Argentina & Uruguay
St Valentine’s Day
Found it hard to sleep too well with the thought of being roused at 3am by the alarm clock. I had a long day ahead of me, three flight changes to encounter in a 15 hour journey. St Valentine's Day was purely coincidental, nothing romantic about it, just a date on the calendar. Though having said that, Sue was rarely far from my mind and I wondered what she would have made of me heading for Argentina and Uruguay. Jeff had kindly offered to take me to Cape Town Airport at this ungodly hour and I was surprised to find him downstairs before me, reading his laptop. I’d had a fantastic time during my two week stay in South Africa, Jeff and Naomi had looked after me unbelievably, as had the boys Luther and Dillon, who had also very kindly given up his room for me. Now it was time to continue my trek across the southern hemisphere to South America.
The roads were empty, as you would expect in the middle of the night and we made the airport in plenty of time. I bade Jeff farewell, thanked him for everything and hoped we‘d catch up later in the year back home.
The first leg was a flight to Johannesburg for a connecting flight to Sao Paulo, Brazil. Problems weren’t anticipated but you can never assume anything….at 4am in the morning you don’t need any anxiety. Checking in, the girl behind the desk didn’t recognise my flight number! Explanation that I had booked everything through Trailfinders and that all should be straightforward fell on deaf ears. Growing a tad worried, I was directed to customer enquiries where it was eventually discovered that South African Airlines had changed the flight number to Sao Paulo, and had forgotten to inform me. Well, thank you! That was a good start, just as I was beginning to think I might have to call Jeff back!
The nine and a half hour flight to Brazil was good. The plane was half empty which enabled me to sprawl out over two seats and pass the time reading, listening to my iPod, watching a film, eating etc. My mindset, having spent nine hours on a train from Memphis to New Orleans six months previously was that this flight wouldn’t be a problem at all. The flight was smooth and it was interesting when we reached the southern continent of America and flying over Sao Paulo. My first glimpse of Brazil from a few thousand feet looked very enticing and I made a mental note for the future. Rio and Paulo could be an idea for a holiday sometime.
If I was daydreaming and thinking how wonderful life was, reality was to bring me back to the present when I disembarked and sought out my connection to Buenos Aires. Turned out to be a nightmare. Sao Paulo is a huge airport on three levels, and I visited each one, two or three times, getting nowhere fast. Nobody spoke English. Nobody could understand what I was asking for even when I showed documents stating I was looking for the Argentine Airlines Check-Out. ‘Up the elevator’ I was told, in Spanish and arm waving. ‘No, wrong area, down the elevator’ a woman at the enquiries desk informed me, in Spanish and arm waving! Trailing my suitcase behind me, I walked back and for, up and down stairs, up and down lifts, to all three levels, getting more frustrated by the minute. Eyes peeled, I didn’t see a sign anywhere indicating where the Argentine Airline Terminal was situated. I began to wonder if I was in the right airport!
Exasperated, tired and bothered at walking around like a headless chicken, time was passing by when relief came unexpectedly after I spied an official looking young bloke leaning against a wall. He was holding a handful of documents and looked as if he was wanting something useful to do. Showing him my flight docs and asking if he could point me in the right direction I was pleasantly surprised when he answered in my native tongue. ‘Yes, you’re on the wrong floor’, he told me, ‘come, I’ll take you there’. Well the relief was palpable. What a nice gesture. We made our way and it seemed like it was about two miles away from where I had been hanging about. This guy had seen me wandering aimlessly for the last half hour or so. He took me directly to the Argentine check out, jumped the queue to explain my predicament to the desk girl, which drew some dodgy glances from others in line, but what the hell, I was past caring about minor things like that. Boarding pass in hand, this young chap even took me to my departure gate and wished me well. Sometimes you find, people can be so nice. I wished I could have thanked him more for his help, bought him a drink or something, but he walked on and left me feeling totally humbled. Whoever you were, kind fellow, you restored some faith in humanity for me!
