Greet-tens’ from Punta del Diablo, Uruguay!
Woowzy am I ever behind on updates. In Spain I started on the El Camino de Santiago story, but then began my little writing tutoring gig on-line and was sick of the computer screen and writing by the end of my shift. Here, I don’t know where my time goes. It only takes me 10 seconds to get to work since my dorm room is 20 ft from the reception. I’ve just been settling in, I suppose, trying to get oriented in this little village of a few hundred people. It really is rustic. We have one supermarket that is about as big as a two car garage It offers the most essential of staples and one, max two, brands of products to choose from. It’s the hub of most social activity, very similar to the Walmart in my hometown in that respect.
Before I get more into life here, a few words about my arrival. A generous rain received my plane in Montevideo. A monsoon received my ass in Punta del Diablo after a 5 hour bus ride, which has a story of its own. I was dumped off the bus at the intersection of five dirt roads in a wind-ridden downpour and told my destination was up the road. No sort of street name guidance was given because the streets aren’t really streets, but wide muddy paths, and they don’t have names. If you recall from the Greyhound bus story, I am my own mule and thus carry the big hiker’s pack on my back, the daypack on my chest and drag the suitcase behind. So, there I stand at the crossroads, can’t see forty feet in front of me, but start off up the indicated road swerving around puddles ankle deep and trying to shelter the daypack to keep my laptop and journal dry.
Seventy-five yards up I see a tiny building to the left with a bit of roof overhang that looks enough like shelter for me to stand under til I get my bearings. It turns out to be the town pharmacy. It took some sweet talking, but the pharmacist finally called El Diablo Tranquilo to have someone come pick me up. Such was my arrival to my new home for the next 6 months.
As usual, the airplane ride to get me here brought out the best in me--a sense of humor. I had posted a prayer on Facebook that the travel gods grant me a decent seatmate. Here was their response:
I deborded the Madrid-Buenos Aires leg of the trip spotted like a Dalmatian, having shared seat space on an overnight flight with a gangly preteen for thirteen hours. The problem was he was too old to sit in his mama’s lap, but too young to sit still. His attempts to curl up like a pup in his seat resulted in a flurry of knee and elbow gabs that left me bruised and sleepless. Just as my conscious mind would reach the edge of the slumber dropoff, the restless youngster would reaccomodate and send an isosceles triangle jabbing into my ribs. Another shift and a knobby knee spears into my thigh. Then he would flop his head over onto my forearm, which was not so bad since he had a normal, round head. He was a sweet enough kid and apologized when he was awake enough to hear my groans.
About 30 mins before landing, my little bumper buddy starts getting green around the gills. He rocks back and forth holding his stomach and suddenly grabs my blankie to throw over his lap. I just know he is going to heave and I cover my face with my sweatshirt and cringe down in the seat as if watching a scary movie.
His wave of nausea passes and I ask him if there is a barf bag in the seatback pocket in front of him. He doubles over without answering and mom and I scramble to find one. I pass him the plastic bag my pillow and blanket were wrapped in. He asks to get out to go to the lavatory and the flight attendant sends him back because the fasten seatbelt sign is lit. Five minutes later he sees adults ignoring the instructions and again tries to sneak to the john. No go. He’s sent back by the unsympathetic woman in the blue uniform.
All of a sudden, I hear around me groans of discomfort. Minutes later, I kid you not, there was a lift off of ½ digested egg and ham baguette projectiles missiles going off like popcorn in a hot skillet. The flight attendants grab handfuls of white paper sacks and scurry down the aisles handing them out like immigration forms. On a whim, when I bought my ticket, I had checked the veggie meal box. When my stewed eggplant and potato entrée was set on my tray and I saw everbody else was having paella, I regretted my decision to spare a chicken the chopping block. Outright remorse set in when they got cheesecake for desert and I had orange wedges. As so often happens, a seemingly disappointing decision turned out for the best. There was something in the carnivores’ breakfast that hit the young tyke first and then damned the adults shortly after.
Back to my new “home.”
The living arrangements are college-like. I share a five bunkbed dorm room at the moment with 5 people, soon to be ten. When the high season hits, our room will be rented to guests and we will be displaced to an undisclosed location. By that time, if not sooner, my tent will be erected out back by the closeline. Snoring is becoming an issue and everyone swears they never snore. They are just stuffy due to catching the sniffles that has been running through the staff. That is no wonder given that we share a tiny outdoor kitchen that would get an F- on an OSHA test. The dishwashing sponge looks like it served toilet duty for a month before retiring to the kitchen.
We are an international crew of all ages. Alex is a blonde Brit and the youngest of us at this hostel. We have two locations, one on the beach that is for the party scene
and the one “up the hill” where I work that’s more family oriented and chilled out.
Adam, a Dutch artist, and Jasmine, a vegetarian Austrian, arrived after me and are an odd couple. My other roommate, John, is a vagabond American who has been teaching English all over the world. He’s a sweetheart of a guy and is a talented guitar player. My immediate supervisor, Rod, is a young Chilean and a strange mix of anal retentive and laidback. And finally, Jess, the head manager, is the owner’s girlfriend and easy to get along with. Young surfer dudes work at the other hostel. Mostly they get stoned, drink, ride the waves and do the minimum amount of work to keep their job. I get along fine with them.
At the moment my greatest source of joy is Chata’s little baby brother, Buho (pronounced boo-oh, which means owl in Spanish). The hostel dog, Pelusia, had given birth a few weeks before my arrival and her 5 pups were living under the front porch. Two have given away.
I claimed Buho ASAP. He is the runt of the bunch (I’m partial to small beings), the funniest and fluffiest. I’ve snuck him in under my shirt a few times to sit by the fire, but I’ve resisted the temptation to have him spend the night in my bed, not because he might chew on my nipple, but because if he wets or poops, it would be a big pain in the patooty to wash my sleeping bag. Just like with Chata, this creature and I have a soul connection.
I have to tell you, I don’t like writing ho -hum, boring travelogues such as this one, but people keep ask for some sign of life and how it goes, so I’m sending this as is.
Elsewhere in the news, Pop has been in the hospital for a week with a ruptured hernia and bronchitis. I was thinking I might have to buy a ticket home, but he says to me, “Don’t you worry, Runt, I’m a tough old coot (another of his unique expressions). The old man will pull through.” He’s got a new grandson on the ground to keep him motivated.
And finally, Marta has put the bar up for sale to give it a try here in Uruguay with me. She has a job waiting on her as a chef in the restaurant here. It’s just a question of getting rid of the bar.
So there you have a bit of news. There is tons more, some of it potentially entertaining, but I’ll save it for the next one. It’s my day off, the sun is FINALLY out and I want to walk the beach.
Would love to hear from you.
No comments:
Post a Comment