Brazil, and não falo Portuguese

PORTO ALEGRE, RIO GRANDE DO SUL, BRAZIL - 4th February 2010

It's never a comfortable experience to have one's passport taken away from you, but what with not being able to speak a word of the language and the general nodding faces of all the bus company's staff around me, it seemed I had little choice when checking into my intercity coach from Montevideo up to Porto Alegre last night.

Even before this stage it had been a pretty grim journey - after a cheap but nice, albeit fairly rushed dinner with Oli and Becca I had to take on an absolute deluge of rain getting back to my hostel, and had just enough time to ram random pieces of clothing into my bag before running back downstairs to grab my taxi. Except that downstairs in the pouring rain, no taxi awaited. Figuring it was a total waste of time to head all the way back upstairs with bags and all, I just took on the downpour for a few more minutes and eventually got hold of a new cab... and once again got charged a handsome "gringo" excess rate for what should have been a US$2.50 journey.

My first experience of proper intercity bus travel in South America was, however, a resounding success - the seats are big, spacious recliners with legs rests that fold out, and the journey includes a plate of dinner with sandwiches, fruit juice, yoghurt and dessert. Given the crap I managed to sleep in in Australia, I was out like a log as soon as the grub was down my throat.

I woke briefly at some ungodly hour when, much to my confusion, I was handed back my passport to find SALIDAR - URUGUAY and ENTRADA-BRASIL stamps lodged inside. No face-to-face, no nothing. But at that stage I was off with the fairies so didn't give it a second thought.

Heading out of Montevideo at breakneck pace is not, thankfully, part of some aimless travel plans, but the second stage of a surprisingly well planned trip up through south-eastern Brazil to get to Rio de Janiero by about the 12th February, both to meet up with Anna, and of course for Carnaval. Porto Alegre, as well as being perfectly located en route, was chosen for a stop thanks to a generous offer from Paulo, one of my Dad's colleagues at CVCI and son of the town, to stay at his parents' place. With both an address and a phoenetic Portuguese description of how to say "two blocks on from the Encol Park", the taxi ride wasn't too big an issue - but it was an amusing development to discover that neither of Paulo's parents spoke English! I can honestly say that my Portuguese is infinitely worse than my Spanish... and I do not speak Spanish...

I've often wondered, particularly at many of the indigenous exhibhits over in Australia and New Zealand, about what efforts both natives and colonists like Captain Cook must have gone to in order to understand one another when they met out of the blue. But when you throw yourself into a situation where neither you nor the person you are talking to understand what each other is saying, it is amazing how easily you can manage to communicate. Things like my Spanish phrase book were useful, but in general a combination of arm signals and particular buzz words meant that we had a great time - clothes were put in the washing machine, breakfast was enjoyed with fresh hot coffee and a selection of delicious home-made jams (including an excellent fig one and something that was similar to, but apparently not, orange), and lunch featured an excellent meat-and-sauce dish that I believe is traditional to the Rio Grande do Sul southern Brazilian area, although for obvious language-related reasons I can't be sure!

The federal state of Rio Grande do Sul is fairly marked in its cultural identity - plenty of what I have read suggests the state's relationship with Brazil can draw many parallels with Scotland's relationship with the United Kingdom and Westminster. Geographically situated at the very foot of the vast Brazilian landmass, the area's history is one of guachos (cowboys) that arguably has more in common with its Argentine and Uruguayan neighbours than its Portuguese Brazilian brothers. As such, the region has had elements of separatism in the political sphere, but at the very least maintains a proudly independent culture.

I will be lucky enough to sample the cuisinery elements of this culture this evening, as Paulo's sister and her son will be joining us out for a traditional gaucho-style Brazilian barbecue - an awesome affair involving every kind of meat under the sun, served fresh at your table, with limitless supply. It goes without saying that I am exceedingly excited.

In the meanwhile, however, Urbes (Paulo's father) took me into town for a bit of tour - though not before a thoroughly entertaining trip to the bus station to try and book a ticket to Florianópolis tomorrow afternoon. From the internet, I knew exactly what bus I wanted, its number, departure time - the works... but I couldn't express any part of this in Portuguese, resulting in a ridiculous exchange involving pointing at watches, exasperated eye rolling, and eventually just writing it down on a piece of paper. With the ticket printed and all the details correct, all's well that ends well!




