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I met Marzanna at a party intended to help foreigners make connections abroad. She was drinking at the bar with a man who appeared to be from Uruguay, though his nametag showed a flag of the United States. We shared stories of our experiences and impressions of Uruguay, drawing comparisons of the major differences between our homes and this South American variant of western ideology. Within minutes of conversation, I was introduced to a diverse array of Marzanna's ex-boyfriends. These included foreigners, millionaires, transsexuals, and pathological liars. The foremost of these was her late ex, who had died after 4 bed-ridden vegetative years. Marzanna had visited him every day until his unexpected exit. "I had to get away from there," she said, with a tone and demeanor reminiscent of what I felt upon leaving Utah. Like me, Marzanna had come to Uruguay seeking greener pastures - not because life would be better there, but because life at home had become colorless.
We spoke as we walked to our taxi stop. "I was robbed a couple weeks ago," Marzanna told me. After asking a man for directions, he led her into a dark, empty street and wrestled her bag from her. Robberies aren't uncommon in Uruguay - not frequently enough to live in constant fear, but enough to make the fear legitimate. She lived rather close to me, so we decided to share a taxi, and that was when she suggested the idea: "I've been talking to some people about renting a car and driving up the coast." I thought about it. I wanted to see more of Uruguay, but the high cost of renting a car and the gamble of traveling with people I've never met prevented me from doing so. However, upon reflecting on how rarely I got myself out of my house, I eventually decided to go. Marzanna offered to cover the cost of the car so long as I would pay for gas.
"Do you smell that?" she asked me as I walked into her house in Carrasco. "I don't smell anything," I said. "Mold. This house stinks like mold. I told the landlord and he said he couldn't smell anything." Houses in Uruguay are built to last, but they provide little in the way of comfort. The brick construction makes for cold mornings and hot nights, and any humidity remains mostly trapped inside, causing everything - walls, carpet, clothing - to stink of mold. Marzanna told me the others that were to join us had backed out, so it was just going to be us two. We made reservations for a hostel in Cabo Polonio, a national park of Uruguay where cars are prohibited and sea lions are plentiful. A reservation was also made in Valizas. I had never heard of Valizas. We were to pick up the rental car at the nearby airport.
The next morning, Little Pup (my dog) and I made my way to Marzanna's house. This time there was rain. We took a taxi to the airport and picked up our tiny Renault Clio. After driving back home to pick up luggage, Marzanna needed to complete some work on her computer. I went to buy a map at a gas station. Our plan was to arrive at Cabo Polonio before 8pm, when the last vehicle would take people into the park. Marzanna had asked me to drive. She had recently experienced a traumatic near-accident involving a mother and daughter in New York, and wasn't ready to get behind the wheel again. "I get sick to my stomach thinking about it. I could have killed them," she told me. And so began my first experience driving a car in Uruguay.
I missed a turn almost immediately, and we found ourselves in a dirty community with uneven, trash filled streets. Marzanna opened the map and found it to be useless. It was blurry, as though someone had downloaded an internet image and tried unsuccessfully to resize it. Surprisingly, they felt it was worthy of selling. I should have known. My experience had found Uruguay to provide minor but constant disappointment, ever approaching comfort, and never arriving. Take items from a more luxurious existence - perhaps a nice house, or a nice car, or a nice restaurant - then package it into a travel trailer, and you have Uruguay. Hands are washed in tiny plastic sinks, entrances through tiny doorways, mirrors with tiny slates of glass, and the roads are filled with tiny cars. Differences like these reminded me of how much life in the U.S. had spoiled my sense of necessary space, and my expectations of quality. GPS navigation was now crucial because Silveira Mapas had made the decision to sell a low quality map. We turned around and made it back to the highway.
The countryside of Uruguay resembles California, carpeted in green, and peppered with palm trees. The long road provides a backdrop for long conversations, and the subject of this trip would be pasts. The most present question repeatedly emerged of finding out each of us were in Uruguay. I was eager to tell her, like so many others, about my troubled past as a Mormon. The best therapy for me has been to tell people about the organization and its beliefs, and watch as their jaws gape open in awe. "A lot of people think Mormons are just another branch of religion," I would say, "but unless you've experienced the cult-style indoctrination, you can't really understand how dangerous the religion really is to people." I told her about everything from compulsory sexual abstinence and temple marriages to the customs of missionary work and wearing special underwear. "I've lost a lot of friends from leaving the church," I told her. She listened and asked questions. "Do Mormons have to do a mission?" she asked. "No," I responded, "but it may as well be mandatory. To not serve a mission is to invite the question of 'why?', the answer to which can only result in judgment." This topic continued throughout the trip. Everyone has that thing they blame for all their problems. Mine happens to be the cult of Mormonism.
Marzanna explained her escape to Uruguay. She was born in Poland, and remembers an irreverence toward the subject of religion from an early age. When her schoolmates were compulsorily bowing to the resident priest, she refused to go along with it, marking her as defiant and assertive. Her father was wise, but cold, and all I heard about her mother was that she was a saint. Around age 35, Marzanna left Poland to live in New York City, and her life had been a wild ride ever since. She met people from all around. "New York is an incredible place," she said. "You can see a crowd of homeless people, drive five minutes, and be at dinner with a celebrity. Every kind of person can be found in New York." She told me about a millionaire boyfriend she had had, but couldn't continue dating because he was, "so boring." She told me about an ex-Mormon boyfriend she had dated who sold drugs and eventually declared himself a herself. I heard about a prince of Monaco she had once had relations with after he drunkenly propositioned her. She told me about her father's cousin who was her good friend and confidant. It was to him she would send pictures of me along with reports about the trip. I was often surprised at how regularly she communicated with him. We drove and drove, and there was no limit to what could be discussed.
