Sunrise at Sao Paulo airport, a stunning orange ribbon that incrementally replaced black sky with blue, signalled a new day. It had been a surprisingly comfortable journey, my first with Latam, where we ate a hearty, almost home made meal with a single glass of wine, a reminder that I was in a continent of moderate alcohol consumption. A few days later at Tata’s 100th birthday celebration, as hours whittled away under the garden shade, consuming empanadas, pizza, those iconic South America (S.A.) triple layer paper thin delectable sandwiches, and of course Marina’s cakes and deserts, I reflected how unlike home this was, where most people couldn’t even contemplate gathering without wine and beer in plentiful supply. Instead most people enjoyed ice cold soft drinks, a few men only imbuing whiskey. That’s not to say I had a dry 2 months in S.A. Discovering Malbec, enjoying the light fruity New Age white in Uruguay over numerous lunchtime parrilladas (BBQs, Braais) and dinners out, it was a period of steady measured drinking, with occasional periods of abstinence.
A few hours from Sao Paulo I touched down in Montevideo and, once through Immigration and Customs in record time, scanned the crowd for Marina. We’d first met 29 years ago at Acres pub. Martha and I out for a midweek whiskey, we bumped into a guy we knew whose date was a young, voluptuous 21 year old with the most amazing wide sparkling eyes. In 1989 Marina’s English outshone my very rudimentary Spanish and her study schedule offered plenty of time to hang out over cakes at Cakes in Carrasco or coffee at her family’s home. Six months later after roaming South America, I arrived in the UK to discover Marina was studying English in Brighton, so we explored London together, further cementing our friendship. All these years later, after numerous visits to Uruguay, rekindling our contact after lost addresses and life interrupted us, (thank you facebook), I now have another home in the world, another family to welcome me with joy, generosity, laughter and love. At our reunion 3 years ago, not having spoken for 18 years other than facebook posts, I remember walking through the arrivals gate with a momentary twinge of anxiety. Was I about to spend 2 weeks with someone whom I barely knew anymore, would we still connect? It ws only a few minutes later, as we walked to the car with my luggage, something, I can’t recall what, made us both burst out laughing, just like the 21 and 26 yr olds we once were. Soon at her home in Shangrila, Marina had dug out old photos from our time together, adorning ‘my room’ with a home made poster of greeting and welcome. I knew then that the coming 2 weeks would be great.
Marina, her husband, son, step son and recently ‘adopted’ son (her’s son’s mate whose family emigrated and left him alone at 17 years of age, all speak good English. My Spanish is improving but in the past three years on my semi annual visits, I have relied on their kindness in minimising my humiliation and speaking to me in English. Three years ago I felt I was doing fine — managing some conversation with Chiquita (Marina’s mum), who speaks no English, enjoying chats with Carina (Marina’s sister), a senior teacher whose English is marginally better than my Spanish, where we get by merging the two idiomas successfully. But group conversations were barely comprehensible. Out for high tea with a group of Marina’s friends, I thought I was participating, albeit silently, and following along nicely. Marina asked “Do you understand?” and I confidently replied “Yes” and continued to offer my interpretation. “No” she would politely answer each time and précis the conversation, as any budding confidence seeped away. After a year of lessons my Spanish has progressed, the family have noticed my incremental advancements. But group chats still have my brain just a second behind the pace. As I recognize the word and try to retrieve the meaning, the tense, by then it’s too late to formulate my response. Akin to a hearing loss, language impairment or cognitive impairment — I have often reflected on how my impoverished language skills alter my personality until I let go of ego and just prattle away cognisant of the innumerable errors, content in the joy of dialogue instead. I remind myself as I listened to my friends’ imperfect English that I don’t care about their errors, I am grateful they know my language. So I imagine they feel the same. Unconsciously though Marina and I adapt our language skills for each other, my truncated simplified English and Marina’s Spanish likewise. I am getting there — within days of my Spanish immersion I found myself, whilst walking along the beach or upon waking in the middle of the night, thinking in Spanish — no where near Azzi’s Danish fluency where she now dreams in Danish….but who knows, one day?
