J & RAE'S BIG ADVENTURE: PART 3

Our hostel in Montevideo, the Paloma Art Hostel, is so comfortable that I am sorely tempted to never leave our room, which has a 20 foot ceiling and gargantuan french doors at least 12 feet tall which open onto a private, wrought iron balcony that overlooks the street below.

 

garbage truck as seen from our balcony

documenting the facilities for my new job as hostel reviewer

There is a large kitchen (with a big fridge where we can finally ditch the gigantic cheese we have been hauling around since Colonia), an airy dining area as well as a huge rooftop space set up with lounge chairs, hammocks and a bar, not to mention an amazing view of acres of Montevideo rooftops.

stairs to the stars (and hammocks)

Montevideo is the largest city, the capital and chief port of Uruguay. It is rumored to have 1,300,000 plus inhabitants, approximately half the population of the entire country, which strikes me as odd, since the wide streets are absolutley deserted, without even cars parked along them.
I saw far more people in San Gregorio del Polanco, and that was just a little dot on the map.
(At least I think it was on the map.)

The sidewalks are lined with towering painted brick and mortar walls with tall narrow ornately carved wooden doors opening onto long tiled hallways leading to living spaces arranged around interior courtyards in the Spanish colonial style. There are intricate wrought iron swoops and swirlies scribbled across every available window, doorway and balcony, reflecting the Spanish, Italian, Portuguese and French influence of the city's history. Perhaps like me, the inhabitants are so enamored with their beautiful interiors that they are reluctant to slip out from behind those amazing doors.

 

Still, even with an available kitchen, one cannot live on cheese alone, so Rachael and I rouse ourselves and venture out for a ramble on La Rambla. La Rambla is like an overgrown version of Santa Cruz's West Cliff drive. It borders the white sand and rocky beaches of the Rio de la Plata, and here we find bicyclists, runners, dog walkers, families and other ramblers enjoying the fine day. It all feels so familiar that for an instant I forget I am in a foreign country until I am reminded by the fact that I can understand absolutely nothing anyone is saying.

If you wish to test out your Spanish language proficiency (actually Castellano) let me recommend a trip to Uruguay. Never in my life have I heard anyone speak so rapidly, and it doesn't help that the end of every word is dropped (that French influence?) and then slurred like a long skid. To the untrained ear (that would be mine...) a typical greeting sounds like this: Holablahblahblahblahblah?
Even Rachael, who is incredibly fluent has a little trouble and I am sure she is quite sick of me asking "Did he say words?" whenever anyone speaks in our direction. I have decided to wear my NO HABLO shirt the whole time we are in Uruguay, to avoid misunderstandings.

After kicking around a few fish heads on a rocky beach for sport and checking out the safety of a sketchy levee,

we decide to leave off our ramble, return our rental car and visit the Mercado del Puerto (the port market), which houses some of the city's most well known parillas. Parillas are esentially huge bbq grills, and since both Argentina and Uruguay are famous for their meat, one of the best ways to taste their "wares" is to visit a parilla and order a parillada, a mixed grill of various meats and cuts.
The Mercado del Puerto houses a lot of parillas under one roof (making it the ultimate meat market, and in more ways than one, considering all the attention we get when we walk in...). We peruse the menus and proceed to select a few meat choices, although not the whole zoo like the
"Roman orgy " party seated near us.

When the food arrives, though I am not a big meat eater, I have to admit that it is quite tasty.
However, even with our constrained order we cannot finish it all, and as we have to take some remains with us in a "doggie" bag I am reminded of the Woodie Guthrie song "Get a long little doggies, oh little doggies its your misfortune and none of my own" and I have to agree.

After that major food fest its time to walk off the cholesterol so we stroll uptown to the Plaza Independencia where we are greeted by the self-appointed city ambassador, an Ecuadorian sailor named Angelo, who bizarrely enough knows someone living in Los Gatos! Once we have heard his life story we manage to extricate ourselves and are heading back down the hill toward our hostel when we encounter one of the neighborhood Candombe groups readying for a competition during the upcoming Carnaval festivites.

Candombe is a form of African based dance that typically consists of at least 50 percussionists, a corp of female dancers known as mulatas and several stock characters each with their own specific dances. The characters include: La Mama Vieja (the old mother),
El Gramillero (the herb doctor) an ancient black man dressed in top hat and frock coat, carrying a bag of herbs, and El Escobero (the broomsman) who performs feats of juggling and balance with his broom while dancing gracefully.

