It's More Fun In Punta!

(So says the vintage license plate I picked up from Montevideo, which I took as a good omen)

With the capital only slightly holding my attention, I am keen to get back to the water pronto. I have already be warned by travellers and locals alike that it is well and truly low season and not to expect too much, but with the steady/hectic pace that I have been moving at, the overhead sun and nearby beach will definitely be enough to entertain me for a few days. (And with my Lonely Planet guide left behind on the hostel counter in Montevideo, the compulsion to see or do anything else has been momentarily erased from my head).

In only a few hours we start to enter into the Punta zone where high rises, Tuscan tiles and blue-striped window shades dominate my view. Strangely enough, there are also lots of eucalyptus, pine and acacia trees around, planted many eons ago by Uruguayan sailor Antonio Dionisio Lussich who attempted to create a botanical garden that ended up running wild, and so I start to feel like I haven’t even escaped the Curtin University carpark.

Known most for its flamboyant summer resort visitors – who boost the usual 10,000 population to over 1 million – the main strip in Punta is very much like Surfer’s Paradise: all concrete and no jungle. (Although, to be fair to the Gold Coast, there is definitely less bling here than in Surfer’s, and the buildings are a lot plainer too.) And I start to feel a little deflated at the prospect of a few days here. Perhaps I should have just stayed at home? Coupled with this, is the looming presence of the Conrad casino, who has Gloria Estefan playing next week, which the church opposite seems to share my disgust for.

Stepping off the bus, with the sun beating down on me, the hostel I had already booked in Manantialles, 20 minutes out of town, suddenly doesn’t sound so appealing. So instead, I trudge myself, with many short breaks, to a closer Hostelling International address to see if I can do a swap. But unlike previous occasions, the girl there is not happy to accept the credit for my booking and tells me that the one I have already is so “bonita” (pretty). I am so hot; I am so fuming.

I power-walk back past the many closed boutiques (one cheeky one just says “back in December”) cafés and restaurants to the bus terminal, and from here on in, my opinion is progressively altered. Heading further along the coast, further away from Montevideo, I take in the local architecture with manicured rolling lawns that hide mini-mansions nestled between large-windowed apartments. It seems there is still lots of land for sale, with many construction teams working away now that everyone has left, and of course, the reminder are littered with rental signs.

We finally cruise over the Punta de la Risa (the Laughing Bridge – so named because of the tummy-jump it causes you when going over at more than 40km/hr…but when I find out that the engineer never actually got his degree before unleashing his ‘skills’ on the public, I wonder if that story is only half the truth) and move down towards La Barra. It is here, on the other side, that panorama windows show off exotic designer furniture and the roads have a large number of furniture specialists and architects.

Thankfully though, it is also the more rustic end of town, with much more colour and personality than the staid stone structures on the peninsula. And when I arrive at the hostel, with its curved stair and beautiful aqua pool, I know I am going to get the break I need.

Cowboys and Carne

As we drive in on the bus from Colonia, we pass by shanty towns whose sheets of rusted roofing are being held on by the weight of large rocks. But on the other side of town, facing it, the ultra-modern curved shape of the lookout tower shines of glass and technology (the only one of its kind, I soon realise).

Arriving at the hostel, and I bump into (a repeated exercise when travelling throughout a region of many options) some girls I know from Buenos Aires who are heading out to the main bar and pub strip near our hostel. I do a quick bag-drop and face wash and head with them to what turns out to be just a small collection of Irish pubs, Beatles music and outdoor deck chairs. Unusually crowded for a Wednesday night, we soon realise that the evening is being hosted by an enthusiastic presidential candidate, Marcos Carámbula.

A little perplexed by all the fuss, we are told by someone nearby that he is the Socialist favourite who is appealing to the youth market in the upcoming presidential election in October. And I guess, with an office that overlooks this small entertainment hub, he is probably in the right place.

Despite the catch-up chats, it is a pretty early night for us all, which we are told is pretty normal in Uruguay’s capital – unless it is the weekend. The next day I make some new friends over cornflakes and tag along with their group to check out the Mercado del Puerto and its famed barbeques. Walking into the open plan marketplace we are instantly impressed by the huge chunks of meat and sausage that are already cooking away on angled wire racks, tempted to take lunch early, before breakfast has even disappeared from our bellies. But we decide to put some distance between the two, and instead head to the Carnaval (I am still unsure what spelling to use for this, it really seems to depend largely on where you are) Museum where we are told that Montevideo holds the longest celebration (40 days) in South America. (Although the costumes and floats have nothing on the Rio).

We then attempt to check out some more local culture, strolling around to the Casa Garibaldi and Casa Rivera, but it seems the workers of the city’s museums aren’t getting paid enough, and are temporarily on strike. No one can tell us for how long it will last, so instead we end up perusing some random antiques that are scattered through a nearby pedestrian walkway, picking our way through jewellery, old license plates and prints.

Finally though, we admit defeat and head back for the beef, and what a monstrosity it is!! Despite ordering the half portion of the “pulpa”, the piece that arrives in front of me must be at least 600g, fully cooked. Needless to say I can’t fit it all in, no matter how much I love its accompanying garlic and parsley oil and the over-sized baked potato, particularly when panqueque de manana (caramelised apple pancake, flambéed in rum) is the dessert special of the day.

We eventually roll out of the market and realise that we probably need to work off some of our indulgence, and so we make one last stop at the Gaucho and Money Museum, which is fortunately still open. Here we come across an amazing mate collection (check the link alongside for an explanation), along with some impressively ornate spurs, stirrups and saddles of Uruguay’s famed cowboys. God only knows how the horses felt.

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?