Vallemí, Agencia IP.- After descending into the bowels of the earth at the Santa Caverna, our journey through northern Paraguay returned us to the surface with the same intensity as the heat that bears down on Vallemí. If yesterday history was written beneath stone and shadow, today the story made its way into the light of the Paraguay River. Thus began the day at Kamba Hopo, the rocky outcrop that rises along the water’s edge, where landscape, memory, and silence blend without asking for permission.

The heat settled over us like a thick blanket, one that does not warm, only weighs. The air in Vallemí seemed frozen, motionless, as if the sun had decided to stay and watch us without blinking. Even so, we boarded the boat. The Paraguay River, wide and patient, waited for us like a liquid road toward a story that does not tell itself.

Sailing to the outcrop is, above all, an act of passage: everyday noise is left behind, and one enters a territory where nature and memory coexist freely. Most of the journey unfolds along the river, skirting limestone hills and dense vegetation. At the same time, the sun reflects off the water like a shattered mirror. Sweat runs down the skin, but no one complains. The landscape justifies everything.

Sweat runs down the skin, but no one complains. The landscape justifies everything.

Kamba Hopo stands imposing on the river’s edge, on Vallemí Hill, within the grounds of the National Cement Industry. It is not a cavern, though many call it one. It is a rock outcrop cave, a rocky formation that opens like an ancient wound in the stone. The outcrop reaches approximately 45 meters in height and is part of a protected area, something reflected in the richness of its surroundings. Birds, reptiles, insects, shadows moving among the cracks: biodiversity inhabits the place naturally, as if it had always known this refuge was its own.

The heat remains, insistent, but begins to mingle with the river breeze. There is something deeply human in that minimal, almost symbolic relief, as if the body, too, understood it was entering a different space. Today, Kamba Hopo is one of the most important tourist sites in the department of Concepción, yet it does not present itself as a noisy spectacle. It offers itself in silence, with respect.

Kamba Hopo rises imposingly along the riverbanks, on Vallemí Hill, within the grounds of the National Cement Industry.

Tours are led by a group of organized young people known as Turismo Joven. They are trained and recognized by the National Tourism Secretariat and supported by the Municipality of San Lázaro. Their presence is felt in the details: in the way they explain, in their care for the site, in how they guide without rushing. In a place like this, guiding is not just orientation; it is translation. They translate the landscape, the history, and the silences.

The name «Kamba Hopo» carries historical weight dating back to the War of the Triple Alliance. Here, according to local historical memory, Afro-descendant people, known at the time as kambajos, were executed, accused of treason during the conflict. They were punished and thrown into the river. The outcrop that today lends itself to adventure tourism and calculated-risk rappelling was once the scene of one of the many painful episodes in the country’s history.

Thinking about this as the sun begins to set is inevitable. The sunset is a visual spectacle and, for us, a symbolic closure. The sky is tinged with intense oranges and reds. The heat eases just enough to allow contemplation. I understand then why this is a place people come to relax, to look, to remain silent.

The sunset is a visual spectacle and, for us, a symbolic closure. The sky is tinged with intense oranges and reds.

When we leave the outcrop behind and the engine roars again over the river, the heat returns, stubborn, as if to remind us that none of this was a dream. I carry with me the image of the outcrop cut against the sky and the certainty that Kamba Hopo is not a place to rush through. It is a place felt on the skin, in the body tired from the sun, and in memory, like a warm stone kept in one’s pocket long after leaving.

Upon reaching the shore again, I thought the north still had something more to tell. The next day, the journey would continue toward another landscape, different and luminous, where water no longer falls into the river but runs freely among rocks and vegetation. That story, the one of the Tagatiya stream, in Concepción, will be saved for the next chronicle, to be published tomorrow.

La entrada Chronicles of the North: Kamba Hopo and the memory of the landscape se publicó primero en .::Agencia IP::..