Puta Del Diablo

Whisky on the walk and the Flip Flop Graveyard

My bottle of rum companion promises a charmed walk.  It's hot with clear skies and the suns baking me, the cheap rum is terrible, really terrible, but everytime the pack seems too heavy, I take a swig and it's all looking good.  I walk towards the water and find the hard sand.  Not the hardest sand, it's too hard, but just to the edge, where it's firm but not rock-solid.  I have a weakness in the way I walk, my right knee locks and the foot swings out, making my ankle hips, back and neck bad.  I should correct it one day…somehow… but for now, I'll be in serious grief in less than 100 meters if I don't start bending my right knee before I set my foot down.  Hopefully it holds out 'till I get to the Diablo.  If not, there's plenty of places I could camp - good thing about having a tent and a machete.  You can camp near a beach, under a tree, and feel relatively safe.  Not many puma take their summer holidays here, and not many serial killers like waiting in the bushes when there are so many mosquitos.  If there is one, by the time he/she realises the guy in the tent has a 70cm long cross-cut saw-tooth-backed machete, the only thing left to worry about is whether salt water will wash the blood out of my clothes and just how long it will take me to stitch up me tent.

On the way along the long shoreline I see all manner of strange birds.  Big fucking birds too they are, in a place where no-one ever visits.  In between 2 hotspots, but too far for most people to be bothered walking, I'm tramping down the gunsight of six huge black vulture-gulls (as I have decided to name them) hanging around a dead seal. Ugly as all hell, like they just crawled out of Satans pit, not able to actually fly, rather, the ground repels them out of sheer disgust.  Add to this thin scraggy necks jutting out of big bulbous frames, their heads sitting menacingly small in comparison to the rest of them, with tiny black beady eyes.  …ughghguuuuhhh.  They are eyeing me up with apprehensive stares, naturally -maybe even because i am doing the same.  Back when I lived in Whangamata I would go on these runs every morning and the gulls would dive-bomb me THE WHOLE WAY.  Different birds taking turns, like they were trying to even the workload, as I in turn past different birds trees.  For like 2km.  And back.  I was worried these birds would do the same, or worse, but as I approached, I was glad to see them swoop (I mean, get simultaneously repelled) up to the sandbank.  At least they're a little afraid of me.  I think.

As I walk, I keep coming across dead seals.  Little baby seals.  It's quite graphic actually, all in various stages of decay.  I guess no one comes here much.  All the shells that would ordinarily have been picked up are also still lying here on the sand.  As I think to bend down and collect a few, I don't.  What would having it with me do anyway? Would I really get anything out of it, other than to look at it now and again, each time getting more and more bored with it, rather than leave them here with each other as compliments and the ocean shore as their setting.   Leaving them means some other person who has decided to venture away this far may be able to ask themselves the same question.  It's a nice question to ask.  Its nicer not to try to control the beauty around me and just appreciate it.

As I round some rocks near a point-ish type place, I happen upon the place where all jandals go to die.  Literally hundreds of jandals in their plastic foam rubber colours and stripes, with broken straps, worn heels and sun-faded foot-worn patterns etc.   It's quite amazing, they're everywhere….for the next 20m or so anyway…..(taking a moment to indicate awe-struck-ness) I tried to find a pair that fitted me but no dice.  The good ones are all to small, the ripped one's were probably never big enough anyway, and the matching ones don't fit - what are the chances? I guess for the same reason there were heaps of dead seals and nice shells, there were all these jandals.  No one ever comes here to casually pick them up, so they just wash up here, and collect over the years.  There's loads of garbage along the beach too of course. Though it's the cleanest beach I've seen yet in the New World. Plastic bottles seem to stand out the most, and fishing line. nice…real nice…

Away in the hazy distance I begin to be able to pick out a few figures, I must be getting closer to civilisation.  Eventually my eyes fix on one person I can make out walking along the edge of where the white-wash ends in my direction, and a few more are much further back in the haze maybe sunning themselves.  After a short while watching the way she walks I can tell its a girl.  As she gets closer and closer, I wonder if she will say hello, you know how it is.  When you know the other person has been looking at you, if only intermittently for a period of time, and no-one else is around, and it's pretty-much without question she has, there's some social reason, because of shared experience maybe? or something, that we usually say hello.  I mean, for the next Km behind her, she's the only one here other than me.  Strangely she passes me like I'm invisible.  Does that not seem a bit strange?  I think that's what you'd do in a place where there're so many people you couldn't greet them all, and you get your personal mental space by not acknowledging them…but here?  Do I look like a dangerous freak or something?  hmmmm.  yeah yeah I know she could have been getting mental space here too, blah blah. I just think people are fucking weird, that's all. Not in comparison to other people, just weird in comparison to their humanity.

As I draw closer to the point I can see, a few people seem to be hanging around the high wooded bank, and I can see houses now up in the hills.  I'm hoping it's Punta Del Diablo.  Eventually I go up to a guy with a small child and ask in my tired, puffy A-spaniel, "Punta Del Diablo?" and point.  Ok so it's not really Spanish.  He answers but he can see by my look of a stunned circus audience.  I just point, and say "Donde?" (where), to which he responds, "do you speak English?".  Yep, the big white gringo…  But he's really nice, and explains just to go up the path, past the big house then past 2 roads and the next on the left. Sweeeet.

It's a rough end to a 4km sand walk, going up this track.  It's quite steep and broken.  I pass a few tourists on cycles and flash holiday homes before reaching the sealed road and head up to the crest of the hill.  On the way I meet a local woman who explains to me, after an exact replica of my last conversation, exactly where to go.  I walk up to the power step-down station and hang a left.

I like the pylons here.  Yep.  That's what I said (wrote?).  I like them 'cause they still use those old glass resistors, you know, the big round ones that look like a series of rings.  They remind me of my childhood, and they're really beautiful I think, the way they are ridged in rings within each disc, and then stacked in clusters along each line.  They sparkle like water, and have that blue-green colour all glass used to have.  I don't see it much now.  Maybe I don't look. 

As I pass the houses, I see inside they are really cool.  They've surfboards and hammocks, paintings and rustic beams.  Things hanging and fishnet …lying around…doing it's thing.  Pretty damn boring you could say, but I've been told this place is full of artists and musicians, poets and writers, so I imagine each house being filled with creativity and thought, so I romanticise it all. Plus it beats remembering how tired and saw I am, how thirsty and stinky and how I really just wanna put the pack down now.  I'm soaked in old sweat and I'm all chafing burns and saw joints- especially my knee.

Internet search

I walk down towards the village centre past a huge backpackers…it even has a pool…  You'd think with all that walking I'd have given my middle leg to sit in a pool with my still-half-full bottle of rum, but remember, I walked all this way so save $5.  So that was never gonna happen.  I stop by the first shop that looks like it'd sell agua con gas (lovin' that shit these days).  There's a dog that follows me up there barking and snarling - not like a woof woof, but a real, "listen buddy, I'm gonna have a testicle chewing gum a-la-YOU or you're gonna leave, right?!", kinda growl.    I am looking at this wee guy, about the size of a sheep dog (boarder collie) thinking, if he tries anything, I'm really gonna kick his arse into next Saturday, I've no patience for this. 

Anyway I go into the shop.  Ahhh, Uva (grapes) Y.E.S. and…agua - con gas, nice.  I also get a huge bonbon (I have a plan), and ask for directions to an internet cafe.  The man is very friendly and directs me towards the main street.  I go past ol' scrappy one more time, almost wanting him to give me an excuse to throw my weight into a solid punt, (I wonder if I could get him clear across the street), but he's keeping his distance.

I trundle down to the ocean road with tired, affirmative, solid steps.  As I round the corner onto the waterside quay, I see there's a kind of harbor here, full of small painted old fishing boats mored in the shallow water on the lee side of the Point that shields it from the action of the ocean beach (behind me and to my left (with a lighthouse! oooouuuu!) and butting right up to the roadside is a line of old buildings made of rough-cut time-weathered, repainted wooden weatherboards and panels where vendors have replaced fisherman, to give a perfect setting for their cafés and quiet pokey bars.  There's a military post/marine stall right on the wall between the road and the sandy beach, and a shop with internet written on it, that's closed.  I figure it can't be the only one, and walk on. 

Further along the street that gently curves to the right there are the remaining fishmongers in a long wooden building that curves with the road, weathered grey, with a roof jutting out and slightly up over the street where someone might stand to buy fish and be slightly sheltered from the rain..or sun.  After this the road rises and continues its curve as another road intersects that heads towards the point at the other side of the harbor.  Here there are clothing and trinket stores, tourist snags (my word for the, "we-sell-crappy--over-priced-boring-shit-for-pidgon-headed-tourists", kinda shops) and a few bus shops. 

Bus shops are these little shops wedged in corners or alleys,  -in-between things here, that have an old sign with the fading name of a bus company plastered somewhere, or fallen years ago on the ground and no-one's got 'round to picking it up yet, covered in grass.  Anyway these places, if you can find them (remember 'Omnibus' = Bus, NO ONE will understand "bus"), consist of a bench from end to end of a small white room and a person behind said desk next to a computer and in front of another sign, not at all similar to the one outside.  This sign represents the symbol of the bus company for which they actually sell tickets.  Anyway near these, I find some trinket sellers who spot the traveler and greet me with camaraderie (they can see I don't sell trinkets - I'm not wearing jewelry) and the glint in their eyes hoping quietly that they may sell me something.  I ask them about the internet, and after much confusion, The guy (they are a couple…er…consisting of a male a female) says he speaks english and we start over.  Turns out that place I passed a while back is the only source of internet.

I go back down the street, past the fishmongers and to the shop, bang on the window and doors, check the business hours (written by hand on a piece of paper on the inside of the shut door) indicating it should be open and even try calling the phone number written in HUGE lettering on the side.  No dice.  I head back up the street, past the fishmongers, past the jewelry guys and trinket stores, looking for another place.  Plenty of places with wi-fi, but I don't have my laptop.  Crap.  It's a worry also because I'm getting so far behind in my university studies - and they're what's paying for this trip remember!  Anyway I roll around in circles and give up.  I'm hot, sticky, covered in friction burns, chafing and loads of sweat, I wanna have a shower, get on the internet to check where I'm going next etc, AND CHILL THE FUK OUT. 

