As Greg said in the previous blog, arriving into Buenos Aries was my saving grace. The car and I had completely fallen out by this stage and I was in need of some distance from her. The previous week had been like taking a long distance flight every day for a week. It was like flying from LA to Melbourne every day for 6 days, with everything that could possibly go wrong , going wrong. So a week in one spot was exactly what we needed. After the football match, the rest of the week involved eating slabs of juicy meat, drinking masses of malbec, window shopping and getting our hair cut. The hair cut was long overdue. Greg was starting to grow a typical Argentine Mullet and for fear of going to a barber and them thinking that must be the style that he is going for, we found a Irish expat and got a trim in her kitchen while watching Ghost on her TV. $20 for the two of us, can’t go wrong.
So being a city known for pickpocketing, and hearing numerous stories (and knowing our luck), we were extra carful on the subway and where I brought my camera out to. With the way things have being going for us, we knew getting robbed would be next on the list. We were just being careful in all the wrong places. We could see the car parked on the street from our hotel room and thought every day, hmm, well that hasn’t been touched, so it can’t be that, checked our pockets, still have our credit cards and money, that’s weird! As we went to file our taxes, a thing that is just no fun to do under any circumstances never mind holiday, it all came to light. Ahhh, it was Greg’s identity that has been stolen. Well we can check getting robbed off the list I guess. Now when I hear the term “identity stolen”, I like to think that someone who is 6’ 1” is walking around with Greg’s blonde hair (now non mullet), wearing his clothes, walking his dog and hanging out with his friends, pulling off the best Greg impersonation that he can. But in reality it is nowhere near as fun. Someone basically already filed taxes for him, using his social security number, and selling it on to others for credit cards. So there could be 50 Gregs walking around soon. So to stop any confusion – the real Greg is in Uruguay, has a severely sunburnt back and chest, and one foot twice the size of the other. Please report any impostures to the Federal Trade Commission.
Our next stop was Uruguay. We visited punta del Diablo briefly 4 years ago and loved it so we decided to come back and see what the rest of the county had to offer. But first we had to give a big don’t cry for me Argentina goodbye to Argentina. We really loved it here, the warmness of people made our trip. Hopefully we will be back one day. So to get to Uruguay, we either needed to do an 8 hour drive and a supposedly painfully long border crossing or take a one hour ferry and a zip through boarder. We chose the latter, and with the free champagne on the boat, we knew we made the right decision. Arriving in the dark, the patrol officer pulled our car out of the line and told us to follow him, we thought he would have us empty the car for a full inspection, but just needed to give us a piece of paper for the car to be in Uruguay, didn’t even run a flash light over the car and we were on our way. We camped at the nearest spot we could. The following day we spent exploring Colonia, a quaint little town that is a UNESCO Heritage site. It is filled with cobbled streets and vintage cars, it was a little like stepping onto a movie set, or back in time, still not sure which one.
So being a city known for pickpocketing, and hearing numerous stories (and knowing our luck), we were extra carful on the subway and where I brought my camera out to. With the way things have being going for us, we knew getting robbed would be next on the list. We were just being careful in all the wrong places. We could see the car parked on the street from our hotel room and thought every day, hmm, well that hasn’t been touched, so it can’t be that, checked our pockets, still have our credit cards and money, that’s weird! As we went to file our taxes, a thing that is just no fun to do under any circumstances never mind holiday, it all came to light. Ahhh, it was Greg’s identity that has been stolen. Well we can check getting robbed off the list I guess. Now when I hear the term “identity stolen”, I like to think that someone who is 6’ 1” is walking around with Greg’s blonde hair (now non mullet), wearing his clothes, walking his dog and hanging out with his friends, pulling off the best Greg impersonation that he can. But in reality it is nowhere near as fun. Someone basically already filed taxes for him, using his social security number, and selling it on to others for credit cards. So there could be 50 Gregs walking around soon. So to stop any confusion – the real Greg is in Uruguay, has a severely sunburnt back and chest, and one foot twice the size of the other. Please report any impostures to the Federal Trade Commission.
