This morning I went to mass at a beautiful ancient church in the Ciudad Vieja called Iglesia Matriz. I decided to walk the 2 miles or so through the practically deserted Sunday morning streets and showed up really early for the 11 o’clock service. I walked a bit more in the old city and got myself lost. An old, hunched over women in slippers and a bulky red sweater was walking near me and I asked her where the church was. She said “vas contigo,” come with me, then “Americana?”

When I gave her an affirmative nod, she began to talk to me in English, asking me all about my studies, how I liked Uruguay, all sorts of things. When we reached Iglesia Matriz, she asked me if I was Catholic. I said no, just Christian. From that moment on, she took me under her wing. She brought me to sit right next to the stage, and tried to explain things. She pointed at the huge crystal chandelier above us, the gold encrusted statuary, vaulted painted ceilings and said, “this is beautiful, but I don’t like it. Just Jesus for me.”

The Priest was so gentle. his voice rolled fluidly and calmingly through the church like music, and so clear, I could understand practically everything. his hands performed the sacraments, pouring the wine, folding a towel, offering the bread, with such practiced perfection and smoothness, it was like watching art. So beautiful. Growing up in a basically non-denominational home, I have never encountered very much religious ritual. I used to actually scorn the idea and think it was an antiquated sort of control game, but I think I was wrong. My first mass was a very spiritual experience for me.

After a shower of “la paz contigo,” The peace with you, from all of the people sitting in the little close side area with me, Susana, my new 75 year old friend, and I walked out into the warm afternoon air. I kissed the priest in the doorway as we left. He smelled fresh like soap, then hugged Susana goodbye. She said, “Amanda, don’t be afraid,” and hobbled away to sit in a plaza and watch the day go by.

On Monday, we didn’t have class because we went an extra day earlier in the semester. I hadn’t really made any plans for this extra day of freedom, but when I woke up on Monday, I just knew I had to get out and be alone. You see, Casa ACU is a converted factory filled with airy hallways, and it is also completely unsoundproof. I can only take living with that much noise and the same people so much and I needed a break. So I got up and walked down to Tres Cruces, the massive bus station a few blocks a way, bought a ticket to Piriapolis, and was on my way. Piriapolis is a resort town near Punta del Este. Gentle clean water laps the coast on miles of sandy beaches lined by a rambla. Green hills dotted with both pine and palm trees make a protective barrier for this beautiful little place. First I walked into the tourism office, always a good place to start, picked up a map, and the spent the rest of the day walking pretty aimlessly. I must have looked like I was on a mission though because two cars pulled over to ask me for directions. The second time this happened, we were muddling through a very dumb and almost incomprehensible conversation when finally the guy said, “hablas ingles?” One person who doesn’t speak very well can usually get their point across, but add another native English speaker who knows practically zero Spanish, and you’re in trouble. The whole time all we had to do was speak our own language. I thought it was really funny.

I walked up several of the hills, all of which are topped with some sort of Catholic icon, like the Virgen de los pescadores, (the virgin of fishermen). Atop cerro San Antonio, is a little alcove housing the saint. Tiny plaques are pasted all along the walls, most asking for a boyfriend, or thanking him for a girlfriend, etc. The hill is a beautiful lookout point, so a ski lift can take you to the top for a few bucks. I walked directly under it though, and made it at almost the same time as the people staring down at me like I was crazy. I’m just not so sure about a random aero silla in Uruguay anyway.

Then I walked into the famous hotel Argentina that was built during an economic boom for Uruguay by the town’s founder, Piria. The architecture inside is simply decadent and the building boasts 365 rooms, one for every day of the year. Unfortunately, I got kicked out before I was done exploring. Oh well, you know what they say, It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

Watching a massive sea lion pose for pictures and scratch his head on the dock, I let my toes swirl in the water and ate a mostly squashed sandwich from my purse. It was absolutely perfect. Finally, I went to the bus station, bought a ticket and rode back to my Uruguayan home. When I walked into Casa ACU at about 6:30, people kept asking, “where were you all day?” When I told them, most people thought it sounded weird and boring, but I haven’t had a more enjoyable day this whole semester.