El Indios

As I walk back out of the town centre I hope to find a cheap hostel, though, without the net to guide me, fat chance.  I see some signs to hostels, like road signs, hand painted, trying to be cool. Mmmm. One I see repeatedly says, "El Indos" and I get a good feeling about it.  A I follow the signs I see a cluster of yellow buildings with blue trims high up a hill….a case of stairs leading to the top.  One more push over the top boys!, and I push the ground down to bring the crest closer and closer until I am up the steps.  I emerge in the BBQ area of the hostel.  A man with a U.S. accent greats me.

As a side note, never ever assume they're American for 3 reasons:

1. Everyone here hates that the U.S. people call themselves American, although no one else ever uses the word to refer to themselves here, it’s useless contesting this exact issue, and 'citizen-of-the-united-states' doesn't really roll off the tongue,  no, it's because the U.S. thinks it's soooo important. No point disagreeing with that.

2.  Everyone learns U.S. English here, complete with accent.  yep.  that's right, nevermind the irony. and

3, Because they could be Canadian.  Remember these guys have as much little-man-syndrome as anyone and adding to that, they border the U.S. and if they live close to the border, there's NO difference in accent. none. No matter what the syrup suckers tell you.

Yo Bon Bon and a bottle of Rum

The greeter is the inn keeper, and from behind his laptop he delivers his easy going friendly welcome.  He asks where I am from and discloses his awareness of NZ drinking habits.  I have my bottle of rum just out of view.  He shows me to my room, and on the way…did I see a bath? no…couldn't have been.  I pass a couple of …are they Māori guys?…I try to keep a low profile.  I have no interest in being with NZers.  I am shown to my room where a blonde surfer is just leaving.  He assures me the place is very nice and the bathrooms are great.  I wish him peace and love, drop my backpack …… .u…..uh…..uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh…..huh……mmmm. I pull together my focus to see the zip on my guitar bag, and gently, only due to fatigue, wriggle my bottle free.  I move slowly, like a pained burn victim to the back zipper and remove my bonbon. Then shuffle with relieved directness into the huge bathroom en-suite of the 6 bed dorm. Yes, this will be sufficient.  Its all ceramic tiled stuff here, you know, the burnt orange terra-cotta guff you see everywhere someone wants to pay a shit load to look rustic, yeah, that.  There's enough room to swing a medium sized cat in here, like maybe a Lynx, but not a tiger.  It's massive.  I turn on the blasting overhead shower, place my chocolate and Rum on a nearby wall, and undress with clumsy, but deliberate, slow movements.  Take two steps, check the heat and one more….oooohhhhhhhuuuuuuuggghhh.  yes yes.  yes this will do…..give me a moment…..

It's not long before I'm smiling, mouth spilling with Bonbon and rum, sitting on the rear wall of the shower (did I tell you it was huge?) soaked and scrubbing.  I go grab my comb, and attempt to get through my dread that has been forming for the last week.   Not-a-chance. Comb fingers fall everywhere.

Back into Society, Just to Destroy It

After the shower I decide to do some washing but it's not really possible.  The laundry service isn't operating today because it's Sunday.  Yep, the backpacker doesn’t have a washing machine - and I half expected that.   A lot of houses, hotels etc here, don't have washing machines.  People just get a launderer  to do it for them.  There’re no Laundromats they way we think of them, you don't have the chance, you go in and they do it for you, returning it in 3-4 hours usually, or the following day.  I choose to try to wash by hand.  Why I chose that after my journey is a little hard to fathom, but by now I'm sure you are aware of just how tight I would like to be with my purse strings.  I slave away scrubbing and ringing with water and soap, wondering just how people did it all back in the day, knowing that they made washing machines even back in Roman times, but still…it's a crap job.

I eventually emerge but I'm not feeling social.  I just go to the internet and try not to make eye contact with the Māori guys.  When it's free I go on a computer and see Nicole and Katie sent me a nice message saying they got here safe and sound and wonder where I am.  That's nice.  I didn't expect to ever hear from them again, but here they are trying to make contact.  Guess I judged them.  I would say mis-judged, but, is there really any other kind? (in my best Jack Nicholson voice).  At some point the 2 Māori guys offer me some vegetarian dinner. They are actually half Mapuche half Danish.  The Mapuche people do look very similar to NZ Māori.   I wouldn't have made this mistake easily. So this begins the backpacker-ness.

I get to talking with a few people, including some girls from the Netherlands who seem friendly.  In a backpackers, ..well…I reign.  It's no major achievement, but, for some reason, backpackers are my domain.  I am the undisputed king of the 5 minute relationship.  I can stretch that out to a few weeks now, but rest assured, it is not long lasting.  For now I settle so easily into the groove…I guess I always did, I hardly notice it, but quick as a flash we are all one group of likely youngsters, awaiting an activity.  Bring out what's left of the rum! …and awaaaaay we go!  It's still daylight and we're knocking it back, laughing and joking.  There's a German guy, an English girl and the girls from Holland, the Mapuche and a few locals (staying out of the way).  It isn't long before we're done, and I put out the hat for the next bottle.  The mixer is Schweppes…er…can't remember, some lemon-type thing, it's very good at masking the incredibly poor alcohol.  A fuzzy trip to the shop, I can't find rum, so it's a bottle of grappa.  Oh yeeeeah.

I don't know who what or why, but at some point someone made food.  I was talking to a girl from, maybe Argentina I think? Anyway she lived in NZ for a while and knew Liam and Neil Finn and Eddie Vedder personally.  We were talking about music for ages, though I was getting quite drunk, she still seemed interested.   We talked about NZ and 'Conan and the Moccasins (such a cool dude) and loads of things.  I eventually gave her my red T-shit with Māori designs on it as a gift. 

It started raining just after the food was served.  My efforts straining and squeezing every last drop from my hand-washed clothes result in…nothing.  And about this time things started getting quite raucous.  Kids, this is where censorship would kick in.  Anyway the Dutch girl is getting pretty drunk - hell we all are.  Then she starts getting quite boisterous and at some stage jumps up on my lap.  I try to get her off but she won't leave, so I garb her pants and pretend to put my hand down them.  No resistance.  It's at this point I realise, poor old she, is far too drunk to be trusted, and I stand up and go talk with someone else.  The night rolls on as I eat on the deck in the drizzle with someone…I believe this person was female, but I don't clearly recollect.  -"I remember the patio, but I don't remember you".  Anyway here the news bulletin floats to my ears from an nondescript, possible extra-terrestrial location - I wouldn't have known, that our dear old wonton friend has performed the Technicolor Yawn all over the lawn.  Oh dear.  For the moment she's recuperating…wait…I'm remembering…I was sitting next to her, and then, a few minutes later, she barfed.  Yeah I think she was talking with her friend, Heidi (who looked exactly the part) when she power-ralphed buckets from the height of the verandah. 

Heidi was the quiet loud mouth type.  She doesn't stay silent out of shyness, no, this is due to utter social apathy.  Combined with the resultant scowls of disapproval and only talking to her friend in the common language with whom she shares, she's not a welcoming character. Still, after thinking she was a total bowel-movement, I realise she's no specific malice towards anyone, just doesn't give half a rats ass.  Her tall friendly, open legged amiga on the other hand, couldn't be more different.  Chatty and fun normally, right now however, she's now totaled.  She's speaking at a volume necessary to address a Roman army about how much she misses sex.  She has a boyfriend though, but he's back home.  She doesn't miss him so much as the fucking!  THE FUCKING!!  And she seeks a 'sympathetic ear' in me when recounting her voyage just a minute before to room of the German guy, where she wanted to screw him but didn't.  I laugh a little, but know this game all too well.  Hell I knew it was on the cards for a while…you get to be able to tell these things on VERY basic body language when you first meet a person.  I'm no expert, but she was keen, com alcohol, desperate.  She's not gonna be satisfied with just a sympathetic ear.  I decide it's bed time and leave her there with her friend. 

I've no interest in meddling with people who have partners.  I loved someone once, who may not have cheated on me, but I can understand how someone would feel, and logical or not, to inflict (potentially) that much pain on a person, for one drunk orgasm….it's just so far from worth it, there aren't words for the imbalance.

 A Yesterday in the Life

The next day, while chatting to the English girl, ahh yes, now I remember, I went to bed and tried to chat her up.  Sadly when drunk, I become paranoid and sometimes desperately polite (one or the other), so I didn't get anywhere.  Anyway while chatting with her I get more goss'.  Apparently our Dutch friend was trying a fair bit to get amongst the action, her savior being Heidi whom pulled her out of the Germans room much to her resistance.  More than once apparently.  Amazing what a little…well ok, a LOT, of alcohol will do.  The English girl heads off to the beach and I say I'll meet her later.  After doing some inter-netting and breakfasting, I pack up all my gear and make sure it's ok to leave it there while I shop for a Bus Ticket.

Turns out I'm a bit early.  The bus kiosks are either closed or not serving so I go for a walk.  I broke my comb on my dread so I try to go to a pharmacy, but it's closed too. People don't get up early here.  In all of South America it seems, the normal time to eat is 9-10pm and socialising 10-12pm, etc etc.  Chronic sleep deprivation is part of their culture.  Maybe that's why they seem to age so fast.  To them I look in my early 20's, not early 30's.  That's 1/3, guys.  Anyway I go back to the kiosk area.  One has just opened and I go in, much to the disgust of the attendant.  She quotes the price of the bus fare to Montevideo as $315.  It should be like $100.  I ask a few times to make sure I have it right, then, in broken A-Spaniel (Español) I exclaim the ludicrously of her quote to her lying old face. 

