909km in Uruguay: Colonia

I can relate to the trajectory of Uruguay's past. Historically, like Lithuania and the Baltic States, Uruguay has been contested terrain. Between the Portuguese - who founded Colonia, following in the intrepid footsteps of Jesuit missionaries - and the Spanish - who set themselves up as interceptors of "contraband" trade in Montevideo. And naturally their protectorates and colonies and independent states that evolved from them, the South American giants Brazil and Argentina. Naturally, the British as well got involved in the sabre-rattling.

Swept up in the nineteenth century's wave of nationalist self-determination, they managed to wrest independence from competing powers. Like its neighbours, however, Uruguay also succumbed to military repression in the 70's, and got swept up in the Argentine crisis in the early 2000's. 

For all that, in our quick traverse of the coastal areas of Uruguay, what we registered was a lot less melancholic than the pensiero Argentino across the water - mostly a laid-back, easy vibe, an appreciation of the arts, a pronounced Italian influence and of course gaucho heritage. Uruguay, it seems, means "River of Birds". 

Our journey in Uruguay started and ended in Colonia, Unesco heritage sight and gemstone on the Rio de la Plata. It has changed hands an extraordinary number of times since being founded in 1680. That the old town seems to have survived intact I suspect is due to its one-time commercial importance. It was charming to meander its irregular streets on our return journey, stopping at La Bodeguita for a fine pizza on the waterfront.  

The ferry terminals to-and-fro might have been Eurostar for all their efficiency. I found it almost quaint that the "in-flight" entertainment on the Buquebus ferry was advertising travel to Spain and France - a case of trading places. The Old World is the New World all over again. 

We clocked a lot of kilometers in Uruguay. And we departed for our base in Buenos Aires thoroughly charmed by this well tended, friendly, delightful country and its people. 

Thanks to Francophone Frank for the delightful apartment in Colonia, just shy of the cobblestone heart of the Barrio Historico. And thank you Flo for taking the wheel, I'm inadvertently a massive beneficiary of your "mal de voyage" (but dibs on any 4x4 driving that awaits in Patagonia...).

Jose Ignacio: Surf

The fog on the coast makes for an enchanting Monday morning in Jose Ignacio, the top of its trademark lighthouse intermittently visible above banks of mist. The fog also gives me cover to flail around in the water on my rental board without too much embarrassment to myself or my family. I'm joined only later by a small handful of surfers. 

Uruguay it turns out is a fairly unknown surfing destination, despite being neighbours with Brazil and featuring local riders since the late 50s. There are more than 80 breaks scattered along just 200kms (124mi) of Atlantic coast, with a very small number of surfers compared to the surf behemoth to the north. Fun, mellow waves in the middle of the summer, with only the seagulls and corcorans for company.

I'm glad to have found a local shop that will rent me a board and sell me a rashguard. No wetsuit though. This is the Atlantic after all, and after days of baking in the sun feels colder than anything I've experienced on the Atlantic coast of France in summer (January, by contrast, was electrifyingly cold). After an hour I am shaking, and it takes me almost an hour to warm up again. Lunch helps. I refuel with a chivito, a sandwich to give the Philly Cheesesteak a run for its money (Pennsylvanians listen up! Vytas, the local trattoria serves Duvel!)

A good morning, call it a moment's meditation on the waves. There's a lot to be said for the unemcumbered life of a surfer. Surfing brings you into direct contact with the awesome power of Nature, even on a day of mild breaks like today. It's a useful metaphor for life. Ride with the wave not against it. Use what life has thrown in your direction. Resistance is futile. Try riding against the ocean rather than with the ocean and it will break you. Unlike you, it's inexaustible.

The Girls have taken to rock climbing, and also to skiing. Perhaps it's time that home schooling extended also to surf tuition... (although this old dog could learn a trick or two on the surfboard, as my technique still amounts to the surfing equivalent of doggie paddle). 