The seasons are exactly opposite as they are in the States, so recently, we’ve been moving into Autumn. I love this time of year because the weather is different every day. It’s been hilarious here, because the first day it fell below 60` F, you would have thought the big freeze had rolled in. I’ve never seen so many scarves in my life, and practically everyone had a zipped up coat and sweater. I’m a pretty cold natured person myself, but, honestly, it just feels nice outside. I passed my Spanish teacher one day without a jacket on, and poor Amelia was so concerned. “?Estas frio,?” She implores with a face wrought with worry. Eric explained that people here generally walk or take public transportation to and from work, and it’s impossible to know what the weather will be later. Also, central heating in homes and businesses is not at all standard, so you have to be prepared for the worst.

The smoke rolling in from Argentina is really more of a bother than the chill. As fertilizer, every year, they burn all the crop fields in Argentina just as they do in Mexico. The winds have blown the smoke North and now, a heavy haze burns your eyes and makes the buildings look dingy and gray.

Last night, I went with a friend to a movie theater. The cinemateca charges 100 pesos Uruguayos a month for unlimited movies. Thats about 5 bucks. I borrowed someone’s ticket. These were hardcore film buffs. You could tell because almost everyone had come alone, and nothing but silence filled the air both before and after the show.

After that, we walked a ways until we saw a tiny sidewalk Parrillada with a grill out front. In this obscure street, it was obvious they don’t see many foreigners. The waitress was explaining the bottles of vinegar and oil for my salad, showing us the salt shaker, and beaming the whole time. In about ten minutes, huge plates of steak, perfectly pink and marbled, sat in front of us. With bread, salad, steak, drinks, and a tip, were stuffed for about 7 dollars a piece. The guy next to us, a course gray bearded fellow, kept on with plate after plate of freshly grilled sausage, ribs, and steak, all swallowed down with 4 glasses of Johnnie Walker, and finished with at least 5 cigarettes. I never cease to be amazed by the sheer volume of meat Uruguayans can consume and do on a regular basis. I hope my little people watching escapades go unnoticed.

Eric told me about a hippied out vegetarian restaurant run by one of his friend’s boyfriends, so I decided to check it out as a late lunch end to a museum day with some girls. We walked to the address I was given and the only thing we saw was a yoga studio. Curious. So I walked in awkwardly, and a pony-tailed, sandal-wearing guy who I had met at a party looked at me strangely until he recognized my face. You know that spark of knowledge that comes over a person as they figure out who you are. He said they were only open for dinner on the weekends…at 8:30 pm.

We thought leaving at 8:30 and allowing 30 minute buffer period for walking would be plenty of time to not be the first diners. Oh no, what seemed excruciatingly late for us was still an early dinner for Uruguayans. The waitress was still at the market picking up ingredients when we showed up at 9 and the owner, who I already described, had to explain all the menu items to us. We sat on cushions around a low square table enjoying one of the first meatless meals I’ve had here, other than my own cheap creations. Finally, other guests began to trickle in around 9:45.

Later that night, I met up with a guy I met in the international program of the Catholic University. We went to a get together with some of the other foreign students, most from Spain, Mexico, and other Spanish speaking countries. This surprised me. I expected more people from Europe and the States, but I guess it’s for the same reason so many Americans study in England. They were all completely appalled at the idea of a 2 o’clock curfew. In fact, there is no translation in Spanish for the word curfew, it takes a sentence or two to describe and is always accompanied by a half confused, half pitying glance. Most of the people there were planning on leaving to go dancing around 2:30 or 3. I am constantly amazed by the late night stamina of South America.