I wander back to the back-to-the-packers as a bus unloads and a beautiful, petit, Latin-looking girl steps out and grabs here baggage.  She walks ahead and faster than me, her wheeled black rectangular suitcase bouncing lightly over the odd rocks on the dirt road.  We go either side of a block, but end up at the same place, straight to El Indos backpackers.  She drags her luggage begrudgingly up, loathing each stair to the top of the stairs where she receives a familiar welcome. Wandering in I talk a bit to the guys working there about the price of tickets and confirm it should be about 75 to Montevideo.  They say there's one going at about 1pm.  They say it’ll be easy getting a ticket and I can relax.

I talk to the German guy a bit about the night.  He missed out on sex and is complaining humorously about the Heidi who stopped her friend doing something she'd regret.  He heads off to the beach, and I sit there a while, looking through some sort of jungle-gym-come-lookout structure to the beautiful beaches below. 

Behind me after a time I see the Dutch girls slinking past, I decide no to say much as at least one of them probably doesn't wanna be too much in the spotlight right now.  I grab my towel and go down to the beach.  On the way I see Nicole and Katie walking down the beach.  We exchange a greeting.  They're off to learn how to surf, they say they'll come back later and hang out.  I don't think they will.  They don't.  Honestly, I hoped they wouldn't.

I see the English girl sunbathing.  She's tanned up really…er.. comprehensively.  For some people it's all about tanning up - that's what she's like.  I lie down next to her, now and then having a dip in the ocean - which is really warm.  She doesn't go.  She tells me her brief story of how she was here with some friends, then went off to travel on her own after disillusionment when her mates turned out just to be traveling to drink and have sex with every boy they fancied.  Sounds pretty fun to me.  I was kinda hoping I could have a similar experience with her but I've gotta get to Montevideo.  After a while get up to head back to the packers.  She says she'll be up before I leave, but I don't see her again.

In between the houses near the shore, a sign and a foot-worn path leads back up the steep hill to the Hostel. At the top I go and have a second breakfast with the Dutch Girl.  She doesn't seem too worried about the night before.  There is a sheepish look, but it passes quickly.  She heads off, and I finish the last of my packing.  I have a few moments and I decide to see about that bath I saw when I arrived. Yes, it's definitely there, and as I prepare to do the honorable thing, and take a bath, I notice there's no plug.  Oh, how cute…they think that will stop me.  So cuuuuute!  I look around, thinking…it's a really thin hole, and I want to be able to lie in the bath, so I don't want anything that could be knocked out easily.   Ahh! I garb a candle and a lighter.  While a Mapuche watches in fleeting interest, I light the candle and invert it, pouring the wax into a bottle-cap.  When it's near full I stick the candle in and put it in cold water.  There! I exclaim with a prod broadcast, and disappear into the bathroom.

This is no ordinary bath, and that's what appeals most of all, this is a custom made, high-sided, built-in bath, large enough for me to stretch my legs out (this is a RARITY I can tell you) and wide enough to roll around doing the chicken-dance horizontally -should one want to…and maybe I will.  So when I return, it's with some elation I place the candle-plug into the hole and find it close to filling.  I put it in and pour hot wax over yo fill the gaps.  Then I stick the candle in (for removal later).  MMMMmahahaha. yep.  I climb in and let the water rain down hot and strong.  Now I'd love to have finished this paragraph with something along the lines of: I filled the bath with steaming hot water, and soaked my skin to wrinkle-point and my muscles jellified as every bone re-set itself in sympathy to my sheer, total blissification.  But it was not to be.  The hot water ran out when the bath wasn't even belly-covering height (the internationally recognised height of minimum adequacy for a non-drought, standard, human bath).  Fakanaka (this exclamation of disgust proudly brought to you in association with Marcos Topolanski).  Well, it wasn't too bad.  I stayed a while then dried off slowely to savour the moment and grabbed my gear.

I donate the plug to my 1/2 Danish amigos, requesting they pass it on with the same instructions and create an underground relay to lucky bathers.  I thank the guys working there, bid farewell and grab my backpack. With practiced ease I load up and sling my guitar on.  Out the small door I clang the metal pot on the side of my pack and go down the steps, exited about the next phase in my journey opening up.

I head back out to the bus kiosk area, past the nice houses, the wire fence of the school.  It's just emptying of little cinnamon kids, all curly black hair, and uniformed with huge baggy white shirts (seems to be a nationwide thing here for school children).  They line the fence and walk hand in hand with parents, flooding the turnpike intersection covered in scars of bus tyre tracks.

I see there’s a few old buildings…kinda..that look like oversized dog houses, half collapsing with a sign for a bus company across the street.  Looking all around I ask someone eventually, who points me to 5m away where a nice well built building sits with a HUGE sign in front…yea..well….I didn't see it ok??…

Inside I get the low down from the girl there.   The 1pm Bus is sold out but I can get on the 5pm bus.  That sux.  Anyway as I walk my gear to the fence and sit in the baking sun, surrounded by these weird smurfs, the 1pm bus turns up and a girl directs me to go to it…even though I have been told there's no room on it, I know Uruguay and this part of the world at least well enough to do as she says.  I go up to the driver, show him my ticket and he babbles something with a nod.  A Canadian guy is there and he lends a hand, he says I can get on, but if someone needs my seat I have to stand. BONUS! Remember this one kids, if you ever travel here; get a standing ticket if they say it's booked out.  They won't offer you this, they think it's common knowledge.

Play It Again Sam

So I find a seat, and a guy sits next to me talking on his cellphone.  I don't know how people do it here, they talk on their cellphones for hours! Let alone the battery endurance, how do they pay for it?  It's sooooooo expensive! Like NZ was 10 years ago.  And pretty much still is if you're not on 2 Deg'.  ..meh, Anyway, as he chats away.. I look out at the scene…. and the bus pulls out. ….. Punta Del Diablo.  ……It's really nice, sorry I only got one day amigo, but it was a full day. That's for sure.

I am so happy and content traveling once more.  I really love just sitting back and watching the terrain roll by.  So it's to be Montevideo round 3….. sweet as, bring it on.  Maybe I haven't gone far yet, but I am following the flow, and distance accounts for very little outside of a mental construct..I reassure myself.

Anyway, after a few vaguely recognisable towns shift past the windows with me looking out sideways and watching out the corner of my eye at everyone getting on and off, and I've moved a couple of times to accommodate those who booked seats in advance, I see my quarry.   The fire exit window seat.  A gap opens and I move swiftly to root myself down.  Mucho Bueno.  don't have to move for the remainder of the journey.  ouu there's almost too much room…yeeeees.

Blanca Franco

As I sit and watch the bus fill with passengers, I am delighted to be joined by an incredibly beautiful girl in the seat next to me.  She is quiet at first, but eventually starts talking to me.  That's a nice change; she's the one trying to talk to me.  Now I can't remember her name, but she was wonderful company.  She was a 19 year-old French student of law, whom decided to study in Argentina, and will continue for a few years.  I never did quite understand how she came to decide on Argentina as her place of residence, but it's so interesting to me, to meet someone who's traveling, and at 19, learning Law in a foreign country, by herself.  As predictable, her English is not great, but her Spanish is.  My Spanish is terrible, but we fumble through about an hour of conversation, then, all of a sudden stop.  It was kin of a mutual rest.  I am content, for once, to not try a revival.  Often I do this, just to kind of maintain a feeling of goodwill, or because socially it's strange to stop, but this time it dies, and I decide to let it be.  Whatever the reason we don't speak at all for the remaining 2 hours. I sit quietly looking out the window.  By now the bus is full, all the extras are standing in the isle, and I have all the legroom I could ever want, here in the window seat of the fire-exit row.  Mmmmmm. 

Finally, as dusk approaches, we turn into ever more familiar streets. Back into Montevideo. Hola my old friend.  It's as cosy as Mamas cardigan.  We pull into the terminal and the brakes exhale their yearning, squeaking sigh of relief and the passengers echo with stretches and yawns.  My once-so-chatty companion gets up, steps and looks back quickly to give a short wave and a cut off smile, acknowledging me, and leaves in the slow rustling conga-line of impatient travelers snaking it's clumsy way down the stairs and out of the bus.

Oh yep. Nice to be home.

Sticking It Up The Coast

STICK IT UP YOUR COAST!!

To somewhere and Beyond!

…..and loosing our family Jules….

I sit on the floor in back of the vannette and watch Montevideo shrink out the back window.  The buildings clear off from view to be replaced by the seaside quay highway, and the sun, recently risen over the atlantic dramatizes the shadows as the suburbs come and go, followed by some industrial looking derelict buildings, and past them, by the odd shacks on the outskirts. People who live outside town here live in (mostly) small white houses about the size of a three-car garage with long scraggly grass jumping out here and there, and around the house, fences in various stages of decay searching patiently for the ground, a few hinges thereupon where a gate once may have been.  …or maybe they never got 'round to getting one.   In this culture, it seems, people don't really want to do the small tasks…or any tasks - not to seem critical, but they kinda have this way of doing things like they wish they didn't have to.  You don't often see someone quietly enjoying themselves, trimming their hedge or sweeping their drive.  Rather you might see a shop owner quietly watching the sun move across the sky behind a cigarette or a cleaner quietly sweeping debris with deliberate apathy, ensuring some hotel footpath is free of the six leaves from the tree thats bursting through the old crappy concrete tiles on the footpath has left this hour on said driveway, with a face like she's been doing a job she hates endlessly for 400 years, and as a compliment, her younger counterpart ferrets away at her task of chosen utter importance, such as, getting the dust out of a corner with the mad impatience of someone who thought they should have been a supermodel but was cheated by God, who instead, gave them a frown roughly cast under an angry scowl topped with hair pulled so tight you're almost sure with the right wind it would play a tune of frustrated disappointment.  So the houses without day laborers go un-trimmed and unkept….which I quite like.