Porto Alegre, as the state capital, houses Rio Grande do Sul's government and legislative offices, most of which are around Praça da Matriz - a sort of central piazza. Dominating the southern façade of the square, however, stands the Catedral Metropolitana, whose stunning frontal architecture complete with frescoes (above) is only topped by the beauty of its interior. I don't really like taking photos inside churches, but there are some good ones you can see on the cathedral website and on the Portuguese Wikipedia. From there, we went into the legislative building next door and had a wander around - an absolute highlight being on the second floor, where a group of dressed up dancing girls were strutting their stuff while a quartet of guitarists and drummers jammed some tunes. Right in the middle of the corridor between the offices of the Finance Minister and the State President! Somehow, I can never see it catching on in Westminster...

Spending most of the day inside with the air conditioning, it was immediately obvious that today was a scorcher when we stepped outside. However, it was only when we got back in the car that we realised quite how hot it was... the dashboard tells a fitting story - especially when you note the time (even if the date is wrong!)...

"You're a Gwaiii"

MONTEVIDEO, URUGUAY – 3rd February 2010

Although I briefly mentioned the stifling heat and humidity of Buenos Aries, I should have put the 40° or whatever it was in some perspective by adding that it was heat of a magnitude foreign to even this part of the world – locals were just as uncomfortable as I was (leave alone the poor gringos walking around like looking like slow-boiled lobsters). It seems that unusual weather is very much in vogue across the world – my travels alone have featured devastating monsoons arriving a month or more late in western India, days of successive sunshine in Milford Sound running the normally gushing waterfalls dry in what is supposed to be the wet season, and all the while there’s been pandemonium back home with the winter to end all winters. Man-made global warming? There are more than enough people out there willing to argue about the cause, but everyone should have a read of an excellent commentary by Gregory Petsko (HT: CJ Harris) who beautifully compares the current state of the atmosphere with the hypothetical discovery of an asteroid heading for Earth. In the latter, people aren’t going to sit around arguing whether it is a natural phenomenon or not – natural or otherwise all that matters is doing something about it. Climate change presents exactly the same situation, but sadly politicians cannot, or will not, see it so.

This quite magnificently tangential turn on an otherwise focused introduction isn’t totally irrelevant, although its scant relevance can be fairly conclusively summarised along the lines of “it pissed it down with rain yesterday in Colonia, and it is pissing it down with rain here in Montevideo right now”.

Filling in a few blanks, I spent yesterday morning wandering around Colonia del Sacramento’s historic old town – its significance rests on its geographic situation just an hour across the Río de la Plata from the Spanish stronghold of Buenos Aries, making it the perfect location for the Portuguese to set up shop (i.e. build a base to smuggle goods). The fort, named Sacramento, was built on the adjacent island, and Colonia was established in 1680 as the colony for its inhabitants (hence the name). Although it switched hands between the Spanish and Portuguese several times over the centuries that followed, it has now been Spanish for the best part of 200 years and is unique in being a Portuguese settlement in Spanish Latin America, but its real beauty – and source of its UNESCO World Heritage status – is the preservation of its history in timeless cobbled streets and century old buildings.

Overcast skies and light drizzle were a bit of a nuisance, but it was still cool to get up close and personal with old structures like the City Gates and surrounding city wall (right), as well as the still-functioning lighthouse – the latter open for tourists to climb (and inadvertently, but repeatedly, smack their heads on a stairwell ceiling that gradually decreases in height as you ascend). It wasn’t long, however, before I was back at the hostel getting my things ready for departure – fellow Pembrokians Oli and Becca were arriving in Colonia by ferry at 1.30, leaving us just enough time for a bite to eat and general catch up before I had to dash down to the bus terminal for the 2 hour ride to Montevideo.

