We woke up to this.
Lovely. Just like home!
Our ever-friendly receptionist in Hotel Argentino begged us to stay for an extra day. It wouldn't have taken much persuading I admit. The Hotel is somewhere people tend to admire more than stay in, but we found it very comfortable and with an old charm that has ensured its survival with folk who, undoubtedly, wouldn't dream of staying anywhere else. The salon serving breakfast had a classic bar reminiscent of the famous scene from The Shining. In fact the whole hotel was of that breed of establishment that has a personality all of its own. Piriápolis has a fair selection of attractive hotels that we saw, but this one is special.
The bus terminal is two blocks behind the hotel, and we mosey round and book on a COPSA bus to Punta Del Este, $86 each. Apparently it will be a little late due to the bad weather. Thats fine. We'll sit outside and watch scabby dogs wander around pathetically, see buses come and go, acclimatise to the Uruguayan love of cigarettes, listen to thunder rolling around over our heads, the drowning growls caused by forks of lightning plunging to Earth. The 90 minutes go in fast enough.
The road to Punta Del Este isn't very exciting, nor is the bus terminal, but at least its in a useful location. Have a strained conversation in English with the guy at the COPSA desk as we try and find out if my water bottle is here (it isn't) and get the gnawing signs of hunger. Punta Del Este doesn't even try and hide that it is an expensive resort, every restaurant is priced way over our heads, and a crap burger meal in Il Mundo Della Pizza barely helps us. The compulsory 10% tip (not entirely unwarranted) reminds us this is a city which makes a profit three months out of twelve, and that rich people can be as tight as anyone. Probably a good idea to stick with supermarkets from this point on.
Still, got to make our way to our hostel that, damnably, is not where Google Maps says it is. This is not the first time this has happened. We need to learn from this. For a change. The website directs us out of the main Punta Del Este area towards Manantiales, a small town east of the main tourist area. The brown local bus costs us a quid or so, and breezes along the main coastal route before cutting inland through La Barra, some winding roads that could be anywhere in the world, before finally terminating in Manantiales and kicking us all out. Assuming I have read the map right we walk up a dusty street, past yet more charming holiday homes, before confronting a more-ferocious-than-usual dog, determined to stop us walking any further. Sarah is turning pale, and maybe justifiably so, but an elderly gent appears and tells the dog to go away (he may not have exactly used those words) and it does indeed back off. A left turn and fifty yards later the shack of El Hostelito rears upon us.
The Uruguayan road trip movie Por El Camino terminates in a hippie commune, possibly Cabo Polonia, and El Hostelito reminds me of it. Lots of folk sitting around either looking a bit hippie and very cheerful, or looking a bit square and a little awkward. Still, the guys who are running the place are very pleasant, some even have a little English, and that makes it feel like the right decision.
A few hours are spent catching up in internet stuff, the rain lashes down intermittently, and suddenly the sun seems to be falling, we have no supplies for dinner, and Sarah has no sugary treats for emergencies. I head on out to the supermercado, anticipating the cashier ripping a hole in my pocket and taking me for all I'm worth. I'm not entirely wrong, as a baguette, salami, spreadable cheese, crisps, a small bottle of coke, two bars of chocolate and a bottle of Uruguayan wine (very very cheap Uruguayan wine) sets me back £15. Oh well.
It all turns a bit better, then, when I return and the guys have the barbecue up and running. It seems meat is the order of the day. You won't find me objecting to that. I sign up for a plate of Uruguayan red bloody happiness.
But what's this? A girl from Glenavy chatting to me? I blame Sarah's mother, who asked mere moments before "Haven't you met anyone from Ballyclare yet?". Nice try Rosemary. Fiona is full of craic and enjoys getting her culchie accent back chatting to Sarah and I til 4am. I think we are culturally obliged to have a serious conversation about Irish politics once a week the entire time we are here; that's usually how long it takes to find someone who actually knows the island is divided in two. Then they want to know some really weird stuff. Its all so basic that subjectively its at a level that we don't even think about, because we as a people are so normalised to that sort of double-think, and instead are dealing with it functionally instead. When someone asks about generalities about subcultures its almost impossible to give a straight answer.
Not that I need explain this to her; she left the country because it was a pain in the arse.
The banter is fine, but she has a flight to Lima to catch, and we need to stop drinking expensive beer! Night night!
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