Bus ride aside, Iguazu Falls are as amazing as everyone says. The Argentine side has 75% of the falls and the Brazilian has about 25%. In Argentina, most of your time is spent on bridges and walkways right above or beside the gushing water. In this misty world, rainbows are as much a part of the environment as voracious philodendron and picture snapping tourists. I haven’t seen so many pairs of shining white New Balance tennie shoes in quite some time. Even with the thronging spectators, I was amazed at everything around me. You walk nearly in fall after fall for a mile. The whole pathway is nearly suffocating with growth. Impatiens, elephant ears, philodendron, wandering jew, all of these familiar plants flourishing with double or triple the size I’d ever seen them before. And precious tropical hardwoods grasp for sunlight carrying the vines, creepers and fungi thriving off of their strength.

The true glory of Iguazu falls is Garganta del Diablo, or Throat of the Devil. Most of the water from the wide river is funneled into this relatively small space. It was truly one of the most fantastic things I’ve ever seen. You must shout over the gushing water to be heard, so instead, you can just look and enjoy the quiet from constant noise. So much water pours over each second that it retains the green algae tint. To get here, you walk about a kilometer over the expansive river which lows slowly. almost like a lake and holds sunning sharp toothed cayman waiting for a child to slip. The roar of angry water seems anachronistic to the peaceful setting preceding it, and you can hardly believe the sound is real until you get right next to the throat.

The Brazilian side shows the sheer number and expanse of the falls in a daunting panoramic. I had no idea how many there actually were from Argentina. It is truly a different experience. Above our heads, little brown monkeys swung and chattered angrily through the trees. At our feet, curious coati tried to steal our lunches. Coati are related to the raccoon and equally delight and annoy visitors. The word means nose in the hole in the Guarani tongue and these little omnivores with elongated snouts were aptly named.

We also visited Ciudad del Este, the economic, though not governmental capital of Paraguay. Though the national language is Spanish, everything is written in Portuguese in Ciudad del Este for the Brazilians who flood the border to purchase cheap (by South American standards) electronics, knock-off name brands, and anything else you can imagine crammed into jumbled malls that spill out into markets lining the streets. It was an interesting experience, but three hours was plenty for me. In one store, all of the sales clerks were young, attractive women in microscopic black mini skirts and deep red lipstick. In the hallway of another mall, armed guards in mismatched uniforms with guns tied across their chests with twine or string, blatantly leered and cat-called to Nicole and I. There’s something terrifying about that whole situation. Yes, Three hours was enough.

I read in a guidebook that long bus rides in South America, could include a delicious meal of the ham and cheese trio. It was hardly wrong. When we first got on the bus to Iguazu, a grueling 20 hours away from Montevideo, our tour guides handed out plastic wrapped packets with a crustless wheat ham and cheese, a crustless triangle of white bread, ham and cheese, and of course a dulce de leche filled alfajor. Alfajors are like two dense sugar cookies with a hefty blob of carmelly goo in the middle, and sometimes dipped in chocolate. The Little Debbie company should look it up. This was our merienda or snack. a couple hours later, we received a larger packet with a ham and cheese roll, a ham cheese and bread roll, a cube of cheese, some icy milanesa chunks, a sweet cracker thing with cheese, a huge dulce de leche roll, and a packet of mayonnaise. The next morning, after that greasy, unfitful bus sleep, we got yet another packet with a medialuna and cheese, a medialuna and ham, and drum roll…..a dulce de leche something.

After finishing the breakfast with a medicinal swallow of instant coffee, we visited the home of Horacio Quiroga, a very famous Uruguayan writer who wrote sordid short stories influenced by Poe. On of his most famous is titled, The Decapitated Chicken, to give you an idea. He lived in isolation in the jungle overlooking the Parana river, and his entire family committed suicide. Everything in the home was made by his hands. There is something attractive and intriguing about that kind of self sufficiency, but I couldn’t dwell on those thoughts too deeply, because I kept being interrupted by, “You’ve got something on your bottom.” The afternoon before, I’d sat on an alfajor while attempting to put a Planet Earth DVD in and nerdify the whole bus. By the next day, the dulce de leche had turned into a paste of dust, sugar, and seat fuzz that wasn’t going anywhere.

