A return my type of food

I've now settled into my beautiful rented apartment in Recoleta and for the first time since the end of September, I have an empty refrigerator all to myself. After almost 7 months of eating what's on the menu, I can finally buy and eat exactly what I want. Oh, the pure, unadulterated joy of pushing a shopping cart through the produce section of an urban supermarket and picking up crisp green lettuce, firm red tomatoes, crunchy delicious apples, entire carrots... and hefting big jugs of milk and real orange juice into my knapsack. The thrill of sitting in my light-filled little dining area and eating a breakfast of crunchy granola cereal, real milk and fresh fruit rather than butter-soaked media-lunas and jam-slathered cold toasts. Granted I'd forgotten that my own kitchen means washing my own dishes. A fair trade-off, I'd say. - 30 -

The Beaches of Uruguay

After almost 5 weeks of travel, I thought a few days on the beach would do me good. With almost 300 km of sand beaches between Montevideo and the Brazilian border, Uruguay has lots to offer - everything from "jet-set" Punta del Este to the isolated dunes of Cabo Polonia. Of course, it's early autumn here. The winds are stiff, the air cool, and of course I encountered the only day of torrential rain during my entire trip. But it did give me a chance to explore. Here are the beaches I visited on my quick trip along the coast. Heading north from Montevideo, the first sizable town you encounter is the 1930s resort town of Piriapolis, built and owned by chemist/entrepreneur Francisco Peria. Centered around his massive Hotel Argentino and nestled up against some of Uruguay's highest hills, it has a mediterranean feel to it. In its heyday, it was host to the wealthy, royal and famous. Today, it has more of a family feel. It's my favourite beach town on the strip.

The famous Punta del Este is a narrow neck of land, its straight grid of streets lined with luxury stores and glossy apartment towers. A small harbour houses expensive yachts. The windward side of town is home to the international surfer set while the leeward side (left) is where you'll see the buffest bodies, tiniest bikinis and some serious bling.

Punta del Este may offer only narrow strips of sand between the broad 'ramblas' (oceanside drives) and the sea, but deserted beaches are a half-hour drive away. This is Chihuahua beach on the right - isolated, nudist, and apparently gay.

Of course, on a rainy day, off season, the wave provide the only 'action'.

Jose Ignacio is Punta del Este's elegant little brother - a cluster of very expensive, architect-designed homes on a rocky out-cropping a few miles north. The only commercial offices in town sell real estate. Dream houses, block after block...

I settled down for two nights at

La Pedrera, just north of La

Paloma. It is tiny down on a small outcropping (right) overlooking a broad shallow beach. I'm told it attracts a more 'artistic' crowd. There's even a jazz festival here in the summer.

Heading north, on a drizzly autumn day, I approached the splendid isolation of Cabo Polonia. It is asscessible only on foot (a 7 km walk) or by massive "4-wheel drive" trucks that act as public transit from the highway. Accommodation would be very basic - the town has no electricity.

The closest you can get to Cabo Polonia on the road, is a sprawling, ramshakle hippie settlement called Barras de Valizas. It doesn't even show up on most tourist maps. Here's a photo of one of the beach front cabins waiting for the approaching storm.

Heading further north, the town of Aguas Dulces nestles into the sand dunes, endless stretches of dunes that march north towards Punto del Diable - famous among surfing aficianados - and the Brazilian border. It's a place like this where you could find yourself alone with your thoughts.

As much as I loved the northern Uruguayo beaches - the sea, sand and tranquility - it was time to head back to civilization. I had a ticket on a Friday night Buquebus (ferry) from Montevideo to Buenos Aires, and a rental apartment in Recoleta waiting for me. Francisco and my parents arrive a week later to share the last two weeks of my Argentine adventure with me.

- 30 -

Playing Gaucho at an Uruguayo Estancia

The pony, blindfolded, terrified, pulled back from the post, straining with all of his might, four hoofs planted in the dry dust, every muscle straining against his bit, against the strength of the men holding him, against the blows and shouts of his agitators.

