Uruguay – August 2015 (ish)

Montevideo street art, a failed attempt at driving manual, biking Punta Del Este, and an unfinished Trump building.

           

The ferry from Buenos Aires to Montevideo, the capital of Uruguay, takes a little over an hour. I was traveling with three girls I’d met through my study abroad program many years ago. They were from very different backgrounds, yet we all convened at the same table in the dining hall one morning by chance and planned a trip. I was a little older than all of them and they seemed nice enough.

The ferry, called Buquebus, is a short ride but a long wait. Immigration requires a two-hour arrival prior to departure as to check fingerprints and acquire visas. I waited with my new friends near the gate. I bought a cup of coffee and the four of us boarded the ship towards Montevideo.

            Americans tend to sleep on South America in general, but Uruguay especially. This southern cone nation is a gem of South America, a calm paradise. The cow population outnumbers the human population by about seven million, so one is not surprised to find out about the importance of the beef and cattle industry here. It is, after all, next door to Argentina, the country with the best beef in the world (I’ll fight anyone who tries to tell me otherwise).

            The ferry docked into Montevideo mid-afternoon. We picked up our car rental, our first mistake. By nature, renting a car in another country is a nightmarish experience. A dark cloud of fear hangs over you as you pull out of the garage, mindful of any thin gap or crevice that could leave a scratch that will siphon a heap of cash from your wallet when you return it. It was fortunate that I wasn’t the one taking the reins; I didn’t know how to drive stick. I sat back as my Moroccan friend drove the car into town. 

            We checked into the hostel, a colorful abode with low lighting. There was a patio and a bar adorned with Christmas lights and plants. Other travelers had already gathered there and started drinking. The next few hours are a little hazy, this was many years ago and I’m not sure what alcohol I had consumed that night. All I remember is joining a Quizombo dance routine at some point.

I woke up early the next day and grabbed breakfast downstairs, my head thundering with that familiar dull hum of a hangover. This was many years ago, when I could handle it better. At this age, a hangover generally takes up my entire day; back then it usually dissolved itself around noon.

Once my friends awoke and joined me downstairs, we decided to venture out into the city a little deeper. I discovered my favorite thing about Montevideo that morning: the street art. Plastered across every corner of the city are murals that pop your eyes even on a dreary winter morning, blessing the city with color. I’m grateful I still have a handful of photos in my phone of some of them.

After walking through the city for a few hours, we got the car from the parking spot a couple hours later and started our venture towards Colonia del Sacramento for the day. The fields surrounding were green and the sky overcast, the typical weather in mid-winter in this part of the world. This was the first moment I regretted traveling with three girls around twenty years old; Barbie Girl blasted from the speakers as they stared back and laughed at me. I couldn’t hide my disgust; I have sisters and I know this game all too well. But as one learns in life, play the hand your dealt with a laugh!

            Colonia Del Sacramento is one of the oldest cities in the Uruguay, brandishing a barrio histórico that delights every tourist who passes through with its antiquated blend of Spanish and Portuguese buildings among the commanding view of Rio de la Plata. Stone archways and misaligned cobble streets snake through this town of 27,000 people. Due to its proximity to Buenos Aires, it’s a very frequent day vacation for Porteños looking for a more relaxed setting to relax in the sun or sit in the café and enjoy a drink.

The next stop was Punta Del Este, the “Miami Beach of South America.” To tell the truth, this was not my favorite place, only because our timing was terrible. It was a rainy weekend in winter. The majority of workers in this town are seasonal, so it felt akin to a ghost town upon our arrival. At the time, I was rather indifferent to the whole experience. In hindsight, there are a few moments that stick in my memory: my first time driving a stick shift, a failed Trump residency, and biking along the coast of the Atlantic.

            The first night of our arrival, Dinah, my Morroccan friend, offered to teach me how to drive automatic. I said sure, how hard could it be? She drove us to an abandoned parking lot close to the beach and gave me a brief overview of instructions. Sounds easy enough, I thought to myself. I got behind the wheel. The engine stalled. Okay, that’s normal, I told myself. I tried again, putting the gear in first and laying off the clutch. The engine shook and twitched before stalling out again. My frustration crept in.

After about ten attempts, I gave up. So much for that experience, I thought to myself. Afterwards, Dinah’s friend, Alexandra tried for her first time as well. She got it the first try. Goddamn, some people are naturals! I resigned to learn another time.

            Alexandra drove us back to our hotel where I fell asleep after a few hours. The next day I convinced them to rent bikes with me. I was tired of walking and I wanted more space to explore the area. We picked up the bikes and followed the coastline, basking in fleeting winter sunlight. I felt the cool breeze against my face and my jeans slightly tearing as they brushed against the chain rings. I continued along the coast (at this point I had separated from the girls), taking in the familiar, comforting smell of salt water as I passed a building that made me grasp the handlebar brakes and pull off for a second.

            It should be worth noting that when I was in Uruguay, Trump had announced his presidential candidacy about a month prior. Everyone was still in “this is a joke” mode, unaware of what would happen over the next few months. It was when Mexicans were rapists but before the announcement of a Muslim ban. I had already disqualified him from my own personal ballot due to his comments on Mexicans. I hadn’t expected him to take the Republican Party at that point.

Anyway, I looked up at an unfinished Trump residence in Uruguay. I stared in astonishment at his incomplete project in this “Miami Beach” South American city. All I could think was how despicable he looks in all of his photos. “The project will be finished in 2020.” It’s clearly aimed at the wealthiest South Americans. I gazed upon it with disgust, festering in his dehumanizing comments towards an entire continent while contracting them to work on a new residence; a project designed solely for the richest Argentineans and Uruguayans. I couldn’t conceive the idea that he was – or is, even today – in any way representative of regular people outside the sphere of billionaires he’s absorbed himself into all of his life. Nevertheless, I’d love to return to Uruguay in 2020 when the project is set to complete (I doubt it somehow) and ask locals how they feel about this new addition to their boardwalk.

            I mounted my bike and headed back toward the hotel. Punta del Este is a beautiful spot in Uruguay, but I only wish I’d gone during a nicer time of year.