Solo in Fernando de la Mora: Navigating Paraguay's Hidden Gem Independently

Fernando de la Mora exists in a fascinating liminal space—neither fully urbanized like Asunción nor maintaining the rural character that once defined the region. Named after a hero of Paraguayan independence, this city of roughly 170,000 inhabitants sprawls across just 21 square kilometers, making it one of South America's most densely populated areas outside major capitals.

My journey began at a modest posada near the city center, where my host Rodrigo—a retired carpenter—immediately began sharing stories of how the city transformed during his lifetime. His hands, weathered like mine but from different woods and climates, traced invisible building lines in the air as he described how neighborhoods evolved from low adobe structures to the concrete and brick constructions that now dominate.

'People forget that Paraguay has its own architectural language,' he told me in halting English, supplemented by my rudimentary Spanish. 'Before the concrete came, we built with the earth.'

Armed with my travel journal and a city map Rodrigo had annotated with architectural points of interest, I set out on foot. Unlike the structured grid of Asunción, Fernando de la Mora grew organically, with neighborhoods developing around commercial corridors rather than central planning. The resulting urban fabric creates a fascinating study in contrasts—pockets of traditional homes with shaded galleries nestled against modern commercial structures.

What struck me most was how the city's density hasn't eliminated its connection to nature. Many homes maintain small but lush gardens, with mango and avocado trees providing natural cooling—a traditional passive cooling technique increasingly relevant in our warming world.

In my decades of architectural exploration, I've learned that the soul of a city reveals itself not in monuments but in everyday structures—the homes, markets, and community spaces where life unfolds. Fernando de la Mora offers a particularly rich study in vernacular architecture precisely because it hasn't been preserved as a tourist attraction.

I spent my mornings wandering residential streets, my compact binoculars allowing me to study rooflines and construction details from a respectful distance. Unlike the colonial architecture that draws visitors to Asunción, Fernando de la Mora showcases a more organic architectural evolution—from traditional single-story homes with deep verandas designed for Paraguay's intense heat to contemporary interpretations that blend modern materials with climate-responsive design principles.

The Mercado Municipal became my afternoon ritual. Beyond the practical advantage of affordable meals, the market's structure itself tells a story—its vaulted metal roof supported by an elegant system of trusses creates a naturally ventilated space that remains remarkably cool despite the spring heat. This marriage of function and form exemplifies the pragmatic ingenuity I've always admired in vernacular building traditions.

One unexpected discovery came through a chance conversation with Elena, a local teacher who noticed me sketching a particularly interesting roof junction. She invited me to visit her grandfather's home—one of the few remaining examples of traditional Paraguayan quincho construction in the area. The quincho (an open-sided structure with a thatched roof) demonstrated sophisticated passive cooling techniques that modern architects are now rediscovering as sustainable design solutions.

'My grandfather refused to replace it with concrete,' Elena explained as we sat in the naturally cooled space. 'He always said, why waste electricity on air conditioning when the answer is in how we build?'

These encounters reinforced what I've observed across continents: traditional building wisdom often contains solutions to our most pressing contemporary challenges.

One of the joys of solo travel at my age is the freedom to follow curiosity without constraint. When I noticed a small workshop with handcrafted wooden furniture displayed on the sidewalk, I was immediately drawn to investigate. The proprietor, Carlos, was applying traditional Japanese joinery techniques to Paraguayan hardwoods—a surprising cultural fusion that immediately resonated with my own mixed heritage.

'I learned from YouTube,' he admitted with a laugh when I asked about his Japanese-inspired methods. 'But the woods—these are Paraguayan treasures.'

Carlos invited me to spend an afternoon in his workshop, where I found myself surrounded by the familiar comfort of woodshavings and sawdust. Though we spoke different languages, we communicated fluently through the universal vocabulary of craft. I showed him a few joinery techniques my Japanese grandfather had taught me, while he demonstrated how he adapts them to work with the dense local lapacho and curupay woods.

This exchange led to an invitation to a weekly gathering of local artisans at a nearby cultural center. Here, I witnessed how traditional crafts remain vital in Fernando de la Mora despite rapid urbanization. From woodworkers to ñandutí lace makers, these craftspeople preserve cultural knowledge while adapting to contemporary markets.