In the afternoon, we stopped at the San Ignacio Jesuit mission. The crumbling sandstone walls used to house 4,500 Guarani and the Jesuit priests. Eventually, church, border, and country feuds left the missions in desolation and they were finally reclaimed and restored in the early 20th century.

A few days ago, I was helping Raquel fix lunch. It was more like I was slicing tomatoes for a salad and she was doing the gourmet cooking. She told me that in groups past, they occasionallly set aside a day in the week to speak nothing but Spanish in the house. This got me very excited and I started priming the idea with people I thought would be into it. The next thing I knew, Wednesday was announced as “El Dia de Espanol.”

I am always one of the first people awake, and this was the best day for it too. People slowly trickled into the kitchen and were mostly silent because they were afraid to just start speaking the Spanish. Awkward. Finally, this goofy , funny guy named Branson walked in and practically yelled, “Buen Dia!” The ice was broken. The rest of the day was just hilarious, filled with huge hand motions, plenty of Spanglish, and scrunched up thinking faces. Some people wouldn’t get into it, much to my dismay. “Why would I speak Spanish when we both understand English?” I don’t understand that. Why go to a foreign country if you want to keep doing everything American. It’s just like the frequent trips to McDonald’s people make for a taste of the worst part of the states. It’s not even cheap here. I don’t get it.

On Thursday night, Eric invited me to an asado with some of his friends from the Catholic University. Most of the people there were part of the international program, aka, from the states, but most of the conversation was in Spanish. The best part, was the house mother of one of the girls. She was this older lady named Susana who hung out with all the 21 year olds until 2 in the morning. She kept on bringing me meat and I would tell her I wasn’t very hungry. I just can’t get into the eating at 11 o’ clock thing. “Pero estas muy flaca” But your so skinny, she would say, and then try again ten minutes later.

Today at 3 in the afternoon, we have a 20 hour bus ride into Brazil. We’re going on a week long trip to see Iguazu falls, the cataracts that tumble from the huge drainage of the Amazon. I had it described to me as Perito Moreno, the incredible glacier I saw, only moving and vital the whole time. Sounds good to me. More on that in a week.  

Last week, Nobuki and I began our adventure in Patagonia living mainly off of ham sandwiches and bananas. On Thursday we took the ferry into Buenos Aires and arrived in the city at about midnight. We thought we would walk to the airport where we were planning on staying the night to wait for our flight in the morning so with our backpacks on, we started in the direction of the port. About 200 yards into the journey, a guard stopped us and said, “don’t go that way. They will rob everything from you.” Ok, tragedy averted. We will just go back and catch a taxi we thought. Well, when we got back, the last taxi carried a lucky passenger to their destination. We were standing and looking pretty dismayed when a nice couple pulled up and “Oh, Chicos con mochilas, donde van?” Where are you going, kids with backpacks? I love free taxis. They took us to the airport and even gave us their phone number in case we ran into problems.

In most airports, you have to be sneaky to score a free night of lodging, but this one practically encouraged it. A guard saw us and I thought we were done for, but he just told us to go upstairs because it’s quieter. So we went and spread out our sleeping bags and crashed.

Finally, we arrived in Calafate on Friday. After walking around the town for a couple hours, we went back to the hostel and within ten minutes, someone said, “We’re going out, who wants to come?” So I went with a Canadian Girl named Amira and a guy from Argentina named Diego to eat and enjoy the night. I had such a fun time trying to speak Spanish with Diego. He didn’t know I understood a little and was telling Amira how pretty he thought I was, then I started laughing and called him out on it.

