Uruguay vs. Israel in the last practice game in Uruguay before South Africa.  La Celeste kicks off against France on June 11.  

As trying to re-cap the last month feels too intimidating, I’m going to start with some snippits from this week. 

I decided to shoot my documentary about trash.  I don’t really how I’m going to tackle the issue, but the topic seems so complex that it calls for a something free from delusions of comprehension.  Dissection is useful sometimes, but unattractive when performed by a foreigner (even worse, a yankee). 

One of the most interesting facets of the issue is that an entire segment of the population depends on trash for income.  Titled “clasificadores,” they clip-clop through every nook and cranny of the city in horse drawn carriages or jerry-rigged bicycles toting along giant sacks of plastic, paper, and cardboard.  Late one night I was startled by a rustling in one of the little green dumpsters that sit on the curb.  In the states, the culprit would be ole’ Ricky (you know, the racoon?), but it Uruguay it’s a person in there, using a headlamp to find not food but sellable raw materials. 

Many look down on the clasificadores not only for their low social position, but also because they often leave the undesirable chaff strewn about the street, giving Montevideo its characteristic “urban charm.”  I could be wrong, but I don’t think there’s a system like it anywhere else in the world.  Shiny BMW’s zoom around horse-drawn carriages in Carrasco, a suburban escape for Montevideo’s upper class. 

I have yet to iron out my focus, but you get the idea. 

On Tuesday I went to el final de la Copa Uruguaya—Peñarol vs. Nacional, traditionally the two most dominant clubs in the country.  My host family is hincha de Nacional.  It’s something you’re born into as both clubs have been around for over 100 years.  So, we have the two best teams playing for the whole shebang, la Copa. 

5 nouns to describe the game—hooligans, flares, torta (frita, it doesn’t count as one of the nouns, just a descriptor), signage (I love that word), and anthems. 

I’ll explain.  The hooligans (or hinchas) sit in the middle of each section and generally “act a foo’,” jumping, singing a plethora of anthems, lighting flares after goals—shenanigans.  There are signs everywhere.  They hang from fences, stretch across gaps in the stadium, wave in the hands of passionate fans, just in case the jerseys/scarves/songs weren’t enough to convince the world.  They declare neighborhoods, cities, entire regions of Uruguay the domain of their team.  (Nacional is “Bolso” and Peñarol is “Mancha”)  Apparently, “Maldonado=100% Bolso.”  Think they took a survey?

I feel like Montevideo is my city.    

The Mayan calendar, huh?

What do you get when you cross a national refuge without roads, massive sand dunes, hippies living by the Mayan calendar (only two years left), and sea lions?  Cabo Polonio.

A group of us decided to take off for the weekend to see some Uruguayan countryside and take in some sun (some more than others) in this rather remote beach town.  We left Montevideo early Saturday morning at 7 from Tres Cruces to begin the 4.5 hour ride to the entrance of the park.  Not long after I took my seat a young Uruguayan cradling his mate came and sat down in the row next to me.  I’m pretty sure it was immediately obvious to him that we were foreigners—and Americans at that.  We had long given up speaking Spanish to each other by that time.  A 7 am departure time, excitement, and 7 kids from the States means only one thing—nobody is working on their Spanish skills.

My omnibus neighbor leaned over and asked where we were from.  His name was Luis.  He is from an interior Uruguayan town whose name escapes me and he plays in a pretty popular reggae band in Uruguay called Marulata.  We chatted for about the first hour of the trip, passing the mate back and forth.  He coached me a bit on my mate etiquette, directing me to keep going with the mate until the “slurpppp” sound was noticeably audible because “why would you give it back if there’s more in there?”  After the mate lesson we exchanged mp3 players for the next hour; I caught some much-needed z’s to the sound of really good Uruguayan reggae, the rough cuts of their new album.  Meanwhile, Luis had his official introduction to Ryan Adams (who else would I choose?).  Their music was really good with great melodies, catchy lyrics, and trumpets.  We exchanged contact information and agreed to meet up sometime soon for one of their shows in Montevideo. 