As we travel I find a comfy place transverse the floorpan while Jules sits in what appears to be an uncomfortable spot between the seats facing directly back and Katie or Nicole (I cant remember which now) sits roughly opposite.  A conversation in the front pops through now and then with odd incoherent vowel sounds about what we are going to be doing, going staying and eating.  Enrique (or whatever his name is) owns what is very common here, a small while panel van, like a Fiat in the front and a large van-like back with no windows except the two in the large duel doors at the back.  We stop for gas and put in for the ride.  Fuel is very expensive here- about $2 per litre equivalent, and the cars are VERY expensive - about 2-3 times the price in NZ.  Enrique offers us the chance to stay at his friends place, which we agree to, it sounds great.  I don't realise at this stage it's been decided we will stay at Punta Del Esta, which as we drive in, declares itself as the most wealthy place I have yet been in South America.  It's like The Mount (NZ), except everything appears about 5 times more expensive.   The houses, roads and walkways are new, immaculate and very sheik, and we drive past hundreds of seaside homes owned by the rich who vacation here.  This is a tourist hotspot and I am certain I want to spend as little time here as possible.

Jules is meeting up with a friend, so we drop her in a carpark and after a little discussion, head off to Enrique's friends place.  I take Jue's old position and realise it is by far more comfortable than any other, haha, she's no fool.  As we go there Enrique explains it is actually a backpackers, then he explains it is far from the beach.  He says we may not wish to stay, and if not, he's happy to take us somewhere else, because this place may prove expensive.  This seems to be typical here.  People offer you something, then change what they offer, charge money for it or ask you to do something for it.  It was a far cry from the offer he gave us back in Montevideo.  You are constantly reminded that there is no friendship with tourists, even though Enrique is just a person, not a business, and a friend of the girls, like many people here glad to take your charity and offer none, and usually, just try to get more. I find this attitude more than a little annoying, and you get used to confirming things, you have to make them say: It is X much,  it will be X blah blah, and this is simply not something I do.  I don't like asking people for assurances because that is part of the lies social norms ask us to tell:  "Promise me", we say, "what will happen?" , "what time will you get there" etc.  We know no one can predict the future, but we pretend ignorance when someone does not follow their word.  What a stupid joke etiquette is we we are asked to guarantee something.  More accurately, when we are asked to compensate for events not turning out to plan.  What a fear based rational, supporting the attempted control of everything we do everyday.  It should be laughed at as soon as possible.  The statement: "don't just say you'll try!", and similar should be greeted with raucous laughter every time such idiocy is uttered. Because what else is possible?

Bicho's Tariff, Little Dennis and the Big Hypocrite

Anyway as I watch the estates turn sharply to abandoned woodland, we roll into a driveway and exit the car to be greeted by someone called something like "bicho" meaning "bug", which of course sounds far more like something else, but it's a nickname I suppose he'll be comfortable with as long as he remains on the open side of an english speaking prison.  The price will be something like $US 18 per night which is actually the most I've ever had to pay for a backpacker, and I bitch a while before realising the place is really lovely.  There's few hand made buildings on what in NZ would be called a 'lifestyle block' (I have no idea why that name is not responsible for real estate agents getting slapped forcefully on the back of the head every time the spout it -as if it is a description of anything at all… but nevermind).   Surrounding the land are shaggy pine trees and no houses in sight - due to the flat land I guess, but still, it's very nice.  The buildings are made from a straw mix I've seem many times in NZ amongst the eco conscious, and the three of us (Nicole, Me and Katie) are supposed to stay in a large tree house room, with walls that don't quite meet and mosquito nets, a huge pine flanking the inner wall and surrounded by fishing, surfing and diving equipment.  You get to it up a ladder and it overlooks the small cluster of buildings, gardens and land.  Oh, if WE MUST.  It was awesome, we dropped out packs after picking beds and headed to the beach - which was the whole reason Enrique came here in the first place.  Because I was worried about rain, I put my pack in the centre of the room.

At the beach Enrique goes for surf.  At least that's what I think happened, it's been a while since I did all this.  I remember beer was too expensive to be worth buying and also from memory I have a swim with Nicole and Katie - or we think about swimming, but the drop off is too sudden to make it much fun.  Hmmm can't be sure.  Afterwards we take a drive then a walk to a place like a small lagoon where we were lucky enough to see a small turtle lifting his fins out of the water about 3m from shore.  I tried to get a better look, but without success - still, he hung around a while, making the odd dive before departing.  Some of Enrique's mates invite us to a party, but for some reason we couldn't do that.

Anyways eventually it did rain (glad I stowed my pack well) and we returned to find the beds quite damp.  With the rain settling in, we we're moved to where Bicho usually stays.  We get out gear in and clean up - take showers etc, .  The toilet is something else, its huge, and square.  Porcelain, just like a normal toilet, but built ip on a tiled platform and the mouth, once again, just so you get the idea, is SQUARE.  Like 50cm each side.  It has no toilet seat either, rather it has two swinging metal grates that cover the rear portion, like a barbecue grill.  What the hell is with the toilets in this country?…I sob in partial seriousness but also partial humor and delight at the crazy land I have found, -they never work right, never flush assuredly.  People don't flush paper here, no, they have a bin beside the toilet in which you throw your crap covered Picasso…. for later I guess.  I have no idea why everyone agreed it would be a good method of design, but toilets that don't flush here are just essential it seems in every home, dwelling and public facility.  Most of the time, you can't actually get them to pretend to flush, let alone complete the herculean task for which they are designed, so beware attempts to add to the problem with toilet paper.  Bold is the man who tries to flush his paper in his neighbors toilet, for he shall have to face the spitting mouth of the porcelain plunger burp which sprays from the thrones clogged jaws. 

Anyway about this time the power fails and a short time later, Enrique appears and we follow in the darkness to a main building where it turns out the owner is having drinks with friends.  The rain causes power failure here, so we struggle and make a dinner over the gas oven in candle light, and of course, unwritten is that this food will be shared amongst all the waiting.  Fine by me, so why charge me for my room?  I think I made a curry, but don't quote me.  I know we made a mass of food, there was quite a bit left over and we laughed and drank.  However I grew weary of the conversation, traveling with the girls, you have to be happy with the opportunities they are offered to which the same or similar courtesy is offered you, always by men, but it's monotonous how it plays out with the constant attention, conversation and everything directed at them alone because, really, these guys are just horny and like pretty girls as company.  Sure I know it, know the feeling, but get bored of the way it flows.  Conversations are popularity contests at the best of times, wars of ego-attached ideas others, and they sway to the relative social weight of the speaker, so here, it's all just kinda vacuous. Everything the girls mention or talk about is greeted with the interest of hungry dog when the fridge is approached, it's not feverish, just kinda weird considering the content could be about as enthralling as a Marie-Clair column, or a wet dishcloth. Of course dishcloths being far more interesting I know I decide to go to bed.  There's a double bed and a single.  I decide to complain a little humorously about having to sleep in the single bed saying something along the lines of ; I bet I have sleep there huh? Cause you're the girls?  Just a bullshit comment to remind myself I am still the hypocrite I grew up with.  I really don't care about being in the little bed, and I am just as desperate to try to elicit some sort of raised awareness of myself to the girls.  It is this, I would hope to tell you, that convinces me to leave the room, but, it was only a part.  I don't like to see this side of me, sure, but also the conversation was just too boring.  I know the girls getting mugged is a big story for them, but I've heard it 2-3 times a day for the last week almost, - I'm done.

The door to the room is a large sliding wooden stable style slab of large planks joined in a classically rustic fashion led up to by a strangely unbalancing ramp.  I go straight to bed and wait.  Of course it's like traffic, everything is.  Zen and the art of driving in traffic - my next book.  You see If you want to get to your destination the fastest, in motorway gridlock, you use experience (knowing which lanes flow fastest under present conditions and which rout to take), attention (seeing if there's trucks to slow people down, slow/distracted drivers or other factors you can use now) and the most important: cunning (knowing the psychology of drivers, the subtleties of how they drive to clue you into foreshadowing their moves etc) to choose your lane, knowing when to change.  This is useful when you're goal is not amongst the other motorists.  However if you're following someone, if you just want to catch up or get ahead of them, the game changes a lot.  Experience and awareness are the same, but cunning is used very differently.  You see, you can't get ahead of them if they are in the same lane as you, no matter how good you are (within the bounds of not driving through them or intimidation etc - pulling a gun…hmmm).  You have to use experience to tell you how to stay close, but to get ahead, you have to mix it up, you go in a different lane, because, only another lane can put you in front.  Sometimes you choose the most unlikely option, just because, you have to be in it, to win it. So, I go to the room.  I loose nothing, but I open the opportunity.  Funny to watch myself being the same as all the rest, but I know; opportunity is not about what's placed in front of you, we always have the carrot so close we can taste it but not bite, rather, opportunity is about removing obstacles and ensuring your mouth is open each time the carrot swings back, just incase that string breaks.  Sadly, as I lie in bed, the carrot does not break it's tether and I am there until the girls com and I pretend I am asleep to hasten their retirement.  Haha…oouuu

Staying at this place is a little boy named Dennis.  He's not anyone's son, we figure out.  But he helps, make food and hangs out with us, he's about 10.  Turns out Bicho had a group of kids visit as part of a skateboarding event he held once, or competed in, and made friends with Dennis, so he hangs out with the guys.  The canadian girls find this the most amazing story, and I certainly think it's cool.  I find it funny how much we stick to our age brackets with our friends.  Hmm, no more needs to be said I guess.   We are hungry and all the leftover food is gone…no one knows where all the other food went either.  My pumpkin, and other ingredients.  Typical I come to learn, is this attitude.  We are rich right? must be, we're travelers.  So the local should take everything, after all, you're the one who choses to come to THEIR land right?  no need to explain.  Lets all just take what we can!