Uruguay: Jose Ignacio

Contrast Cabo Polonio's corrugated tin roofs with the architectural showcase that is Jose Ignacio. Heavily influenced by Neutra and Corbusier, everywhere you care to look among the dunes and the pines, bar the occasional stray thatched cottage (how did they get here?) are modernist gemstones. Sotheby's and Christie's would are easily the biggest local advertisers (almost comical to see the local ice cream stand sporting Blackberry seat covers). 


No doubt about it, the highbrow overspill from Punta del Este decorates this stretch of coastline. Oh, to have discovered this 10 years ago before the Latino jetset did! Makes one think that perhaps Laguna de Garzon is the next cosmopolitan destination. Though hopefully nothing encroaches on Cabo's undeveloped shores to the Northeast. Let the well-heeled of Argentina, Uruguay and Brazil frolic along this costa del sol, and leave the sea lions, dolphins and crabs (and the rasta travellers) alone.

If the soundtrack for Cabo has a distinct Latin Reggae beat, here in Jose Ignacio the locals seem to dig Johnny Cash, Jimmy Hendrix and James Brown. I'm comfortable with any of the above. 

Everyone crowds the beaches of Jose, and other towns like La Barra, North of partytown Punta del Este, leaving the gorgeous golden beaches just 5mins out of town completely empty and inviting. "No a la Speculacion Inmobilaria" reads graffiti on the way to Punta, and you can only agree seeing the anonymous towers along the boulevards, downtown Miami without the glamour. Even the giant hand, La Mano en la Arena, emerging from the sand of Playa Brava was underwhelming - smaller than one might have imagined, and hardly worth the detour. Of course, we were not invited to the private parties in the villas or aboard the yachts of Punta's rich and famous, but "Puta del Este" left us cold. 

Uruguay: Garzon

The eponymous Argentine restaurant in this silent, baking small town in the countryside might have been a mirage in the midday heat. We were cutting it fine with the pesos and the gas after three days' living "off-grid". Salt-encrusted like the sea-bass served at Francis Millman's establishment, we were glad to take refuge in the shade of the grapevines here.  

There are a number of places, easy like Sunday morning, where I've been tempted to linger. Maybe not to live, but certainly to linger. Flagstaff AZ, Aswan in Egypt spring to mind. Garzon makes the grade. There's not much more than the central square, but the surrounding countryside seems almost familiar. And I would gladly eat this rustic, fire-baked cuisine for the rest of my days. And Flo is already conjuring up a plan for a Garzon "Festival de Imagine" of Photo and Cinema. There's more than a bit of the Basque about it, which it seems historically is no accident. Ironic that we travel half way around the world to find ourselves in a place so reminiscent in places of Les Landes in France or the Spanish Basque Country. 

Arriving and departing we caught sight of gauchos wrangling their cows, and in one instance a gaucho and his young son rustling up a stray horse and pony. A striking sight against this expansive landscape. 

Along the way we stopped for directions, petrol and fruit in Rocha, an archetypical frontier town, with its low, multicoloured buildings. Uruguayans seem to enjoy giving elaborate, highly detailed directions. "Don't listen to anyone else, they will lead you astray!" says an older man after a War & Peace description of a two-block detour. 

 Almost surreal to find a jazz station offering string quartet renditions of Zeppelin's No Quarter and AC/DC's Givin' the Dog a Bone. And good cruising music from Gotan Project, Yo La Tengo. And cruise we did... 

Old rusting hulks of Ford trucks and schoolbuses litter the countryside like milestones. Somehow every village also seems to feature a well-restored Willys Jeep. Misha, no pussymobiles in this part of world, this is Hilux country. Couldn't help noticing that Toyota Hilux is the vehicle of choice in the South America Dakkar rally.  

I'm amazed at the quality of the roads, and everything so well tended, spotless. "Colabore, No Tire Basura" implore the roadsigns. Everything is couched in language of colaboration, not interdiction. We remark on the immaculate roadsides, the beaches to locals we meet: "thank you", goes the reply", but it could still be so much better. 