Our next stop was Uruguay. We visited punta del Diablo briefly 4 years ago and loved it so we decided to come back and see what the rest of the county had to offer. But first we had to give a big don’t cry for me Argentina goodbye to Argentina. We really loved it here, the warmness of people made our trip. Hopefully we will be back one day. So to get to Uruguay, we either needed to do an 8 hour drive and a supposedly painfully long border crossing or take a one hour ferry and a zip through boarder. We chose the latter, and with the free champagne on the boat, we knew we made the right decision. Arriving in the dark, the patrol officer pulled our car out of the line and told us to follow him, we thought he would have us empty the car for a full inspection, but just needed to give us a piece of paper for the car to be in Uruguay, didn’t even run a flash light over the car and we were on our way. We camped at the nearest spot we could. The following day we spent exploring Colonia, a quaint little town that is a UNESCO Heritage site. It is filled with cobbled streets and vintage cars, it was a little like stepping onto a movie set, or back in time, still not sure which one.
Our next stop was Montevideo, which we were going to miss altogether but Greg needed to get a Brazilian visa and seeing as we always seem to arrive everywhere on a Saturday, we would have to wait till Monday. Being St Paddy’s day though, we only had one thing in mind anyway. So we checked into a hostel, and into our dark and dingy room, with bunk beds. Now when we fork out for a hostel, we are looking for some comfort, a private toilet, a double bed etc, not a room where it looks like it was meant to be a storage closet, had stains on the exposed mattress and a smell that I would rather forget, we parted begrudgingly with our $60 and headed to the Irish bar wishing we could just sleep in the comfort of our car. Turns out we could have slept anywhere that night with the amount of beer that we consumed. I think I was the only Irish person celebrating in Montevideo amongst the sea of green and people dressed as leprechauns. We made fast friends with a few local Uruguayans, who gave us such a warm welcome into Uruguay and partied the night away with us. Ramiro safely escorted us to a taxi around 2.30am and made sure someone in the car, (not Greg or I) knew how to get to the hostel. We were overwhelmed by such a warm reception from the locals and it definitely wet our appetites to start to explore Uruguay. We were invited to a bbq the following weekend but would be long gone by then. Ramiro and Lety will be visiting Ireland and London in a few months, so if anyone wants to return the warm hospitality they showed us, let me know.
The next day we woke with our bunkbeds separated side by side with throbbing heads. How we managed this is still a mystery as the room was barley big enough to fit a double bed, and now the door was blocked. Dying for the bathroom after a night out (you can imagine), trying to put the bunkbeds back together so we could open the door, is not an ideal morning. We figured someone else must have separated them while we were sleeping on them cause we couldn’t see anyway that we could have done this without a massive struggle.
We spent that day, which was literally the first time this trip in South America, on a beach. Three months on the road, and we opened our first book, let the sun beat down onto our glowing white skin and watch the waves, all day. It was exactly what we needed. It turns out we were going to be provided with some extra entertainment for the day. Uruguay is a place of mystery, while it is similar to home in many ways, (food, bars, shopping) there are certain things that happen that puzzle us. First off, we are drifting in and out of sleep on the beach, when a smell of garbage wafts our way. A homeless guy had parked himself on the beach upwind from us. Have you ever seen a guy wear his entire wardrobe at once? We have. As he started to strip off, we realized this was his daily shower. Not a bad place to be homeless, surely better than the snowy winters of Boston. But as we watched, off came a sweatshirt, a t-shirt, a longsleeved shirt, another t-shirt, a tank top, they just kept coming. All in all we counted 9 layers. Then to the trousers, one pair of jeans, another pair of jeans and finally down to a pair of tracksuit bottoms. So first came the question, while we were laying on the beach in our bathers, what was the need for all these layers? Then came, how can you wear 2 pairs of jeans at once? So into the water he went, in the trackie bottoms, and after a good wash, came back out and immediately put back on his 2 pairs of jeans, over the sogging wet tracksuit – Why?? The thought of the chaffing and discomfort of wearing two pairs of wet jeans consumed our thoughts for the next few hours. The next day, we saw him again, and the same routine unfolded. Off came the t-shirts, but today he seemed to have a new wardrobe on. He had lost a few layers of t-shirt and had acquired 3 new long sleeves and a woman’s tank top. This brought up a series of new questions. Is there a t-shirt swap shop? Is he anticipating a cold night tonight? I wonder does he have a thong under his briefs? Is he a former boxer trying to sweat out excess weight? We were fascinated.
