“I found a hotel in Chuí.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that. Why the fuck would we stay overnight in Chuí?”
Monthly Archives: January, 2017
“I found a hotel in Chuí.”
There is one place where we had sworn we would never go back: Chuy-Chuí, the border between Uruguay and Brazil.
“So, we are talking dirt roads, cabañas and bonfires here.” “Yep.”
I should have gotten the clue. When the local gas station has a 1.5 liter of Coke and 1 liter bottle of Whisky on special, you can gather that the town doesn’t run on mate alone.
We walked to Tres Cruces to buy the tickets. Mission accomplished. Decision made, tickets purchased.
Montevideo looks seedy. But beneath the seeming chaos and urban grim is a lovely city with relaxed, welcoming people.
It’s only when we actually arrived in the capital city that I started to remember how food “worked” in Uruguay.
We knew it was going to be a long bus ride. Salto-Montevideo, 500 km. This is South America. You’re a bus passenger and roads aren’t always that great.
The biggest attraction around Salto is the hot springs, the nearest ones being the Termas de Daymán.
It took about thirty minutes to reach the Paso Fronterizo Internacional Concordia — Salto. I took a quick picture and we went in to have our passport stamped.
We are only spending a night in Concordia. We don’t need a comfortable place. Like most people who end up in a border town, we need a plan to cross said border.
Going off the beaten track is a rewarding move. Giving Paraná a second chance as well.
Exploring an empty city does have its perks, you see buildings differently and you feel you own the city. I kept on wondering about the logistic of shutting down for four or five hours in the middle of the day.
Argentina’s political history is complicated. I’m not judging. I just want to understand.
I took a quick look at the bus station—dark, dirty, muddy with a few plastic chairs in the waiting area and tube TV sets mounted on the wall. We had just stepped into another world, another Argentina, off the beaten track.
North America has the famous “PB&J” sandwich, Argentina goes by the initials “J-y-Q”— jamón y queso, ham and cheese.
My pocket map of Rosario is torn along the lines, a few street names faded and I marked the hotel’s address with a big black dot.
Once again, it started at the Retiro bus station, in Buenos Aires. This time, we had our gear with us. Destination? Rosario, Santa Fe, Central Argentina.
Life in Buenos Aires is like a game of heads or tails—assuming you find a coin to flip, change is hard to get.
It was only a two-hour flight from Santiago to Buenos Aires, but the vibe and the people are very different.
I asked someone for directions to the city centre. The guy paused. I felt sorry for him—giving directions is never easy, let alone in La Plata where you can easily send innocent travellers like us in the wrong diagonal.
Usually, the first question of the day is “where do we go?” For once, we know: San Telmo, for the weekly Sunday market.
Leather is surprisingly cheap. Then you realize how much meat Argentinians eat and suddenly you think turning cows into belts, jackets and bags makes sense.