Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Roger Serves Up Seconds
Date: Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Sender: Roger McD
Subject: Uruguay
And here I thought Argentina to be the queen of the Latin American graces. I don't want to offend the Porteños in the audience. You are champions of mankind.
But. . .
A two-hour ferry ride across the River Plate brings you to theboundaries of the 19th century.
Montevideo is slower-paced than its hyperactive sister to the south.But it harbors no ill will; exhibits no inferiority complex. It is aclean, studious and refreshingly laid back city.
But it is the Uruguayan countryside that overwhelms a traveler's edenic desires. Here argyle-wearing mustachioed gypsies ridehorse-drawn buggy carts out of the near highlands. Yawning, deep-waterarroyos divide mountainous sand dunes from verdant forests while awarm, green South Atlantic completes an unlikely ecological triangle.
It's a little bit of everything.
* * *
Everyone has this moment traveling. You find a place. You are its discoverer. It is a place that almost causes you pain to experience because you know that it is fragilely placed in the world, at this time, for you.
My God aren't you selfish!
"Here is sanctuary," you think.
But at the same time you are conscious that when you leave it, you are abandoning this place to ruin. It will change indelibly. Others will discover it too - and bleed it of its soul, you think. Such is the transient nature of tourism. A complimentary idea is this: you arrive in a location. It sufficiently bends your perception to itself … and you want to stay forever. You want to join-up in the ideal mirage you see before you –to help preserve it. It occurs to you that the only way for you to accomplish so perplexing a goal is to truly excise yourself from yourself, to "leave it all behind," and "start anew."
I get this kind of feeling in Ireland's rolling countryside and inrural Mexican villages. It is a feeling that I can usually dismiss as"sentimental." Usually.
But there is this certain part of Uruguay . . .
Last summer I went to the Aran Islands off the coast of Connemara inwestern Ireland. Aran is one of those places renowned for its apart-ness. But therein lies the problem. It is a small, mostly Gaelic-speaking triad of isles that is RENOWNED. Absolutely everybody knows about it. On Inishmore, chic cafes border tackle shops and "international language" institutes. You can take tours of "authentic cottages" and learn Island history from glad-handing guides. Jesus what a travesty.
In Aran you think, "I shouldn't be here."
Jumping forward in time to Uruguay, I find myself in what I can only describe as the "unknown Aran of South America." In this village(which for now I won't name), most of the residents are descended from shipwreck survivors. Polish, German, English, Spanish and yes, even the Irish found their way here.
You walk down silty roads and people hoeing their front yards say absolutely ridiculous things to you such as: "do you need any water?" "are you hungry?" "can I help you find anything?" They don tweed hats and ride in wooden chariots. They grin heartily.
Its as though we've walked into a town hell-bent on selling its charm.
Except that this is just the way things are. We've arrived in the past.
* * *
Alberto is a thick-jawed boat man. A strong-limbed fisherman. A farmer with a strong back. He speaks only in truths and shares everything he has.
And here he came to rescue us.
Walking across a wide expanse of pampas ranch territory outside thevillage, on our way to nowhere, we found ourselves on the wrong side of a river. Our intentions were to find a place to camp – which is ludicrous to the locals because its winter down here.
"No, no its too windy," they say. "Too cold."
In the frigid 60°+ day we forged out into the wilds. Soon, we discovered that everything in the low Uruguayan swamplands is wet -and our intentions then became to find a dry place to camp. In the distance, maybe 3 miles off, we could see a high forest, which bordered enormous sand dunes.
"Perfect!" was the consensus.
But there was this damned river. Wide and meandering with no obvious path, the river sprung up at us like a trap at every turn. Soon we got desperate and thought about trekking back (god knows how far) to town. It was a puzzle. Andrew considered swimming the river to steal an unattended canoe on the opposite bank.
But then Arturo sprang up out of the mudbucket-shrubs, a figure out of mythology. In twos, he ferried us across the thick, blackberry-colored river in his oar-powered vessel. Insultingly, we offered him money. He merely grasped our shoulders and said wise things.
You couldn't even paint the scene.
We were off.
* * *
Today, in 19th century sub-tropical Ireland, there are 70-something permaculture-farming, béchamel sauce-creating hostesses who invite you into their living rooms to talk about history, pirates, the hidden secrets of the coast, the countryside. Knit-sweatered, jaunty-cap-wearing fisherman gladly ferry you across the ocean tide, refusing any payment, while talking in small pleasantries. Weathered men and old matrons smoke pipes together beneath the broad night sky. Children approach you with fresh caught fresh cooked crab legs. "Eat"they say.
This hospitality can only be described as absurd. A cornucopia of giving. For over a century the Irish were content to know that they were the most hospitable people on the globe. It was one of those hackneyed "island characteristics" you'd read about in in-flight magazines. But a "tourism industry" changed all of that. Hesitantly I reveal it: in secret parts of Uruguay, that Ireland still exists. The economy is still agrarian. The people are made for eachother. The traveler is respected as a comrade.
But I am weary of its ability to last. While right now I am an unusual wintertime backpacker and a fellow human being - soon, I, or my development-minded counterpart will become a nuisance. An invading army.
But I like to imagine that it all depends upon you. Please, if you don't mind - burn this email.
Evan and I are going to start a blog soon where we post pictures. At the moment I send you just the one.
~roger
