Uruguay: "Everything but the Moo"

The ferry left Buenos Aires in a heavy drizzle and the grey Río de la Plata merged with a leaden sky. Landing on the opposite shore, Colonia del Sacramento was drenched in sunshine and I took it as a sign of things to come. Every other passenger seemed to have a free pass into Uruguay but we needed to find customs. They found us first, in a small building with a baggage claim area. Making our way to the inner offices, we hopped around dozens of large, black plastic bags. They took up all the space to the left of the carousel, and continued along a corridor into the back. In a cramped office I was squeezed into a chair while the customs officer explained the bags held confiscated clothing bought by Uruguayans in much-cheaper Argentina. Storage space had run out and they were waiting on various court cases before the merchandise could be either returned to the buyer, after penalties and duties of course, or, I supposed, destroyed.

In Colonia a tree outside our window housed a pandemonium of parrots. What a racket. It began shortly after 5:00 AM, and lasted all day. We loved it. Our room was unusual too, with maps and pencil drawings of the hotel’s architectural plans, and old black and white photos. In the bathroom, where we’d stagger bleary-eyed after the early wake-up call, the first thing on view was another wall hanging:

 “Thank you for cleaning your maté in the trash can. In order to maintain quality and hygiene, we ask you to not dry the above with the towels.”

A mini-Cargill conference was taking place in the hotel with young, elegant attendees wearing name badges and serious expressions. Watching them at breakfast, I felt a wave of overwhelming relief that my own business casual days were over. Away from the corporate memories, Colonia’s historic quarter had a Latin feel, not unlike the Caribbean coasts of Mexico and Central America.  With its old city gate, wooden drawbridge and Street of Sighs, I did think of pirates when looking out to sea. Only it wasn’t a sea. There were islands and white beaches, but it was still the river, and standing on the green carpet of the Plaza de Armas, the last thing you expected on the far side was one of South America’s largest cities.

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A month previously we’d stayed in a cold cabana in Gualeguaychu, Argentina. It was on the Uruguay river and directly across was the town of Fray Bentos. We drove there now purely because we liked the name.  After wasting a lot of time looking for a hotel only to return to the first one, we were upgraded to a balcony room. Each evening we’d sit watching the sun melt into the river while music played and little kids took dancing lessons in the park nearby. Later when the moon rose and cast a white beam, we’d still be there. We knew Uruguay was famous for its beef but were surprised to discover that Fray Bentos is famous for its meat processing. Who knew that the corned beef we’d eaten as children came from another little green country, but on the other side of the world? I remember taking that “key” as soon as I was old enough, and twisting it all the way around that odd-shaped tin to reveal a frankly not-very-appetizing pink block. But the Liebig Extract of Meat Company made it taste oh so good (especially with Colman’s English Mustard), and walking among the ghosts of its now closed factory was a return to innocent days. We left the museum beaming, and full of wonder at the greatness that lies behind the simple little Oxo cube. Who knew?  They used “every part of the cow except for the moo”.

Fray Bentos proved to be a lovely stop. After a particularly animated breakfast one morning, in the company of a toddler soccer team over from Buenos Aires, we met the hotel manager, Fabrizio. Our upgrade was because of him, a motorcyclist perk. He invited us out for a Sunday bike ride with his daughter and some friends. The invitation was very welcome as we were finding the Uruguayans somewhat detached after the friendliness of Argentina. In other countries on the continent, you can’t walk a corridor, enter an elevator or eat your dinner without multiple expressions of “Que tal?”, “Buen día” and “Buen provecho”. You get used to those small connections so when they don’t come, a cool little draught fills the void. But not so on this day. Riding together through horse pastures, across wooden bridges and along palm-fringed shores, it ended with lunch on the water’s edge, our group grabbing the last free table by the picture window. Fabrizio became a friend overnight, sharing local knowledge and insights into Uruguay. We had to check in for another night just because he and Fran couldn’t (wouldn’t?) stop talking about engines. He contacted his friends at sister hotels in the capital and on the coast, and arrange discounted rooms for us further down the road.  Long after we left, he stayed in touch, and his friend did too.

Bolívar had reached 20,000km. We got him a service in Montevideo at a Royal Enfield mechanic who was also a marine supplier. The waterfront, about 23km long, was bordered in the city by a pink patterned pavement and a seemingly unending wall of high-rise apartment buildings. Beyond the concrete jungle, beach grasses and rocky outcrops replaced the promenade and the coast curved multiple times, opening into petal-like bays. These were overlooked by very, very larges homes and the opulent Hotel Casino Carrasco, which was such a surprise I didn’t know if I’d been transplanted to a suburb of Versailles or the Las Vegas strip.

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Taking a break from the coast we drove inland to the town of Minas. Not long into a rare landscape of hill country, it began to rain; I was immediately and reluctantly returned to Ireland. Minas itself would have been picturesque in the sunshine but now the plaza was deserted and sodden and we dripped shamelessly onto the floor of the only open coffee shop.  Later for dinner we sat alone in a dark restaurant eating burgers with mysterious heavy thumping and scraping coming from the floor above. It was another not quite "Livin’ the Dream" moment.

Speaking of food, Uruguay’s cuisine was similar to Argentina’s and Fran had returned to fantasizing about broccoli florets. No matter how happy the cow, there’s only so much meat one can eat. When it’s topped with melted cheese, ham and a fried egg or two, well, one can only imagine the future state of the arteries. And, as in the neighbouring countries, nobody went anywhere without their maté flask, cup and straw. In fact, they were particularly dedicated here, many with belts and carryalls so thermos, cup and accessories could be transported together. The rest of the world has arm extensions in the shape of mobile phones, on this continent they were most likely born with a silver straw in their mouths, while a gourd in the hand is worth two on the hip.

Like some Argentinian provinces, and southern Brazil, Uruguay is part of the Pampas Plain. This means riding there can get really boring, my visions of darkly handsome Marlboro men on horseback having never fully materialized. Because nearly two thirds of the population live in Montevideo, the rural landscapes are largely empty with little happening along the way. But our meanderings through fields of green and yellow rape were peaceful and relaxing, and quite beautiful. There was no trash gathered in the ditches, nor on the city sidewalks, and the overall impression was one of a wealthy, forward-looking country. In fact, the only stress was trying to keep within our budget. Uruguay’s prices, like most of its people, seemed to be of European descent. So, when the meadows, horses and cow herds began to blend into one pretty Playmobil farm, we returned to the coast for one last stop.

In La Paloma the day was blustery and white horses were riding the dark blue waters of the South Atlantic. There hung that mantle of loneliness that weighs so heavily on seaside towns in winter. In our days there we found only two open restaurants and most other businesses closed. But it was good to walk on sand again, and the boardwalk over the marshes. After the perfection of the rural interior, these shores felt a little wild, after all, next stop was Tristan da Cunha (easy to miss), and after that, Cape Town.  Inching my way along the rails at the top of the Lighthouse of Cabo Santa María, my back hard against the curved walls, I almost found my own breezy way to Brazil. But I managed to hold on. There were still some final goodbyes to be said: to Fabrizio and his friends, both in that seaside hotel and out, to the customs man who said Bolívar could stay a year, to memories of corned beef sandwiches, to the rain-soaked cops who didn’t give us a ticket, and to the man whose favourite Vespa was lost in the divorce. The final goodbye I reserved for that little green republic squeezed between two huge countries. Sweet Uruguay, renowned for your beef, but remembered for your extract.

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