Halfway between Montevideo and Cabo Polonio is the city of Rocha, where we decided to stop for food. The streets are cobblestoned, the central park boasts an ornate fountain, and every building indicates construction from another century - columns adorned with floral patterns, or engraved text, or a tile mosaic on the wall.
The sun began to wane as we continued on. It was getting dark, and we only had about an hour before the last bus left to Cabo Polonio. "Would you check your GPS and see how far we have to go?" I asked. "Mine shows us having gone way past it," she said. It was true. Somewhere I had missed a turn and was driving well beyond our destination. The clock was ticking. I turned around, and found a sign leading to Cabo Polonio. Two taxis turned onto the same road, reassuring me we were driving somewhere populated. The dirt road went on and on, taking us further from civilization. Marzanna checked the GPS. We had turned down the wrong road again, now with only a half hour to catch the bus. I felt the footings of panic. I called the hostel to ask where we needed to go. "You gonna go back to the main road and drive kilometro 267," she told me. I turned the car around and found where I needed to go. Only 5 more minutes now. Where was this place?
3 minutes later, we arrived at the bus station. My fear subsided, and I was overcome with relief at having made it. The floodlights gleamed through misty rain as it fell lightly. Green dots of light hovered and zipped above the grass. Fireflies! I heard strange, whiny howls, as though baby cries were being made by cats. The sounds came from frogs! I parked the car and began to gather my things for the stay in Cabo Polonio. My heart nearly burst from my chest with excitement. I wasn't sure what to expect, having never stayed in a hostel, but I was sure it would be a unique experience. Marzanna and I walked to the ticket office, where we were greeted by a man. "Donde esta el mascoto?" "Que?" I asked, tuning my brain in to better hear Spanish. "No se permiten mascotas en el parque." I was speechless. This man told me Little Pup was not going to be allowed in. I stared at this regulatory figure with eyes of rage. How and when did nature become off limits to dogs? Why are beautiful areas property of the state? What kind of person would voluntarily regulate these rules? I turned around and began walking back to the car, feeling defeat and avoiding aggression. "Don't be angry," said Marzanna, but I didn't care. Now we had nowhere to stay, and it was dark. I called the hostel again to apologize that we weren't going to make it. The girl apologized to me as well, saying she felt terrible about what had happened.
Eventually I calmed down and sat down in the car. If we had to, we could sleep in the car. Deep breaths. We drove to Valizas. The town appears from nowhere. The main road is dirt, only accessible through a maze of other dirt roads. The settlement had everything it should - restaurants with candlelit terraces, l.e.d. lights strung across an outdoor bar, small grocery stores, and the identifiable architecture of Uruguay. After asking around, we found a vacant hotel for less than the cost of the hostel in Cabo Polonio, and the owner was thrilled we would stay there, as it was about a week before the tourist season would begin. No one was booking anything yet. The magic of Valizas saved the night.
We obtained a 19th century-style room key and began to unload the car. I took the twin size "mattress", while Marzanna took the queen size bed. My mattress was made of something more dense than camping foam, covered by a plastic encasing (I assume to cut down on cleaning time for bedwetters). If I sat in its middle, the two ends would elevate and form a taco. The mattress fell off the bed frame numerous times due to its rigidity. Inside the bathroom was a sign asking that used toilet paper be thrown in the wastebasket. A small water heater was situated just above the shower. "It smells like mold in here," Marzanna remarked as she began to open the windows. We left to find dinner.
On the main road were two options for food: El Rey de la Milanesa, and the one where we chose to eat; Doña Bella. Milanesa is my least favorite popular food item of Uruguay. It's a strip of breaded, deep fried beef, served with virtually no seasonings. It's flavor is bland, but somehow sour, like armpit. Instead, we ate french fries and pescados miniaturas, which were delicious. Marzanna said the waitress was eyeing me, so she showed off her New York ability and asked for her number for me within 2 minutes. I was impressed, though I never ended up using the number. We returned to the hotel and slept.
Marzanna was awake early. I consider myself an early riser, but sleeping in a bed with soft and cuddly Little Pup makes it tough to get up. Marzanna and I needed coffee badly. As a Mormon, I never understood the draw of coffee. It was acidic and bland, and there were other options for caffeinating oneself. We walked out into the Valizas morning. The town was still, except a few peculiar spectacles. A man standing at the front of a horse drawn cart resembled a charioteer, proudly barreling down the road. I imagined him as a Uruguayan soldier of the Independence. Ever since reading Don Quixote, I saw Uruguayans through the lens of another century. Uruguayans have beautiful bodies, with especially beautiful faces. They have sharp, straight noses with glowing golden brown eyes, with dark hair and features. Most have olive tinted skin. We walked to a hostel where one of these Uruguayans was cleaning the wooden deck of the outdoor bar. We asked him for coffee, and finally the glorious liquid was bestowed. Nothing matches the satisfaction like the first sip of coffee, and Uruguayan coffee is especially delicious.
Unsure of where we would stay that night, we inquired about the hostel, and were shown around a little. A dog began snarling at Little Pup, Marzanna remarked that all the rooms stunk like mold, and the rate of the hostel was higher than our hotel room. Moreover, the hostel owner shot dirty looks our way, so we decided we would remain where we were.
The day was beautiful, and we wanted to see the beach. Leaving the main road of Valizas toward the ocean, two mounds of sand converge onto a narrow path. Small, inhabited houses hide themselves in pits of sand. And then you see it. The ocean's expanse. There is no beyond of ocean - it is infinite. There you stand on the edge of what covers two thirds of the whole planet, of the biggest thing in the world. The water is blue and salty. Waves crashed as I picked up Little Pup and walked him into the surf. After he got soaked with the pure salt water, I sat in the beach and held him as waves hammered against us. I asked Marzanna to hold him while I went to swim.
