Am I not the luckiest guy you know? I don't say that facetiously or to invoke feelings of jealousy or worse, but I really mean this because I have been pinching myself on a daily basis to make sure that this is not just a dream: I have just finished "working" a 10-day stage race in one of those forgotten South American countries that nobody can pin-point on a map, and I've had the time of my life. Let's start with a few race photos before delving into more details.For my race buddies, pay close attention to the the type of support vehicles and team busses used (if there were any), and the fact that racers pumped up their own tires before the race. But what they lack in dollars, they make up with corazon.
As I said, I had the time of my life. Let's give some of that credit to Gabriel, my colleague who was also my driver but became my friend and brother over those 2,500 kilometers of shared driving. Actually, make that more than just "some" credit. I don't recall the last time that I hit it off immediately with somebody like Gabriel--we laugh about the same stuff, we're both professional, we both don't bullshit, and we both have a realistic view of the world. Over the course of all those shared miles in our little Chinese Geely car (underpowered and rattly yet still way expensive in Uruguay) we talked about everything that you can imagine, and then some. Gabriel was an illegal--yes, that's ILLEGAL!--alien in Miami for 8 years, starting his journey when he was about the same age as I was when I entered the US of A as a student, at 21. He first sold flowers at intersections, then got a job selling shoes in a Cuban's store, worked his way up the ladder into construction until he finally "employed" others to make enough money to support his family and wife back home. I believe him when he says that he could accomplish the work of three Americanos at any given time, and faster.
Now back in Uruguay he still supports multiple family members. He has worked his way up to the status of an auxiliary nurse, somebody comparable to one of our paramedics. He often drives an ambulance, not only for the thrill of the siren and the adrenaline but also because he wants to help people. When not working that job (which he does on a daily basis) he also does remodels and employs a few of his guys to help out with the construction tasks. There are a few other endeavors, and he hired on to the 75th Vuelta Ciclista del Uruguay for about $70 a day (plus expenses) because he has the most open mind you're likely to ever find--and he wanted to improve his English. (The organizer was looking for somebody with medical background and a knowledge of gringo talk.) Add to that the most infectious smile and the even more contagious giggle, and you have my mate-drinking friend Gabriel.
We followed the race in said Geely. The days were long. Uruguay is not a hilly country, less so mountainous.Thus the stages were long and our drives often included transfers from the town where we finished to the next morning's start. The race itself totaled 1,601 kilometers, or almost exactly 1,000 miles, but we clocked about 2,500 K in those 10 days. With Gabriel at the wheel I enjoyed the relaxed view from the passenger seat.
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| Our little Chinese Geely braving the assault of weather in Piriapolis |
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| Underpowered and rickety, the Geely excelled when it came to scary passes |
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| The Geely in the middle of nowhere |
It is difficult to wrap Uruguay into words. Like Texas, it's a place that you have to see and experience. Diversity is key, but on a subtle basis. We started the race in the aptly named Atlantida. At least that was my first thought when I went from my hotel to the beach. You look out on the Atlantic, and you think, wow, this is some brown water! It wasn't until the evening, at the Team Managers Meeting when I talked to some of the local race staff, that I came to realize that this wasn't really the Atlantic Ocean but rather the tail-end of the mighty Rio de La Plata that on a daily basis, similar to the Amazon, carries millions of tons of soil into the open seas. Maybe they should rename it the Rio de La Tierra?
From Atlantida we headed in a mostly eastern direction toward Rocha and La Paloma, close to the apparently very touristy Punta del Este where rich Argentinians, Brazilians, and gringos park their money in expensive homes. La Paloma was quiet in the waning days of the southern summer, but the
real Atlantic was impressive. When I saw those waves my heart reached out to seasickness-prone Sabine who was just about to embark on a sailing trip north of Sicily, and her WhatsApp pics had looked rather familiar when I watched the breakers rolling in. The next day we headed back west to the fabulously named Piriapolis where we stayed in a ginormous hotel whose best days lay 50 years in the past.
The next few stages of the race required some very long transfers between the stages, in addition to the race kilometers themselves. More or less, we traveled back toward Montevideo, then up north to beautiful Colonia (across the Rio de La Plata we could see the sparkling lights of Buenos Aires in the far, far Argentinian distance), then bisecting Uruguay on another eastern trajectory to places such as Soca, Mercedes, and Melo before heading south to Minas and finally ending up in Montevideo. All these names still mean something to me, but they won't for long. Much more lasting will be the memories attached to various peripherals, such as hotels, town squares, dinners, horrible roads, perfect roads, and the ubiquitous
mate drinkers.
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| Piriapolis, the day before nasty weather hit |
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| Old hotel with cavernous marble hallways |
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| Our hotel in Piriapolis, right on the malecon |
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| A pleasant evening in Piriapolis ... |
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| ... and then the next morning. That's why I no longer race bikes. |
Let's start with the
mate. No, it's not "mate" like in "buddy." It's pronounced as
mateh, but it doesn't carry an accent (although one sometimes finds it spelled like that (and I used it on Facebook to avoid confusing speed readers). I had traveled in Argentina on two occasions over the past 12 months, and in the Mendoza area I had seen the occasional
mate drinker. In Patagonia, the habit was much more pronounced. But what I saw here in Uruguay totally blew my mind! I want to estimate that a good third of the people that you see at any given moment out in the streets are cradling a hot-water thermos and carrying their
mate (the gourd, also called
mate, just like the drink itself). Morning, noon, afternoon, evening, late night--they sip and sip and sip. Gabriel (like many of the folks in the race entourage) has his special leather satchel to house everything
mate related. Young, old, male, female, business suit and high heels or
bombachas and a simple frock, they ALL drink
mate, at ALL times.
