Leaving the relative homeliness of a family house in El Pinar we always knew our next couchsurfing experience would be different, but we didn’t expect it to be quite so different…
Arriving in the evening at a rural farmhouse in Western Uruguay, Juan (our host) cheerfully showed us our new home: an abandoned old farmhouse he had moved into a few months ago which had been unoccupied for over 35 years since his grandfather’s mysterious death.
It probably didn’t help that we arrived at night but the flickering lights, irregular buzzing of the electric fence and perpetual huge flittering insects meant that it was not the easiest first night’s sleep. Juan explained that the jail bars on the door were only for when he was alone and afraid of strange walkers in the night, it would at least buy him a few more minutes to call the police he explained… Hmmm, great. I decided not to ask about the red handprints all over the back door.
During the night I barely slept, fearing a bit for my life, but once I finally drifted off the bedroom door was thrown open by a babbling old topless man incoherently asking for Juan. I turned over and hoped it was all a dream. And then the chainsaws and hammers on the roof started…
Christmas Eve takes a slightly different style here in Uruguay. Rather than starting in a pub or family party at 8pm, or for those better behaved at a mass somewhere around midnight, the celebrations kick off at midday in the street with a bottle of cider. Pour this bottle over your neighbour and in Montevidean terms you have a party!
Hearing about the crazy cider tradition we thought it had to be seen to be believed and so with a few native friends we ventured into the mayhem of Mercado del Puerto.
Crowds of people were hoarded on the street, chanting and clapping along with the claxons and drums as they sprayed, and got soaked in, cider.
We ducked into the covered Mercado to sink a few bottles of media y media, eat an asado containing bits of cow I have never seen before, and headed back to the street to get drenched. A few brave, or drunk, souls climbed up the monument to wave the Uruguayan flag and get bottled by drunken revellers during their two minutes of painful fame. Completely insane.
As evening approached we thought it was time to head back for a shower and to head to our Uruguayan family for Christmas proper.
The evening was spent eating, drinking, watching a thousand fireworks at midnight then opening presents before heading to bed exhausted.
Christmas morning I was awoken byNacho’s dad stoking the huge outdoor BBQ. We ate breakfast and quickly regretted the fruit and cake as numerous platters of nibbles were presented to us less than 20 minutes later. Deciding that the ‘when in rome’ mentality was better we jumped straight in and joined the men on the whisky and the women eating all the food in the kitchen.
A huge BBQ with a whole lamb and plenty of sausages was next on the list accompanied by an array of salads, followed by desserts, turron and then leftovers. Family came and went replaced by more family and by the end of the day it didn’t feel too distant from an English Christmas. That is of course, apart from the weather.
We finished the evening watching the sunset on the beach toasting a lovely Christmas, Uruguayan style (that is with media y media in hand).
I think Christmas celebrations in Uruguay only really kicked off with a festive cook-off between myself and a Mexican couchsurfer on the 23rd. The whole nation was clearly waiting with baited breath.
Alejandra, our host, after a few too many beers and a bit of bragging, invited her friends around to try the exquisite cooking of her British couchsurfer (yours truly). All well and good until her friend Santiago, who was hosting a Mexican couchsurfer (Greta), categorically stated that his couchsurfer could cook far better than hers. And so a cooking competition was born.
Without much say in the matter, Greta and I had been cornered into a cook-off the following night. Our only pre-requisite was that each person cook something typical of their nation, moderately priced, able to feed over 12 and better than the other person’s.
Being an avid fan of spicy Mexican and an unpatriotic disapprover of British cuisine I had no idea how mild mannered and quite bluntly crap British cooking could hold a candle to whatever Mexican fireball Greta had up her sleeve. 'Bubble and sqeak' compared to kickass guacamole?!
My chef hand Jim and I set off to the supermarket the following day nervously discussing the merits (and pitfalls) of typical British dishes: bangers and mash, Yorkshire pods and gravy, shepherds pie… All of them seemed vaguely obscure and inappropriate on a warm summer’s day.
Then when a sprightly bunch of coriander caught my eye in the supermarket, inspiration hit. The most typical British dish of them all… curry! Hopefully the holy trio of ginger, chilli and lime could give the Mexican dish a run for its money.