One really awesome thing about Cabo Ponolio—you can’t get there on any road.  It’s a very isolated place without electricity or running water.  Unless you want to walk six miles along the beach from the nearest town (which one of our compatriots, Ariana had to do because she accidentally got off at the wrong stop) you have to—or get to—take these really awesome 4-wheel drive vehicles over the dunes and into the reserve.  This part of the transportation process makes you feel like you are getting to see one of Uruguay’s great secrets, something zealously guarded from the average tourist’s guidebook.  The ride is bumpy, with views of pines, sand, and por fin, la playa. 

We decided to go backpacker style and save the lodging preparations for when we arrived.  So, when the first group of us pulled up to town (the others waited until they knew what Ariana was going to do to get there), the first thing to do was to ask around for a rental house.  Por suerte we stumbled across one of the few people who lives there year-round, a middle-aged man whose name also escapes me (sensing a theme?).  He showed us to his modest rental home facing the really windy side of the beach. 

Double bed—check.  Fold out couch—hard as a rock, but check.  Set of bunk beds—check.  Hammock tied to the rafters in “la living”—double check (extra check for awesomeness).  We settled on 1500 pesos for the night and headed to the beach.

One more thing about the house that I think is noteworthy—there’s a well out back.  How cool is that.  It’s been a long while (and by that I mean never) since I had to dip a bucket of water to flush the toilet.  I could really live like this though—candles for lighting, rainwater running through the sink, beach bumming during the day, running a hostel or something for “work.”  No, not really.  You who know me might guess that I may like it for about a month.  Without real work I tend to get restless.

There are two pretty distinct beaches in Cabo.  On the SW side of the peninsula sets of 6-foot waves pound the shallow shelf of granulated shells that extends twenty feet out.  To enjoy the waves before they break, you’ve gotta take a pounding first.  The water is too shallow to simply dive underneath them.  But, once you get past the break zone, pah… It’s like nature’s answer to the roller coaster.  A deep blue wall of force sweeps me up like a stiff wind takes a kite, letting me off the back end with a spray of salty breath on my face, the wind skimming the cream off the top of each monstrous beauty. 

For this reason surfer dudes (and dudets) are abundant in Cabo.  They even look the same as they do in the States—Vans carrying a ridiculous palette of colors, unkempt hair, and mahogany epidermis.  Not to mention the wind surfers.  The wind is FIERCE on this side of the peninsula.  We laid down towels on the rock hard sand and within 20 minutes, the scene looked like an archaeological dig site—a thick layer of wind-blown sand covering everything (but hopefully not my camera swaddled in a shirt stuffed in the abyss of the big pocket of my backpack—my luggage).  We didn’t much care about the wind though.  I commented that maybe the sand hitting our bodies would be good for the skin, exfoliate and all that. 

On the other side of the peninsula (which makes it sound big, but really it’s maybe 200 yards away) things are a bit calmer.  Rainbow-colored hostels and more single room casitas line the shore.  Sand dunes forming the vast majority of the park are visible on the horizon towards Brazil.  The ocean gusts tend to sweep from the south, making this area better for beach bumming.  The water is about four feet deep and calm.  It’s a great place to swim, and, if you’re lucky like we were, witness a pod of dolphins truck on within feet of rubbernecking travelers.

The sunset was spectacular.  We enjoyed the view from an empty lifeguard stand, sipping on boxed wine and munching on crackers.

Passed the rest of the evening in the living room enjoying the breeze ebbing through the pores of our little house.  Sleep.  Doing my best not to move.  Glowing pink shoulders, back exudes an unnatural warmth. Sorry skin cells.  So worth it.

Love you guys,

Grant

El primer día de la orientación y luego, un paseo por el Museo Nacional.

El Cemeterio Inglesa y mi nuevo amigo, Javier.

