's counter and the other staff there seemed to recognise us.

"Latetia's amigos!!

It was surprising, and nice, to find we had been spoken of at all and in that way. We suddenly felt a bit silly again in our matching Paraguay shirts ' the same ones we had been wearing when we met Latetia with Marcus, Jose and Pedro and all the others.

We were told Latetia was not working that day. We left a note to say hello and said we would drop back again another time. As we were leaving the shop, we were attacked from behind.

"Australia!!!!

There was a friendly hand on my shoulder. I turned to find a man and his friends laughing at me. He had recognised us from watching Brazil play Australia in the International Disco Bar back in Foz. I think he must have been Brazilian judging by his enthusiastic taunts. He certainly thought we were funny in our Paraguay tops.

Leaving the mall, I was feeling better. I felt more confident, I think, from our minor success in finding Latetia's workplace even if we were not successful in finding her. And now, having been recognised and approached on the streets, I think I was starting to feel strangely connected and more at home in the area.

Our original naïve sense of security on first arriving had been shaken and replaced with a sense of vulnerability from recent events. This now seemed to be giving way to a feeling of ease which was coming from growing familiarity with the area - or at least the growing familiarity of its inhabitants with us.

I spoke with a security guard, who spoke no English, and was easily able to determine all that we needed to know. We went to catch a bus to Itaipu.

We were now amongst only locals, having left all the other foreigners back in the malls and the markets buying tax-free goods. It felt good.

On the bus for about half an hour, we started passing power lines and substations. Itaipu was approaching. We then went past a giant yellow building with Paraguayan and Brazilian flags on the top. Itaipu! We leapt to our feet, the driver pulled up (or rather slowed down) and we jumped off.

Itaipu looked dead. There was a big empty car park. There seemed nothing but lawn and asphalt for miles around. We walked through the empty roads and carpark until we reached the entrance where we were met by a security guard.

We pointed and grunted. He did the same. Itaipu was closed.

"Paraguay, he said. "Tres.

He meant the World Cup match starting at three o'clock. The plant had been closed so everyone could go home to watch. Everyone except him. I asked him whether he had a TV with him to watch the match. He said 'no'. I asked whether he had a radio. Again, he said 'no' which I found rather hard to believe. I think he must have thought I was asking whether he had a television or radio so that we could join him in watching the match. Which, of course, was what I was asking in a way. I just hadn't quite made it up to that bit yet. I shelved the idea of requesting a private tour of the plant.

We farewelled the guard, moving fast now. The match was only twenty minutes away. We waited for a bus to the next town and watched a cow and a chicken keeping each other company on the other side of the road. Cars and trucks, but no buses, zoomed past. Worried the buses might have stopped for the match, we noticed a few cars turning down a road, near the cow and the chicken. We crossed the road - to get to the other side.

There seemed to be a rural town set back there. We stumbled down a road of broken stones going in deeper and deeper. We saw basic houses where women were doing their washing in stone tubs outside. Little children played on the roads, stopping to stare. The place had electricity (as one would well hope), but we did not see television ariels about.

We saw a sign that said 'bebidas' ' drinks - and walked up to it. A group of four or five locals sat out the front, staring us down all the way. They had no television. The choices looked grim. With the match about to start, we considered heading back towards the cow, chicken and road to look for a bus. More than anything, we felt vulnerable and exposed, out of place, walking these streets. Then, on the little road, we saw a bus coming.

We hailed the bus and it stopped. It was going back to Ciudad del Este. The prospect was certain and awfully tempting, but we had already watched a match there and so we let the bus go on without us. We took some considerable comfort from the fact we were at least on a bus route that should provide an occasional exit. Then, we heard something.

"Do you hear children? asked Sal.

It drew us in further. We came to a school, a primary school, where school children were running around and playing football outside.

"I guess this is pretty close to a World Cup match, I said.

We could see a house adjacent the school with the doors open and a television inside. We decided we should linger by the school, where it seemed safe, and peek into the house with a view to being invited in. Then I spotted salvation: there were two men in the corner of the school yard, sitting on coke chairs under a tree and watching TV.

