No Silent Spring – just missing spring

Neighbors in the country tell me there is no spring here anymore – winter ends and summer starts.

After a few hours in the country, gathering poles from slash piles across the road, cutting up storm-damaged trees and hauling them, disassembling a collapsing pig house (the word chancho – pig – also refers to the traffic police, preferably not to their faces), I return to the coast.

In my downstairs office (a 90×90 cm table with two shelves next to a window), a cool breeze blows through. I take dogs to the beach for the first time in several days, wearing a light hoodie, in case the breeze is cooler there.

Not a chance. The beach is hot, and equally littered with sun worshippers, surfcasting fishermen, and plastic trash. It’s not summer, so the beach cleanup patrol doesn’t come through first thing in the morning. The amount of trash amazes me: looks like a garbage barge was scuttled offshore.

Fracking in Uruguay

country house, Uruguay

All of the trees are disappearing from across the road from our ‘little piece of paradise.’

A neighbor tells me a lawyer in Montevideo owns 35 hectares (86.486884 acres, but you knew that) he is turning into a fraccionamiento (sub division) of 3.5 hectare lots. That seems like a pretty clever idea. Many newcomers here would love to have 8.5 acres with easy access to beach, town, etc.

I don’t have strong feelings one way or the other. Yet.

Ya veremos. We’ll see.

Meanwhile footings have been added, floors torn up, walls getting repaired, and a concrete beam (visible) cast to stabilize an old and bouncy flat roof.

Anticipating collapse

Piles of sand block the street to car traffic. Apparently the exceptionally heavy rain last week carved out whatever caused the rambla (waterfront road) to collapse three years ago. You can see the new crack forming halfway to the missing chunk.  When all is done, they’ll dump in a bunch of sand, pave it (maybe), and that will be that.  Until next time.