I waded out further and further, watching as the swells began from far and carried on closer. The beach was very flat, and waves broke in shallow water, so riding waves was difficult. I stepped out further when I felt it. A gentle pinch grazed against my heel, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I looked down below to find what terror had done this, but the water was too dark. Deep breaths. I tried to convince myself to keep swimming anyway, but the lurking fear drove me back to the beach. My feet never touched the bottom until the water was too shallow to swim.
Marzanna and I decided on a visit to Punta del Diablo, a more popular tourist destination of Uruguay. I missed that turn also. "Marzanna, where is it from here?" "We've already gone past it!" But we arrived. Punta del Diablo is composed of great rocks, and waves smash against those rocks, spraying water dramatically. Our stomachs signaled lunchtime had come, so we found a restaurant on the beach and ate. I then tried unsuccessfully to rent a surfboard, and Marzanna expressed that the limit of fun had been met in this city. I felt the same, so it was back to Valizas. Just outside Punta del Diablo, a guy named Imanol stood on the highway and stuck his thumb out. Then he put his hands together like a prayer and I decided to pull over. Coincidentally, he was trying to get to Valizas.
Marzanna told me she needed to work for a few hours undisturbed, so after we returned to the hotel, Little Pup and I explored Valizas. We walked back to the beach first. I spoke with the owners of a restaurant there. The accents of those further east were even less understandable than those within Montevideo. The chef of the restaurant reminded me of a Uruguayan Jeff Daniels. After stumbling through a few minutes of conversation, I gave up and walked back to the hotel room. I saw the hotel owner cleaning an adjacent room and, as we hadn't told her about my dog staying with us, I thought it best to keep walking around the city in order to avoid an explanation.
The visual acuity of Uruguayans is as sharp straight ahead as it is in the corners of their eyes. They've already seen you, and they're keeping an eye on you, even though their heads are pointed straight forward. I'm reminded of the behavior of dogs, which take immediate notice of their surroundings, then pay no more attention unless necessary. Many Uruguayans have been robbed, or know someone who was robbed. There is always suspicion, though not much, and they are vigilantly observant. I walked down a street, past a group of young people. They stopped talking as they approached me, then continued talking after passing. I saw dumpsters with trash strewn around, a result of someone retrieving recyclable bottles to resell to the grocery stores (Marzanna later told me she saw our hitchhiker doing it). After a loop, I returned again to the hotel room. Despite having had plans for a more eventful night, we decided to get food and take it easy. I fell asleep to Marzanna telling me important things in her life.
The next morning she received a message saying her work files were urgently needed. Valizas lacked reliable internet, so again we drove to Punta del Diablo. We hung out on the patio of a restaurant as Marzanna used the laptop's remaining slivers of battery power to send the files. We started for the car, but I spotted a woman making fresh empanadas. Deep breaths. I can't resist empanadas. I ordered 4, and gave one to Marzanna. I also inquired about a bandana to buy near there, but laughed and walked away when I was told one would cost 100 pesos. Many Uruguayans will tell you things here are outrageously expensive, but the truth is the prices are more or less identical to the United States. The difference is that money is more easily acquired in the United States, where you can make in a week what most Uruguayans make in a month. We drove back to Valizas, now ready and determined to get to Cabo Polonio.
"10 kilometros. Tres horas por lo menos!" said one construction worker to us. The walk from Valizas to Cabo Polonio would be a long one, but was the only way we would get Little Pup into the park. We stopped for another coffee, then began to walk.
Sand and wind make mathematically stunning art. Every pattern looks identical, but closer examination shows each iteration to be random and different. Like fingerprints, every line of wind driven sand draws a different curve. Somehow, vegetation finds enough water to live in this sand. The wind galed, puffing up Little Pup's hair and ears as he tried to guard his eyes from the pelting grains of the beach. Marzanna couldn't hear anything I said. After an hour of walking along the beach, an inlet of rushing ocean blocked us from continuing. We saw a boatman ferrying people across, so we asked him for a ride. We were refused. He said we had begun too late. It was about 7 pm, he would quit around 7:30, and the last bus left Cabo Polonio at 8. We wouldn't be able to return. "Quieren todo el tiempo en el mundo," he dryly jabbed. We were going to have to wait until the next day. We decided to go to La Pedrera, thwarted a second time.
"Uruguayans seem sad," Marzanna told me as we drove. She had dated a few locals by the time I met her. One of them had informed her of a jealousy Uruguayans felt toward Americans. "When they find out you're American, they pretend not to care. They pretend they aren't impressed, but really they feel envy." Surprisingly, my experience corroborated this, though I had attributed it to genuine disinterest. I had met numerous Uruguayans who had never left South America, and the ones that wanted to complained of never having enough money to do it. I turned the car down the road for La Pedrera, and the sun disappeared from view.
La Pedrera has streetlights and a main drag with concrete pylons that remind me of Newport, California. We stopped to get coffee at a cool, well-designed, but empty restaurant. The entrance was decorated with surfboards and a high contrast menu, and the patio where we sat outside was covered with pebbles. At this point, I had only enough money to pay for gas on the trip home, but Marzanna was kind enough to pay for everything. We ordered coffee, and when we finished those, we ordered more. This time I asked for a larger cup for more coffee. When I received mine, it was only halfway filled, and with irritation in my voice, I explained to the waitress that the amount was unsatisfactory, delicious as it was. Even getting a few drops in one's mouth is enough to change tides of war. We finished the coffee, minimally explored La Pedrera, then drove back to Valizas.