Uruguay: "off-grid" in Cabo Polonio

This was a bit of gambit. Cabo Polonio is set deep within a nature reserve, where the only access is a sandy track 30mins by military grade 4x4. There's no running water or electricity, and rudimentary infrastructure. One might have expected "Princess & the Pea" reactions from Iris and Jasmine. But they took it in their stride. And though a 12hr journey by taxi/ ferry/ car/ jeep from Buenos Aires, it was absolutely magical. Here you really encounter the wide open spaces of the countryside and coast. 


Arriving after nightfall, it was incredible how brightly candlelit Cabo Polonio shone on the horizon, reflecting the brilliant stars above. The night-time ride in the "Safari Express" was like a fairground ride crossed with a bucking bronco.

    

Home in Cabo

We were buffeted by strong Atlantic winds for the nights we were there, though the whistling in the simple windowpanes was drowned out by the night-long musical revelry. Dred-locked travellers, backpacking students and others, here everyone is singing, seemingly all the time. Bonfires ablaze, hearts ablaze with song, "facciamo l'amore" and other Southern ballads sung with more fervour than I'd ever heard in Spain, Italy or Portugal. And through the the beaches are ringing with reggae and local tunes everyone (but us) seem to know the words to.

Don't for a minute think it's just the jugglers and wandering minstrels, looking so medieval with their dreds and dogs. Here they play violins and trumpets on the beach as well as guitars. But alongside them you have the local equivalent of the frat boys and sorority girls singing their favourite tunes. 

The beaches and dunes extend to the horizon on either side of Cabo. Plenty of room for everyone, and everybody gets along - families with little kids, the sunkist boys taking lessons from their surf instructor, a ringer for Iggy Pop, the local philosopher dressed head to toe in white to match his windswept hair, the ageing sombrero man with his "Polonio Resistencia" t-shirt, the middle-aged guys playing the local version of petanque with utter seriousness. 

Here it seems the beatniks and punks are the entrepreneurs, wandering the beach improvising mojitos, Fernet Cola or banuelos de algas, seaweed fritters (delicious). But walk far enough in either direction and it's just you, the dunes, the occasional stray spider crab or sandpiper. It wasn't the season for sea-lions, though Jasmine and Flo were lucky enough to swim with the dolphin of the bay.  

Although I've never been to that desert gathering, I imagine Burning Man to be a bit like this, an improvised community conjured up in the wilderness. The utility vehicles - not just the "bus" but the water truck, the trash trucks, the food delivery - are like something out of Road Warrior. Flo awoke on the first morning to a beutiful sunrise and a horse at the door. Horses, dogs and chickens, but somehow especially the horses, mingle among the 2000 or so inhabitants. In the winter apparently the population dwindles to 72, mostly fishermen. 

It's still peak season here, but feels like we're the only Europeans or Anglo Saxons, practically the only foreigners around, not counting the portenos. This is what it feels like to be far from home, and it feels good. 

Buenos Aires: Escuela Viesulas

Splendid MALBA

We took a wrong turn in Palermo, and spent a restless night in a loud street-level apartment adjoining the American Ambassador's tennis court. Buenos Aires may have a delightful climate - hot, dry and breezy. But it's also coursing with human and motor traffic among the many high-rises. Palermo Viejo's bars, shops and restos - so reminiscent of South Beach or Venice in places - tempted us to stay in the neighbourhood, but we were glad that Poetry House in elegant Recoleta could take us in at short notice. And we got a rooftop pool into the bargain... a welcome oasis in the urban heat for Pixies and Parents alike. 

The owner Brent quit finance in San Fran to rework this stately BA building into an aparthotel. Like so many people we've met along the way, he came to Argentina for a few weeks, and stayed for years. For now, the intention is still very much to make it back to London. Not a day passes that Iris doesn't ask to go back to school... And that's St George's, not our improvised (near) daily lessons on the terrace! 