The next day we woke with our bunkbeds separated side by side with throbbing heads. How we managed this is still a mystery as the room was barley big enough to fit a double bed, and now the door was blocked. Dying for the bathroom after a night out (you can imagine), trying to put the bunkbeds back together so we could open the door, is not an ideal morning. We figured someone else must have separated them while we were sleeping on them cause we couldn’t see anyway that we could have done this without a massive struggle.
We spent that day, which was literally the first time this trip in South America, on a beach. Three months on the road, and we opened our first book, let the sun beat down onto our glowing white skin and watch the waves, all day. It was exactly what we needed. It turns out we were going to be provided with some extra entertainment for the day. Uruguay is a place of mystery, while it is similar to home in many ways, (food, bars, shopping) there are certain things that happen that puzzle us. First off, we are drifting in and out of sleep on the beach, when a smell of garbage wafts our way. A homeless guy had parked himself on the beach upwind from us. Have you ever seen a guy wear his entire wardrobe at once? We have. As he started to strip off, we realized this was his daily shower. Not a bad place to be homeless, surely better than the snowy winters of Boston. But as we watched, off came a sweatshirt, a t-shirt, a longsleeved shirt, another t-shirt, a tank top, they just kept coming. All in all we counted 9 layers. Then to the trousers, one pair of jeans, another pair of jeans and finally down to a pair of tracksuit bottoms. So first came the question, while we were laying on the beach in our bathers, what was the need for all these layers? Then came, how can you wear 2 pairs of jeans at once? So into the water he went, in the trackie bottoms, and after a good wash, came back out and immediately put back on his 2 pairs of jeans, over the sogging wet tracksuit – Why?? The thought of the chaffing and discomfort of wearing two pairs of wet jeans consumed our thoughts for the next few hours. The next day, we saw him again, and the same routine unfolded. Off came the t-shirts, but today he seemed to have a new wardrobe on. He had lost a few layers of t-shirt and had acquired 3 new long sleeves and a woman’s tank top. This brought up a series of new questions. Is there a t-shirt swap shop? Is he anticipating a cold night tonight? I wonder does he have a thong under his briefs? Is he a former boxer trying to sweat out excess weight? We were fascinated.
The other thing, which I cannot believe we haven’t delved into in more detail yet, is mate. Mate is a strong “tea-like” beverage, made from tea, herbs, dandelions etc which folks pour into a wooden cup, and drink out of a filtered metal straw. It is a huge social thing to do, and locals will sit around with their friends for hours, with this one mate cup and one straw and pass it around- like a joint, but it is really like sharing a pot of tea. We saw this most days in Argentina, mate breaks, and a mate after a siesta etc, but in Uruguay it is like a religion. I thought the Irish liked their tea! We saw a guy, on a scooter, drinking his Mate while steering through traffic. People were walking around shopping, sitting on the beach, fishing, at parks, walking their dogs, taking kids to the playground, all with a thermos of hot water nestled under one arm and a mate cup in the other. On Sunday evening, Greg and I, feeling we needed to sweat out the beer from the night before, went for a run along the water at sunset. The place was filled, and I mean hundreds, of people with large groups of their friends, of all ages, lining the harbors, docks and beaches watching the sun set with their thermos’s and mate cups. Not a bad way to spend a Sunday – I think we can take a lesson from the Uruguayans on how life is meant to be lived.