We planned to meet Jules that night, but things didn't go to plan, and While there, I realise my Laptop is back at the Hostel.  Oh Dear.  I get quite anxious, about that and try to contact the backpackers.  But there's no internet, Enrique lends me his phone and Federico answers, how happy I am happy to hear he has it safe and sound.  It is in my small backpack, which has in it also a lot of other things I need like toothbrushes, notebooks, maps…ahhh….. I was all ready in Montevideo…but I went back inside to use the toilet.  I must have left it somewhere. Idiot! But I'm sure glad it's there with Frederico.

Although we want to go to Cabo Polonia, the ride we're told about (a friend of theirs), wont be going, so we resolve to stay another day.  However the tide turns, and in turn it turns out, we are going.  The Cowboy (I forget his name) turns up.  He's about 40 I'd say, by the 50/50 grey/black hair, heavy eyebrows and a direct manner not unlike a cowboy - plus he always wears cowboy hats.  He's a straight-shooter and I throw my gear in as soon as I have it hurriedly packed.  I know if it's just me who's not ready, patience will be unlikely.  The girls are to whom such extravagancies are permitted.  This is a rule, true as gravity (so yes my metaphysical quantum physics aficionado, it's not without flaws, but such as they are, I cannot observe them in day-to-day life situations).  I will elaborate on latin patience later, suffice I say, it cannot be tempered, even by mother shiva herself.

The Cabo Sand Trap

We pile our stuff in the back of the ute and pile ourselves into the backseat of the cab (5 seater) and head off to anlther place I was recommended before I left NZ.  As the guys inthe front chat to the girls squished up to my right, I watch the fields and country spin by.   That's what it kinda looks like eh?   things lear to you moving fast as if at the outer edge of a spinning plate, while those in the distance barely move, is if at the pivot. They have feilds much like NZ…fewer fences, fewer cattle, fewer sheep, but they do have these awesome palm trees that grow up usually in pairs (joined at the root) at weird and odd angles.  They stick out of the fields everywhere, but dotted, not clustered.  They create an amazingly different feel. Amazing because it's just a few trees, but with them, I am somewhere exotic, somewhere different, I know I am away from NZ, my old life, things I know.  I know this more than if I am surrounded by curiosities and sights of wonder, because here, right before me. is something I know so well, covered with something I've never seen.  It's the royal with cheese, and I love it.  I like the rest, I like traveling, I like Katie sitting next to me….I wish the car ride could last days.  This becomes a common feeling while I travel.  I wish the bus trip, car-ride, etc, to last for days.  When I stop I have to organise where I will sleep, speak another language, weigh up options, count money, but here, in the car, I have everything I came for.  Which was never to see different things or meet different people, nothing like that, I just wanted to be somewhere else, somewhere where I could forget my worries, somewhere different I could return from as say I breather that foreign air.  And as long as I am moving, I am constantly somewhere different.

We get to a town where I go with Nicole to get cash for the petrol.  I do the sums, I know we are paying the total fuel bill….  this ol' chestnut again.  After a brief battle with the ATM, I get money out for the first time on my trip - easy as!  (little do I know this will be one of only a few time this actually goes smoothly).  Katie is at the pharmacy getting some lotion for her bed-bug-bitten-body and we walk up and meet her before piling back into the truck.  I pay up and we head to Cabo Polonia. Back in the car, and once again, my heart-rate syphons down to a gentle steady rest, and I gaze out at the passing scenery in quiet contentment as the conversation I'll never join hushes into the diesel engine background noise….mmmmm

After a turn off the main road to the right, we take another and quickly I find myself grabbing for the nearest hold as the truck bounces, springs and jolts wildly over sand pockets and potholes, as dunes start springing out of the ground around us and rapidly disappear our road and we are gunning through sand, sliding and pitching, drifting , slopping and dropping. We pass a mass of multi-terrain, multi-axel, multi-person carrying vehicles at the entrance to the Cabo Polonia Sand Trap for Tourists.  Surrounding Cabo' is totally sand, and I am glad to be out of the gringo circuit in the back of the Cowboys car.  He hurls the vehicle at the sand with the contempt of an old hand beating out his 600th sword.  Maintaining speed prevents gettin….oh, we're stuck.  Jump out of the car, dig around the back and push and ahwaaaay I jump back in in a flash of genius, because once it's moving, it cant stop again without being back to square 1, Katie and The Bald Dude (I forget his name too) find themselves scrambling onto the back deck and I watch them bounce around back there from the comfort of my now enjoyably uncluttered backseat.  They seem happy.  Hehe.

We roll up to a river with 2 barges, I waiting and one leaving under the weight of a car and some passengers.  We drive up the ramp in ale-op! rush-to-stop maneuver and the girls take a few photos before getting aboard.  As we transverse the fjord the sun in setting and I point it out to the two with cameras, from memory it was spectacular.  The girls will have photos, ask them.

By the time we get to the cowboys house it's night.  On the way we get the pitch again, oh yeah you can stay at our place, for a price.  Its after hours and we were offered a place to stay.  You'd think I'd be clued onto these guys by now.  It's not that I'm complaining about trying to get something for nothing, it's just the assumption that you can take us for all you can get.  Did you pay me for the meal I cooked you last night pardé?  Then the 'negotiation' of price only coming at a time when we have no options, the 'sharing' of expenses, turning out to be 'pay for our trip'.  Its just a reminder, you're not a friend, you're not the friend of a friend, you're not a local, even they get the courtesy, no, you are a fat cow with an udder bursting with milk, bring out the cans!  This ones gonna get a tugging!

The Cowboys house is black amongst the almost totally white village, we arrive late and don't see much.  Our rooms are above the kitchen and communal area in a loft with a floor coated in mattresses.  As all travelers learn, I sort out my bed right away, and then head downstairs where it is decided we will go out for dinner.  The expense is a constant concern of mine, and a background worry I have throughout my trip.  Natural I guess, but something I'd like to leave behind - and usually can, but the consequences here of getting it wrong are different than home - I already know of four people who have been mugged in the last 3 or 4 days in comparison to none in my whole life in NZ.  I know it happens in kiwi-land, but I have actually never met anyone it's happened to, or even heard a single tale of woe on the subject.  We have other motives for crime I guess.  I know plenty of other stories.

C%#& Conversations, Chauvinism  2011

At the bar, the vege options are grim at best.  A toasted sandwich, which will set me back about $10 comes out…two pieces of white bread, cheese in the middle.  Yay.  And a couple of beers to help me forget that.  The guys are in full swing and there's a p*&^y party raging across the table, all eyes face front.  I sit and brood, try to relax but it's just so tedious.  I can be an arrogant c#$% sometimes, I know this, and tonight I am sick and tired of the fukkers with whom Im surrounded.  But here I am in Cabo Polonia, I didn't have to figure out how to get here, didn't have to catch a tourist bus, didn't have to arrange accommodation…traveling with the girls has its benefits.

The conversation however draws ever closer to initiating my homicidal hyde as I try to joke in spanish: "spooning leads to forking", I just want to have a laugh, they may not have the saying here, why not learn a silly thing to say to lighten a mood, but queue a chiming in Nicole "yeah if the guy has anything to do with it it will"…..and it was not said in jest, the roll of the eyes, the coupling header and footer additional statements not mentioned here……now I'm pissed off.  I didn't like the vacuous conversation to begin with, just 4 hungry wolves salivating over the red riding hoods, but adding this……  I say something moronic in response.  Still what she said boiled my blood, this after she stayed up one night and told me she's really love to see what happens if she stops playing "the Game" as she calls it.  Ok cool, we're all growing up here, me included, but….I don't wanna hear somethings I guess…..like how it's expected for a girl to hold out the carrot, play around…I know, I know the other side of it too…but it's all getting to me …..does honesty even appear in the mix of offal  with which you've filled your mind to the point of bursting cerebral vomit all over a stupid joke and all the listeners?  (I hear my christian childhood judge-mentalism feeding well on my hatred - the power of the dark side is strong in this one…)……but I am sick of the chauvinism that's so popular it's social suicide to dispute it…hmmmm. 

It's also frustrating to realise it just does not matter where you are in the world, you are still you, filled with the same crap, around the same kind of people that you could avoid in your homeland, except travel pushes you to interact with them, because choices are limited and plans change, you can argue convincingly just how great that is….if you still believe in self-improvement.  I don't.  Self-improvement shows non-acceptance of present self - and you have to love that now.  But right now, I'm no zen master and it's clear in the foreign land, language has become my shroud to disguise whatever it is I do not like to accept amongst the other humans with whom I spend my time…who are not my friends either, and also, who would think the same as me. 

But its also a bit silly, knowing I am playing into the war too by saying all this, and that Nicole is actually a wonderful girl, and I know it.

ok my rant is over

The next morning I walk around a bit, take a look at the sunrise.  Its spectacular here, from the roof of the house, I see we are on a piece of land forming a point, with a lighthouse in the logical place, beaches either side, and about 100-200 small white buildings all trying to look like each other forming a picturesque holiday-ish  community.  There are hammocks down at the front of the house and before I rest in one I try to walk around in bare feet to see where I am, but am abrupty podally impailed by what must (I am sure) be a razor-bladed saw at which time I am enlightened the thin green layer of what appears to be grass is actually made of the open jaws of sharpened-toothed crocodiles….or maybe…no, it's thorns.  Either way, you can't take a step without getting your flesh ripped apart.   well, kinda stabbed b a really small thorn, but it DOES hurt.    ..really!     …sniff…you're not listening...