Marina runs a catering business. Weddings,15th birthdays (a BIG event for girls in SA) and the like and now has a partnership in a beer garden as well. So, as for other trips where, transformed from task oriented worker, I relax and hand over my days to others, moving along with the ebb and flow of Marina’s days, doing the food shopping, hanging out at the beer garden in the evening, or just lazing in the garden reading after the daily constitutional walk at the nearby beach. Montevideo humid and sometimes hot, not Australia hot, just above 30 degrees hot, has a climate somewhere in between Melbourne and Sydney’s. Thunderstorms, brief heavy rain and grey skies occasionally interrupt the endless summer where schools are closed for 3 months but most days are filled with blue skies and sunshine. My typical walk was to the beach, along the white powder sands of the Rio de la Plata (River of Silver). Montevideo, and much of Uruguay’s east coast sits at the edge of the brown estuary of the Rivers Uruguay and Paraná. Boasting the widest river mouth in the world (from Punta del Este to Mar del Plata) it stretches 220 kms bringing water from Bolivia, Brazil, Paraguay and Argentina. Uruguayans love the beach. Guardavida (lifeguards) sit atop viewing platforms every kilometre as families enjoy a swim in the pancake flat brown ‘sea’, dive into small waves blown by the wind or, on days where the water is more salty and clear avoid the jelly fish brought in by the tide (tidal influences reaching as far as 190 kms up river).
Uruguay has transitioned through history from a Spanish colony, to British, back to Spanish, then as part of the United Provinces of the Río de la Plata, the United Kingdom of Portugal, Brazil and the Algarves, the Empire of Brazil to finally emerging as independent Oriental Republic of Uruguay in 1830. Its people originated from Galician and Canary Islands, with more than 1000 indigenous, mostly Guaraní people and a number of Africans of Bantú origin as slaves. Like BA there was a strong Italian immigration story which is most evident in the people’s surnames. With a current population of 3 million, which I always find amusing. Someone on the Patagonia tour highlighted that many countries around the world are experiencing declining populations, but I think he missed my point. The population of Uruguay has been 3 million forever…well certainly since the late seventies. Montevideo ‘city’ claims 1 million of this, and the greater metro area another 1 million. The others are scatted along the east coast and in the interior, which, along with the citydrives the economy of export-oriented agricultural, the financial sector and tourism both regional (Argentina and Brazil’s elite who flock to Punta Del Este for a relatively ‘safe’ yet ritzy seaside holiday, and international cruises that touch base at the city’s Cuidad Vieja’ (old town). Montevideo’s business is banking, a tax haven for the riches of Argentina and Brazil, which cause Uruguay to ride the highs and lows of its neighbours economic and political life.
Wikipedia tells me Uruguay rates first rank in Latin America for ‘low perception of corruption’, I suppose all things are relative. A country with a largely socialist government and mentality, my friends lament the high level of social spending. The middle class, as elsewhere, is squeezed relentlessly for their taxes, but I’m told the difference in Uruguay is an entrenched and expansive culture of the right ‘not to work’. A general feel from the middle class is that many people are not interested in advancing themselves, there is little desire to learn beyond secondary schooling. ‘Stupid people’ is a phrase I heard often from Urugayans when referring to their compatriots. Workers will call last minute to cancel a shift, despite insecure casual employment and high cost of living. Life is expensive (even by Melbourne standards it’s not a cheap place to visit). My memories of employment 30 years ago was of people working at a morning job for 6 hrs or more then heading off to an afternoon job for the same, late nights with family and friends the counter balance to long work days. The internet told me the unemployment rate is currently 7%. That brought a bemused look from my friends, they’d stake their life on a figure at least three times that. Perhaps the issue is underemployment? In the past the underemployment reminded me of places like Egypt. In Montevideo I recall purchasing items from speciality shops, where an order would be given to one person and while he packages the items, I would approach the cashier, serious and self important in his role, to pay, before I then returned to the counter to have my item handed back to me. This still occurs but with shopping centres and electronic money, Montevideo is firmly planted in the first world. In Marina’s business I experienced first hand workers sense of entitlement. The confidence employees had in complaining and demanding beyond both reason or logic was laughable, if it was not doing my dear friend’s head in! This and inefficiency perhaps hindering the country? Marina’s mother, a successful 74 year old architect, had to labour for six months with her pension fund to get her entitlements — at every visit she was informed she had not brought ‘this’ document or ‘that’ document, and item never requested in the innumerable previous visits.
I have a solution (albeit a naive one) for a few countries with employment problems — why don’t they start to pay people to pick up rubbish. In Uruguay, as in Zimbabwe, rubbish litters all streets, the city awash with plastic. There would be plenty of work.
Family and friends are the priorities in Uruguay. While work consumes much of their day, time is spent eating and talking, at a cafe, restaurant or each other’s homes. Dinner time — for all ages it seems — is about 9 pm ( or later). Sometimes on a weekend people rocked up at a restaurant at 11 pm. Marina typically would start cooking at 9pm and while we didn’t hit the sack early, its not as if we were up till 2 am — quite a challenge for my digestive system. The copious amount of succulent meat was less of a challenge. I could confidently say I ate my typical year’s worth of meat during my 2 months in S.A. Asado (ribs), lomo (ribeye), black pudding, mouth watering and tender. I had no experience of hunger in Uruguay that’s for sure.