The next day, Nobuki and I took the bus to Parque Nacional Glaciares to see Perito Moreno, one of the largest and most dynamic glaciers in the world. The field of ice spreads for miles between two mountains and feeds a cerulean lake dotted with crystalline chunks of floating ice. I thought the glacier would be bluish white, but many parts of it were so brilliantly blue, they were almost violet. Perito Moreno is as much of an auditory experience as a visual one. You can hear the power of millions of tons of erosive force cracking and grinding like thunder. When a chunk breaks, it falls in slow motion toward the water, colliding with the wall in huge claps, and finally breaking the stillness with a splash ten stories high. The lake swells from the intrusion like visual sound waves and echoes throughout the valley for 5 minutes as the ripples reach obstacles like the shore or other floating discards from the glacier. We just stared at it in wonder for two or three hours, then caught a bus back.

The, we packed our things and bussed four more hours to a tiny town called El Chalten. It was created in 1985 to block Chile from another entrance to the National Park. The bus ride drove us over dirt roads most of the way and stopped midway at a desolate panaderia in the middle of nowhere. There was a guanaco, a small llama type creature numerous on the plains of Southern Argentina, just walking around inside the bakery. I went outside with my dulce de leche treat and watched the sun fall behind the foothills and paint the sky in haphazard impressionistic strokes of violet, rose, and dusty blue.

Nobuki, some boys I met from Canada, and I started walking around El Chalten at 11 pm trying to find a place to stay. It wasn’t difficult in this town that draws outdoor enthusiasts from all over the world. The only thing as numerous as hostels were bars and restaurants. The next day, we took a tour to another, smaller glacier, but this one we got to climb on. When we arrived at the meeting spot, there was Amira again. Small world. We hiked for two and a half hours, ate cookies, then zip lined across a river. Finally, we got to the glacier and tied crampons onto our feet. They are like angry metal teeth to grip the ice. It is hard to describe the alien landscape from atop the glacier. Little pools of sky blue, bridges of ice, sheer white cliffs, ridge after ridge of water captured in time.

That night, we met for dinner with the other people in our tour; three from Spain, Amira, and a newlywed couple from Buenos Aires. A girl from California and a local joined us, and then guess who showed up…it was Diego. We sat and talked and laughed for hours over our food and wine. Finally, at 1230, I had to go to bed because we had hiking planned for the morning. Diego offered to walk me to my hostel and when we got there he tried to kiss me. Oh South American men. “Por que no?” he asked with puppy dog eyes when I refused. I made up some story and just laughed when he was out of sight.

The next day, we hiked to see the famous Cerro Fitz Roy with its iconic silhouette as close to Patagonian’s as Mt. Fuji to the Japanese. The natives called it Cerro Chalten. The word means smoking mountain, due to the nearly constant cloud that hangs about the summit. Some people wait a week or two to see Fitz Roy on a clear day, but Nobuki and I had perfect weather. After a four hour, strenuous hike, you can see the peak rising above an opaque turquoise lake . Absolutely stunning. On our way down, I saw Diego resting against a rock.

 

I will finish this later. Much more to tell.

That evening we caught a bus back to Calafate and had another to Ushuaia at 4 in the morning. We didn’t see any point in getting a room for that night, but the hostel we stayed in before said we could use the showers. After getting cleaned up, I went into the living room and found Amira again as well as some english people, an Italian guy, some Argentines and some Spanish girls. It was St. Patrick’s day so we decided to go out at about 12:30 after they made sure I was well fed. I think I’m always going to have to find foreign friends from now on. It was so fun. We celebrated Daddy’s birthday too. You were not forgotten.

Then we rode for 12 hours over mixed paved and dirt rodes, passes through Chilean customs twice and finally made it into Ushuaia late the next night. Once again, we didn’t know where we were staying yet, so we walked around with some Germans until we found an open Hostel. The next day, we took a catamaran through Beagle channel and I completed a dream of seeing penguins in their natural habitat. They are just so funny, waddling around the rocks looking out of place until they glide gracefully into the water.