After two days in the hostel we found out it would take two more for Greg’s visa to come through. Determined not to spend $60 on another night in a hostel, we drove 50km to the nearest “campsite”, and after 5 mins of being there a thunderstorm rolled in, and it poured. We spent the next 14 hours huddled in the car, watched the entire season on Angry Boys (Thanks Bryan!) and added up the gas money that we spent to get to this abandoned “campsite”, realizing we should have just stayed in the hostel, paid $60 and had a dry and quiet night’s sleep. Live and learn, live and learn!
On our final night before heading north, we went for a long walk along the waterfront and stopped to watch a football club in training. We had only been sitting for 15 seconds before Greg started stamping his feet and swatting away a swarm of ants that had invaded his left foot. “The bastards bit me!” So we quickly evacuated their nest and began walking home. During the walk Greg suddenly said “I feel a bit funny”. Now, Greg never feels “funny”, he doesn’t get sick, ever. So I immediately stopped with concern to make sure he was ok. It was then that I noticed his whole face was becoming redder and redder. Not wanting to freak him out, I kept quiet about the berry shade of his face and just wanted to get him back to the hostel asap, trying to casually ask him every minute, how do you feel now, are you nauseous, are you dizzy and making some small talk inbetween. But all the while thinking, oh my god, what bit him? Is he allergic to ants? We got back to the hostel and Greg was beginning to return to his normal color, thank God! We looked up the ants and it turned out to be black fire ants that had bitten him, which are venomous, great! We counted four bites and took note of what were normal side effects and when we should be rushing to the hospital. His foot was getting bigger and bigger so we did the old elevation, ice and antihistamines. By the next morning, big foot (which I lovingly named him after he began to feel better) had a left foot twice the size of his right and couldn’t get his shoe on. The hits just keep coming!
After two days in the hostel we found out it would take two more for Greg’s visa to come through. Determined not to spend $60 on another night in a hostel, we drove 50km to the nearest “campsite”, and after 5 mins of being there a thunderstorm rolled in, and it poured. We spent the next 14 hours huddled in the car, watched the entire season on Angry Boys (Thanks Bryan!) and added up the gas money that we spent to get to this abandoned “campsite”, realizing we should have just stayed in the hostel, paid $60 and had a dry and quiet night’s sleep. Live and learn, live and learn!
On our final night before heading north, we went for a long walk along the waterfront and stopped to watch a football club in training. We had only been sitting for 15 seconds before Greg started stamping his feet and swatting away a swarm of ants that had invaded his left foot. “The bastards bit me!” So we quickly evacuated their nest and began walking home. During the walk Greg suddenly said “I feel a bit funny”. Now, Greg never feels “funny”, he doesn’t get sick, ever. So I immediately stopped with concern to make sure he was ok. It was then that I noticed his whole face was becoming redder and redder. Not wanting to freak him out, I kept quiet about the berry shade of his face and just wanted to get him back to the hostel asap, trying to casually ask him every minute, how do you feel now, are you nauseous, are you dizzy and making some small talk inbetween. But all the while thinking, oh my god, what bit him? Is he allergic to ants? We got back to the hostel and Greg was beginning to return to his normal color, thank God! We looked up the ants and it turned out to be black fire ants that had bitten him, which are venomous, great! We counted four bites and took note of what were normal side effects and when we should be rushing to the hospital. His foot was getting bigger and bigger so we did the old elevation, ice and antihistamines. By the next morning, big foot (which I lovingly named him after he began to feel better) had a left foot twice the size of his right and couldn’t get his shoe on. The hits just keep coming!
