Our friend Patrick informs us that the Chinese make first-rate goods, which they sell in Europe, Japan, and the USA. Then they make second-tier stuff for developing countries where people can’t afford the best. Finally, they produce such wretched crap that Bangladeshi refugees would refuse it. And that’s what they sell in Uruguay.

Lo barato sale caro. What’s cheap stuff ends up being expensive – because you have to buy it over and over again. Here’s a weed trowel that lasted maybe 15 minutes before bending in half, and a stamped metal ‘iron’ rake. Note that it’s barely more than a foot wide. I didn’t think to include my turning fork, where one tine, one day, simply bent at a 45° angle to the other three. In dirt.

So imagine my amazement when I found these gems at Tienda Inglesa!

Solid, stainless steel (though stainless steel can be all over the map on terms of quality), a bit under ten bucks each. Paid with shopping points on our Tienda Inglesa tarjeta de puntos.

I haven’t really put them to the test yet, but I am (drum roll, please)…

…cautiously optimistic.

It’s been over two years since I bought a $140 Chinese-made bike (now $159; here’s what it looked like before losing front and tail lights, derailleur and gears). It was falling apart before we got it home; went from 18 speeds to one (we live on the beach; no problem). Its primary redeeming feature has been no incentive to lock it up. With rusty 28″ wheels, it was uncomfortably big for most people here, and hardly looked worth stealing. In fact I wouldn’t have really cared if someone did take it.

The other day a valve stem broke. In pursuit of a new inner tube, I asked the bike guy about getting aluminum replacement wheels for the ugly rusty ones. The problem – this is a bike thing, not a Uruguay thing – is that 28″ aluminum wheels are not the same size as 28″ steel wheels, so I would need to replace tires and another tube as well, which just seemed wasteful.

But here is a Uruguay thing – take the rims, minus axles but with spokes – and send them to Montevideo to be sandblasted, painted, and oven-baked. At the same time, swap the kickstand for a safer rear-wheel model. And of course replace the inner tube.

For $40, I have a bike that looks worth stealing again.

(Now where’s my cable lock?)

If it’s Monday, May 21, then it must be last Thursday, May 18, the holiday in honor of Artigas’ victory in the town of Las Piedras (‘the stones’) outside Montevideo in 1811, in which he vanquished the forces of the Spanish Viceroy – which outnumbered his troops until 200 defected and fought for him instead. He apparently exclaimed ‘Curad a los heridos, clemencia para los vencidos’ (Cure the injured, mercy to the vanquished), so that his followers wouldn’t hack the remaining Spaniards to pieces, as the vanquished most assuredly would have had they prevailed.

So today I don’t have to wonder if the chimney sweep who came two weeks ago, broke the inside of our wood stove, and never came back, will return. I don’t have to wonder if the refrigerator guy will have fixed the shelf he promised to deliver about the same time.

Mercy to those whose freedom he fought for, for no doubt one of these days – or weeks – they’ll deliver on their promises.

They didn’t come last Saturday. Weather or something.

Today showed up mid-afternoon. Cleaned inside Argentinian Ñuke wood stove, scraping off chucks of oxidized metal – a.k.a, rust – broke bricks to secondary combustion chamber because something wasn’t removable to allow access to stove pipe. Their weapon, a half-inch black flexible pipe with wires stuck through the end (read: brush) unable to clear second bend in stovepipe, advertised as 45 degree elbows but instead 30 degrees.

Investigated rooftop; decided they’d come back tomorrow to replace broken bricks in stove (how?) and next week to clean chimney from (precarious) above.

Ya veremos – (now) we will see.

Sorry if a bit incoherent. Es lo que hay –  that’s how it is.

We went today to visit Mauro of the motorcycle accident in the hospital, who sports a large and ugly scar from having his spleen removed – Frankenstein-style stitches from his navel up (to remove the spleen – ?). He’ll be there another few weeks.

We had to take a couple elevators to find him. The elevators are the type with a single, automatic door and buttons you push to go to the desired floor. You know, like in a hotel – ? Seen them before?

An additional feature in each elevator is a chair with a person in it to push the buttons, taking up perhaps 20% of the floor space. As a result, a wheel chair would not fit in the elevator.

But, a full time job for a few more people. Welcome to Uruguay!

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Later: told Santiago* about the elevator operators, adding es Uruguay.

Soy Uruguayo, he replied – ¿Me lo vas a decir a mi?

Or roughly, Hey, I’m Uruguayan – YOU’RE going to tell ME about it?

*masseur: 1-hour+ ~$30

How to pay bills in Uruguay:

Electric, water, telephone:

1. Set up automatic debit through your Banco Republica account in pesos.
2. Forget to fund the account one month, at which point automatic-debit contracts cease.
3. Go to individual offices, take a number, wait – nah.
4. Take bills to supermarket, pay at cashier when you check out.

Property and vehicle taxes:

1. Go online, enter property ID numbers, transfer money from bank account.
2. Or, spend an hour or more in a dreary government building

• • where the main entertainment consists of guessing how many thousands of people have rubbed against the concrete columns painted flat white a dozen years ago, in order to make them so filthy looking.

• That, or staring blankly with the ‘waiting is our second national sport’ look of resignation.

In some regions, like swanky Punta del Este (nya nana na na na!) they have only the latter choice since their departamento lacks an online payment system.

And then there’s Abitab.

You can pay bills at the ubiquitous Abitab, buy concert tickets, wire money, and probably a half dozen other things, but since paying all our bills there for six months yielded not a single ‘Abi’ on my points card, I had decided Abitab was the last resort, refuge of computer illiterates and credit-less souls.

Once our son was set up in Gato Dumas in Montevideo in March, the school gave us a sheet with payment options – bank transfers through three banks, or Abitab. Since any in-person dealings at the bank have the same tenor as the government building above, and being wary of an online transfer (because what a nightmare undoing a mistake!), I went to Abitab, expecting a blank stare, and lackluster and/or indifferent service, and a struggle.

What a surprise: school name, student name and ID number, tap tap tap and up comes the total, late fee included (oops: duly noted): fast, friendly, professional.

Who’d a thunk?