The main attraction here seems to be the lighthouse, which is not interesting to me at all. They're not really that exiting people, why do you travel for miles to see a thin white bulding with a giant light at the top right by a cliff and the water goes SMOOOSH! and and…ok I get it.  Anyway this time I don't give a hairy gorilla sphincter. The girls and take walk along the cliffs edge,  - the houses here have no fences and are just built on pieces of rock, the remains of where houses once sat, and we go through and around in a scrambling slow scurry weaving through front yards and backyards and large smoothish boulders bordered by paths.  At the lighthouse I stare a while at what look like seals, but which, I am assured, are not seals, rather, they are sea wolves.  A name for which they don't know in English, however are equally sure "seal" is incorrect -despite every description of their concept of seals being that of walrus or sea lion and every description of the sea-wolf being perfectly that of a seal. Oh yep.  Anyway I can't be bothered paying the 2 pesos it costs to go up the lighthouse, just to see a view, so after watching the seals…sorry, 'Sea-Wolves", a bit, we wander towards the village centre.  Here we encounter Don Juan (I forget his name) - the old man that visited us for dinner the night before who the girls describe as an absolute sleaze.  He, as many men do here, kisses the girls hello and does all but sit on me out of sheer lack-of-awareness before telling the girls one more time how he is single, and he thinks they are beautiful etc etc.  He's supposed to be making a special dinner for us tonight.  Great - actually I like the idea, except I know it will be full of meat, and I'm the only vegetarian here.

While in the centre we find a backpackers and Nicole enquires to check the going rate.  It's half what out Cowboy 'friend' is charging us.  Considering we have to take tepid showers under a bucket with holes, after warming the water on the fire, no power, internet  etc, I get a wave of resolve to vamoose.  The Cowboy and co and supposed to be going to Santa Catarina soon, apparently where we can camp for free and that is what I need to save some cash. While we're here we try to find a doctor for Katie as she is still having problems with her bites, and in typical fashion, everyone says they know where to find one, but direct us to closed doors and dead ends.    We go to the beach but it's a bit windy, so we don't swim.  Backpackers arrive like a slow leak from the dunes towards the north, where apparently you can walk to the outside.  Cabo Polonia is a bit like an island, water on one side, sand on the others.

I go for a walk up the beach leaving Nicole for a while but return when I see a guy there with her.  The night before she told me all about how girls get harassed here by the guys so I worry a little for her.  But he turns out to be quite nice and Nicole is quite enjoying it.  I ask her about it when she leaves and she explains that she just doesn't like Don Juan, I mean, look at him! hes old and fat…. mmmmmm.  It's all about who has the weight.  The weight of beauty, wealth and charisma….the power.  He was old, so he should know.  I thought he was a total sleeze, but, that's not a problem if you're pretty.   uhhh I don't want to go into this again

Nicole tells me she was warned the guys here in south America are very chauvinist and the best idea is for the girls to say they have a boyfriend, because even though they might not respect you, the men here will respect another man.  So that is what she does.

Coke & Carne

Anyways we go to a shop to get some stuff, I try to stay on the fair side of contribution, but I don't want the expensive cheese and Nicole buys that herself.   I choose to buy some water, it comes in a 6 litre bottle. kinda huge….It's quite different traveling when you're getting money each week, instead of having a store of cash.  When you have savings, you can't say "I've got no money" when things are too expensive, or when you have to lever someone into fronting up, no, this is a luxury only I have.  But  if you get money each week like I do, you also aren't spending money you've worked hard to get, on the other hand you can't buy expensive things to make your journey cheaper, solar powered electronics, better clothes…. a car.  This is a luxury of choice I don't have.   I also have to send in work to university, this means I don't really have the freedom or tourist ease about my choices.  I also have that pressure as a background stress.  I find it forever interesting (and confusing) just how the economics work amongst travelers.

In the evening, dinner preparations are started early, The alcohol is flowing, I'm on the sauce and Don Juan is trying to put on his best treat.  I converse a little with his friend who seems very interested in where I come from.  I have not encountered a single NZ traveller since over-hearing the tell tale rounded vowel accent amongst a family of inattentive travelers trying to figure out what they were doing in the Buqeubus terminal during my second day in South America, and not only am I happy about that, but it seems most people I meet are too.  You get a lot more lee way and less prejudice when no one knows just where the hell you are from.  Even their maps can't seem to agree between themselves on the spelling - or pronunciation I guess:  Nuevo Zeelandia or Zeelanda?  I don't give a fuk, it's a stupid name anyways, at least Aotearoa, regardless of how you translate it, seems to be a name for the land, with a story of appreciation for the land, rather then a, "oh this is just like Rob's place eh?" kind of belch of a name we commonly use.

At some point the girls convince The Cowboy to let the use his internet - There's internet here??! and I follow them to The Cowboys room, which it turns out, is a plush new spacious areas, twice the size of the whole other part of the house, nicely furnished and not cheaply made.  Katie and I wait while Nicole Facebooks and I chat briefly with her about her life and Felipe (with whom she hooked up in Montevideo).  I bring up delicately that I have found it a dicey path, having an open relationship with someone (because she has told me about her boyfriend).  The conversation grows more and more awkward until both she and katie stop talking and look at me with scowls of the  very confused and I stop talking….Nicole just says she will chat to me later.  The Cowboy leaves and I nurse my liquor while Katie uses the computer and Nicole explains, she was confused because she thought I was playing into her little game of pretending she has a boyfriend in front of The Cowboy, and slowly I realise this isn't just something she does with guys who are dropping moves on her, it's part of her conversations with all men.  She told ME she had a boyfriend…I never even looked at her…..well maybe…. hmmm….time to freshen up my drink.

Anyway and after patiently waiting, I quickly send Jules a message asking her about her plans, because she said she was going back to Montevideo after Punta del Est, maybe she could grab my computer? I also find out the perfect boy Mica was going to see decided in Argentina turned out to be a false alarm somehow and she's feeling terrible - she's sent me a message asking me to come visit her in Montevideo where she will be soon.  Meanwhile The Cowboy comes in, and, I am using his computer, suddenly we have to finish up, it's hard for him to use power out here as he has to run the generator.  Hmmmmm, the play….the play.  Get what you can eh?  I choose …….else.

Back in the kitchen the frivolity is building up, and the smell of cooking flesh fills the nostrils - I cant remember what I ate, but I think  cooked afterwards or something, and there's an amicable feeling about whatever I've forgotten left in my mind wherever the memory of it should be.  I believe we get drunk, and the meal is served while the others rave, and the night draws on.  I think I went to bed soon after asking to where Don Juan had vacated and receiving the reply of, "to snort some cocaine and go f$%^ his girlfriend, the woman to which he has been referring most emphatically when speaking with the girls, certainly is NOT his girlfriend, and they shouldn't believe what The Cowboy tells them. Not that he has.

The next morning i get up again to watch the sunrise from the roof and do whatever it is I like to do in the mornings before everyone has gotten up.  Yea, I said gotton/ gotton, gotton, gotton.  Go eat some cotton.   …I… sit in the hammocks and eventually the others awake get up etc, and sometime during the day, the Chubby guy (can't remember his name), a local student I think, about 20, convinces us to go with him to the lighthouse, and that it really is worth a look.  The girls laugh at my retelling of Don Juan's night and just to where he disappeared.  At the lighthouse we go up a mysteriously long twisting spiral of stairs, punctuated by porthole windows previewing the view awaiting once the top is reached, "ONWARD!"UNTIL I AM DIZZY FROM RUNNING TOWARDS THE SKY!" (if you bought the $29.95 'dramatic' edition forwarded by Stephen Fry, otherwise read: 'I went up the stairs').  At the top I can't help delaying the view just a moment to climb still further up into the light cavity and see the huge bulb and mechanics.  A whole building etc, built around a filament about 4" across.  Hmmm, so much light comes out of that……. - is the conversion of movement to light not a fantastically improbable commonality?  Movement is transduced in to electrical current, which is phenomenal at least, then, with the right resistor, turned into light!  That really amazes me.  We don't know just what the hell any of these things are - we can describe a bit about movement, but  know nothing much at all other than a few observations of light - but we can make one from the other! We get the electricity to do it, and that technology is over 100 years old.  Amazing.  BTW don't believe that propaganda that Edison did it first.  The only thing he ever invented was the gruesome electric chair - a terribly designed, blunt instrument delivering a torturous death, if you were lucky, over a long period of time during which you almost certainly would be lucky enough to watch yourself exploding, bit by bit, sizzling and catching on fire, while you scream and burn and the public sit comfortably and watch the show, an invention he made from westinghouse AC generators to try to prove how dangerous they were so he could sell more of his DC generators.  Well done to him. An asset to science, if we ever had one. Hope the money made his coffin extra comfy.

Anyways the view actually is really awesome, and the township is beautiful from this vantage point.  You can't just come and build a house here, no, it is strictly controlled who, how many, and what kind of people live here and exactly how their houses look.  The two beaches are not overcrowded, as tourist season ended with carnival. This  blessed piece of information to which I was enlightened came shortly before much exuberation from me.  The fewer tourists, the lower the prices, friendlier the service and more enjoyable the attractions. So much for not being a tourist.  Back at the Lighthouse the girls snap a few photos.  We can even pick out a pod of dolphins from up there.  We stay quite a while looking around.  The dotted line of tourists bubbling up from the sand still drips into the town, rich crude for the economy.

We roll out of the lighthouse and eventually down to the rocky shore around the point.  I look a little for pretty pieces of sea sanded glass and shells Katie seems to like.  At the entrance to the next bay the Dolphins are still playing, and I ask if the girls wish to swim with them.  I have been lucky enough to do this many times in NZ, but the girls never have.  They, to my utter confusion, choose to not.  I really didn't expect that.  I would have liked to see their reaction, because I f&^%n love it!  I just can't fathom why they aren't interested.  Anyway The Cowboy told us the night before he plans to leave at 11am or something so we head back.  And seeing the time I pack quickly.  The girls and I were offered tents by the Cowboy, though I have one, I think it's really nice of him. The girls have learned fast though, and I remind them to ensure the tents are aboard, they do, and it's all packed up ready for them.  When the girls are ready, we leave, back in the truck Santa Teresa bound, hitting the sand once again like a clumsy greyhound after a rabbit and bullet straight through this time, no hitches.  We get to the sealed road, and then, head left and North, up the highway.

Back to the car ride……     …….ahhhhh……….

