A day at Punta del Diablo

Today, the time of 'homes away from home' will come to an end, and we will once again be on the move. The destination is clear: the mighty Iguazu Falls, but so far we haven't quite decided on the best way to get there. For now, we will take the bus to Salto, about six hours north of Montevideo, and then make plans how to continue.

When I wrote yesterday's posting we were on the way back from Punta del Diablo, the easternmost of a string of small towns along the coast. All of them are popular holiday destinations for Uruguayans and foreign travellers alike, and in high season Punta del Diablo must be a busy place. Now, however, we were told we didn't need to book ahead of time, and so we embarked on the five hour bus ride Wednesday afternoon.

As pleasant a city as Montevideo is, it felt good to leave city life behind and rest my eyes on rural scenes for a change: black and white Holstein cows or herds of Hereford cattle on green pastures, newly emerged soybean or corn fields or hay ready to be baled, here and there some unharvested grain fields, combines at the ready: recent rain seems to have delayed the harvest.

Towns along the way are all designed in the same pattern: a central plaza bordered by government building(s), church, police station and businesses, cobbled, paved or sandy tree-lined streets leading away from it. The passengers of the bus were almost exclusively locals, most of them connecting from one of the small towns to another, San Carlos and Rocha a bit bigger than the rest.

When we arrived at Punta del Diablo it was close to sunset already: the trip had taken longer than the designated five hours. We had read in our travel guide that there was only one paved road leading into town, but when we arrived we realized that this was a long road to walk if one had no idea where to start looking for accomodation. We needn't have worried, however: moments after getting off the bus, obviously looking a bit undecided, we were approached by a man in a bright yellow t-shirt with the logo 'La Viuda Hostel'. He was there to pick up a woman who arrived with the same bus. He had private rooms available, the price was good, and so we hopped into the pickup.

This proved to be an excellent choice: although about 700m from the closest beach the 'La Viuda Hostel' was a great location, quiet, well run, clean, with a nice breakfast and a lot of information about things to do and see.

The next morning we took a bus to the nearby Sta.Teresa Fort, just outside the small Sta. Teresa National Park. The fort, a huge building, was started by the Portuguese in 1762 and finished by the Spanish in 1775, changing hands during the constant battle for supremacy in this part of the world. Unfortunately it is open only from 1 pm to 7 pm, and we would have had to wait for an hour and a half, so we walked along its massive walls (up to 11.5m high in some places, and four metres thick at the base) and then slowly made our way through the forest down to the beach.

Cormorants waiting for a meal

A series of beaches, interrupted by puntas (points) connects the National Park and Punta del Diablo, and we walked for about 12 km through the sand, dunes of varying heights to our right, the ocean to our left, meeting hardly anybody until we got close to the village. I cannot imagine that it feels really crowded even in high season, at least on the Playa Grande, the longest of the beaches. The water is relatively cold, and only a few people in neopren suits worked on their surfing skills on 'La Viuda Beach' when we returned there to watch the sunset in the evening.

Standing at the bus stop yesterday morning we regretted a little not to have stayed a day longer, but we had booked the bus to Salto when we were at the bus terminal in Montevideo, and now there was no turning back. Off to new shores, then. 

Montevideo

It's another sunny summer morning in Uruguay, and we have just started our five hour bus ride from the seaside village of Punta del Diablo back to the capital, Montevideo. Since it seems that I am way behind in my reports I will use the bus ride to at least get a start and hopefully post it later today after our arrival.

After the first busy days in Buenos Aires, on Sunday we took the ferry across the Rio de la Plata to Colonia and connected immediately to Montevideo by bus. Here, we found a home away from home with our Uruguayan friend Miriam, who had invited us to her place in the quiet Prado district. Once we had settled in we went for an evening walk with Miriam and her daughter Camilla in their neighbourhood and were amazed at the extensive parks and green spaces. Once again I admired the Jacaranda trees, their blossoms covering the crowns like a purple veil, sweet scent lingering in the still evening air. Houses here are well kept, and many of them speak of affluence if not outright wealth. Here, we would not have to be constantly aware of our backpacks; this is, as Miriam assured us, a safe place even at night.

Miriam operates 'Sabrozón', a small take-out restaurant in the centre of the city (Sabrozon) and is gone for much of the day, so on Monday we went exploring on our own. She had given us a quick run-down which buses we could take, and once again we bravely took the plunge into the intricate public transport system of an unknown city. Coming to Montevideo from Buenos Aires is like entering a different world. Traffic is less chaotic, sidewalks much less crowded, and it all feels much more relaxed. Unfortunately it had started to rain when we were still waiting at the bus stop to get into the city, and it only let up from time to time, just long enough to make it possible for us to dart from the 'Sabrozón' to the bank (we didn't have any Uruguayan pesos when we arrived) and back to the bus stop at the corner of San José and Andes. By the time the bus reached our stop it poured so hard that water was running down the street, carrying plastic bottles along the gutter like little boats. The corner of Miriam's street was a lake, the water almost flowing over onto the sidewalk. We were totally soaked – but at least it was a warm rain ...