I went for a short jaunt around Malvín today to take some pictures and get a feel for the area.  My professor for the intensive Spanish review course that I am taking told me about an old cemetery open to the public really close to my house—el Cemeterio Inglesa (or English Cemetery).  So, after grabbing a pear and some tea after class, I grabbed my trusty Nikon and walked about 10 blocks down Ave. General Rivera to check it out.  I walked into the first pair of huge iron gates that I saw, turned to the right, and began reading the ornately fashioned tombstones lining the cobblestone path.  What really caught me attention were the locker-like tombs stacked 6 high around the perimeter of the cemetery, forming a wall of flowers, marble, and short remembrances.  I began tactfully taking pictures, well aware that using a cemetery as the subject for my photographic exploits may not be exactly kosher in this new place.  After a few minutes, one of the grounds keepers walked up and told me that the cemetery was closing.  I asked him if I was in the Cemeterio Inglesa and he responded, “No, está al otro lado de la calle.”

So there was still more to explore.  I continued one more block towards the center of the city and found another rather imposing, gated cemetery right where the grounds keeper told me it would be.  This cemetery was much calmer—like a big garden that just happens to be full of graves.  The place was teeming with catholic imagery: all kinds of interesting crucifixes, angels, and ironwork.  I wanted to snap off a picture of just about everything I saw, but I’ve been trying to develop a sort of creative control.  Sometimes it’s better to really frame your shots well and be careful to only go for the really visually interesting stuff.  I’ve found that those are normally the ones that stick with me and mean more anyway.

After the cemetery, I strolled on down to the beach for some Word time.  Not having been in the area before, I was semi-surprised when I emerged right above the yacht club a couple of kilometers down the Rambla from my house.  I walked down to the understated beach in the corner of the mini harbor and began to cross over to the other side.  As I was walking behind an older man with a ponytail full of really curly hair, he turned around and asked me if I was traveling and if I spoke Spanish.  Of course I wasn’t going to pass up a chance to meet someone new and practice at the same time, so I took a seat on his left side.  We began to chat with the brown waves lapping at the shore a few yards from where we were sitting.  His name was Javier and he was quite an easygoing, enjoyable guy.  He told me that he is originally from a farming town just outside of Buenos Aires but that he has been traveling around the world for the past decade or so.

It’s hard to pick out the highlights because the whole thing was interesting.  We talked about all sorts of things for about an hour and a half.  At first it was politics.  He seemed to harbor some less than warm feelings for the U.S. and began to explain Cargill’s monopoly over much of the agriculture industry in Argentina.  It was interesting stuff and I was happy that I could follow everything he was saying in Spanish.  He leads a pretty darn interesting life, too.  His philosophy is basically to live “día a día,” taking each day as it comes and enjoying as much of life as he can.  He works at yacht club on a small island off the coast of Spain called Formentera three months out of the year.  He paints boats, fixes things, and basically takes care of what needs to be taken care of around the place to earn enough money to travel where he pleases for the rest of the year.  What a life.  He described living in Rio de Janeiro, his travels across Europe, and so on.  I’m not sure I agree with that whole life philosophy—have fun as much as possible and avoid any semblance of responsibility at all costs.  But he did have some pretty good advice for me.  He told me that if I wanted to serve the Hispanic population in the U.S., I would need to understand the “pueblo,” so I should spend time living among the lower classes if I have the chance.  Seems to make sense—know the people that you want to work for.

He didn’t seem to have any set plans for the next few months; he was just going to eat as best he could, find a cheap hotel, and take in life according to his ramblin’ man’s creed.  Really interesting situations like this always take me by surprise.  Sometimes it’s almost overwhelming to think about the diversity of thought, ideals and life styles out there.  What a place.

Saludos,

El Nuevo Barrios

Punta del Este, famous balnearia del Uruguay.

After a 7-hour layover in Miami sin internet and a 12 hour flight into Montevideo, I arrived in Uruguay to a brand new airport—fluid and modern under a cloudy sky. Not having to pay any sort of entry fee (which was weird after my Chile experience) the passage through the small airport was short and muy fácil.  After passing through customs, I was greeted by a crowd of expectant parents, children, and cab drivers holding signs.  Not seeing my name anywhere, I just kept walking along the barricade hoping that the Barrios family would recognize me with my chunky Ray Ban frames on.  Just before I passed the last of the crowd, a young Uruguayan looked at me and asked, “Grant?”  I nodded a bit and he responded in perfect English, “Hey, I’m Martin” (with the accent on the “a” and not the “i,” mind you).