That night, we went to a hostel Nobuki knew about. The sign for the place was written in Chinese characters (Japanese writing uses these), so I don’t actually know what it was called. I was the only person not from Japan. What an experience. It is run by a tiny, 85 year old Japanese woman, and is equipped with a Japanese bath. They were so nice to me, but seemed a little confused as to why I was even there. I just pointed to Nobuki. I learned as much about Japanese culture as I did Argentine, but the best part was watching Nobuki speak Japanese and feel so comfortable. He said that the way I was feeling is how he always feels in Casa ACU. I respect him so much more now.

The next day, we took a taxi to Tierra Del Fuego National Park and met an older Scottish man named Allen. He hiked with us all day and bought us cake and coffee too. The park looks like a fairy tale world. I expected to see little gnomes wandering around the peat bogs and mossy trees. None showed themselves, but we did see more rabbits than I’ve ever seen before. Rabbit paradise! And they aren’t at all afraid of humans. Growth is so prolific that the well traveled trails are still carpeted with bright green grass that contrasts with deep blues and turquoises of still lakes. Everything is rimmed by jagged peaks dusted by an early snowfall. I kept comparing the Andes to the Rockies, but everything is differrent. Instead of evergreen pines and a thick layer of browning needles, the forest is made up of desiduos Lenga trees adorned with burrs, moss and those long tree beards you imagine in the swamps of Louisiana. The mountains themselves are as sharp and dangerous looking as sharks’ teeth instead of the crumbling boulders of the Rockies.

The next day, I went on a tour of some of the local lakes. After stopping at two to look around, we got out and began to hike for about two hours along the banks of Lago Escondido. In 1949, an earthquake changed water levels leaving hundreds of Lenga partially submerged. Because of the cool climate, their skeletons are still preserved as tall gray monuments to the quake. after the hike, it was another fairytale experience. In the forest, we arrived at a table filled with food and drink next to a warm fire. I spoke to a German lady named Gila the whole time and she told me about her experiences in India as a young woman. She saved her money, and was going to Antarctica as a 50th birthday present. Ushuaia is the Southernmost city in the world, so it is the gateway to these sorts of expeditions. Then, we canoed in the lake to our hearts content and returned at 8:30 to our respective hostels. I have a place to stay in Germany now, if I ever make it to Europe.

class time…more later

The next day, Nobuki went diving in Canal Beagle and saw king crabs. I don’t have a license so we were split up again. There’s a glacier close to Ushuaia as well so I thought I’d go see that. It’s 12 km’s from the centro and in the fashion of my Dadaw, I said to myself, “More time than money.” and started walking. It was a beautiful way to see the city from above with mountains all around and Canal Beagle in front. I did get a few strange looks though, and taxis kept slowing down hoping to get some pesos. Once I got there, another steep hike of a couple km’s takes you on trails up to the glacier passing by icy mountain streams. The glacier itself is pretty lame compared to Perito Moreno, but the hike was beautiful. I started walking back down the street when it got cold and windy. Dang. Then it started to rain. I was forced to throw up my white flag of surrender and stick out my thumb.

A nice couple from Ushuaia picked me up, gave me pastries and mate, and talked with me the whole ride down. “Estas sola?” Are you alone they asked. “Viente anos?” And only twenty years old? they thought this was very strange. I couldn’t remember the name of my hostel for good reason, so I asked them to drop me off at a place with good coffee. The left me at a chocoloteria and I walked in a bit confused, but they did have coffee. While I sipped my espresso largo, my mouth watered at all of the artesanal treats behind glass counters. Just when I thought I would have to break down and buy at least one bon bon, the waitress placed a plate heaped with different flavors of chocolate on my table. People are nicer to you when you look lost and alone.

That evening, we hugged our hostel lady goodbye and flew back to Buenos Aires for another blissful night of airport sleeping. Then we boarded the ferry, and thats all folks. I guess it’s good to back to semi-regular life…….nah

I haven’t written in a while because this past week was pretty busy for me. I’ve been trying to plan spring break, finish papers, projects and midterms, and while all of this was going on, my friend Eric came back to the city for a week.