We sauntered over politely, expecting a teacher to find us and ask us to leave. We stood behind the two gentlemen. The match had just started. One of the fellows turned to look at us. He invited us to sit down and join them. Wonderful! We had a match.

In one sense, this was the quietest and most peaceful match for us so far. The gentlemen with whom we watched made barely a noise, even when Paraguay first scored from an own goal. In another sense, the match was tactile and hectic.

Sal took out her video camera to film we gentlemen watching the match and the school children who ran around playing in the yard. Whatever the structure of classes, the children were frequently in and outside and seemed to spend much of the afternoon running about. When Sal first started filming them, they were coy and ran to hide behind trees. Slowly, they gathered more confidence and came closer and closer. Then, one little girl who was maybe six, with a shirt dirty from tackling and fighting with boys, ran over and jumped on Sal's lap. That started the avalanche. The children all rushed in and swarmed over Sal. They found the view screen, giggled with 'hellos' and posed and gave each other bunny ears for the camera.

"Chase them around a bit, I said to Sal.

"You chase them, said Sal.

"I can't, I said stroking my now hairy face. "I'm a man. I'm too scary for that.

We waited some more while the good little children climbed all over Sal somehow managing to not touch the lens.

"Go on¦ you know you want to chase them!

"You do it.

While the football whiled on, we agreed to switch places. Sal gave me the camera so the children would be interested in me, and I made out to give chase!

"Who wants a tickle?! I cried out lunging at the children. No-one ran away. No-one even giggled or flinched. I tried again. There was nothing but grins.

"Oh¦ they're not scared of me! I said trying once more, giving the giggles to only myself. I gave the camera back to Sal. The children resumed scrambling. I settled back into the match.

We were sitting outside the 'cafeteria' and 'libreria' and the men watching the television worked in these little shops. Occasionally, one had to get up to tend to one of their little customers, but they mostly sat silent.

At half time, I felt I could have gone to sleep. The temperature was dropping and the afternoon had become cool and calm. I bought a couple of Fantas. One of the men pointed out the toilets. We felt welcome in the school.

The match resumed. An old man had stopped by. A couple of the elder children were sitting with us now watching the match. One bought a big bottle of Coke to share with his mates. I thought to myself 'if this kid offers us a drink, I'm going to cry.' He didn't. We still had our Fantas and together we all sat around like grown ups drinking our drinks, watching the match, while the afternoon light faded away.

With about five minutes to go in the game, Paraguay took a goal for the most minor celebration. At almost 6pm, with the sun setting now, the match ended just as the children lowered Paraguay's flag on the flagpole. Paraguay were the victors two-nil, with some pride restored, but their World Cup campaign was now sadly over.

We thanked the men for allowing us to sit and watch with them. They were gracious, if quiet. We used the bathrooms and looked into the little classrooms on the way out. They were clean and humble with only chairs with arms rests, no tables, and no furniture near the walls decorated with children's collages and drawings. There were no books, no games and no equipment at all. Still, it seemed a happy little school and judging by the uniforms on teachers and pupils alike (and the amount of lollies and drinks we saw being consumed) it was not the poorest of schools. Cleaners arrived to mop the classrooms and we left, the school now empty of children, parents, shopkeepers and teachers.

It was almost dark. Across the road was a car yard of sorts with men doing heavy work. We debated whether to walk back to the main road, but decided to stay with the school for a while. We knew a bus would eventually come. One did, soon enough, going in the wrong direction, but we jumped on anyway, just to make some sort of a move. It felt safer trundling long with a busload of folks snoozing heading home from work than standing on a quiet cobbled road in the dark. We stayed on the bus for perhaps half an hour until we saw some taxis and we leapt off. We negotiated a terribly inflated fare to the border, stamped out of the country, and took another taxi back to Foz in Brazil.

It was an exciting day. In a way, the day was so very simple. All we did was go to a neighbouring town and visit a school. But, to us, it felt like such an adventure, because we never quite knew where we were, what we were doing or where we were going. I've enjoyed my short trips to Paraguay. I will miss the country. I'm sorry that it is now out of the World Cup.