Why does one drink
mate? Well, for the same reason you drink your coffee in the morning. I drink mine because it's a bit of a habit, it smells good, I kinda like the taste, sometimes (but usually not) it gives me a little kick.
Mate is the same, although it seems to give people a little extra oomph that I don't get from coffee (but other people may need to wake up or get a little boost). Gabriel claims that
sin mate no hay energia. But he also told me how a nasty winter day is transformed into happiness with a
torta frita (a bit like a ginormous
sopapilla) and his
mate. I hope I can upload this nice little video clip to show Gabriel preparing his
mate.
The roads. We traveled many of them, and I can say that I don't recommend Uruguay for a cyclo-touring vacation. Distances are too far between towns with no services in between, shoulders are mostly lacking or of horrible quality, and the traffic (even though mostly light outside of Montevideo) is extremely fast. I'm pretty much distraught about all this because I would love to come back to ride down here, but this is not a good place to ride. The few towns that we passed through on our daily stages were riddled with speed bumps, and the pavement of some of the roads was just one step above Belgian
pave. In other words, it was shit, for miles and miles. Our little Geely suffered through it all, only loosening one of the plastic fenders and beeping a warning whenever we crossed the 75 mph threshold, and that was often.
So, you've never heard of the Jürgen Dictum? Well, don't worry, because I just postulated it: "The closer you get to the equator, the crazier the driving gets." Sweden, they are sane. Germany, they are sane, but they have the Autobahn. Italy, oh yeah, they're getting there. Mexico City? Check that one. Dominican Republic, Thailand, and Colombia--shit, you're right on top of the equator. Uruguay? Not so much. Down here where drivers are civilized, and
tocar la vocina (as honking is called in the local idiom) is considered rude--unless you are Gabriel and have Uruguayan flags attached to your car and announce to the world that the race is coming by wildly honking toward all those folks out there in the middle of nowhere who are patiently waiting for the
peloton that's still two-and-a-half hours down the road. In other words: Driving behavior is mostly sane, and people are patient. And if you're lucky, you come across a few
gauchos on their horses who will smile for you.
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| Fans lining the roads hours in advance of the race |
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| A million-dollar smile |
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| Gaucho herding his cattle alongside the road |
Ah, the people! They are gentle, friendly, welcoming, not concerned with Trump, whom they shrug off as an idiot gringo, outgoing, rather worldly in their views, and well-educated, judging from conversations I had with quite a few of them over these almost two weeks. And the women are hot to boot! I know that this comment in the post-HW era is bound to earn me some spiteful glances or worse, but it's the truth: Old or young, the women I saw in towns and cities dressed well, took pride of how they presented themselves, had beautiful faces, and knew how to attract the gaze of a geezer when walking by. Memories of Hungary welled up ...
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| These two were paid to look good for the entire race |
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| She was not. |
Generally, the perfect place in Latin countries to take in the local scenery is the town square, often referred to as the
zocalo but in Uruguay just
la cuadra. Here you see vintage foosball tables, hand-holding couples, and
pancho (hot dog) vendors. The squares come to life in the evenings, and most of the towns where we stayed (and where I had a chance to wander around by myself) had several of these
cuadras. Uruguay is a small country of just over three million inhabitants, and about half of them live in and around Montevideo. Smaller towns and the rural areas are quite laid back and reminded me of Mexican cities such as Puebla or Guadalajara. I always felt safe and among friendly people while walking around, during the day as well as at night. At times Gabriel referred to Uruguay as a third-world country, but I don't think that's right. Second world in some parts, but mostly borderline between our so-called first world and the step below. The strong link to Europe is evident even though the Spanish like to look down on their cousins in South America, according to Gabriel. The dynamics are interesting.
I was very lucky that the organizer for the race provided Gabriel with a tidy sum of pesos to make sure we would not go hungry or thirsty. And that's a good thing, since neither is inexpensive in Uruguay. Actually, nothing is, except maybe a bag of
hierba mate. Even lunches will cost an easy $12 to $15 in a country where the average income is well below that of a
norte-Americano. Dinners are even steeper, and when you have to pay $8 for a pint of craft beer then you know that this is certainly not a third-world country as far as prices are concerned. The food is good, although we did have to contend with some second-rate cuts of meat in a few places that charged way more than the stuff was worth. But there were also some memorable dinners, with a fine bottle of wine, and I am appalled to say that I put on some weight on this trip! The always-included hotel breakfast always featured
media lunas (croissants), ham and cheese, various sweets and breads, and a few bites of fruit. The coffee ranged from horrible to stellar, as did the orange juice. It all depends on the hotel, of course. In some places they even offered huge cakes to start out the day.
So that leaves only one more facet of this trip: the countryside. It is difficult to express in words how a seemingly boring country devoid of spectacular mountains and other wild features can be so beautiful. The flat to undulating terrain has so many different faces that change only subtly. There's the
campo, which comes close to open range pampa with white-tufted grasses, flightless birds, and small stands of trees where cows will seek shade. Eucalyptus forests often line the road, the trees tall and spindly since they have been planted extremely close together so that they shoot toward the light and can be harvested for export to China. There are hills, soft and round, with green grass stretching one ridge over the next. Soy bean (another major source of exports) and corn fields pop up here and there, but mostly it's all just a green blanket in so many shades that is draped over Uruguay. One day I said to gabriel, "This country is like a woman--it appears so soft and curvy and gentle that one wants to embrace it and caress it and love it." and he very sincerely answered, "Oh yes, Uruguay, she is a beautiful woman and we love her very much." I think I had nailed it, unwittingly.
So, now I'm back in Lubbock, where things are brown and I just read that we're approaching another draught crisis situation. If you're tired of all that current ugliness here on the South Plains, go to Uruguay and be surprised by how beautiful she and her people are.
Jürgen
