Colonia-l Crossing

Finally I can breathe again, having jumped on a ferry across the Río de la Plata (Spanish for silver, but on this fine morning, it seems the rust has set in and brown is all we can hope for) to Colonia, Uruguay. I welcome the chance to slow down from the hectic pace of BA, and relax in the history of the old town. It seems no matter where you go in South America you are never too far from a cobbled street or two.

After a mini fiasco getting out of BA, the main problem being a roto (“broken”) boat, I end up with another stray boy under my wing – London policeman Fran(cis). We arrive just after lunchtime, a pleasant 50 minute trip across, and I decide that a beer and a sleep is about all I can manage for the afternoon. The impossible cheap 1L bottle of Stella goes down nicely and when I finally awake a few hours later, the sun is starting to set and my dinner belly is switched on.

I manage to get in a few pictures of the wobbly streets before the light colours everything dusky pink and renders my tripod-less camera null, and we end up at “El Drugstore” for a hearty pan of paella and a Sangria (are we in Spain or what?). We chew the fat for a while over the impossibly large dish before I let Clint Eastwood’s latest film send me to bed.

The next morning I realise that there is a whole other part to this town, beyond the uneven stones, and that I am going to have to get my act into gear if I want to make it all before my afternoon bus to Montevideo. I walk back through the Old Town – this time with all museums and places of interest open - past all the vintage cars are permanently parked in the streets, under the shade of the leafy greens, and finally make it on a bus to the abandoned bull ring.

With no traffic lights in sight, transport here is a mixture of golf buggies, motorised bikes, scooters, fiat 500s and the occasional tour bus, and despite most of the surrounding streets full of pousadas and hostels – did someone say tourism? – the vibe is so relaxed. Quaint street benches, with their geometric tiled seats, wait patiently by the side of the road. The shops have an eclectic charm – part old-world, part-boudoir – with cow hides climbing out of every corner. The only thing that perplexes me is a disproportionate amount of older men on holidays with their young bejewelled partners. Perhaps it is the lure of secrecy that a place like this, where half its streets don’t register on the map, offers?

Sleepy Sunday

Setting off on one of the city’s brightly coloured buses, I soon realise that BA breeds a different kind of bus driver from Rio. More concerned with an ongoing conversation with a passenger standing right beside him than concentrating on the road ahead, he is all wild arms and gestures. Perhaps that is why he has six rear vision mirrors, covering every angle or maybe every lane.

So it seems that Perth and BA at least have one thing in common - almost everything is shut today because it is Sunday – all except the markets. Heading towards the old end of town, San Telmo, I intend to check out the famed antique and collectors one, and although it feels a little seedy as I venture off the bus, I persevere down to the main square.

Closed to cars for pedestrian trade, the cobbled street Defensa is full of over-priced but gorgeous armchairs, chandeliers and designer furniture. But the main activity is happening at the end – where stalls have been set up to sell all sorts of vintage trinkets, phones, jewellery, newspapers, even soft drink bottles. It is by far the best antique pick-up place I have been to.

I stroll down towards it, but can’t help pausing to listen to the animated sounds of eight-piece group “Hormigas Negras”, whose cds I buy a little too easily. A little overwhelmed by all the goods on sale, and all too aware that my bag is much more than its 16kg humble beginnings, I sit down to watch people and an impending tango show. People begin to gather around in anticipation, watching on as a suitably angst-ridden girl sullenly stares back in her scarlet skirt and bustier.

Her partner calmly tries to make technology a part of their routine, but it takes a long time to settle his ipod into song. The music cuts in and out, and when it stops completely, a homeless guy takes over singing and launching into a solo dance. Thankfully the situation is quickly recovered by an older couple keen to show they still have the moves. Sadly their moves last a little too long, and I leave before the lady in red makes her debut.

I walk back to the bus via the Historical Museum, which is being renovated for century celebrations of Argentinean independence, and witness a little of the internal struggle that has shaped its more recent past. But it is all a little heavy and has too many holes to make sense on this sleepy Sunday.