Larger, calmer horses approached, their riders watchful of the pony’s panic. They hemmed him in with their bulk, held him, restrained, contained. A gaucho slid from a compatriot’s horse into the pony’s saddle, adjusted his weight, pressing his high, heeled boots into the pony’s belly, held the loose reins in one hand and grasping their long ends in the other.

With a shout, the blindfold was whipped off, the bridle released, and the pony shot away from the post leaping and twisting as the gaucho dug in his heels, shouted and whipped furiously at the pony’s sides with long ends of the leather reins.

Within a few short minutes, a horn sounded and the gaucho slid gracefully to the ground and raised his arms to the shouts and whistles of the gathered crowd as the pony leaped in his own victory dance towards the far end of the corral.

The shadows were growing long, on the rolling plains of Cerro Colorado. It must have been a long day. The gathered community was quiet, lethargic; men and boys in voluminous white shirts, wide brown pants tucked into high, worn boots, a brimmed felt hat or slouch cap worn jauntily, the ornate silver hilts of long knives tucked into broad leather belts. The women and girls wore the everyday uniform of working farmwives: jeans and comfortable tops.

They watched me too, wary eyes, unsmiling. In the shorts and sandals of a passing tourist, snapping photos; I was clearly the only outsider.

I did not stay long, hopping back into my little tin-can car and heading off to the Estancia (ranch) San Pedro del Timote, where I’d be spending the next few days.

The Estancia sits far from Montevideo, amidst the rolling plains of Uruguay’s cattle lands. The monotony of the grass is broken by tall islands of cultivated Eucalyptus and the occasional, colourful town under an immense blue sky.

With a Jesuit past, the hotel boasts a Colonial style church, and spreading 1920’s house (I loved the dark wood and tile Library) and offers travellers a chance to pretend for a few hours that they are gauchos and ride out onto the plains on docile ponies.

It is beautiful. The daytime sky stays profoundly blue all of the way to the horizon. A fiesta of green parrots provides a continuous, cacophonous sound track.

The night-time sky is black velvet, pinned up by the moon’s blinding disk and pricked with thousands of countable stars. At night the cricket adds a melody to the soaring chorus of wind-rustled leaves. A cool, steady wind applies pressure from the ocean 100 km to the east. Outside my door, the horses stamp impatiently in their corral.

For two days I live the cowboy fantasy of sun-drenched plains, powerful horses, hearty meals and a soft linen bed in a cool adobe house. (Hey, not every aspiring cowboy wanted to bunk down by the fire!)

It was only the slightest of sips at the storied gaucho life, only the smallest insight into an exotic and timeless lifestyle that I had glimpsed briefly on the competition field of Cerro Colorado.

- 30 -

Revived by Montevideo

I had grown tired of travelling: flights, transfers, bus tours, restaurant meals, a different bed every few nights. Each morning, I had to remember which side of the bed to get up on.
And then I landed in Montevideo.

A 3-hour ferry trip from Buenos Aires, Uruguay’s compact capital sits on a promontory just inside the Rio de la Plata estuary. Originally a Spanish fort established to counteract the Portuguese settlement up-stream at Colonia del Sacramento, the city has always existed in the shadow of Argentina.

This is immediately visible in the built city – glorious wedding cake buildings from the late 1800s, noble neo-Beaux Arts homes and lyrical deco buildings from the 1920s, proud “mid-century modern” office towers. A beef-based economy built a prosperous early 20th century city.

But all of this came to a crashing halt with economic decline in the early 60s and the dictatorship starting in the late ‘60s. The city has been in a cryogenic deep freeze since then. The Old City has the same feeling of melting grandeur you would sense in Havana.

But there are signs of renewal in lovingly restored art cafes and the occasional boutique.

In the Centro, sidewalk cafes lead to leafy squares full of artisan booths. Handsome, dark-haired men wear suits with white shirts, women wear tailored skirts and teens use belts. Everyone walks at a more measured pace.

There’s a feeling of quiet innocence about Montevideo. There are no bars on shop windows. Two young ceremonial guards are the only security at the presidential office building. Children play tag unsupervised on the tree-shaded sidewalks. With every cross street open to the sea, 5 blocks from the core, inviting breezes cool the streets.