It’s fair to say I was still carrying a bit of lethargy from “The Longest Day”, and consequently remember absolutely nothing from the bus journey – I think I was asleep before we’d started moving, and woke as we ground to a halt in the sprawling mass of Montevideo’s central bus terminal. The “Red Hostel” was found easily enough by taxi, although it seems more than probable that I was subject to a special “gringo” tariff that charged me far more than it should have been – the 90 pesos (US$5) I forked out being about double the rate indicated in the LPG. The hostel was a good show though – powerful showers with complimentary towels and free shower gel (the latter being particularly useful when you have a tendency to forget yours in hostel showers around the world on an annoying regular basis), and a good little communal area that saw me befriend a motley crew of Aussies featuring Emma from Canberra, Luke from Melbourne, and latterly Scott and Mitch from Sydney. I opened a can of worms by bringing up the rivalry between Melbourne and Sydney, and with inter-Aussie banter in full flow we all sauntered into the city centre, accompanied by Barbára, also staying in the Red Hostel, but on a one week holiday from Buenos Aries. A good quality looking establishment in Piazza Matriz saw us dismantle some fine steak and a good quantity of pilsen beer, before we moved on to a bar on Bartolmé Mitre – ground zero of Montevideo’s nightlife. Plenty of banter, plenty of beers, and a good dancing session took us well into the early hours of the morning, and it would be several hours later that I recalled a university-esque walk home involving attempts at 3-man piggy backs and the standard issue bit of roadside food (possibly in the form of a burger, though details escape me).

This morning was a bit of a struggle, but I managed to wake up early enough to scoff down a good portion of free breakfast (something I’d failed to do in Colonia after getting woken by the staff at 11 in order to check out) – fresh fruit and strong coffee went down an absolute treat. The Aussie lads had departed (Scott and Mitch) or were in the process of departing (Luke), but myself, Barbara and another girl (from Spain, but living in Chile) made plans to hit the city’s beach before checking out the town in the afternoon. We made it approximately 25 steps to the beach before noticing a mammoth dark cloud coming our way, so went back inside and sacked off beach gear in favour of some culture in the Ciudad Vieja (Old City). It doesn’t take a genius to immediately notice all sorts of similarities to Europe, both architecturally and culturally, but while I would assume such imperatorial traits are found across most Latin American cities, what is interesting here is the extent and significance of Italian stylistic influence – buildings like the Teatro Solis would be more at home in Florence than Madrid. The Plaza Independiente is Montevideo’s most famous spot and the central focal point of the city, with the prancing statue of national hero José Artigas dominating the square (right) in front of the striking height of Palacio Salvo which, at 26 stories, was once South America’s tallest building. At the west end of the square is the Puerta de la Cuidadela (Gateway of the City), and seemed like a perfect place to Back the Bid...





Getting a coffee and a bite to eat turned out to be a bittersweet experience – the cute upstairs cafe we found had an interior that simply resonated with artistic style and contemporary chic... but the food and drink provided by the one-woman operation was both terrible and expensive in equal measure. More culture was in store though, with the city’s historical museum the next stop. Featuring the usual array of colonial and indigenous bits and pieces, its highlights in my eyes were its extensive and seriously impressive collection of oil paintings depicting scenes from colonial battles between European powers and other equally evocative imagery. The Museo Torres García, our next stop, offered art of a different kind in the form of the works of Montividean Joaquín Torres García. Known for abstract and cubist pieces, the displays follow his life as an artist: a circle around one gallery room takes you step by step from portraits of a most conventional form right the way though to lines and dots and “make what you will of this” shapes. I’m not particularly big on art, but I’m definitely a huge fan of Torres García – the fact that the sculpture on the right produced one of those “this really speaks to me” moments that I’m usually the first to parody says it all.

It wasn’t long before the heavens well and truly opened, and when it hadn’t ceased after some more substantial food on the Bartolmé Mitre we decided to cut our losses and grab a taxi home. However, rain in Uruguay is rare enough to bring things to a relative standstill when it begins – so getting a taxi immediately became next-to-impossible. After half an hour and getting ourselves thoroughly drenched first, we were on our way – now there’s time for a shower before dinner with Oli and Becca (who’ve followed 24 hours behind me to Montevideo and, just like in Colonia, appear to have brought crappy weather with them) and 8.15pm reporting time for my 9pm overnight bus to Porto Alegre, Brazil.