Eric spent the past two months working in the country. Part of this time he was on an estancia or ranch, but the majority of the time, he was building fences with an old man and living in a tent. He has an apartment above the church near our house for his time in the city. One night he invited a few of us up for a traditional asado. An asado is barbecue that is an important part of any Uruguayan home. Starting at about 10 o’clock, he started a fire in a grate to the right side in the brick structure. While the wood turned to coals, we passed around a mate, and I learned all the lingo. The gourd is always passed clockwise, and you drink all the water from the infusion when it is passed to you. The straw slurp noise is polite to show you drank to the bottom. You only say gracias when you no longer want the mate gourd passed in your direction.

When Eric decided the coals were just right, he threw on chorizo, lamb ribs, red bell pepper, a whole onion, and a pie tin filled with salty provolone. My mouth is watering even now. I made chimichurri, a meat topping made from cilantro, oil, lots of garlic and salt, while he finished the art of the grill, and we all sat down to stuff our faces at midnight. Ribs are cut in the opposite direction, though I’m not sure why. You get a strip with 4 or 5 bones separating big chunks of meat so tender from the slow firing. Put it on your plate next to a gooey blob of cheese and a little bell pepper and yumm. I should get myself invited to more asados for sure.

During the daytime, I was frantically trying to organize my spring break. I’m going to Patagonia with my friend Nobuki, but we almost didn’t get the tickets because of a rejected debit card. This wouldn’t have been an issue if we hadn’t waited until the last possible moment to reserve our plane tickets, but lesson learned…for now. The planning stops pretty much at those tickets as well. We ferry into Buenos Aires tomorrow afternoon and will stay somewhere that night. Hmmm. Friday we Fly into Calafate, a beautiful city in Argentina’s deep south. We actually have hostel reservations for two nights there. Eventually, we will bus to Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world, and stay somewhere. Maybe we’ll camp. Finally, we fly back in to Buenos Aires Saturday and return to Montevideo Sunday. There you have it. You know as much as I do. I’m so excited to see the glaciers and the Andes and the beautiful lakes. I packed for ten days in my 35 liter backpack, so this will be disgusting. Cleanliness and fresh clothes are completely overrated. I am bringing a small bottle of Woolite for emergencies, and I know I have at least two nights worth of showers anyway.

I’ll tell you about it in a couple weeks I suppose.

This past weekend, the whole group…we’re more like a herd actually, of Texans traveled up the coast to Rocha. It’s like a county so there are many things to see. Of all the exciting things to do in the little beach town, La Paloma, Nicole and I chose renting bikes. You can get them for about a buck an hour and the two we chose were marvels of technology. We chose two matching one-speeds. Nicole’s was pink. We called it Pinky. Mine was green with a basket, and obviously named Brain. I don’t think anyone has as much fun as we do. Since La Paloma is a small town, we quickly came into the countryside, and I had forgotten how much I love open nature and animals and trees.

The next day, we went further up the coast. Our bus stopped at a parking lot sort of place, and we piled onto this large four wheel drive, open air dune buggy. We all fit. It’s kind of hard to describe. Anyway, The vehical bumped along for about 15 minutes until we hit a beach, then 5 minutes along the sand, until we reached a tiny town called Cabo Polonio. This place is like nothing I’ve ever seen. I thought Boulder, Colorado was Mecca for hippies, but I was so wrong. The whole place seems like an island though I guess it’s actually a peninsula. Little shacks with laundry hanging outside are scattered everywhere, many with dogs, chickens and cows in front. We got there a little early, so the town’s inhabitants were still lazing in front of their homes in lawn chairs passing around a Mate. It was only later that I realized that not one electric wire was distracting a view.