Santa Clause

We arrive at the national park of Santa Teresa in the north of Uruguay and drive in after a short conversation The Cowboy has with the military guys manning the entrances.  We drive past old castle like colonial period buildings and a few campers amongst water features and cobble-stone paths.  It's far more built up than I had expected.  And we drive on, quite a distance to wooded campgrounds where Nicole exclaims, "Shut-up, the have PHONES???"….yep.       As we roll slowly now into a camping area near the coast, I for one at least, am surprised we see some friends of ours we met in Punta Del Est -Bicho and a few of his mates are camped there.    So we are dropped off and decide to camp up with them.  The Cowboy and bald guy (can't remember his name) say they'll be back in a couple of hours.  Somehow I don't think I'll be seeing them again. 

Well, I set up my tent after much deliberation, trying to find a spot, going from space to space, tree to tree….thinking of all the factors, rain, comfy ground, flatness, where drunk people will be taking a piss, where the fire wind will blow, ……where I'll be far enough away from anyone else I could bring company without noise interference…and vice versa…and where intuition directs.  And the girls find the toilet.  Another advantage traveling with girls is they always know exactly where the best toilet is.  Well we head to the beach with the guys after that.   I sit and watch them surf from the point car-park where some hippie vans are sitting and some girls are filming surfing.  After a while the Canadian girls head down to the beach, and then, after oogling the surfer girls a while longer, I head down to join my travel compadrés.  I have a swim and a chat, and a lie in the sun.  Nicole is enjoying swimming quite a lot and heads back into the waves.  After a while I do too.  Katie's togs have the un-nerving habit of popping open exposing her left nipple, usually right when your discussing something of critical importance, completely unaware she though she is, I eventually I decide to have another swim.  It's just distracting.

Afterwards we return to camp and then go searching for supplies, but because the tourist season finished a few days ago, the supermarket is shipping out.  Yep there was a supermarket.  Im a little surprised tourist season is so sharply marked,  but now alls that's left is pasta, and cheap liquor.  And I mean cheap liquor.  Like $10 for a litre of 40%.  But no fruit or fresh veggies anywhere.  I know all I need is some potatoes, curry powder and butter to be pretty happy, but they have none of those.  I grab a bottle of cheap Grappa and some pasta.  Back to camping life and I cant find a toilet open.  I stand a while looking at bolted door and deliberate taking a dump on the doorstep.  Seems appropriate, if you wanna lock me out, I shall leave you a gift to encourage you to re-consider your approach…but I refrain, as crapping outside is a process that can get messy unless you take off your pants, and I do not wish to be happened upon by a local while in such a comprimise.

At the campsite the girls have given up on their tent bag and are planning to share with some of the guys who are friends of Bicho.  Apparently it's impossible to open. I ask if I can have a go at it, and am consequently replied with a somewhat "whatever, why do you think YOU can" look, and assured it's rusted shut and there's no point trying, and I feel, an implied attitude that I am arrogant to ask.  But I just don't like it when things are not attempted fully, I mean, I like to give everything a shot you know? And the zips are plastic, so…I just don't think they've rusted, but I say nothing, other that that I just wanna give it a try. I think sometimes people give up way to early.  Anyway I open the bag then I tell them quietly, just in-case they really would rather stay in the other guys tents.  You can't assume things you know, everyone likes a cuddle.  But they, it turns out, want to use the tent.  I ask about the other tent and they say it's just a tarpaulin.  Really? I take a look and realise they just think it's a tarpaulin because it has been rolled up.  The bottoms of almost all tents are tarpaulin material and I pull it out to show them it is actually a tent.  They choose to sleep together in one tent however, and use the other as a groundsheet….well kinda, they fold it in half and slide it under their tent so it lies roughly in a line in the middle across the top.  Hmmmm. OK.  The girls casually mention they don't think The Cowboy & co. are coming back. Nah, not bloody likely I laugh.

I like camping, I play guitar, cook and drink up my cheap booze (that really tastes god-awful) -it's great.  I don't manage to even make a dent in the rum though and no-one else even wants to touch it.  I eventually scroll of to my green dormitory, ahhhhhhh I have my own place again.  I am free again, just me an' me tent, - traaaanqulity.  As I dust off my alerts, Curly Joe (I forget his name) cuts in to ask for the liquor.  I give it to him, but am left quite put out he comes into my tent after hours to ask for alcohol.  I have had enough of being seen as a wallet.

Anyways the next morning,  I emerge just before dawn and rush to the sunrise over the atlantic about 200m from our campsite, down a road lined with nice matching cabins.  Closer to shore, there are more expensive looking holiday batches, also matching.  Some holidaymakers remain.  Past the shop I go to a carpark I sit on the small rockwall by the ocean watching my best friend returning to warm me up.  ahhhhh.

Afterwards I stop by the store and see things are spass here too, no potatoes, and the liquor is $88 pesos!  That's like $5 for a litre of 40%.  Sheiß, it must be…er… Sheiß!  Good to know though.

To summarise I spend my days here chilling out, There's even a power outlet in the campsite and I can charge my phone, but bit by bit, despite enjoying the lifestyle, it weighs on me that I need to get back to my laptop.  And the more time I spend with the girls, the more judgmental I am getting, getting sick of the conversations with Katie -like the one regarding weight distribution in a backpack.  I explain my tent is a mess because my sleeping bag is always at the bottom, why? because it's the lightest, and I try to put the weight as high as possible.  Things are easier to carry when the weight is high.  The answer to this is an emphatic "no way, it's best around your middle"….now I'm caught in a strange conversation.  I know current thought is that is best, and backpacks are now being designed that way.   But I have lived out of a backpack for a few years now, and happen to know it's bullshit, and that's no big deal right? Unfortunately, no.  You see, there's a a cultural gap here, or something of the sort,  and it just doesn't go well.  I try to explain that the reason we balance up on 2 legs, is due to the same principle, and I read once our head is about a quarter our bodyweight and it takes up just an eighth of our body-length, making it relatively heavy, so we stick it up straight, making it easy to carry.  Now I don't know if it is THAT heavy, but the principle is true.  She just gives me a "no" and a shake of her head with a small disgruntled popping laugh.   I mean, if you even think about it for a moment it's clear, you don't see nomadic peoples carrying weight on their midriffs, no they balance it on their heads, and despite the twists of a backpack, I've carried enough to know….nevermind. It really doesn't matter a damn to me if I'm right or wrong, it's just the subtext.  Obviously I am a know-it-all.  

Uhhh one of THOSE conversations again.  I find it happens a lot in my life, only with some people, but there's this social etiquette of not telling people what you think if it is too different from the widely accepted, and if you do, you should know that by deviating so far from the common, advertised opinion (queue background music "the revolution will not be televised"), you should expect to be laughed at and treated as an annoyance and a fool. I try a smile-for-the-best, you know, the kind of smile you do when you want someone to know you're not trying to be a contradictive dick? Well I try but give up.   My hearts not in it.  I decide not to talk any more.   However for you readers who may find it useful one day, if you want a good backpack, try one of the old backpacks with external frames, they put weight right up by your head and there's a gap between your back and the pack so you don't get too sticky and hot.  They're awesome and so easy to carry.  I think the're the best,.  If you see one, buy it for me will ya? Pay ya back.

The showers here were hard to locate at first, but when I found them, they were cold.  I tried all the showers, some had heads, some did not, and I smelt a conspiracy…so I turned them on one by one and found slightly warm water coming out of a headless cubicle, naturally, furthering my investigations I found the warmest water and ripped the head of a cold one and shoved it on the warm one, and had a tepid, but at least not cold shower.  Back at the campsite I learn Nicole and Katie tell me they had cold showers.  I realise my approach to life of making things work for me, definitely changes my experience, quite a lot.

A few days pass of songs and fun.  I continue teaching Katie guitar and write some lesson stuff down for Nicole too.  I really enjoy that. The girls are kind enough to say that I should be a teacher sometime, that I enjoy it and teach well.  I know I do.  But it's nice to hear….   Still, what makes someone anything?  If I am teaching, then I am teaching.

I meet some Argentinian guys who also play guitar, and although the girls invite them over for dinner, they never come.  Life is good here, but I need to get back, get my computer in Montevideo, see Mica, and, adding to my conviction, I have had enough of my company. I have now begun referring to Nicole as 'the princess', which is childish and condescending to say the least, a behavior which I hate to see in myself.  Katie and I keep getting into these awkward arguments.  She seems to be really quite over talking to me.  Its very much a kind of cultural rift, I think, but I don't believe they would agree.  I can see we're getting more and more sick of each other day-by-day, and I watch myself becoming an arrogant ass……..and I don't like that.  So I make up my mind to leave. 

Pleased my tent was places strategically away from the dawn light (not nice when you're baked out of you tent in the morning I have learned) the next morning I sleep in.  I decide to cook a dinner that night and we invite the Argentinian guys who respond with a counter offer.  They've been talking about their electric stove for a while now, which I decide must mean a gas stove with an electric ignition.  I have also had the misfortune of being told the park is supposed to cost $5/day.  Another one of these typical, oh by the way, this thing that we said was free actually isn't kinda situations.  Whatever, I decide, they don't know who I am anyway, they have only The Cowboys details.  Adding to my inducers of contentment, I've bottle of cheap rum, and come nightfall we all sing and play guitar on into the the darkness as usual.  I head over to the argentinian camp and here's Klutz (I forget his name, but he looks german) trying to boil water some device of extreme electrical dodgyness, the kind of which I have never before seen.  It plugs directly to mains, and theres an old, yellowing wire (you know those old duel core ones that look like a licorice strap) running to a kind of bud…not a light bulb bud, rather, like a plastic appendage, like the base of a flower.  He's dunking this thing in the water, occasionally removing it when his circuit breaker pops and squeals. and the lights flicker…  yeah, …..really not the best set up.  I try to tell him it's probably not a good idea, assuming he wishes to remain amongst the breathing, and that we have a good dinner they're welcome to back at our campsite, or even if they wish, to use our fire, but ol' Klutz is stubbornly keen on making his gadget work.  okaaaaay good plan my soon-to-be-dead amigo.  When they do the autopsy they'll find a partially deformed brain (I figure), an empty stomach, and his pot flash-welded to his head.  Maybe a cluster of exit wounds on his feet (smelling of fried eucalyptus) -the leaves which cover the ground here. Ironically I believe he is the only thing likely to be cooked that night in his camp.  I'm sure it'll break up the otherwise boring drudgery of the job for the autopsy-ists (or whatever they're called), usually prying through the hours finding cancer growths in amongst tired old corpses and coke bottle-caps lodged in fat deposits of the morbidly obese.