The Longest Day - Part IV

COLONIA DEL SACRAMENTO, URUGUAY - 1st February 2010

continued from Parts I, II and III...

If you, like me, have long got tired of hearing the cliché that goes something along the lines of "things rarely turn out accordingly to plan, however good the plan might be", you can probably appreciate that it is even more annoying to have it practically demonstrated in front of your eyes for the umpteenth time.

Earlier today in Buenos Aires, I was happily reporting a successful purchase of afternoon ferry tickets over to Uruguay - something that was looking somewhat dubious even earlier in the day on the other side of the Pacific. With hours to spend, I dropped my bags off at the ferry terminal's luggage room and took on the staggering heat and humidity of what the LPG sees as "still the coolest place in South America". The LPG also informed my first destination - the number one priority was, surprise, surprise, getting some grub - and it wasn't much more than a 5 minute walk to a cool little place called "Filo" located down a bit of a side street from the bustling Avenue Córdoba. Vaulted ceilings with contemporary decor, seats on the bar and an art gallery downstairs were the order of the day, alongside an excellent serving on empanadas and an ice cold beer. At under the equivalent of US$10, it was an excellent gastronomic introduction to the continent.

Avenue Florida is BA's shopping street - pedestrianised and rammed with shops, stalls and thousands of shoppers, traders and tourists looking like rabbits in headlights (or, walking mugging targets, depending on your spin on things). Not emanating the "gringo" vibe in quite the same way as your average British tourist, I blended in and around the crowds and made my way to Galerías Pacifico - a shopping centre whose interior design immediately reminded me of the Queen Victoria Building mall in Sydney - simply stunning, from towering waterfall to vaulted glass ceiling and Roman architecture.

It wasn't long, however, before I was back in the ferry terminal, recovered my bags and attempting to check in - the full (and recommended) hour before the 16.15 scheduled departure. I reach the front of the queue, hand over the ticket printout that I'd been given at the ferry company's desk on the other side of the forecourt, and was promptly imformed that my ticket was for tomorrow - the guy pointing out the "02/01/10" date in the corner of the piece of paper. Once again - and I've lost track of the number of times I've found myself typing these words on the this blog - I was far from impressed. This was only heightened when he tells me that he's changed the ticket for today, but I have to go to another desk, pay the 18 peso (about £3) difference in price, pick up a new printed ticket, and then rejoin the queue to check in. Helpfully, he added that I "probably don't have enough time to do it before the boat is supposed to leave". Great.

Details are fairly irrelevant, suffice to say I rushed around and muttered a lot of abuse under my breath, eventually got checked in and passed through immigration with a few minutes in hand. And then sat on the boat where, while admittedly drifting in and out of conscious, I sat and waited for the next 45 minutes before we actually left. Turned out there were so many people waiting to be checked in after me that they just had to delay it... and that this was pretty much standard practice. There was little care from me though - by that stage the fatigue of being about 32 hours into a day that still had 8 hours remaining had well and truly kicked in, and my cares were entirely based on sleep.

After a little trek into town, I was checked in at El Viajero Hostel and, after sorting myself out with fluids, lockers and general loose ends it was off into the time encapsulated cobbled streets of the old Colonia town - an area designated as a UNESCO World Heritage Area in 1995. A few artistic clouds dotted an otherwise perfectly clear sky, leaving the buildings glowing in amber twillight as I wandered down to the riverside, and sitting on the rocks by the small harbour area I passed half an hour watching the sun perform nature's nightly show that will never cease to get me clicking photo after photo.









With the sun down and a cooler breeze wafting in from the river, I sat down at the fanciest place in town (feeling the justified need to splash out) - the seafood-speciality Yacht Club restaurant by the harbour - and enjoyed a long, drawn out dinner of fresh gambas prawns washed down with crisp local beer. 2 hours later, I sauntered back to the free computers here at El Viajero and, with minutes ticking on to midnight, draw to a close the most epic day of my life.