If they can’t see meet up for a coffee (sadly as disappointing as every other country I went to) or for a meal, Uruguay’s communicate via Whatsapp, embracing this technology as much of South America and Southern Africa has. Unique to Uruguay though, it seems, is the use of the voice message feature — far more than anyone else, people walking and talking into the speaker of their phones as ubiquitous as rubbish.
I have always loved Uruguayan architecture — from slender oblong bricks laid horizontally to create small compact houses ensuring an intimacy lost in our expansive Australian homes, to white washed houses shaded, the ubiquitous use of honey coloured wood for window frames and doors and tall fences and gates to impound the innumerable dogs that bark relentlessly at any passerby. My friends’ houses at least accomodate the flushing of toilet paper — unlike many places in S.A. where the little bin by the side of the loo accumulates used paper — not much fun in summer.
I was spoilt this trip with two long weekends at Chiquita’s beach house in Solís, about 45 mins east of Marina’s house. The compact home, on an expansive block of land, along with Marina’s attachment to this place remind me of the beach house we had at Rye for 40 years. There are only a few shops, the area a laid back and family friendly place with a slow pace, far from the madding crowd. Each year I can see the older small 4 room houses of Solís slowly being dwarfed by white wash, glass, designer beach houses but Solís remains apart from the glitz and glamour of Punta del Este, or its cheaper cousin Piriapolis.
No longer feel like a tourist, rather I am on holidays visiting friends. Slow lazy mornings, each person grabbing a bite to eat as they emerge from slumber, a couple of hours at the beach before plunging into the pleasantly warmed water of the large ‘kiddy’ pool in the back garden, lunch of meat from the parrillada, crusty bagettes, fresh salads, wine and maybe some ice-cream or fruit before a siesta was the norm. A leisurely afternoon stroll towards sunset, or if a rain shower interrupted, card games with Marina’s nieces and nephews (my Spanish improved enough for them to understand me a little), as someone else sat reading, watching a show on the apple TV, everyone relaxed and doing their own thing. As darkness seeped in olives and cold meats would be produced with wine and about 9 pm preparations began for the evening meal, more meat, homemade pizza or handmade sushi. Cards games filled the evening hours till 1 or 2 am when people would grab a bed or a mattress on the floor quickly falling into slumber until the relaxed easy cycle repeated the next day.
South Americans are expressive, from the warm embraces men give each other when meeting up, the double cheek kiss almost EVERYONE gets upon greeting, to the newsreaders gesturing passionately on the screen. Expressive, warm and generous, their boundless generosity constantly amazing me.
When Marina drove me to the airport for my Patagonian adventure we said farewell with bright smiles and laughter. I was to return in 3 weeks for another 2 week stint. When planning the journey I had left my last 7 weeks fluid, ideas of studying Spanish and getting and airbnb was one option. But I the need to return to Africa, to dip my toe in again to reevaluate the pull that continent had on me, was strong. So with the money set aside for language lessons diverted to an airfare I reduced my return to Montevideo to a mere 12 days. The airbnb I booked near Marina’s was a great disappointment reinforcing my sense that my new plans were on track. Another visit to Villa Colon, Carnival at Solís, a couple of days in Carrasco, and soon my time in South America came to a close.
Quite different to my visit to Zimbabwe just a few months earlier where I felt immersed in melancholia, with each visit memories of the Uruguay of my distant past are being replaced. The country has moved on and with it my memories are modernized.
With a 5.45 departure, I had offered to get an uber to the airport but Marina would not hear of it. After a last dinner out, crashing at her mum’s in Carrasco, grabbing a few hours sleep, we set off at 3.30 am with heavy hearts. Over the past couple of years we have been committed to keeping in touch, Marina writing in English, my reply in Spanish (thank goodness for the SpanishDict app!). This time we have pledged to add the occasional phone call, 2018 full of beginnings, endings, hopes and new promises that cannot be adequately communicated via whatsapp. With sadness I walked through the departure gates. Even though I know I’ll be back, maybe even for her fiftieth later this year, b it is hard to wrench myself from this lively, generous, warm and fun friend. I am grateful that we went to Acres 28 years ago and bumped into a guy we knew. I am thankful that facebook was created and we rekindled a lost friendship. I am blessed to call Marina my friend.