We walked to a beach past bright red and yellow fishing boats and searched for shells. The cloudy turbulent looking skies were a beautiful backdrop to the ocean. Then, we went toward the lighthouse and decided to sit on some rocks behind it. All of a sudden, one of the rocks moved. I pointed and got so excited, but then thought I must be crazy because no one else knew what I was talking about. Then finally, another rock moved, and we realized we were in sea lion territory. We moved a bit closer to get a better look, and a whole sea lion saga played for us. Two adults slid from the rocks into the foamy water one after the other. Then, a baby was left staring off the cliff not knowing what to do. The mom looked on from a distance where she wouldn’t crash into the rocks with the waves. Finally, she had to swim back, climb onto the rocks and be with her cub. I never saw the two of them make it back off.

When we came into the town once more, it was a whole different scene filled with bare-footed, dred-locked people making jewelry and smoking. I saw several flags and posters of Bob Marley, and I think he would have fit into this crowd. In the winter they fish, in the summer, they sell things to tourists, and that’s all they worry about. I can see the allure.

Later, we took a small boat through a fishing canal to the Ombu forest. Next to the water, sheep and cows grazed in fields of green grass accented with palm trees. I’m telling you, this is the place to be livestock.The Ombu tree is actually not a tree at all, but an enormous shrub that can grow up to 60 feet tall with multiple trunks. If you describe the plant, it really sounds like science fiction. The herbaceous trunks can hollow with time leaving their live shell and canopy. The sap is poisonous, so they are not grazed. The tissues are fire resistant, and immune from locusts or pests. In addition, they thrive with only 10 to 30 inches of rain per year. The plants grow in Argentina, Brazil, California, and of course Uruguay, but they usually grow alone. Uruguay is the only place to have a forest of them like the one we visited. I’ll try to put some pictures up later because I can’t describe how cool these are. All I wanted to do was go lean up against one with a book for hours, sleep, then wake up the next day and do it again. Maybe I should go join the hippies.

http://www.blueplanetbiomes.org/ombu.htm

The next day, we went to some other places……the end.

Ok, you’re right Dad, that was a bad ending. After the Ombu forest, we went horseback riding on the beach at sunset. I feel like I should be writing a romance novel about this stuff, minus the love affair of course. Because I’ve done it so few times, horseback riding still seems as exciting as when I was 6 years old. Nicole enjoyed it, but she also thought biking, then horses, was too much for one bottom. The best part for me other than the beautiful surroundings was talking to our guide. He made it look so easy. I think he was actually barefoot, and the ten year old boy also accompianing us would put on a jacket or turn around. We looked ridiculous clinging with our knees. The guide started talking to me though, and my conversations in Spanish are always hilarious. After explaining our study program…I think I called it an exchange without exchange like cambio sin cambio…we moved on to other subjects. He asked if I went to the gym and then pointed to my thighs. I get it OK, I have muscular legs. Seems weird to bring it up in conversation though.

The next morning, we woke up late and went to another beachy, touristy town called Punta Diablo. It was more of a surf town and may I actually think some of the people might have been from California. I headed straight for the rocks though. The waves came in and crashed in thirty or forty foot high splashes. I was soaked because I just couldn’t help but stand in the splash zone. In fragrances for soap, sea foam always sounds delightful, but I’m here to tell you, it moves like off-white jello and smells like salty dead fish. The foam near where I was standing, was accumalating like The Blob and I’m quite sure Punta Diablo has been overcome by it now.

After lunch, we drove to Fortaleza Santa Teresa, a remnant of colonialism and fights between the Spanish and Portuguese over this marginal land. It was cloudy and so green everywhere. The grey moss covered stones and bright grass made me feel like I was in Ireland. Several palm trees in the surrounding land brought me back. This whole weekend spoke to me about simplicity and nature. Materialism is everywhere, but it is much less prevelant in Montevideo than in the States.  Some of these small towns, the fishermen and shop keepers seem more or less unaffected by it. I return to my little bubble that is Casa ACU, and jump right back into all of the things. I can’t speak for everyone, but I know I feel free the more I can release myself from desiring more. I shouldn’t feel profound by feeling that way, because that very principle is important in Christianity, Bhuddism and many other religions I’m sure, but I have to run into things before I can see them.