Setting off to work in the kitchen we had, with apparently typical British punctuality (I don’t know where this reputation came from), everything prepared on time before the guests arrived. 1 point to Blighty.
Greta, in apparently typical Mexican form, arrived an hour late with her Mexican helper and raw ingredients in hand. Minus 1 point to the Mexicans. So they set off cooking and the race was on. While we kicked back and waited for the beans to cook we, in typical British fashion, got our eyes taken off the game by a few persuasive bottles of media y media (half wine, half cider and surprisingly not half as dirty as it sounds). Britains back to zero. In typical Mexican fashion, they joined in with plenty of ‘cerveza’. Mexicans minus two.
By the time anyone got to eat anything, at least three hours later, it was all delicious… Brits and Mexicans love all.
Arriving in rural El Pinar we didn't know what to expect from our first couchsurfing family. An hour's bus journey from Montevideo landed us outside Rosanna and Nacho's house in the quiet suburb and we stood eye-ing up the tiger stiped boxer guard dog determining whether it was better to go in or wait outside.
Backpacks pulled around the front to cover Jim's groin we walked in with trepidation. The dog bounded up to us in a playful manner, dropping a cone at our feet to play catch with it. Clearly no need to be worried then... The house was mysteriously empty so we waited on the porch played cards and catch with the world-s worst guard dog. A couple hours later, Rosanna skipped through the gate greeting us in Spanish with two other couchsurfers in tow. Chatting in Portanolish with the brazilians we all became acquainted over a few cups of mate as we waited for Uruguay's youngest couchsurfers to come home from kindergarden. Sante, aged 4, and Lara, aged 2, clung to their mother's legs on arrival and continued to cling as she hauled them from room to room showing us around. Heading to the beach for the evening it only took the kids a couple minutes and a few sandcastles to warmup to us. After which they never calmed down and spent the next three days demanding to be thrown in the air 'otra vez' (another time). Rosanna and Nacho were an inspirational couchsurfing couple inviting all nationalities into their home to learn about Uruguay in a cultural exchange. We discussed Uruguayan politics, went walking along the river, shared travellers tales, posed for a thousand photos and more, and learnt how to sandboard. A truely welcoming family who open up their lives and home to new people without condition. We have even been invited back for Christmas!
After a few mad last weeks and a couple leaving parties of sorts, we headed across the river on a boat. Landing in peaceful Colonia del Sacrimento we settled into the new a dramatically different pace of life from Buenos Aires (ie. cars actually stopped for you and people gave you more than a few words of greeting at the bakery). We spent a few days wandering amidst the colourful houses on the uneven cobbled streets, whiling away time at the riverside and on the harbour, clambering over sea flattened rocks and chatting up local fishermen to take home a nice big river fish. The old town was charming with its colonial architecture and laid back feel while maintaining a bohemian modernism through its beautiful art galleries, trendy boutique restaurants and chill out beach bars. Apart from the dreaded mosquitos which left me foaming at the mouth with itcheness like a rabid dog, Colonia was a charm.
At first I figured being homeless in Uruguay with sweaty santas and fake snow by the beach was possibly the least Christmas-sy way to spend Christmas but with accomodation all booked up and only a vague plan to head towards the beach, snow and sligh bells feel pretty far from sight. But after a few glasses of Tannat and a little bit of reflection I have decided Christmas in a hotter climate, travelling on the road, with no home, hostel, or inn to go to is actually not that far from the true Christmas story. There are no donkeys here but I have seen a plump Shetland pony and the stars do look awefully big at night... With no prospects yet and only six days to go, it really will be a case of asking for any room at the inn...