Tuesday dawned clear and blue, and this time we could pursue our walking tour of the old city and along the harbour. Houses in the Ciudad Vieja (Old City) speak of the by-gone splendour of more affluent beginnings, but many of them are not kept up, the windows boarded up, grass and wildflowers growing on intricately masoned lintels. Yet we often only noticed this when we raised our eyes to the first floor or higher; at street level it all feels integrated and, for the most part, not shabby. We were amazed at the high number of street vendors, much higher than the presence of tourists would have warranted, we thought. Miriam later explained that they get their business from the passengers of cruise ships stopping in the harbour, pouring out their loads for brief shopping excursions into the ciudad vieja.

We crossed the generously laid-out Plaza Independencia with its huge monument of José Artigas, the general who led Uruguay's quest for independence from Spain and Portugal. Although quite impressive it is not really a very inviting plaza, so we found a bench in the much smaller, treed 'Plaza de Zabala' to eat our lunch of empanadas and orange juice. We ended the afternoon at the 'Plaza de la Constitución', like the Plaza de Zapalo shaded by big old trees, but much bigger. Here, we ordered a cerveza grande, a one-litre (well, 960 ml) bottle of Pilsener, listened to a busker with a large and well rehearsed repertoire mostly of Beatle songs and watched, fascinated, the 'living statue' of a woman alternating between total stillness and slow awakening, startling passers-by when she started to extend a hand or open her eyes, shifting position ever-so-slightly so that it wasn't immediately clear if one had just imagined the movement. She was a favourite especially with the children who were enchanted by this strange being. Tables with antiques and crafts along the perimeter invited to browse, but by then we had had our fill and were glad to return home.

Before we left Montevideo for an trip to the coast on Wednesday we had time to visit the impressive Botanic Gardens in the Prado district, only a few blocks from Miriam's place. Huge trees arched over the well-kept walkways, and even at that early hour it was well frequented by joggers, school classes, people reading books or papers drinking the ever-present mate, even more common here in Uruguay than in Argentina. All day people can be seen walking around with a thermos of hot water clutched under one arm, holding the mate (a cup, most often carved from a calabash gourd), with its bitter content of the same name in the other, sipping from the silver drinking 'straw', the bombilla.  

After this short excursion we once again embarked on a bus ride, first to the 'Tres Cruces' bus terminal, and from there to the coast.

Learning experiences

Last night we arrived in Montevideo, where we will likely spend the next couple of days. We are staying with a friend in the beautiful green, peaceful neighbourhood 'El Prado', a far cry from busy downtown Buenos Aires. The rumble of thunder threatens rain, so we will stay put for a while - a good chance to catch up on some writing. Later, we will take the bus into town, most importantly to change some money, quite likely a much more regular process than in Buenos Aires ...

Argentina's economy has changed considerably since we were here last time, about four years ago – and not to the better. Then, it was still possible to get money from bank machines without disadvantage. This is no longer so.

With high inflation and a very unstable economy it is advisable to bring US dollars instead of using money machines. Johann reasoned that it would be a good idea to have smaller bills to pay taxi drivers, hostels etc., and little did we know that this would prove to be a hindrance rather than a help.

The official ('white') exchange rate paid at the bank is about 8.5:1, and the staff at the Estoril told us that on the 'blue' market we could expect an exchange rate of up to 13:1. They directed us to 'Florida', the main pedestrian street where visitors and Porteños alike flock to do their shopping. This, they said, was the place to go to change money.

We hadn't even quite reached Florida when we were approached for the first time, that time only realizing moments later that the man saying something to us in passing wasn't selling papers but pesos. We entered the stream of shoppers on Florida and soon heard 'cambio, cambio' or 'dolares, dolares' every few metres. We stopped to talk to a couple of the callers – men or women, well dressed, not at all trying to hide what they are doing although it is most certainly not quite legal -, the amounts offered increasing from about 12:1 to 12.5:1, even 13:1. The first question always was how much money we wanted to exchange: the more money the better the exchange rate would be, understandably. The next item of interest was the denomination of the bills. Here, we soon found, we would have fared better if we had brought one hundred dollar bills instead of twenties or even tens.