The next morning, after another coffee, our walk to Cabo Polonio began anew. This time, we saw a boat but no operator at the crossing. After asking around, we eventually found a sleeping boatman to take us across. We walked and walked across hills of sand that overlook rocky islands in the distant reaches of the visible ocean. Each step required labor to push into the shifting sand, as each granule sought a firmer foundation beneath it. Earth imparts the gift to each explorer of having been the first to walk on that ground by means of a symphony of wind and water that reset its scenery. We reached the peak of the sand dunes and looked out to see our destination. It was far off, but within reach. We turned toward it and began to descend onto the southern side of the coast. Storm clouds hovered, and the low crunch of thunder gently broke into audibility.
Marzanna told me about an incredible ex of hers who begged to rent an apartment from one of her friends. He was to pay $700 per month, which he did for the first two months. Then he started complaining about not being able to pay, asking for forgiveness and extensions, and promising to pay interest. After he failed to fulfill these promises, Marzanna and the apartment owner reached the limit of tolerance and decided to pay him a visit. They knocked on the door, and were surprised to be greeted by a different, more confused man. Marzanna's ex, they found out, had been subletting the apartment and collecting the money. This incredible man was unpredictable, sporadically entering and exiting the lives of his friends. He was only as happy as long as he was moving, but he was always moving to find peace and permanence. He wanted to settle down, but would find that settling down made him uneasy. He broke hearts. He broke the law. He lived for himself, and would leave a trail of damage everywhere he went, and was yet loved wherever he would go.
About this time, we started seeing carcasses of otters and seals on the beach. Cabo Polonio is a known hangout for this kind of marine life, and consequently, when they would get old and die, or get in fights, or suffer mortal wounds, it was upon this beach they would wash up. I had expected to see these animals, just not like this.
Nothing is more real than the sight of death. When maggots pour in and out of a rotting, empty eye socket, gone goes all hope one has that the animal might get up and move - it won't. It's dead. While the materials necessary for life are present, life itself has gone. The carcass has no regard for its viewer like the living being would, and that awareness offers a clear, unambiguous, haunting feeling. The bodies were everywhere. Marzanna discouraged me from photographing them. "Images of death," she said, "carry bad energy."
Rain fell lightly, then more and more heavily. Little Pup was tired, so I carried him for the rest of the trip. Marzanna was wearing a black sun dress and shielding herself with an umbrella, while I had a rain jacket. At last we entered the outskirts of Cabo Polonio. We were desperate for more coffee. There was a red hostel with a bamboo covered patio where two odor-ridden English speakers were talking. The stench of backpackers is universal, recognizable, and always repulsive. Marzanna asked them where we could find coffee, and they pointed toward a shop up a hill. We walked up the hill and inside a general store where I was immediately scolded for bringing my dog. I was tired, wet, hungry, far from home, and I didn't have the energy necessary to care about any arbitrary rule saying my animal wasn't allowed in this part of nature. He sold Marzanna a box and a garbage bag so I could bring Little Pup into a restaurant without getting kicked out.
We walked to a small beverage stand, the roof pouring rain onto the ground in front. We asked for coffee. The young man produced an espresso pot, which made me smile. I hadn't seen one of those in some time. I understood there wouldn't be any half and half here. Sugar was given to us in a large Tupperware container. But the coffee was given freely. The young man told us we wouldn't have to pay. There was a marked difference between his attitude toward us and the shopkeeper's earlier. The young man was glad to see us and, for the first time since that morning, I sat down and relaxed for a moment, squeezing a wet Little Pup against my chest to keep him warm.
We had a half hour before the bus left Cabo Polonio. After finishing the coffee, Marzanna and I walked to a waiting area to stage before boarding the bus. Marzanna left to find a bathroom. Luck had it that the bus arrived early and Marzanna wasn't there. I watched as people boarded and took the comfortable, covered seats. I wondered if I would even make it onto that bus, but then Marzanna returned. "The idiot wouldn't let me use his bathroom! I had to crawl in the back window." We boarded the double decker 4x4 as Marzanna related the story of another aged shopkeeper that wouldn't cooperate with a foreigner. The tires of the army-like vehicle were huge. Ladders were installed on the sides for people to board. We sat in the back row, just past where the cover of the tarpaulin came to an end. Water continually fell on my covered head. I clutched Little Pup as tight as I could. Having finally attained the goal of the whole journey, we left Cabo Polonio.
It was a long, bumpy, wet ride before we were back at the bus station. A bus was going to Valizas, but of course dogs weren't allowed. Little Pup would have to be snuck on once again. As the bus arrived, I covered him up and quickly stepped onto the bus without looking at anyone. My shoulders slumped back with relief as the bus began moving. I was glad to be leaving.
Once we arrived in Valizas, we packed up to leave. The car was due back that night, and we still had an afternoon of driving. The car needed gas, so we went again to La Pedrera, but found there was no gas station there. We drove to La Paloma, which was 9km further. I couldn't believe what I found when we arrived. La Paloma was nothing like the other tourist destinations I had yet seen. There were roads, parks, harbors, beaches, shops, restaurants, and so many other luxuries that I'd forgotten. La Paloma had a gas station, as well as a grocery store, auto repair shops, postal services, and even an armory. The city was beautiful. We stopped and ate food, taking a moment to view the rocky, picturesque beach. We filled up the gas tank and left. After a final coffee stop, we arrived at the airport to drop the car off, and then it was a taxi ride home, where Little Pup and I fell asleep almost instantly.