I spend the days walking the streets and soaking in the freshness. In the evening, I attend the venerable ‘Teatro Solis’, enjoying a Spanish version of Moliere’s ‘The Imaginary Invalid’ – paying the equivalent of $4.50 for a front Orchestra seat.

On the way out of town, I drive by white sand beaches, along an avenue lined with glossy modern apartment towers - more Miami than Havana. This is the start of an almost unbroken string of ocean-front beaches that stretch almost 300 km north to the Brazilian border.

After only a short stay, I’m in love with Montevideo, and in love with the adventure of travel all over again.


- 30 -

Meet the Chivito!

The Chivito is an arterial-clogging Uruguayo delicacy I ran into on my first day in Montevideo – the version I enjoyed had layers of salty steak, fried ham, fried egg, tomato, lettuce and various sauces, layered inside a huge crusty bun.

I saw one advertised as a Chivito canadiense – back bacon??

- 30 -

Uruguay's Extreme Mate Culture

Uruguayos are even more addicted to sipping Mate than their Argentine neighbours.

I had grown used to seeing people in offices and schools pouring hot water from their ubiquitous thermos into a Mate (gourd cup) full of hierba de mate (the dried, shredded leaf of a native tree) and sipping the infusion through a bombilla (metal straw). The custom is very social, involving sharing the Mate with whomever is present.

But in Uruguay, the mate culture is taken to the extreme. People walk the streets, a thermos tucked under one arm, the Mate in their hand, bombilla at the ready, and sip while walking the dog, conversing with friends, texting or window shopping. If ever there was a culture that needed a third arm, it is Uruguay’s.



(Sartorial splendor notwithstanding...)

- 30 -

Tierra del Fuego: Colour at the end of the world

In Ushuaia, the smell of raw earth mingles with the salty scent of the sea. Like many outposts, it has a raw, youthful energy - an undercurrent of opportunity under harsh conditions.

The capital of Argentina's Tierre del Fuego, South Atlantic Islands and Argentine Antarctic Province (how's that for a political statement!), it is considered the southern-most city in the world. It hugs a small cove on the Beagle Channel, half-way between the Atlantic and the Pacific, and grasps its way up the hillside towards the regal Martial range.


The townsite is dominated by a massive prison - built at the turn of the last century to stake Argentina's claim to her southern extremity; built by the prisoners themselves - unfortunate souls judged the most expendable or most dangerous, but also hardy enough to plant the seeds for a new city. Like England's Australia and France's New Caledonia, there is pride in criminal origins.

Today the primary industry appears to be Tourism. Traveller's fly in to check 'Tierra del Fuego' off of their bucket list, or stop by on cruises to the Antarctic. They spend a day on excursions - to the National Park, a boat trip to see the penguin, sea lion and gannet colonies, or to ride the 'prisoner's train'. Most visit the prison museum, but few take the time to wander the back streets of the small city.



In my mind, Ushuaia's most interesting features are the little houses that house its permanent population. Sheathed in corregated iron, or less often raw pine bark, they are compact and colourful.

Picket fences and gingerbread embellishments are common. Dormers, rose windows and crazy colour combinations all add creative touches that speak of pride of place.

It is interesting that bleaker landscapes often spur a more colourful built environment. I noticed this for the first time in Rajisthan India - as we drove further into the desert, clothing and turbans in particular, took on brighter hues.

The other great surpise was the creativity and quality of the food in Ushuaia's little restaurants. Witness Black Hake on a bed of crushed Patagonian tomatoes and olive oil, with Spinach xxx (Kalma Resto). There's an exceptional Chilean restaurant called Chiko where I enjoyed Trout stuffed with King Crab.

My last evening in town, I enjoyed a happy, spirited dinner with the exceptional young Swiss / French couple I had gone horseback riding with in Bariloche. They drove me up the side of the mountain to Chez Manu where we enjoyed the lights of the city below, and the best French/Patagonian meal I could have imagined.

Colour, great food and conviviality at the end of the world.

- 30 -