So anyways I go back to our campsite and play guitar some more.  I get Katie started on some open tuning fun-ness which she seems to love.  The guitar is so often butchered by rules and convention, it ruins it for players - and following on, anyone else, because we all miss out on another person playing one of the greatest instruments of all time better due to these stupid ideas handed down from musical Ox-headed idiots.  Ideas like Barr chords and standard tuning.  The guitar was never tuned this way originally, and it makes it counter-intuitive.  Most guitarists are forever paralysed by the restrictive nature of this convention probably brought about by some piano-brained bandleader who wanted backing.  This is just NOT how the guitar works best.  People who try to conquer the guitar, due to this oppressive idea, end up like fierce warriors of the string, chiseled by the relentless mounted upon which they are fixated, but, because they have had to fight so hard to win so many battles, they bear scars of ingrained tension and/or mechanical-ism.  The guitar is an instrument requiring fluidity, and relaxation.  The difficulty of popular guitar method makes the dedicated masters of the instrument, but completely forgotten is the reason why they started, and why we even have instruments.  They are to connect, to get out that emotion, to reflect our inner humanity and, maybe, exalt,… just a little.  One good way to throw away this baggage of the theorists is to tune the guitar so simply, it is no longer very relevant to think of where to put your fingers, and what to do.  It become obvious.  You stop having to struggle and concentrate on technique, you can put your awareness more towards that middle point, that zen moment…where your ears and fingers enter into a relationship with each other, melding with your mind to channel, and express that human energy and expression that makes your body hair stand up, your heart zap and jive a little and your abdomen glow.  I sometimes tune every string to the same note if I have to, just to throw out the fixed positions of standard tuning, the hand moving in the same way it always did, the same chords always fitting with the same others…..keys and other crap.  Yes I know keys will still be relevant as long as the frets are fixed (which they didn't used-to-be BTW), but at least I'm throwing out as much as possible of that crap that depresses guitarists, and makes many loose hope.  "I always play the same things", they say, "I just cant seem to feel free", and "I'm so sick of the way I play".  These are all sad laments born of a cuckold method of tuning and technique, killing peoples potential everywhere. 

Aaaanyway…. Eventually Klutz and co. realise they are going to go hungry and they try to light a fire, which they seem utterly unable to do, poor guys.  I go and gather a few bits a pieces of wood and get a fire going, and they cook their meal.  It's nice to be able to help, I by no means am an expert, but 'round here, at least for this night, I'm useful.  haaha cool.  But this is my last night at the campsite, and after hanging out with Klutz and Fatonio (not the correct name, forgot it too), Klutz's friend, teaching guitar and playing songs, getting drunk etc, I retire to my green castle. 

The Castle, The Half Jack and the Sand to Diablo

I wake early in the morning and watch the sunrise.  Then quickly pack my things before heading off.  I don't need to see anyone else here anymore.  My plan is to walk to the main road and hitch to Punta Del Diablo.  I've heard it's lovely there, so I wanna stay there a night and then hitch down to Montevideo.  But it's a much longer walk than I'd expected.  With my 17+Kg pack, and guitar, in the north Uruguay quasi summer morning heat, the workout, I hope, will endure only until the highway.  On the way I pass an old colonial war era castle, a strategic outpost of another age, when this wasn't a campsite for beer swilling tourists and surfers, the elite and their scavengers like me. From a time when you lived near the ocean to see which ships pass, and on a hill to see the enemy approaching, and you lived in a castle complete will cannon holes, turrets and a concealed rear gate, just in case.  I kind of wish I had seen more sights while I was here, but, nevermind.  

As I step along the road I begin to wonder about what I was told, about the park being $5 per night.  Then I see the military post by the exit and I begin to worry.  Now if I'd kept walking and not thought about it, all would probably have been fine….but I let worry get the better of me and became preoccupied.  By the time I was there at the gate I saw someone talking to the guard and I actually went up to him to talk.  Bad idea.  I'm from NZ, and I'm used to being able to explain myself….idiot.  Anyway for the sake of $5 he would not let me leave, I had to get a receipt from some guys in some building near where I had started the walk.  It was a long and hot, annoying walk, and I tried to pay him in cash, I tried to get out, but he wouldn't allow it.  I could have lied, I could have just said I hadn't used the campground, but I had. I asked if I could leave my backpack there and go back, but he wouldn't even let me do that.  That's when I lost my good will.  I got angry, screw them then, I can walk down the beach, they can go f*&k a dead goat.  So I walked back.

On the way I got to see more of the castle.  I walked around it to have a look.  It was closed up, but still cool to inspect.  Kinda big looking, but small in actuality if you catch my drift.  Like it had loads of small turrets, the kind of style you might expect a few men to be able to stand in and shoot arrows out of, but these were about 1m from top to base.  You might fit a snarling Chihuahua or angry fighting monkey in there at best.  Still it was nice and there was another statue nearby…..of…yep.. a horse-dude.  It's just all about the guys on horses here.  I hope on day in a few millennia, aliens arrive here and find the remnant of an old civilisation ruled by horses who carried around little bald male monkeys bearing arms and wearing hats to protect them and point things out in the distance, like hunting dogs.

I go back to the campsite to rest a bit, and tell the guys what had happened (they were awake by this time).  They said they were about to leave, and I asked them if I could catch a ride out to the front gate on the back of their pickup.  They weren't sure.  The girls were going…..yep.  I'm sure it would have been soooooooo hard to let me sit on the back for 5 minutes.  Anyway, fuk 'em, no I'm not a pretty girl surrounding a v@&!#@, so why help eh? Drink my booze, eat my food I made for you, but make any effort? -not that they even had to do that.  They said the guards might recognise me, even though they were going out a different gate, even though I only wanted a lift TO the gate, fuk it, fuk these latino's, I'm better off on my own anyways.  So I swing my pack up and hoist it on my back, sling my guitar over my shoulder and head off down the road.  I'd heard you can walk to Punta del Diablo via the beach, and that's exactly what I'm gonna do.  It was supposed to be about 4km from the park (though where we were at the northern end, more like 5) and I figured it's just a matter of one foot in front of the other until Punta Del Diablo comes to me.  Shouldn't take me all day.  Later bitches.

I'd seen a sign that made me think there was a river just to the south and I could take a bridge over it by going along some inner roads in the park.  Then I could walk down to a bay and hit the beach from there.  I had a Half Jack of cheap rum in my guitar bag, so as I stomped off, I listened to the birds and drew in the scenery of the quiet, mainly eucalyptus bush lined small roads and had a few swigs.  Sweet as.

I asked for directions, sometimes but no -one knew shit.  There was a worker hiding behind a pile of rubble, looking like a homeless man making sure he didn't.  He said a mild hello when greeted, I tried to ask him about the bridge, but my spanish is pretty much non existent, so after a bit of confusion I bid him a good life and carried on,  - it should be simple.  I looked everywhere for a roadside map -the 'YOU ARE HERE' type, because it was a park, and there were some.  Unfortunately there were old roads and new roads, no 'you are here' markers and it was confusing.  Not one sign was clear enough to actually tell you where you were, other than close to the big blue area, which was probably the ocean, so I figured I was somewhere near it.  Great.  Still don't know at all which direction anything is.  This is a typical thing here, for example, I was at an intersection of 3 roads, from where I could see another intersection a short distance away.  The sign next to me, with a huge map, showed an intersection of 4 roads only.  I was a little drunk yes, but I stood there for at least 10 minutes trying to figure out just where the hell to walk, before giving up and just heading towards where one of the roads depicted a bridge.  So long as I'm heading south, Punta Del Diablo is heading towards me. 

As I walked down the main road, I chanted silently the description I had said to myself back when I was near the campsite, back when the way was clear, "two roads left, then on through the bridge…two roads left, then on through the bridge…"  and I stuck to it.  I saw a sign off the main road on a small backroad more densely covered in bush of a bridge symbol and went down that way (well up that way really, 'cause it was a hill).  I wanted to go over a bridge, and there was one here, …should be right.  I passed the bridge and the road rose up more steeply, exposing hints of a beautiful view over the beach behind me and to my left.  As I walked the bush cleared to reveal a small community of people and empty batches.  Lots of symbols of the national park on signs and posts.  Like Government brand graffiti. .  A few people stared at the big 'ol Gringo with a backpack and a guitar trodding by, and I stared right back at their beautiful tucket (that's a new word for: small communited tucked away somewhere).  I thought of hitching as the off car passed, but I was really enjoying the peaceful walk and seeing this part of the land.  I would never have seen this area or paid any attention to it had I not been walking. 

After a Km or so the community, with it's oxidised cream painted buildings and gawking kids was behind me and the road was rising up to the ridge crest.  I knew I wanted to get to the beach, though I was't sure I could get there by going on the road that headed down the spine of the ridge towards the high rocky point.  As I stood at the intersection.  A military car passed me and I pretended to walk towards the gate, then, when it was out of sight, I turned and walked back towards the ocean.  At the end of the road was a carpark, and beyond that,  a steep descending series of tracks, one of which I hoped, would take me down past the rocks to the shore.  I got the right one and poked my head out of the rocks near the shore of the next beach.  A few local youths were sunbathing and trying their best to give each other a good impression.   They briefly watched me in confusion as I slipped in and out of view behind the huge sandstone rocks near the exit of the path.  I eventually got down to the shore and the soft sandy beach. 

I looked down to the end of the curving bay, some 3km away I guess, in the haze of the distance, was probably Punta Del Diablo.  I took a few swings of rum, HO!