I met Marzanna at a party intended to help foreigners make connections abroad. She was drinking at the bar with a man who appeared to be from Uruguay, though his nametag showed a flag of the United States. We shared stories of our experiences and impressions of Uruguay, drawing comparisons of the major differences between our homes and this South American variant of western ideology. Within minutes of conversation, I was introduced to a diverse array of Marzanna's ex-boyfriends. These included foreigners, millionaires, transsexuals, and pathological liars. The foremost of these was her late ex, who had died after 4 bed-ridden vegetative years. Marzanna had visited him every day until his unexpected exit. "I had to get away from there," she said, with a tone and demeanor reminiscent of what I felt upon leaving Utah. Like me, Marzanna had come to Uruguay seeking greener pastures - not because life would be better there, but because life at home had become colorless.
We spoke as we walked to our taxi stop. "I was robbed a couple weeks ago," Marzanna told me. After asking a man for directions, he led her into a dark, empty street and wrestled her bag from her. Robberies aren't uncommon in Uruguay - not frequently enough to live in constant fear, but enough to make the fear legitimate. She lived rather close to me, so we decided to share a taxi, and that was when she suggested the idea: "I've been talking to some people about renting a car and driving up the coast." I thought about it. I wanted to see more of Uruguay, but the high cost of renting a car and the gamble of traveling with people I've never met prevented me from doing so. However, upon reflecting on how rarely I got myself out of my house, I eventually decided to go. Marzanna offered to cover the cost of the car so long as I would pay for gas.
"Do you smell that?" she asked me as I walked into her house in Carrasco. "I don't smell anything," I said. "Mold. This house stinks like mold. I told the landlord and he said he couldn't smell anything." Houses in Uruguay are built to last, but they provide little in the way of comfort. The brick construction makes for cold mornings and hot nights, and any humidity remains mostly trapped inside, causing everything - walls, carpet, clothing - to stink of mold. Marzanna told me the others that were to join us had backed out, so it was just going to be us two. We made reservations for a hostel in Cabo Polonio, a national park of Uruguay where cars are prohibited and sea lions are plentiful. A reservation was also made in Valizas. I had never heard of Valizas. We were to pick up the rental car at the nearby airport.
The next morning, Little Pup (my dog) and I made my way to Marzanna's house. This time there was rain. We took a taxi to the airport and picked up our tiny Renault Clio. After driving back home to pick up luggage, Marzanna needed to complete some work on her computer. I went to buy a map at a gas station. Our plan was to arrive at Cabo Polonio before 8pm, when the last vehicle would take people into the park. Marzanna had asked me to drive. She had recently experienced a traumatic near-accident involving a mother and daughter in New York, and wasn't ready to get behind the wheel again. "I get sick to my stomach thinking about it. I could have killed them," she told me. And so began my first experience driving a car in Uruguay.
I missed a turn almost immediately, and we found ourselves in a dirty community with uneven, trash filled streets. Marzanna opened the map and found it to be useless. It was blurry, as though someone had downloaded an internet image and tried unsuccessfully to resize it. Surprisingly, they felt it was worthy of selling. I should have known. My experience had found Uruguay to provide minor but constant disappointment, ever approaching comfort, and never arriving. Take items from a more luxurious existence - perhaps a nice house, or a nice car, or a nice restaurant - then package it into a travel trailer, and you have Uruguay. Hands are washed in tiny plastic sinks, entrances through tiny doorways, mirrors with tiny slates of glass, and the roads are filled with tiny cars. Differences like these reminded me of how much life in the U.S. had spoiled my sense of necessary space, and my expectations of quality. GPS navigation was now crucial because Silveira Mapas had made the decision to sell a low quality map. We turned around and made it back to the highway.
The countryside of Uruguay resembles California, carpeted in green, and peppered with palm trees. The long road provides a backdrop for long conversations, and the subject of this trip would be pasts. The most present question repeatedly emerged of finding out each of us were in Uruguay. I was eager to tell her, like so many others, about my troubled past as a Mormon. The best therapy for me has been to tell people about the organization and its beliefs, and watch as their jaws gape open in awe. "A lot of people think Mormons are just another branch of religion," I would say, "but unless you've experienced the cult-style indoctrination, you can't really understand how dangerous the religion really is to people." I told her about everything from compulsory sexual abstinence and temple marriages to the customs of missionary work and wearing special underwear. "I've lost a lot of friends from leaving the church," I told her. She listened and asked questions. "Do Mormons have to do a mission?" she asked. "No," I responded, "but it may as well be mandatory. To not serve a mission is to invite the question of 'why?', the answer to which can only result in judgment." This topic continued throughout the trip. Everyone has that thing they blame for all their problems. Mine happens to be the cult of Mormonism.
Marzanna explained her escape to Uruguay. She was born in Poland, and remembers an irreverence toward the subject of religion from an early age. When her schoolmates were compulsorily bowing to the resident priest, she refused to go along with it, marking her as defiant and assertive. Her father was wise, but cold, and all I heard about her mother was that she was a saint. Around age 35, Marzanna left Poland to live in New York City, and her life had been a wild ride ever since. She met people from all around. "New York is an incredible place," she said. "You can see a crowd of homeless people, drive five minutes, and be at dinner with a celebrity. Every kind of person can be found in New York." She told me about a millionaire boyfriend she had had, but couldn't continue dating because he was, "so boring." She told me about an ex-Mormon boyfriend she had dated who sold drugs and eventually declared himself a herself. I heard about a prince of Monaco she had once had relations with after he drunkenly propositioned her. She told me about her father's cousin who was her good friend and confidant. It was to him she would send pictures of me along with reports about the trip. I was often surprised at how regularly she communicated with him. We drove and drove, and there was no limit to what could be discussed.
