Alarms began to beep across our little campsite as the rosy-fingered dawn edged over the horizon and we all realised that it wasn't quite as warm as we thought. The fire was relit, breakfast was made and the bikes received their usual excess of pampering to keep them barely-running; then it was off to the shanty station to fill up on the first fuel we had seen nearly a thousand km. The old dear was in better sprits this morning and took pleasure in topping up our jerry cans whilst chuckling at our furry foolishness. The border post was no less enjoyable, with a friendly, English-speaking guard and a couple of stalls manned by some very friendly local ladies who were more than happy to swap our cash for food stocks. They waved us on our way and we pressed on down a dirt track that ran parallel with yet another road under construction. We managed to jump on to the newer version every now and then, but getting on and off at the road blocks proved to be such a hindrance that it was deemed more expeditious to stick with the older road and press on. Just when things were looking up we realised that this junket wasn't done with us yet. Our chain repairs were reaching their limit and the day saw several more soul-destroying explosions as links parted company and Heath-Robinson repairs began. This wasn't the only worry; Jasco was now drinking oil faster than Ellis can strawpedo a bottle of white, and a repair of that magnitude was out of the question on our timescale. We would have to deny the poor boy rehab and keep feeding his habit. We finally reached the actual border to find a tiny military checkpoint on either side. Once again, friendly faces greeted us and, much to our surprise, we passed through without bribe or argument...into heaven. Despite being the second-poorest and most corrupt country in South America, Paraguay appeared to have one of the best road systems going. The change was instant; potholed dust track to smooth tarmac in an instant. Things were looking up. Our next target was the first town on the Paraguay side of the border; where we had to stamp in to the country. Once again we found ourselves stamped out of one country but not in to the next. Exiles on the run. Barrelling along the smooth tarmac, the miles were flying by, the bikes were working well (enough) and we tentatively held on to hope for the finish line. But this junket wasn't done with us yet. Dreagle decided that our run of luck had lasted far too long, and so decided to catch a stray strap from Gaz's rucksack and introduce it to the chain at forty miles per hour - with hilarious consequences...or not .The repairs were getting ever more challenging but, two hours later, we mounted up and pressed on. Darkness fell and the temperature plummeted and we realised that we must be the unluckiest team in history. We had to make the border town that night, there was no choice about it. We were committed to riding in to Asuncion on the 16th or we would probably miss our flights; but this wasn't going to be easy. As the temperature dropped towards freezing and began to chill us through to our bones the roads suddenly took a turn for the worst. The smooth tarmac gave way to lethal, wheel-destroying potholes and the opposing traffic gave no quarter as it kicked up choking clouds of dust. Jenny negotiated this by riding it like she stole it, the others just waiting for a roll-based crash. The one mildly enjoyable distraction was the bizarre lights that could be seen both in front and behind us. They appeared to float on the horizon, staying the same size for our entire journey. It wasn't until the morning that we realised that the road was so long and straight that you could see traffic right to the Earth's horizon... and that's a long way at the equator. Exhausted, frozen and mildly terrified, we finally reached our destination: a ramshackle hostel on the outskirts of town. And what a town it was. We went off in search of food - a delicious sounding Italian restaurant recommended by Lonely Planet... it was closed. Were we ever going to get a lucky break? We trundled around the streets in the freezing night air and pulled up outside what looked like some sort of local biker bar...minus the bikes. A couple of our party went in to investigate the possibility of some hot food, stepping over several paralytic locals rolling around on the floor before finally deciding to leave. It was at this point that we realised that we had stumbled across the most drunken town on the planet. Every single person was staggering around with some form of bizarre green drink denoted by a couple of lions on the label, frothing at the mouth and uttering incomprehensible noises. The entire town was completely off its face, like nothing you've ever seen before. We found a hotel that looked considerably more comfortable than the odious abode in to which we had checked in so decided to see if they would feed us. Once again we were encountered by one of the most inebriated idiots in history (is this what team booze look like on a night out?) who promptly began shouting towards some motel style rooms. From said rooms emerged a rather dazed looking woman in denim hot pants, high heels and a small top... turns out we'd stumbled across the local knocking shop. We politely declined the offer and decided to accept the fact that everyone was hammered and the petrol station was the only place open. We headed there to stock up on whatever food we could get hold of, whilst fending off the attention of the drunken crowds, and finally hit the sack.