An inquisitive old fart with a camera
And once again, time for Uruguayan pre-schoolers to dress up as 19th century Chinese peasants (sans chapeaux), while elementary dress up as…as…as something somebody 100 years ago decided would serve social equity by making all students look equally ridiculous?
Dunno. I’m open to suggestions.
And, oh yeah—there, I fixed it.
Just a reminder to be prepared for anything on a dog walk around town.
Another summer concert incoming. Quite stunning how quickly this massive scaffolding goes up. Kind of like a huge jungle gym.
Morning, New Year’s Day. The weekend neighbors have crammed five cars inside their fence.
The brown rectangle to the right perhaps indicates the pozo negro, or septic tank, so it’s understandable one might not choose to park on top of it. But why not park on the lawn outside the fence?
Worried about New Year’s Eve fireworks? Well, there are some, but they’ve diminished significantly in recent years.
No, I think the real reason is simple: they’re city people.
Nowhere near as noisy as in years past, so no complaints. Just curious.
Ya know, without actually saying anything.
A house guest wanted to see local fauna , which presented a challenge until I discovered Parque Francisco Lecocg. At the edge of protected wetlands northwest of Montevideo, it has a number of species, including peacocks who crowd the entrance road as if looking for handouts (I wonder why), and freely-wandering llamas. Neither is native, but hey.
The park consists of large enclosures. Apparently the idea of rheas and monkeys wandering around freely isn’t as visitor-friendly, so sorry guys: fences.
For some reason, there is a grassy enclosure with a few capybaras (largest living rodents, native to South America) next to one packed with them. They were to the right of this photo; note the absolute lack of vegetation if you don’t believe me.
A substantial aviary unfortunately appears to be uninhabited.
You can also find, somewhat inexplicably, several zebras. A couple of boys did their best to get a reaction from one of the three we saw.
Alas, it just stood there, doing absolutely nothing.
Though not necessarily a tourist attraction, this is the kind of place I’m glad to know exists. It was full of families, active barbecue grills, and kids playing futbol. Atlántida had a small and unexciting zoo until “animal rights activists” “liberated” the inhabitants, many of whom apparently succumbed to vehicular traffic (but for a good cause—?). I don’t know the details. Our local is now part gardening center and part playground, where it is equally popular with families.
In order to vote in national elections in Uruguay–required of adult citizens–you cannot present
You must instead produce a special ID specifically for voting, the credencial civica. When you have voted, you get a slip of paper (constancia de voto).
Your series and number on the credencia civica determine your voting place. For us, it’s a high school on the other side of the Ruta Interbalnearia. There are two closer school polling places. We can’t get to ours without passing directly in front of one or the other. Go figure.
Once there, you go into one of two buildings, depending on your number, then the range is further divided into classrooms. Inside is a soldier, and three people behind desks. You take a voting envelope, and one reads your number and the ballot number. A second person crosses your name off the list of voters, while the third records the ballot number on an electronic tablet.
You then go behind a shielded area where desks are strewn with ballots for various candidates, some of whom appear on more than one numbered list. No, I’m not even going there. I haven’t yet heard an explanation that makes sense. You put your ballot in the envelope and seal it (just in case, you might have picked up a ballot outside or at various stands the weeks before, since there’s no guarantee one will be available). You then return to the front desks, tear off the perforated ID portion of the envelope for person #3 while person #1 lifts a folder to reveal the slot in the ballot box where you stick the now-anonymous envelope.
I don’t know the details of counting, but I suspect they are equally meticulous.
It may all sound a bit clunky, but there’s something about the soundness of the process that a certain country, whose name also begins with U, which has 100 times the population of Uruguay, could learn from.
Once again, I ponder the placement of those huge sliding (plate glass!) doors. Why here instead of further back, where our lemon tree, bushes, and casita (“little house”) would provide much more privacy?
The answer, I suspect, is that a few years ago somebody in the family graduated with a new architecture diploma, around the same time someone else in the family died, leaving behind a small pile of money.