Halfway between Montevideo and Cabo Polonio is the city of Rocha, where we decided to stop for food. The streets are cobblestoned, the central park boasts an ornate fountain, and every building indicates construction from another century - columns adorned with floral patterns, or engraved text, or a tile mosaic on the wall.
The sun began to wane as we continued on. It was getting dark, and we only had about an hour before the last bus left to Cabo Polonio. "Would you check your GPS and see how far we have to go?" I asked. "Mine shows us having gone way past it," she said. It was true. Somewhere I had missed a turn and was driving well beyond our destination. The clock was ticking. I turned around, and found a sign leading to Cabo Polonio. Two taxis turned onto the same road, reassuring me we were driving somewhere populated. The dirt road went on and on, taking us further from civilization. Marzanna checked the GPS. We had turned down the wrong road again, now with only a half hour to catch the bus. I felt the footings of panic. I called the hostel to ask where we needed to go. "You gonna go back to the main road and drive kilometro 267," she told me. I turned the car around and found where I needed to go. Only 5 more minutes now. Where was this place?
3 minutes later, we arrived at the bus station. My fear subsided, and I was overcome with relief at having made it. The floodlights gleamed through misty rain as it fell lightly. Green dots of light hovered and zipped above the grass. Fireflies! I heard strange, whiny howls, as though baby cries were being made by cats. The sounds came from frogs! I parked the car and began to gather my things for the stay in Cabo Polonio. My heart nearly burst from my chest with excitement. I wasn't sure what to expect, having never stayed in a hostel, but I was sure it would be a unique experience. Marzanna and I walked to the ticket office, where we were greeted by a man. "Donde esta el mascoto?" "Que?" I asked, tuning my brain in to better hear Spanish. "No se permiten mascotas en el parque." I was speechless. This man told me Little Pup was not going to be allowed in. I stared at this regulatory figure with eyes of rage. How and when did nature become off limits to dogs? Why are beautiful areas property of the state? What kind of person would voluntarily regulate these rules? I turned around and began walking back to the car, feeling defeat and avoiding aggression. "Don't be angry," said Marzanna, but I didn't care. Now we had nowhere to stay, and it was dark. I called the hostel again to apologize that we weren't going to make it. The girl apologized to me as well, saying she felt terrible about what had happened.
Eventually I calmed down and sat down in the car. If we had to, we could sleep in the car. Deep breaths. We drove to Valizas. The town appears from nowhere. The main road is dirt, only accessible through a maze of other dirt roads. The settlement had everything it should - restaurants with candlelit terraces, l.e.d. lights strung across an outdoor bar, small grocery stores, and the identifiable architecture of Uruguay. After asking around, we found a vacant hotel for less than the cost of the hostel in Cabo Polonio, and the owner was thrilled we would stay there, as it was about a week before the tourist season would begin. No one was booking anything yet. The magic of Valizas saved the night.
We obtained a 19th century-style room key and began to unload the car. I took the twin size "mattress", while Marzanna took the queen size bed. My mattress was made of something more dense than camping foam, covered by a plastic encasing (I assume to cut down on cleaning time for bedwetters). If I sat in its middle, the two ends would elevate and form a taco. The mattress fell off the bed frame numerous times due to its rigidity. Inside the bathroom was a sign asking that used toilet paper be thrown in the wastebasket. A small water heater was situated just above the shower. "It smells like mold in here," Marzanna remarked as she began to open the windows. We left to find dinner.
On the main road were two options for food: El Rey de la Milanesa, and the one where we chose to eat; Doña Bella. Milanesa is my least favorite popular food item of Uruguay. It's a strip of breaded, deep fried beef, served with virtually no seasonings. It's flavor is bland, but somehow sour, like armpit. Instead, we ate french fries and pescados miniaturas, which were delicious. Marzanna said the waitress was eyeing me, so she showed off her New York ability and asked for her number for me within 2 minutes. I was impressed, though I never ended up using the number. We returned to the hotel and slept.
Marzanna was awake early. I consider myself an early riser, but sleeping in a bed with soft and cuddly Little Pup makes it tough to get up. Marzanna and I needed coffee badly. As a Mormon, I never understood the draw of coffee. It was acidic and bland, and there were other options for caffeinating oneself. We walked out into the Valizas morning. The town was still, except a few peculiar spectacles. A man standing at the front of a horse drawn cart resembled a charioteer, proudly barreling down the road. I imagined him as a Uruguayan soldier of the Independence. Ever since reading Don Quixote, I saw Uruguayans through the lens of another century. Uruguayans have beautiful bodies, with especially beautiful faces. They have sharp, straight noses with glowing golden brown eyes, with dark hair and features. Most have olive tinted skin. We walked to a hostel where one of these Uruguayans was cleaning the wooden deck of the outdoor bar. We asked him for coffee, and finally the glorious liquid was bestowed. Nothing matches the satisfaction like the first sip of coffee, and Uruguayan coffee is especially delicious.
Unsure of where we would stay that night, we inquired about the hostel, and were shown around a little. A dog began snarling at Little Pup, Marzanna remarked that all the rooms stunk like mold, and the rate of the hostel was higher than our hotel room. Moreover, the hostel owner shot dirty looks our way, so we decided we would remain where we were.
The day was beautiful, and we wanted to see the beach. Leaving the main road of Valizas toward the ocean, two mounds of sand converge onto a narrow path. Small, inhabited houses hide themselves in pits of sand. And then you see it. The ocean's expanse. There is no beyond of ocean - it is infinite. There you stand on the edge of what covers two thirds of the whole planet, of the biggest thing in the world. The water is blue and salty. Waves crashed as I picked up Little Pup and walked him into the surf. After he got soaked with the pure salt water, I sat in the beach and held him as waves hammered against us. I asked Marzanna to hold him while I went to swim.
