Uruguayan Blue, Nerudian Sunsets, Pulpo and Reminder: You’re in the Third-World

With a few days before my next ‘From Hegel to Nietszche’ class I picked up at the university here I decided to take in a few days of Uruguayan coastline, with blue sea, beautiful sunsets that the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda exclaimed are the most beautiful in the world and with the chance to eat some fresh seafood by the water I hopped a midnight ferry with my friend Brendan to Colonia. From Colonia we took a bus to Punta Del Este, which in a nutshell is the Hawaii of South America, and only hours away from the most cosmopolitan of South American capitals, Buenos Aires.

We spent three days reading by sea, wandering about town and eating local fish (Brotola) and drinking frosty local beer (Patricia) and sipping espresso’s (various) while watching the sun’s rays glisten on the water (Atlantic). The cool breeze rolls straight in from Antarctica as there is only the ocean separating the two continents. Looking out onto the water you feel as if you’re at the end of earth. One night staring up at the starry sky with waves breaking twenty-feet away I felt more connected than ever. The boulders of rock around me, the ocean waves breaking on this beach, the stars in the sky, all virtually unchanged and for how many milenia? How much longer will it be like this?

The first couple days we spent in heart of the city by the puerto, and the last in La Barra a quaint town of cafes and artsy boutiques and we found a little shack by the water and I got to savor eating Pulpo a la Gallega or Octopus cooked Galician style (province in the NW of Spain). This, I believe, can quite possibly be my favorite single dish in the world. We washed it down with local Uruguayan wine which is excellent on account of Uruguay’s coordinates which match up to the best wine growing regions in Chile, Argentina and Australia with a climate similar to Bordeaux, France, though slightly warmer and more humid. The wine and a liter and a half of sangria (shared) were the perfect accompaniment to our meal. Underneath the wooden planks on which we were sitting crabs scurried about and a rowboat stood listlessly. Pleasant. Perfect. Perfect.

On the way back we took a few hours to check out Montevideo, the capital city and place where I spent a couple wonderful days a few months back. After a nice meal we were walking through the dark, deserted streets (like most in Montevideo are) on the way to the main plaza. One street kid who asked us for “una moneda” or a coin earlier reappeared a couple blocks down the way and began more persistently asking us for money. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a guy walking fast behind us and gaining ground. Finally the kid put his hand under his jacket trying to insinuate he had a gun or weapon of some sort, we continued walking and now the guy was a few feet behind and I turned around and it happened in an instant. The kid pounced on me and reached deep into my pockets (with my passport, camera, and credit cards as we were about to leave the country heading back for Argentina) and I instinctually grabbed into them and tried to spin him off and we both hit the ground. My friend Brendan was quick to pull him off and the other man didn’t engage.


It all happened so fast. Looking back it could have turned out very differently. As we thought about it on the bus we seemed easy targets. Walking in the dark deserted streets with backpacks on our shoulders, the most all of the streets there are like this. Luckily nothing happened, a couple scratches and a startle, but we were unhurt and had nothing stolen but on the bus I couldn’t help but think about it. I wasn’t angry or upset, but really thought about how desperate these people are. Throughout much of the world there are literally billions of people who are in similar desperation. Not just in South America, but in Asia (think of the numbers in China and India alone) and Africa is beyond comprehension. This is not the same as the poor or those in the inner-city in the U.S. and homeless who have it hard. This is on a completely different scale.

What needs to be done to help change this situation? Education, economic opportunity, time. This is all I can really think of now, but how? There is so much need and so little aid and attention coming. Most of the governments here are strapped thin, and the U.S. announced it’s reducing aid and programs next year to the region to help pay for the war on terror.

Everything taken into account, I Love being down here. The more I’m here the more I grow attached, the more I want to see and the more I want to learn. I’m thankful I made the decision, and fortunate to have the opportunity. Some years from now I’ll look back and perhaps realize these to be among the most important months of my life.

Destination: Rosario, Provincia de Sante Fe, 309 km N of BsAs

As New Yorkers can well attest to (or shout to), if you spend too much time in a bustling city you’re bound to go a little stir-crazy. To escape the cars, pollution, happenings about town, noise and bustle of BsAs I decided to hop a bus to Rosario, a city four hours north in the neighboring province of Sante Fe. After being on a short engaging Taxi ride to the Retiro Bus Station I thank my driver for his kindness and for the conversation. I’m consistently impressed at the articulate, pragmatic and opinionated cabbies here (70% of the time). I buy my bus ticket and forty-five minutes later I’m on the upper level of the double-decker.

On the monitor overhead a romantic comedy starring Reese Witherspoon (sans romance or comedy) is playing. It’s- Just like Heaven. Which- Isn’t. Though should I be struck by lighting tomorrow and Mark Ruffalo and Reese Witherspoon figure prominently in my version of heaven someone quickly accuse me of some heinous crimes in my previous life for which I will be immediately downgraded to a secret fiery hell, perhaps located somewhere in Nevada, Arizona or greater New Jersey, and I can spend eternity playing seven-card stud with privileged high-ranking members of the current U.S. administration.

Pulling into Rosario reminded me of what 1950’s suburban America must have been like. People are out in lawn chairs in the evening in their fenced in front yards, flags wave in the light breeze, people stroll down the streets on bikes and kids are chasing each other and a woman pushes a stroller past, cars roll slowly down the wide lanes. Bus station to cab and my driver tells me, as I’ve heard many a time, or twice, maybe, that Rosarinas are supposed to be the “chicas mas lindas” of Argentina. “Then my eyes have luck” I say. He cackles as we pull up and points to a series of two doors that’s supposed to be my hostel. I walk up stairs and push a buzzer.

The door vibrates open and a woman of about fifty walks down to greet me and gives me a quick peck on the cheek. “Tanto tiempo” she says as we walk up. And I think she has me confused with someone, because it couldn’t have been such a “long time” if this is my first time here. “Se vengan las chicas?” she asks as I casually say sure tell the girls to come out. Girls to check me in? Guests? A girl comes out wearing- not so much clothing. The next one comes and now it just seems silly for me to be all covered up like this. Uh? This is either the greatest hostel in the world or something’s terribly (?) wrong.

What’s the address here? I ask. The address? Yes. The girls look at me and say nothing. Where am I? I ask more authoritatively. “Mothers house” one says. I look at them. They look at me. One of the girl’s lights up. Are you looking for the hostel? Yes. The two say nothing for a moment. Oh. Next door.

Next door I walk in to the front desk. Hey I say. Hey. I’ve got a reservation. Name? I give. Last? I give. Document or passport? I’m a walking charity. “You know” I start, “I was mistaken.” What? “I went in the wrong entrance. Your neighbors”. No response. “You know your neighbors?” His eyes bulge. “That neighbor?” he says pointing to the wall. I nod. “Ah” he says. Then, “did you?” I shake no. I’m not sure if he believes. Him not believing makes me second guess myself. “Welcome” he says handing back my passport.

Where is everyone? I ask. Not here. Sister Hostel. Four blocks away. You want I see if they have room? See. Two beds, both in five-bed bedrooms. Good. Good. He gives me the address. I walk. If my old hostel reminded me of something out of a Garcia Marquez novella, this one reminds me of the hostel in the movie The Beach. Dreads, Reggae, Marijuana wafting in the air, hammock, Brits, French, Germans, Ecuadorians, Colombians, Sweedes- An international buffet for the mosquitos.