An older man was willing to give us 12.5 to 1. He pointed to a kiosk in the middle of the pedestrian zone, a couple of metres away, and indicated that the transaction would take place in there. He did not want to see our money – while this business is as common as selling shoes or newspapers and seems to be quietly accepted, if not sanctioned by the police some rules still apply. After a few minutes a couple emerged from the interior of the newspaper kiosk, and we were ushered in. Here, a narrow space, barely wide enough for one person, extended the length of the kiosk. A man was waiting for us there, beckoned for Johann to move closer to him so that I wouldn't be visible through the entrance from the outside. He carefully counted out the money in 100 and 50-peso notes, and we proceeded to check every bill for obvious signs of falseness. Argentinians do this habitually and almost in passing, but for us it was a rather tedious process of holding each note against the light, hoping that we would recognize a fake bill. What were we looking for? The guy at the hostel had told us to first check that the vertical silver stripe appeared solid against the light, that the paper feels more substantial than just regular paper (which, in really bad fakes, is all that's used), and the watermark is a recognizable face, not just a blur. Our money exchanger showed us that hair, beard or clothes of people depicted on real bills were embossed. We made our way back to the hostel, satisfied with our transaction.

Twice more we visited 'Florida' for that purpose during our visit, and if we had thought the first exchange was remarkable we soon found out that we had probably only grasped the very basics of this intricate business. The second time we were caught in a downpour. People were crowding under protruding roofs and in entrances to banks and businesses, and still a few hardy young guys stood in the middle of the street, umbrella in hand, calling out their 'dolares, dolares'. We soon were successful in our quest and were now guided to a building housing small businesses like barber shops, small restaurants, bakeries, etc. This young man spoke English reasonably well and told us that he was working with his uncle. When Johann negotiated the conditions of the sale a few policemen were standing only a couple of metres away. 'Aren't you worried about the police?' Johann asked. 'No', the guy replied, 'my uncle pays $100/week to the police, so they leave him alone.' ...

The next day Johann went out on his own (obviously we needed more money than we had originally planned), and this time the woman he talked to led him to an even more obscure place, through hallways, up an elevator, into a small office where the transaction took place. He left with the money – and a business card which contained only a first name, but a couple of phone numbers: serious business, this money exchange. Where else would one find that people would print cards for illegal businesses?

Not only tourists need the service, however, but Argentine people as well. Understandably, larger transactions are usually done in dollars instead of pesos – and often in cash-, and when they want to travel anywhere abroad they need dollars as well since the peso is such a soft currency. The government only allows a small portion of the income to be exchanged officially, which has led to a thriving black money market.

Arriving in Buenos Aires

Rooftop terrace of the Estoril hostel

Three days ago we hadn't even arrived at our destination, and now it feels as if we've been here for a long time already. With the rigors of long travel, a bit of jet lag and the usual adjustment to different surroundings and a different climate I haven't been able to keep up with our experiences in my blog, and since we will spend the next few days visiting people we know it might be a little while until I can report at length.

We have already checked out of our room here at the 'Estoril' hostel, a beautiful old building with high rooms and ornate ceilings, situated right on the busy Avenida de Mayo, and right now I'm sitting in the common space, surrounded by young people from different countries, all busy checking cell phones, tablets and, in rare cases, laptops. From the adjacent lobby fragments of conversation and a few guitar chords drift over from time to time.  

In an email we received from the 'Estoril' we were told the best, cheapest and safest way to get from the airport to the hostel would be the shuttle from the Manuel Tienda Leon company. The next paragraph in the email dealt with taxis:

When taking a taxi or remise make sure to negotiate the fare before getting in the taxi. You shouldn’t pay more than 400 AR$ .

Extra cautions: You could consider telling the driver that the Hostel will pay for the ride, so we can assist you in case they want to cheat you. This can be done only when it´s a group of two or more people, so someone can stay on the taxi and take care of the baggage.
It is useful to write down the license plate number of the taxi before getting in. This will give you protection against scams such as taxi drivers insisting your money is fake, etc. It’s important to try to have small change rather than large bills i.e. 100 AR$ may be a temptation for a taxi driver. Please note, these extra cautions are for the worst case scenario, you shouldn’t feel frightened, but careful.

It's an interesting concept for us, living in a much different culture, to be fully accepting of a high probability of being cheated. I imagine we have been cheated by taxi drivers during our South America travels at one time or another without being aware of it, but we have not ever felt frightened. We habitually check out what the approximate price of a ride should be beforehand, and then ask the taxi driver what he will charge. That way there are no unpleasant surprises. 

 

The shuttle turned out to be a full-sized bus that took us to a point from where passengers were delivered to their respective hotels and hostels by company owned taxis, and a couple of hours after we landed we checked in at the 'Estoril' where we spent the first and third night. 

Views from the rooftop terrace

Right now I don't have time to talk about two interesting experiences of the last couple of days, exchanging money and the Cena Dinner Tango Show, but I hope to do so soon.