An inquisitive old fart with a camera
It’s so common to see a man riding a woman’s bike, or a teenage boy riding his little sister’s pink bike, that I forget how threatening that would seem to a young male’s ‘manliness’ in the USA.
As with the need for punctuality, unlimited consumer choices, and total convenience, much of the message for stressed northerners living in Uruguay comes down to three words.
Get over it.
Put on your best foreign accent and repeat after me: Life is to be livid!
Tosca:
… dirt. Actually a type of crumbly rock (my scant knowledge of geology fails me), a mountain of which appeared last week on the rambla, probably for the repair of the collapsing stretch nearby, and destined to devolve into clouds of dust, tooth-rattling washboards, and suspension-testing potholes (pozos).
I found this spot a little more inspiring a couple years ago, with a funky car and graceful pines.
They’ve gone, victim of a storm, as have the railings to the then-new boardwalk. And I haven’t seen that car in a long time either, come to think of it.
I see it almost every day. Close as I can ID, it’s a 1954 203.
Why they call VW Beetles ‘fuscas’ in Uruguay remains a mystery to me.
You’ll see plenty of them around. The president of the country drives one.
Leña means firewood, and the guy who sells it is a leñero. This guy appears on weekends and holidays near the zoo (yes, we have a zoo). He always waves to everybody. I’ve waved to him for a couple of years when I walk the dogs, thinking one of these days I want to ask him about that truck.
Finally did: 1954 Commer (English). He’s got a better one, he says, and plans to put the engine from this into that. I didn’t ask when, or how long he’s been planning that; meaningless questions in the land where ‘next week’ can mean ‘next month.’
We got involved in Couchsurfing when we lived in Mexico, and hosted a number of interesting, and fun, people.
One time it was Sara and Sébastien from Paris, en route by bicycle from Anchorage Alaska to Ushuaia, at the southern tip of Argentina and the southernmost city on the planet. When we hosted them, we had no thought of moving from Mexico. When they learned we were in Uruguay, the became our first return couchsurfers before heading back to Paris.
Similarly, Marjorie and Jörg, retired five years and traveling extensively in the Americas from their home in Lörrach, Germany, stayed with us in Mexico, and when they learned of our move promised to include us in their South America trip. We shared their delightful company for a few days as they got ready to head home, while this rather impressive refitted Toyota Land Cruiser parked in our driveway.
As an added bonus, they taught me some new German words: Grünschnabel, Quatschkopf, Quasselstrippe, and Frostmemme. You’re on your own for the first three; the last means someone who’s always cold. I’m not sure I’ll be using them any time soon, but you never know.
They are, after all, kind of catchy.
The obstructed store to the right is the Supermercado de Carnes – yes, the Supermarket of Meats.
Uruguayans are the world’s largest consumer of beef per capita. ‘Meat consumption in Uruguay is on the rise reaching 94.7kg per person per year in 2011,’ says the Meat Trade News Daily. Just five years ago, the per capita annual consumption was reported as 54 kilos, and five years before that 40.
At some point, enough is enough – and too much is too much.
Yes, a full-size pickup truck called the Wingle 3.
Sometimes I feel like sending a memo to Chinese marketers: Look guys, before you name a product…
…and then I think nah, this shit’s too much fun.
Neighbor’s gardener is here. I note with respect the safety precaution he has taken, seeing as the original lenses from his trailer’s tail lights are long gone, and it’s a good bet the lights don’t work anyway.
No, I’m serious. It wasn’t that many months ago that I was able to avoid – with perhaps two seconds’ notice – slamming into the back of a motorbike with no tail lights and no reflectors. This was on the main highway to Punta del Este, on a pitch black and rainy night. In general, people here – on the road or casually blocking an aisle or only exit from the supermarket – display a stunning lack of situational awareness.
But perhaps I could say that anywhere.