The final leg of my journey was a two and a half hour flight on what I could only describe as Argentina’s answer to Ryanair. Aerolineas Airlines don’t have a great track record, I was later to learn. The plane was decrepit, like a crate compared to what I’d flown on to get this far. Crammed, people coming on board with suitcases that were a ridiculous size, stretching on-board luggage credibility to the limit. Surely these should have gone in the hold? The flight was delayed because of the cretins jostling and farting around trying to squeeze their luggage into the overhead compartments. Didn’t need this.
The flight was bumpy, turbulence quite bad but that never bothered me much anyway. I’ve long accepted that if the plane goes down there’s sod all you can do, so why worry and get stressed about it? We landed in Buenos Aires with an announcement from the captain that this was the airport delegated for ‘internal’ flights, that is from neighbouring South American countries. Made little difference to me, I was too knackered to take this snippet of useless information in.
Finally through Passport Control and my luggage retrieved I took a minute to take in the fact that at long last I had arrived and was actually standing in a place way on the other side of the world. Seemed like a million miles away from Corby, but very exciting. A taxi to my destination, the Hotel Crillon was another half hour passed and first impression was, it didn’t look that brilliant! Looks can be deceiving though and in fact it was very clean and comfortable, the people were very nice too, welcoming.
Soon it was time to get some zzzz. Been a long day and I was looking forward to the week ahead to discover the delights of Buenos Aires and a three day trip to Montevideo. Felt very satisfying. I slept well.
February 15th Wednesday
'First day in Argentina, and I still can’t believe I’ve made it here' I write in my diary. Always had a dream I might make it to South America some day and it was a nice feeling to realise you’ve accomplished something you’d always dreamt of doing. Weather was lovely, sun shining, after a good breakfast I worked out what I was going to do first, and first priority was to sort out my ticket for the ferry to Montevideo in three days time. As I was near the harbour area I took a walk around to get some bearings. The railway station was right near my hotel so that was the first point of reference. With the heat, and not entirely sure where I was going I hailed a taxi to take me to the Sea Cat Booking Office, which was an adventure itself. Traffic generally abroad I’ve found makes Great Britain seem sedate by comparison. Nobody seems to give a shit! Cutting everyone up, shouting and honking of horns is all par for the course, and my taxi driver was no different. And he charged me 10 U.S. dollars for the experience. Was sure he ripped me off!
And after that, on arrival at the Ferry Office I was told I needed my passport to buy a ticket! Should have thought about it I suppose. After all Montevideo is in a different country! Not all was lost, I changed 2000 Argentinian Pesos which worked out at around £104 sterling. And I bought some cans of beer for the fridge in my room. I walked back to the hotel, picked my passport up and headed once again to the Busque Buss (name of the Ferry Company), to finally get my ticket. It only took me quarter of an hour to walk so the 10 dollars I paid for the taxi confirmed what I feared, I’d been done!
Traipsing around, I bought a few gifts and came across an Irish Bar. Aren’t they everywhere? Normally I give these a swerve, can’t stand the cliche ridden places but I relented my misgivings and went in for a pint and some lunch. The afternoon was spent walking around Puerto Medero, the harbour area, and taking photographs of the wonderful government buildings in the city centre. Sitting in a park adjacent to what was the Ministry of Defence, my thoughts turned to the Falklands War and my mate Alex Shaw who was killed on the last night of the conflict. Statues, artillery in the form of tanks and gun batteries were everywhere. Made me think that it might not be too wise to open my mouth regarding the war! Not sure how the Argentinians regarded us British even if the war was 35 years ago. Bit like the Fawlty Towers episode when Basil says the immortal line ‘Don’t mention the war!’
The railway station being only a ten minute walk from my hotel, I called in to investigate. I’ve a lifelong passion for the railways, especially when I’m abroad. This was around five pm and the station was busy with commuters. I wondered where people were going. Where they worked, lived, what their life was like compared to ours back home. Checking out where the ticket office was situated, in case I might need it sometime, I left and walked along the side streets to see if I could find a place where I might get an opportunity for a photograph or two. To my delight I found a gap in a fence, walked straight through and found myself amongst an array of diesel engines and carriages in a swathe of sidings. Most of the rolling stock looked aged and in desperate need of some TLC. This was magic even though I had the feeling that I shouldn’t have been there. I went round taking loads of photographs and then found myself at the end of a platform. From this angle the entrance into the station resembled that of Penzance. Very similar in fact and I wondered if it was the same architect who designed it. Well you never know, do you? There was what looked like major work going on, even though nobody was around. I walked on towards the buffers which from a distance looked sort of menacing, like sets of cannon, and skipped through the barrier by the entrance to the platform, hoping that no one had seen me and was going to give chase. Last thing I needed was to be done for tresspassing.