Thus began the Uruguayan adventure.  Since then, I’ve decided that I love my host family, the city, and pretty much everything Uruguayan—the “shhhuuu” sound that they use for the double “l”, their quirky expressions, the TV commercials, the word “ta” which is pretty much the same as “yah” in the U.S.  I tried my hardest to come without expectations, but inevitably I had a mental picture: something like a cross between Valparaiso and a European country.  I’ve got to say that it’s met and then exceeded any of my expectant musings from Tennessee.

The city is full of color and action.  Each neighborhood has a character of its own.  There are tall apartment buildings lining the shore of the Rio de la Plata with wet clothes hanging across porch railings, doing their best to dry themselves in spite of the heavy air carrying leftover moisture from the river.  Instead of a concrete jungle as would be expected of any America city, there are towering, vibrant trees, foreign to my American arboreal lexicon, lining each street.  Empty lots boast green grass and old brick walls covered with deteriorating street art.  But what I love best about this city is its use of space.  Even outside of the more densely populated centro, I can walk a couple of lively blocks to the grocery store, a fruit stand, or the pharmacy to take care of daily shopping needs.  And of course the public transportation is easy and fluid.  Competing companies operate different colored “omnibuses” that service every part of the city.  If I don’t feel like riding the bus, I can easily walk to where I want to go and enjoy the perfect weather that we have here every day.

And if this weren’t enough, the rambla, an extensive, oversized sidewalk that winds its way along the coast of the city, awaits just four blocks away for morning runs, Sunday walks, or a quick trip to the beach.  The brown waves of the Rio de la Plata emptying into the Atlantic seem strange to someone who thinks of the Florida panhandle when he hears the word “beach.”  It’s common to see couples walking with a mate in hand, carrying refills of hot water in unique thermoses tucked underneath the arm like a football (the American kind).  It just so happens that my host father sells artisan mates (the actual cup is called the mate), bombillas (the funny-looking metal straws that keep the loose yerba out of your mouth), and various other high quality Uruguyan things.  So, as I am writing, my very own mate está curando, or curing for its first use—a process that involves leaving soaking yerba in the mate for three days.

That’s enough for the first post.  Hasta pronto de Uruguay.

Un beso,

Grant

cherrylanebakery:

Spicy Black Bean Burgers

This recipe is so easy, and I think better than most frozen veggie patties. I switch it up just about every time I make them, so feel free to improvise with what you have in your kitchen.

1 can black beans, rinsed well and drained

1 can diced green chilies

1 clove garlic

1/2 cup bread crumbs or panko

Salt, pepper, cayenne, paprika and Cumin to taste.

1/2 cup frozen corn, thawed (or a small can of corn, drained)

extra bread crumbs or cornmeal for making patties

Olive Oil

First mash the beans. I do this with a hand held masher (I call it potato masher, but my friend’s husband told me that it is a bean masher if you come from Guadalajara).  You can also use the food processor, but I think it squishes too much texture out of the beans. Next use a garlic press to squish the garlic into the beans and stir it in. Next add bread crumbs and spices to taste. I really like spicy and smoky, so I put in a lot of cayenne and cumin. Paprika amps up the vitamin c and adds color. I don’t usually add salt since canned beans have a lot already, but to each his own.  Add in the green chilies and the corn and stir it up well. It might be a bit too wet, if so, add more bread crumbs. You want a thick paste that is easy to form into balls.

Now, fold a piece of parchment paper in half and place on a saucer. Sprinkle the inside of the parchment with cornmeal or more crumbs, and add a ball of the bean mixture. Roll the beans in the cornmeal to coat all sides lightly. Fold the parchment over the top and use a second saucer to flatten out the ball to the thickness you like.  You should be able to make 4 patties, or you can make smaller ones if you want.

Heat a skillet and add a little olive oil. Add in a bean patty and fry a couple minutes until golden on both sides and warmed throughout.

Serve on toasted english muffins or whole wheat toast with the cheese of your choice.

While cooking, listen to a cheesy movie on tv.

Condor!  I was glad he came out to say hey.

La cascada

About to take off on a zip line.