Just one month before we arrive back at our respective homes, and five months on from our first day in Ecuador. And we’re in Uruguay, land of gentle green countryside and not a whole lot else.
It is pleasant, and comfortable, and quite a lot like Argentina, but much smaller and a little less interesting. Apparently the way to truly experience Uruguay is to stay on a farm and ride horses and live like a gaucho; unfortunately the only farms that let tourists in take advantage of that fact, stick a jacuzzi in the backyard, and charge more than we can afford.
So it’s been city living for us, and attempting to appreciate the rolling farms and horses through bus windows. And to fend off a desperately enthusiastic travel agent who seems to have her heart set on showing us every corner of her beautiful country for laughable sums of cash.
To backtrack, we arrived – along with hundreds of Argentines taking a weekend break – in Colonia del Sacramento, pretty and olde worlde (founded by the Portuguese in 1680 and impressively preserved). The oldest part of town is a maze of winding cobblestone streets, with horse-drawn carts and little other traffic, crumbling bougainvillea-clad houses, and the occasional quirky cafe tucked into a corner of the plaza.
We explored and had lunch on a sidewalk and exclaimed at how cute it all was. Then grew hungry for just a little more excitement, and rented a scooter – which those who know me will be relieved to know I did not drive. Rich, of course, is even less qualified than I am (a terrifying thought), but learned incredibly quickly, and as mentioned, there really was very little traffic in Colonia. So it was a fun little outing, alongside the coast, with the wind in our hair and the sun beating down.
Then on to something completely different – after months of wanting a beach break, we finally went for it, and Punta del Este is apparently one of South America’s most popular beach resorts. From what we’d heard it’s a riotous, fashion-conscious, hedonistic pit of decadence and iniquity, filled with South America’s hot young things sun-worshipping all day and partying all night.
The madness must descend much later in the year, for we were greeted by quiet streets and huge empty beaches – cloudless skies and perfect weather, but absolutely no need to battle it out for a few square inches of sand on which to crouch on our towels amidst heaving masses. So, albeit a little paranoid and wondering if we were on the losers’ beach, we enjoyed it anyway, flopped on the shore like seals and were extremely lazy for a few days. Which, while relaxing and just what one needs after all the hard work of travelling, did result in some unfortunate sunburns.
The heat only intensified as we headed back west to Montevideo, capital city, concrete and noisy, but still with something of the small town about it. There are still horse-drawn carts (usually clippity-clopping down the road in the early hours of the morning; thanks guys), on Sundays all the shops are closed and the churches are full, and at any given time every plaza is littered with elderly couples and families peacefully sipping at their cups of mate (a traditional herbal tea that must be freakishly addictive, as no one leaves home without a flask under their arm and the ever-present mate cup clutched like a lifeline).
We spent Saturday at the Mercado del Puerto, an indoor market like none I’ve seen before – filled with open restaurants displaying huge grills covered in slabs of meat, encircled by bars crowded with people stuffing their faces, and making new friends, and singing drunkenly along with jolly buskers. And apparently that is the Saturday afternoon thing to do in Montevideo. Which is just brilliant, and it’s a shame that there’s only so much grilled meat one can eat for lunch, although those medio y medios (half white wine, and half sparkling white) which everyone seems to be drinking are wonderful.
Side note, we had a run-in with a failed bag snatcher outside the Mercado del Puerto – a kid who looked about 17 grabbed my bag and tried to run off. I wouldn’t let go and fortunately a construction worker from across the street came running over, shouting a stream of angry Spanish, so all was fine, but it’s the only time we’ve been directly threatened in six months of backpacking in South America.
Then, on Sunday, to a very different kind of market: Tristán Narvaja in the district of Cordón.
It’s an area of the city with streets closed to cars and apparently just coated in random tat: dusty antiques and ancient books, remote controls and computer parts baking in the sun, clothes and coins and chickens, watches, kitchen utensils, fruit, bunny rabbits, records, car parts, and just any imaginable thing that someone dug up from the back of some closet and put hopefully on display but surely no one would ever want to buy. Strange and entertaining.
Then, being a sunny Sunday, we found what Punta del Este should have looked like – the city’s beaches painted with a thick layer of baking bodies. Which I was quite happy not to have to join.
We’ve also seen the family-filled little city park, hunted hard for English-language bookshops, and had surprisingly speedy haircuts for 80p each. And trying to think about what to do next; we’ll probably meander slowly north and toward Argentina again, in the general direction of the Iguazu falls and finally Brazil…