For those interested in similar connections, I recommend bringing a small sketchbook to facilitate communication across language barriers. My quick sketches of building details and joinery techniques opened more doors than my limited Spanish ever could, proving once again that craft creates community across cultures.

These encounters underscored what draws me to places like Fernando de la Mora—the opportunity to witness living traditions rather than museum pieces, and to connect with people through shared appreciation for craftsmanship and creative problem-solving.

Solo travel demands adaptation to local rhythms, and nowhere is this more true than in Paraguay. Fernando de la Mora operates on a schedule dictated by climate and tradition—early mornings buzz with activity, afternoons slow to a crawl during the heat, and evenings extend late into the night as temperatures cool and social life resumes.

I quickly adjusted my routine, rising before dawn to capture the city awakening with my compact drone. These early flights revealed Fernando de la Mora's fascinating urban pattern—dense development interspersed with surprising green spaces and the constant presence of water tanks on rooftops, a practical response to inconsistent municipal water supply.

My daily explorations were fueled by Paraguay's distinct culinary traditions. Unlike neighboring Argentina's meat-centric cuisine, Paraguayan food maintains stronger indigenous Guaraní influences. At small family-run fondas, I discovered mbeju (starchy cassava flatbread), chipa guasu (corn soufflé), and my personal favorite, sopa paraguaya—a dense cornbread that, despite its name, isn't a soup at all.

These meals became opportunities for connection. At one corner comedor, the owner María insisted I try her vori vori (corn and cheese dumplings in chicken broth), explaining that it represented Paraguay's resilience—a hearty dish born from making the most of limited ingredients during difficult times.

'We Paraguayans know how to create abundance from what others might see as little,' she told me, a philosophy that resonated with my own approach to sustainable building.

Evenings brought the ritual of terere, Paraguay's cold yerba mate infusion. Unlike the hot mate shared in Argentina and Uruguay, terere is uniquely adapted to Paraguay's climate. In plazas and front yards across Fernando de la Mora, people gather in circles passing the guampa (drinking vessel) while discussing everything from politics to football.

Joining these circles as an obvious foreigner required overcoming initial shyness on both sides, but the Paraguayan commitment to hospitality inevitably won out. These impromptu gatherings provided insights no guidebook could offer—local perspectives on urbanization, climate change, and the preservation of cultural identity in a rapidly changing world.

Solo travel in less-touristed destinations inevitably presents challenges, and Fernando de la Mora was no exception. The city's limited tourist infrastructure means few English speakers, minimal signage, and transportation systems designed for locals rather than visitors. Yet these very challenges create the authentic experience many travelers seek.

Navigating the city's colectivo (bus) system became my greatest logistical puzzle. Routes are known by numbers but rarely displayed, stops are unmarked, and schedules exist more as general suggestions than fixed timetables. After several misadventures—including one memorable ride that took me to the opposite side of the metropolitan area—I developed a strategy: always carry a detailed map, ask multiple locals for directions, and embrace the inevitability of occasional wrong turns.

The language barrier presented another hurdle. Despite my efforts to learn basic Spanish before arriving, Paraguayan Spanish incorporates significant Guaraní vocabulary and unique regional expressions. I found my pocket translator invaluable for complex conversations, though simple exchanges were better handled through gesture, patience, and good humor.

Perhaps the greatest challenge was one familiar to solo travelers everywhere—occasional loneliness. While the days filled easily with exploration and documentation, evenings sometimes brought a yearning for familiar conversation. I developed a ritual of evening video calls to my wife in Mumbai, sharing the day's discoveries while she offered architectural insights from her historian's perspective.

These challenges, however, pale in comparison to the rewards of experiencing a place few travelers visit. Without the buffer of tourist infrastructure, every interaction becomes more meaningful, every discovery more personal. The very absence of a well-worn tourist path means creating your own—following curiosity down unmarked streets, accepting impromptu invitations, and developing a relationship with place that feels uniquely your own.

As my week in Fernando de la Mora progressed, I found myself moving more slowly, observing more carefully, and connecting more deeply—the ultimate luxury in our rushed world.