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| The Retiro Railway Complex |
I was up early next morning for breakfast, wanted to stoke the engine up before heading off to the stadium of Argentina’s arguably most famous football club, River Plate. Boca Juniors might argue the point but I would save my judgement on that after I’d been there too. The dining room in the Crillon was well set out, clean, big windows to view the outside world, food was exemplary. I was sitting by a window overlooking the busy thoroughfare below, amazed at a long queue waiting by a bus stop over the road, everybody standing with heads bowed, perusing their cell phones. Wherever you go in the world, the obsession with the mobile is evident it appears to me. What’s the world coming to?
The Buenos Aires city guide I picked up in reception told me the River Plate Football Club was quite some distance away but accessible by bus. Thus I joined a queue and a single decker turned up. I asked the driver if he was going my way. He looked at me blank, a familiar expression I’ve become used to over the last few years. He clearly didn’t understand what I was asking, muttered something incomprehensible, with a hint of impatience, and I gave up. Taxi job it was then. Once more my communication skills failed me. Asking the cabbie how much it would cost, approximately, to get me to the stadium received another blank expression. I pointed to the stadium on my map and after some more cross talk of gibberish the penny dropped. I ascertained he was telling me 120 pesos. Which equated to around £7.80. That will do I said with a smile. He remained stone faced and off we went. Sitting in the back I was beginning to realise as we raced through the streets of Buenos Aires that no one, so far, could understand a word of English. Or maybe they did and were still holding grudges over the Falklands affair. Thing was, before I came here, research told me that in South America, just about everyone can speak English. It’s their second language. Thinking about this, I figured out, that after all, the language is Spanish, and with Spain only a stones throw away from England, it's probably understandable. Which is my way of understanding anyway, even if it is complete ignorance! My grasp of Spanish is confined to ‘Ola’ which of course, is ‘Hello’. Piss poor really I know.
The trip took around half hour and I couldn’t believe it when we passed the AEP Areoparque. The airport I flew into from Sao Paulo. I couldn’t believe it because the taxi I had pre-ordered for the connection to my hotel had cost me £36! Well. You live and learn! Anyway, the Estadio Antonio Vespucio Liberti stadium is impressive, very impressive. Situated on the main thoroughfare in the Belgrano district of the city which research told me; 'was named after the Argentine founding father Manuel Belgrano (1770–1820).'
The Belgrano name was also bestowed on the Argentine Navy light cruiser which was sunk by a torpedo from the Royal Navy submarine Conqueror with the loss of 323 lives during the Falklands War. Better not mention that though I noted.
‘Opened on 26 May 1938 and named after former club president Antonio Vespucio Liberti, it is the largest stadium in Argentina with a capacity of 70,074 and also home of the Argentina national football team. It also hosted the 1978 World Cup Final between Argentina and the Netherlands.’ (Wikipedia)
Which made me realise I’d now been to three World Cup Final venues. Wembley (1966), Rosunda, Stockholm (1958) and now Buenos Aires. Pretty good I thought to myself!
Unfortunately I couldn’t get in to the stadium but I walked around the outskirts, managing to get some photos and the River Plate club shop was open which was a bonus. I bought a replica shirt and a half pint beer mug. To complete the visit I asked a couple of lads wearing River Plate shirts if they’d mind me taking a photo of them. For authenticity sake. Couple of Plate fans! I’d spent nearly an hour and a half here, wandering around before deciding to make my way back to the city centre. Being on a main road I thought it’d be a piece of cake. Surely busses pass here all the time?