I waded out further and further, watching as the swells began from far and carried on closer. The beach was very flat, and waves broke in shallow water, so riding waves was difficult. I stepped out further when I felt it. A gentle pinch grazed against my heel, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I looked down below to find what terror had done this, but the water was too dark. Deep breaths. I tried to convince myself to keep swimming anyway, but the lurking fear drove me back to the beach. My feet never touched the bottom until the water was too shallow to swim.
Marzanna and I decided on a visit to Punta del Diablo, a more popular tourist destination of Uruguay. I missed that turn also. "Marzanna, where is it from here?" "We've already gone past it!" But we arrived. Punta del Diablo is composed of great rocks, and waves smash against those rocks, spraying water dramatically. Our stomachs signaled lunchtime had come, so we found a restaurant on the beach and ate. I then tried unsuccessfully to rent a surfboard, and Marzanna expressed that the limit of fun had been met in this city. I felt the same, so it was back to Valizas. Just outside Punta del Diablo, a guy named Imanol stood on the highway and stuck his thumb out. Then he put his hands together like a prayer and I decided to pull over. Coincidentally, he was trying to get to Valizas.
Marzanna told me she needed to work for a few hours undisturbed, so after we returned to the hotel, Little Pup and I explored Valizas. We walked back to the beach first. I spoke with the owners of a restaurant there. The accents of those further east were even less understandable than those within Montevideo. The chef of the restaurant reminded me of a Uruguayan Jeff Daniels. After stumbling through a few minutes of conversation, I gave up and walked back to the hotel room. I saw the hotel owner cleaning an adjacent room and, as we hadn't told her about my dog staying with us, I thought it best to keep walking around the city in order to avoid an explanation.
The visual acuity of Uruguayans is as sharp straight ahead as it is in the corners of their eyes. They've already seen you, and they're keeping an eye on you, even though their heads are pointed straight forward. I'm reminded of the behavior of dogs, which take immediate notice of their surroundings, then pay no more attention unless necessary. Many Uruguayans have been robbed, or know someone who was robbed. There is always suspicion, though not much, and they are vigilantly observant. I walked down a street, past a group of young people. They stopped talking as they approached me, then continued talking after passing. I saw dumpsters with trash strewn around, a result of someone retrieving recyclable bottles to resell to the grocery stores (Marzanna later told me she saw our hitchhiker doing it). After a loop, I returned again to the hotel room. Despite having had plans for a more eventful night, we decided to get food and take it easy. I fell asleep to Marzanna telling me important things in her life.
The next morning she received a message saying her work files were urgently needed. Valizas lacked reliable internet, so again we drove to Punta del Diablo. We hung out on the patio of a restaurant as Marzanna used the laptop's remaining slivers of battery power to send the files. We started for the car, but I spotted a woman making fresh empanadas. Deep breaths. I can't resist empanadas. I ordered 4, and gave one to Marzanna. I also inquired about a bandana to buy near there, but laughed and walked away when I was told one would cost 100 pesos. Many Uruguayans will tell you things here are outrageously expensive, but the truth is the prices are more or less identical to the United States. The difference is that money is more easily acquired in the United States, where you can make in a week what most Uruguayans make in a month. We drove back to Valizas, now ready and determined to get to Cabo Polonio.
"10 kilometros. Tres horas por lo menos!" said one construction worker to us. The walk from Valizas to Cabo Polonio would be a long one, but was the only way we would get Little Pup into the park. We stopped for another coffee, then began to walk.
Sand and wind make mathematically stunning art. Every pattern looks identical, but closer examination shows each iteration to be random and different. Like fingerprints, every line of wind driven sand draws a different curve. Somehow, vegetation finds enough water to live in this sand. The wind galed, puffing up Little Pup's hair and ears as he tried to guard his eyes from the pelting grains of the beach. Marzanna couldn't hear anything I said. After an hour of walking along the beach, an inlet of rushing ocean blocked us from continuing. We saw a boatman ferrying people across, so we asked him for a ride. We were refused. He said we had begun too late. It was about 7 pm, he would quit around 7:30, and the last bus left Cabo Polonio at 8. We wouldn't be able to return. "Quieren todo el tiempo en el mundo," he dryly jabbed. We were going to have to wait until the next day. We decided to go to La Pedrera, thwarted a second time.
"Uruguayans seem sad," Marzanna told me as we drove. She had dated a few locals by the time I met her. One of them had informed her of a jealousy Uruguayans felt toward Americans. "When they find out you're American, they pretend not to care. They pretend they aren't impressed, but really they feel envy." Surprisingly, my experience corroborated this, though I had attributed it to genuine disinterest. I had met numerous Uruguayans who had never left South America, and the ones that wanted to complained of never having enough money to do it. I turned the car down the road for La Pedrera, and the sun disappeared from view.
La Pedrera has streetlights and a main drag with concrete pylons that remind me of Newport, California. We stopped to get coffee at a cool, well-designed, but empty restaurant. The entrance was decorated with surfboards and a high contrast menu, and the patio where we sat outside was covered with pebbles. At this point, I had only enough money to pay for gas on the trip home, but Marzanna was kind enough to pay for everything. We ordered coffee, and when we finished those, we ordered more. This time I asked for a larger cup for more coffee. When I received mine, it was only halfway filled, and with irritation in my voice, I explained to the waitress that the amount was unsatisfactory, delicious as it was. Even getting a few drops in one's mouth is enough to change tides of war. We finished the coffee, minimally explored La Pedrera, then drove back to Valizas.
