The man in front of us eyed our bags suspiciously. His Spanish came at too rapid a pace, and I was at a loss for what he was saying. He had already grabbed one of our bags and was rifling through our possessions, tossing our things carelessly out of the bag. He met our gaze and repeated what he had said before, this time much more forcefully.

Many travelers are able to keep a quick pace. Two new countries each month for twelve months, to many fellow travelers reading this entry, will sound laughably easy. But Tim and I soon discovered that keeping pace didn't suit us. We wanted to stop and absorb, we needed to. Stopping, for us, was the only way to see.

By now, you’ve gathered something of what Punta del Diablo meant to us. Words and pictures alone will never be able to recreate what it was like there: the best we can hope to do is to offer is a taste of how it made us feel…

We spent our first hour in Punta del Diablo marveling at the sheer adorableness of it all. Tiny shacks, makeshift shops, cottages, cabanas, and what have you lined the roads...well, what one would loosely define as a road.

Feeling rather sleepy, the entire experience was rather surreal as the bus floated along effortlessly to the beat of the music, stopping now and then at pitch black cornfields to let on and off other passengers.