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.