Once Greg’s visa was firmly in his passport, we made our way north. Punte del Este attracts the rich and famous and since we are neither, we continued on to the wild and isolated Cabo Polonio. To get there we had to park the car in a parking lot and jump in a 4x4 retired miltary truck that would take us over the sand dunes to the stunning beach. This was the first time that we were leaving the car out of sight, a nerve racking feeling came over us as we walked away. Cabo Polonio only has 80 permanent residents, no cars, no electricity, no running water, and being low season now there were only a handful of tourists, it was exactly what we were looking for. The pristine beaches stretched for miles, not like a palm tree paradise, more rugged and wild, backed by huge dunes with nothing else around. It was beautiful. Lucklily it is a protected area, so no more building can take place, preventing it from becoming yet another beach resort. We spent our time walking the beaches, hiking the dunes and adopting a different community dog every day and taking him on his daily walk. We would be in a restaurant eating dinner, and a dog walks in, and gets the warmest reception and takes prime spot in the middle of the restaurant so he gets the most attention. And when we asked “is this your dog” to the owner, the response was, he is everyones dog . So basically it is a hippy dog, who wanders from place to place sharing the love. The residents here are the stereotypical hippies. Bob Marley followers, head of dreadlocks and are always lighting up a joint. At night cabo Polonio’s specialty comes out. The pitch black sky littered with stars, the streets only lit by candles and the sound of the crashing waves , we could see how people could get stuck here. The next morning on our morning walk, we saw what can only be described as surfasize. A cross between yoga and pretend surfing –makes sense we thought, maybe they are stretching before hitting the waves. Then we saw a guy, on all fours, pretending to be a lion and making shapes in the sand – ok time to leave before we do get stuck here and become a surfasize instructor.
We arrived back at the car, which to our surprise was untouched, and made our way up to Punta del Diablo. We stopped at a few more rasta towns on the way up, which seemed like we had landed in Jamaica. The babies and toddlers were even little rastas and bob marley was blasting from every doorway. We arrived in Punta del diablo not recognizing it. It had blown up! When we were here four years ago, it was a tiny fishing village, with one, only one, hostel that only opened the same week as our arrival. To get food, you had to go and knock on the door to someones house and they served you dinner in their living room. The only bus going that way, had dropped us off on the highway and we had to hitchhike the 4km to town. NOW there are 32 hostels, 5 star hotels, strips of restaurants, houses for rent. It was night and day. It reminded us of how much the world can change and that it is getting harder and harder to find those exotic special places that steal a little piece of your heart. Well at least we can say, I remember Punta del Diablo back in the day, and that is exactly how we want to remember it.
All in all, Uruguay has been amazing and we wish we had longer to explore the interior. It has been the only place thus far that we have woken up with a plan and the plan could be seen through. The only place that when we pull into a gas station, they always have gas and at no limit. People have been lovely, food has been delicious and we have felt the safest in South America yet. I guess it only makes sense that it has become more of a tourist destination over the years. We took 10 days to slowly explore 500 kms, which has been a nice change of pace. But with time pressing on and the sheer scale of Brazil sending Diablo into a nervous wreck we know we have to start to cover some ground. On to Brazil….
We arrived back at the car, which to our surprise was untouched, and made our way up to Punta del Diablo. We stopped at a few more rasta towns on the way up, which seemed like we had landed in Jamaica. The babies and toddlers were even little rastas and bob marley was blasting from every doorway. We arrived in Punta del diablo not recognizing it. It had blown up! When we were here four years ago, it was a tiny fishing village, with one, only one, hostel that only opened the same week as our arrival. To get food, you had to go and knock on the door to someones house and they served you dinner in their living room. The only bus going that way, had dropped us off on the highway and we had to hitchhike the 4km to town. NOW there are 32 hostels, 5 star hotels, strips of restaurants, houses for rent. It was night and day. It reminded us of how much the world can change and that it is getting harder and harder to find those exotic special places that steal a little piece of your heart. Well at least we can say, I remember Punta del Diablo back in the day, and that is exactly how we want to remember it.
All in all, Uruguay has been amazing and we wish we had longer to explore the interior. It has been the only place thus far that we have woken up with a plan and the plan could be seen through. The only place that when we pull into a gas station, they always have gas and at no limit. People have been lovely, food has been delicious and we have felt the safest in South America yet. I guess it only makes sense that it has become more of a tourist destination over the years. We took 10 days to slowly explore 500 kms, which has been a nice change of pace. But with time pressing on and the sheer scale of Brazil sending Diablo into a nervous wreck we know we have to start to cover some ground. On to Brazil….
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