One did duly arrive and I checked with the driver first to ask which way he was going. Again that familiar blank look was administered but this time, instead of dismissing me as some ignoramus of an Englishman, he clearly felt some sympathy and ushered me on board, refusing to take a fare! Could be he couldn’t have been bothered to try and explain how much it was going to cost me or I was on the wrong bus but nonetheless he let me on for free. I assumed if I was on the wrong bus he would tell me where to get off further down the road if he wasn’t actually going to the city bus station. Then to my surprise, a young girl in her late teens or early twenties, I surmised, came up to me and in English, unbelieveably, told me she’d overheard my conversation with the driver and that I would have to get off soon near a suburban railway station, she was going that way, and she would take me there. I couldn’t believe it! How lovely was that! Sol was her name, an angel on the 281 North Circular route. (Made that up, the 281 was the former Corby Studfall Avenue to Willowbrook Road Circular bus route). My mind is drifting again! But, it shows you, that’s twice someone had come to my rescue in this remote part of the world!
I bought a ticket for 12 pesos, and the journey to the main railway station, The Retiro Railway Complex to give it’s proper name, took around 30 minutes which had me thinking that the equivalent in England would possibly be Corby to Wellingborough and the ticket would cost £5 or something. This Argentine rail journey cost me about 20p! Working this out had me bemoaning the rail network in Britain and what a rip off it is. Having said that this train did resemble a cattle truck! Crowded, litter in abundance, carriages dirty, but for 20p! I’m not shy put it that way.
My next expedition was to the Recoleta Cemetery to find the tomb of Eva Peron. On my way I was witness to a road accident involving a motorbike and a car at a crossroads. Police and ambulance were in attendance and I took advantage by taking a photograph. Well why not? Didn’t look like anyone was seriously injured and it’s not something you see every day. It took me a good three quarters of an hour to find the cemetery and funny sort of thing to say, but it was worth it. Not the normal kind of cemetery, it was all tombs and alleys. My main reason to visit was of course to find the tomb of Eva. I had a cemetery map. I asked a couple of people who looked like tourists and as confused as I was and round and round I went. Might have passed it a couple of times I expect but could I hell find it! Eva was being elusive. In the end, tired of walking around in circles I bade farewell, slightly disappointed.
So, what’s the big deal about Eva Peron? A reference on Wikipedia (abridged) explains all;
‘María Eva Duarte de Perón; 7 May 1919 – 26 July 1952), better known as Eva Perón and Evita, was the wife of Argentine President Juan Perón (1895–1974) and First Lady of Argentina from June 1946 until her death in July 1952. Born in poverty, at the age of 15 she moved to Buenos Aires to pursue a career as a stage, radio, and film actress. She met Colonel Juan Perón on 22 January 1944 during a charity event at the Luna Park Stadium to benefit the victims of an earthquake in San Juan, Argentina. They married the following year. Juan Perón was elected President of Argentina in June 1946. During the next six years, Eva Perón became powerful within the pro-Peronist trade unions, primarily for speaking on behalf of labor rights. She also ran the Ministries of Labor and Health, founded and ran the charitable Eva Perón Foundation, championed women's suffrage in Argentina, and founded and ran the nation's first large-scale female political party, the Female Peronist Party. In 1951, Eva Perón announced her candidacy for the Peronist nomination for the office of Vice President of Argentina, receiving great support from the Peronist political base, low-income and working-class Argentines. Opposition from the nation's military and bourgeoisie, coupled with her declining health, ultimately forced her to withdraw her candidacy. In 1952, shortly before her death from cancer at 33, Eva Perón was given the title of "Spiritual Leader of the Nation" by the Argentine Congress. She was given a state funeral upon her death, a prerogative generally reserved for heads of state. Eva Perón has become a part of international popular culture, most famously as the subject of the 1976 musical Evita.’
All the walking around in these high temperatures was catching up with me. It was back to the hotel for a shower and a spell relaxing before going out for a meal in the evening. I’d passed an authentic Argentinian Steak House on my travels and well it had to be done. It was absolutely superb! Best steak I’d had in my life. Washed down with a large gin and tonic it set me up for the night. I headed off afterwards to the Irish Bar feeling bloated but content. Couple of pints of Guinness and it was back to the Crillon, and once more, I slept like the proverbial...