The next morning, after another coffee, our walk to Cabo Polonio began anew. This time, we saw a boat but no operator at the crossing. After asking around, we eventually found a sleeping boatman to take us across. We walked and walked across hills of sand that overlook rocky islands in the distant reaches of the visible ocean. Each step required labor to push into the shifting sand, as each granule sought a firmer foundation beneath it. Earth imparts the gift to each explorer of having been the first to walk on that ground by means of a symphony of wind and water that reset its scenery. We reached the peak of the sand dunes and looked out to see our destination. It was far off, but within reach. We turned toward it and began to descend onto the southern side of the coast. Storm clouds hovered, and the low crunch of thunder gently broke into audibility.
Marzanna told me about an incredible ex of hers who begged to rent an apartment from one of her friends. He was to pay $700 per month, which he did for the first two months. Then he started complaining about not being able to pay, asking for forgiveness and extensions, and promising to pay interest. After he failed to fulfill these promises, Marzanna and the apartment owner reached the limit of tolerance and decided to pay him a visit. They knocked on the door, and were surprised to be greeted by a different, more confused man. Marzanna's ex, they found out, had been subletting the apartment and collecting the money. This incredible man was unpredictable, sporadically entering and exiting the lives of his friends. He was only as happy as long as he was moving, but he was always moving to find peace and permanence. He wanted to settle down, but would find that settling down made him uneasy. He broke hearts. He broke the law. He lived for himself, and would leave a trail of damage everywhere he went, and was yet loved wherever he would go.
About this time, we started seeing carcasses of otters and seals on the beach. Cabo Polonio is a known hangout for this kind of marine life, and consequently, when they would get old and die, or get in fights, or suffer mortal wounds, it was upon this beach they would wash up. I had expected to see these animals, just not like this.
Nothing is more real than the sight of death. When maggots pour in and out of a rotting, empty eye socket, gone goes all hope one has that the animal might get up and move - it won't. It's dead. While the materials necessary for life are present, life itself has gone. The carcass has no regard for its viewer like the living being would, and that awareness offers a clear, unambiguous, haunting feeling. The bodies were everywhere. Marzanna discouraged me from photographing them. "Images of death," she said, "carry bad energy."
Rain fell lightly, then more and more heavily. Little Pup was tired, so I carried him for the rest of the trip. Marzanna was wearing a black sun dress and shielding herself with an umbrella, while I had a rain jacket. At last we entered the outskirts of Cabo Polonio. We were desperate for more coffee. There was a red hostel with a bamboo covered patio where two odor-ridden English speakers were talking. The stench of backpackers is universal, recognizable, and always repulsive. Marzanna asked them where we could find coffee, and they pointed toward a shop up a hill. We walked up the hill and inside a general store where I was immediately scolded for bringing my dog. I was tired, wet, hungry, far from home, and I didn't have the energy necessary to care about any arbitrary rule saying my animal wasn't allowed in this part of nature. He sold Marzanna a box and a garbage bag so I could bring Little Pup into a restaurant without getting kicked out.
We walked to a small beverage stand, the roof pouring rain onto the ground in front. We asked for coffee. The young man produced an espresso pot, which made me smile. I hadn't seen one of those in some time. I understood there wouldn't be any half and half here. Sugar was given to us in a large Tupperware container. But the coffee was given freely. The young man told us we wouldn't have to pay. There was a marked difference between his attitude toward us and the shopkeeper's earlier. The young man was glad to see us and, for the first time since that morning, I sat down and relaxed for a moment, squeezing a wet Little Pup against my chest to keep him warm.
We had a half hour before the bus left Cabo Polonio. After finishing the coffee, Marzanna and I walked to a waiting area to stage before boarding the bus. Marzanna left to find a bathroom. Luck had it that the bus arrived early and Marzanna wasn't there. I watched as people boarded and took the comfortable, covered seats. I wondered if I would even make it onto that bus, but then Marzanna returned. "The idiot wouldn't let me use his bathroom! I had to crawl in the back window." We boarded the double decker 4x4 as Marzanna related the story of another aged shopkeeper that wouldn't cooperate with a foreigner. The tires of the army-like vehicle were huge. Ladders were installed on the sides for people to board. We sat in the back row, just past where the cover of the tarpaulin came to an end. Water continually fell on my covered head. I clutched Little Pup as tight as I could. Having finally attained the goal of the whole journey, we left Cabo Polonio.
It was a long, bumpy, wet ride before we were back at the bus station. A bus was going to Valizas, but of course dogs weren't allowed. Little Pup would have to be snuck on once again. As the bus arrived, I covered him up and quickly stepped onto the bus without looking at anyone. My shoulders slumped back with relief as the bus began moving. I was glad to be leaving.
Once we arrived in Valizas, we packed up to leave. The car was due back that night, and we still had an afternoon of driving. The car needed gas, so we went again to La Pedrera, but found there was no gas station there. We drove to La Paloma, which was 9km further. I couldn't believe what I found when we arrived. La Paloma was nothing like the other tourist destinations I had yet seen. There were roads, parks, harbors, beaches, shops, restaurants, and so many other luxuries that I'd forgotten. La Paloma had a gas station, as well as a grocery store, auto repair shops, postal services, and even an armory. The city was beautiful. We stopped and ate food, taking a moment to view the rocky, picturesque beach. We filled up the gas tank and left. After a final coffee stop, we arrived at the airport to drop the car off, and then it was a taxi ride home, where Little Pup and I fell asleep almost instantly.
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