Everyday I get presented with a huge hunk of meat either to cook for the family unit, or if Beatrix (member no. 4) is there, I get presented with a huge hunk of cooked meat which I am expected to devour along with everyone else at midday. There is little variation from the theme really – roast meat, potatoes and the odd salad only thrown in for my benefit – and I got positively frowned upon when I added some oregano to our chicken. Cooking pasta one day was completely out of everyone’s comfort zone and they politely moved the pasta to one side and just ate the obligatory meat. Most lunch times follow the same pattern but each with their own ‘charm’ – whether it be Franco getting out his war wounds, Franco showing us texts from his five wives, or Franco telling us about his days as the village pin-up. It is our last week but over the last month we have fit quite comfortably into the family unit which comprises of … (circus style drum roll please)…
1) Alfreddo. The boss, homeowner and wine shop owner. Looks Italian, talks Spanish and acts French. Moody in the mornings, typical male incapacity to put anything away but a generous heart and gleeful glint in his eye when he catches onto something playful. 2) Colin. Alfreddo’s Russian girlfriend’s well-groomed (but slightly dusty from all the building work) poodle. Gets so excited to see people sometimes that his legs shake and he has to sit down. 3) Franco. Alfreddo’s handyman and head b*tch for 10 years. Still considers himself a player despite his 62 years of age, wife and 5 children. Slightly loco and has a tendency to tell very tall tales, especially after a few beers at lunch time and even taller tales after 6 or 7 beers by 4pm. 4) Beatrix. The cheeky housemaid. Plays secret practical jokes on all the men which provide endless entertainment for her and for myself as a female. 5) Jim (Jimmy so everyone else calls him, I think there is a problem with names ending in consonants). Tends to smile at everything as he has no idea what is being said most of the time but throws back the odd word in Spanish just to play along. Likes to participate in practical jokes with Beatrix. 6) The painter. An older chap from the province who has clearly no experience in painting but has been brought in under recommendation from Franco, probably because they are neighbours and it gives Franco someone to talk to on the 3 hour train journeys. Quite quiet and tends to keep to himself but opens up after a beer at lunch (much more light weight than Franco) and can occasionally be audibly heard humming in the afternoon. 7) El chico. An 18 year old from northern Argentina hauled in to help as Franco’s b*tch. Occasionally volunteers the odd endearing question about the other side of the world. When I offered him to open my advent calender from home he took the Christmas sleigh shaped chocolate home to show his two children. 8) Me. Tries to spice up the odd lunch with spices and bread and other crazy worldly ingredients. Mainly enjoys listening to Beatrix making fun of all the men.
It takes two to tango, along with the instructor, demonstration couple, two men on a guitar, one man with a microphone, the sound assistant, a few onlookers and an angry Mexican. Or so we learnt. Dragging Jim to tango the other night was a great experience for me, although I think he left rather more damaged than I did. Tango is not an easy dance. It heavily relies on intuition, rhythm and passion – three qualities which us British folk clearly lack. With no set steps, just a few suggestions and the freedom to elaborate, while everyone else was gracefully gliding and lingering we looked like we were doing the robot sideways. My moment of salvation came when we had to swap partners and I got to dance with the instructor for a while – much easier to just cling to someone and allow them to pull you around. I have been waiting to do that again ever since I outgrew clinging onto my father’s leg and standing on his foot while he was walking. Jim on the other hand did not have such a positive experience. Having made a swift exit for an experienced dancer, I left Jim looking around the room for anyone left over. Cue the fat Mexican in the corner that no-one wants to dance with… She bounced over as Jim was asking if he could sit this one out and plonked herself directly in front of him. The music starts and Jim takes one big robot lurch to the side. The Mexican starts screaming and ranting to him in Spanish that he has no idea what he is doing and should not be here, he apologises profusely in English saying he doesn’t understand her or any of the tango directions which were all in Spanish, she gets even more infuriated at him calling the instructors and her friends to basically out Jim as a hopeless beginner. Even worse then being given the nod to sit down, all her friends (who incidentally did not want to dance with her) demonstrate patronisingly how Jim should be doing it, again in Spanish and to no real help for the poor bewildered, and at this point battered by a hormonally imbalanced Mexican, left-footed Englishman. Finally the song is over, Jim is crushed and the real tango is just about to begin. We sit down seeking consolation with a welcome hit flask of gin and watch the professionals get to work as the band begins to play. Some amazing quick-footed couples make it all look so easy and the band is so fantastic that we figure by next week we will have it nailed. And if not, perhaps we can pull off our own robot version convincingly enough to call it a new style…
trange walkers in the night, it would at least buy him a few more minutes to call the police he explained… Hmmm, great. I decided not to ask about the red handprints all over the back door.