2 Mama Viejas and 1 Gramillero

El Gramillero & Mama Vieja

Uruguayan Candombe is played with 3 drums of different size and timbre. Each drum is played with a specific rythymn and hand movement. It is fascinating to watch and once the drums get going, its impossible not to dance a bit. And so we do, though mildly, as we follow the group along through the neighborhood.
Eventually they turn and we veer off into another direction, only to run into another Candombe group, even larger than the first, a few blocks down. This group has a bigger dance troupe and a slightly more salsa dance style and as they move down the streets they gather followers like a rolling snowball, growing bigger and bigger. As they move through the intersections, buses and cars sit idiling but everyone seems to be enjoying the free entertainment.

Finally we take our leave and the streets are once again eerily empty and quiet after
the sudden throng of people. For the last few blocks back to the hostel we see no one, nor any signs of life, just those walls lined with mysterious doors. It's as if the city is a gorgeous ghost town, the perfect set for those post apocalyptic zombie films. Yet, when we sit out on our balcony, the night becomes alive again with the sound of the not so distant drummers and the quiet murmur of incomprehensible spanish from the street below.
Buenas Noches y Hasta manaña
J

Ahora es manana or, for you other non-fluents; now its tomorrow
and our last day in Uruguay.
We are going to make the most of it by visiting the huge sunday market. Basically this is a gigantic flea and farmer's market that covers about 25 city blocks. There are vendors of new goods, families selling off used goods, traditional produce stands, as well as jugglers, con artists inducing bystanders to lose pesos at the cup game, and probably some pickpockets plying their trade.
There is a huge section devoted to aquariums with many varieties of live fish and reptiles as well as every kind of plastic plant ever produced in China. There is also a block specializing in the furrier pets; puppies, kittens, rabbits, chinchillas, rats, and guinea pigs. (Also most likely, fleas, thus the nomer "flea market"). And a block of exotic birds as well as poultry.
The chant of the ice cream vendors competes with the "revista" (magazine) sellers who sing "diareeeeee" over and over like muzzein calling the faithful to prayer.

market book seller

Evidently the city is NOT as empty as it appeared, because every block of the market is a river of people flowing past the booths and tables in a relentless and inpassable current. You plunge in and get shoved along, looking at the goods for sale like passing scenery. At one point, Rachael
bucks the current so she can purchase a cute fedora but though many things catch my eye, nothing can entice me to attempt to discuss a purchase in Uruguayan spanish, so it's easy to be a spendthrift.

After a couple of hours we have had enough so we head back to the hostel to gather our goods and get ready for the bus, ferry, bus trip that will get us back home to Buenos Aires. The bus ride to Colonia is uneventful, but as I look out the window at the passing countryside I am struck by how much I have enjoyed Uruguay. Montevideo is a beautiful city, slower paced and much quieter then most cities of a similar size, and the vastness of the countryside has struck a chord. I realize that for most of my time here I have been dazed and confused, but I think I could spend a lot of time just wandering those empty streets or that empty countryside. As I contemplate my new career as an Uruguayan sheep herder I begin to suspect that possibly I need more sleep so I take a quick nap before we catch the ferry back across the river to Buenos Aires...

...which turns out to be a good thing as the ferry ride back is a little more exciting than the bus...
The wind is up and the boat is sort of hydroplaning over the big waves while also rocking from side to side to the point where the waterline is showing in the windows. I expect to see fish pressed against the glass at any moment as we rock toward the water. The first few times this occurs, all the passengers erupt in surprised laughter...why it's like an amusement ride, but then, as the ride operator speeds things up, all the laughter subsides and the vomitorium begins.
From fun to misery in 3 minutes flat. I, for one, am very sorry I indulged in that greasy empanada just before boarding the boat. I also notice that no one is visiting the duty free shop or the overpriced concession stand. Alfajoras seem to have lost their appeal.

We are all thrilled to see the lights of Buenos Aires once again and as I hoist my backpack onto the crowded city bus, I reflect that my chatreuse pack complements my post-ferry green pallor perfectly and I feel proud to be so color coordinated in fashion conscious Buenos Aires.

Ciao for now,
J



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