A sweet welcome from Maru

If early BA lessons revolved around the geography of South America, Spanish and local cuisine, yesterday we took a historic detour by visiting Recoleta Cemetery and paying a visit to the Duarte Family mausoleum, where Evita is buried. Iris in particular seems to have developed a fascination with famous people and how they died. With such numerous and elaborate mausolea, the cemetery is a virtual city within Buenos Aires, soaring canopies and angels providing welcome shade. 




We also play Bus Maths... Add the numbers, subtract, multiply and divide. Love the fonts and typefaces, and the personal touches the owner-drivers add to their machines. The detailing looks like something you might find on a vintage stock car or a rally circuit... Nascar Argentino? Reminds me of what the dream car customized 70's vans of my childhood looked like! All pinstripes and reflective tape...

Magic Bus 

Thank you Maru, Marcela and Monica for helping us to get our bearings, and great to compare notes with Yasmine's intrepid German friends Adriane and Yvonne, who persuaded us that long 4x4 rides through the desert to Salta are a plus, not a minus! 

A Perfect Day in the Pampas

Catching up with Jasmine's Argentinian godmother Amalia Pica was a deciding factor in favour of lingering in Buenos Aires. Amalia is now back to London, preparing work for shows to come (Frieze recently did a fine profile of Amalia and her work). Stilll, she was very generous with her hospitality and advice for the short time we overlapped.  

Thanks to her uncle Pepe and his wife Sabrina for their warm welcome to El Tizon, near the Pampas town of Mercedes: inordinate amounts of meat and Malbec, many cuts we never even knew existed, not to mention Empanadas following Grandma Pica's exceptional recipe. It was a particular treat after the dulce de leche treats to pass around the gourd of Mate tea with Amalia and her kin. 

The roadtrip was revealing. Jostling for position among Buenos Aires' many customized busses (drivers typically own, and personalize, their own ride... more on that later), we caught a glimpse of the magic metallic flower sculpture that opens itself up in the rays of the sun, BA's many parks (more locals busy keeping fit and trim) and the infamous Naval Mechanical school. For a civilized country seemingly content with its own version of La Dolce Vita, it's remarkable the historical undertow of violence beneath the veneer (we'll have to check out Amalia's film recommendation, The Man Next Door). But then, closer to home, it's no less remarkable how recently the Iberian peninsula emerged from repressive regimes. 

The similarities don't stop there. If Rio has a raw energy to it, BA has a cultivation and a bourgeois charm. Argentina, or BA at least, seems self-assuredly middle class. Cruising along the highways, if not for the occasional vintage Argentine-made Falcon sedan or Lada, here and there a clapped-out Ford Malibu, I could easily have mistaken my surroundings for somewhere in the Iberian peninsula - the billboards, the malls and the service stations all signal a higher standard of living than I might have expected for a country so frequently wracked by economic crisis.  


Thank you Amalia for the perfect day out in the Pampas, for the personal tour, and the travel tips for the onward journey. Happy trails to London, Switzerland, New York and beyond, and best of luck with your gallerists' convention!  

Grande Dame Mama Ruisa... Ate Logo Rio!

Terrace for breakfast, and school!

Thanks Jean-Michel Ruisa and Flavia of Mama Ruisa for the warm Rio welcome. It was like staying in the home of an eccentric local aristocrat, one might imagine a distant relation? Colonial and cosmopolitan, overlooking the city and the sea with its own garden of orchids, hyacinth, birds of paradise and banana leaves. One could get used to the grandeur of the tall ceilings, the vintage marble bathrooms, the faded splendour of 60s high society. 

And ecstatic moments in the pool. Iris has made real progress, and is now swimming freely! The girls improvised carousel horses from floaties, and raced "Tom and Talulah" like something out of an aquatic Mary Poppins. 

If we were to eat these fruits and juices for breakfast every day we'd live forever. And in a place like Rio living forever might even be a blessing - urban and wild, chaotic but well kempt, here the sun shines on everyone. 

Our relaxation was so total that we missed our flight, left our bathing suits behind, of all things... our return seems assured.

Acucar peering off the horizon

Biding time, rebooking flights

Rio airport billboard - strangely familiar!

Ate logo Rio!