Next morning I woke early, itching like hell with five mosquito bites! There was a pharmacy close by and after breakfast I made a beeline for it to buy some anti histamine tablets. That sorted, my project today was to visit the other world famous football club in Buenos Aires, Boca Juniors, which is in the La Boca district of the city. With a long day ahead of me I ordered a taxi with the receptionist explaining to the driver where I wanted to go. Saved me a bit of bother!
The La Boca area, compared to where the River Plate club is situated was very tardy looking to me. Rough. The stadium was colourful with blue and yellow paint, the club colours, splattered everywhere. Every wall, door, even the surrounding buildings were all covered in the blue and yellow of Boca Juniors. Tacky. The area was bleak, you wouldn’t want to walk around after dark on your own was what I was thinking. One thing that made my day was when I discovered I could gain access to inside the ground for a nominal charge. Which I did. Fabulous as well. Might look a dump from the outside but inside, what a stadium! I made my way round all the stands, taking snapshots, asked another visitor to take a photo of me with the stand and the name Boca Juniors in the background. I visited the club museum and shop, sat down for a while to take it all in. I didn’t realise that one of Boca Juniors most famous sons was Rattin, the Argentine captain and villain of the infamous 1966 World Cup game against England at Wembley. Sent off by the referee, Rattin refused to leave the field. The Argentinians were enraged and threatened to all walk off with their captain. After a significant delay due to the mayhem, which I remember watching live on television, aged 16, the game resumed and England eventually won 1-0, but the aftermath following the match very near caused diplomatic relations between the two countries to cease. Not helped when England’s manager Alf Ramsey called the Argentinians ‘animals’ during an interview live on the box. This was 16 years before the Falklands War and as I sat in the stand at Boca Juniors thinking this, I realised there was clearly never any love lost between us.
Walking back to the city I followed the signs for Puorto Madeio, the harbour and docks area, as I knew the way back to my hotel from there. The heat was exhausting and I sought out a restaurant for some lunch, and witnessed a scene which could have come right out of a Fawlty Towers episode. Embarrassing! Two middle aged couples, Brits, were arguing over their bill with an elderly waiter. Loud and obnoxious they were giving this chap some considerable grief. “We had onion in the salad which we hadn’t ordered!” one lady roared, as if that itself was enough to get a reduction. Couldn’t figure that one out. Why didn’t she complain when it was brought to the table? Other complaints followed, coffee was tepid or something, before they then argued amongst themselves over who had had what. “No, I didn’t have the ham, you had it’, “No I didn’t”, I didn’t have coffee”, “you had the scrambled egg”…and on and on. Reminded me of home.. This went on for some time with the waiter looking more bemused by the minute, and as an onlooker I felt embarrassed to be British. God almighty.
Back at base in the evening I settled for a couple of beers in the bar across the road after all the roaming around I’d done. Sat for a while in the park watching the world go around. And the traffic. It was like Wacky Races! Never seen anything like it. And the din! Must be a million yellow and black taxis in Buenos Aires I guessed. All crazy, blaring their horns as if stuck in a gigantic quagmire of a traffic jam or in celebration of a victorious day in the annals of the city’s history or something. God knows. After a time I went back to the tranquility of the Crillon.
February 18th Saturday
Excited today to be embarking on the last leg of my journey that has encompassed South Africa and South America. I was getting the ferry to Montevideo, Uruguay. Thinking of this, if someone had told me years ago I would be doing this I wouldn’t have believed them. Funny how life turns out. It’s the culmination of a series of events that begun when I lost Sue in 2014. Feeling completely lost, the depression left me feeling that I didn’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone, I wanted to escape, maybe from the reality. A contradiction in many ways but it seems on looking back on these last few years that I’d never stopped. Indeed it was noticeable and a comment from a pal in my local pub The Rockingham Arms, Tucker Hewitt, made me realise. “Clive” Tucker said one night. “you want to calm down..nobody knows where you are half the time..” What Tucker was saying, was that I should stop running away…life has to go on..
Of course he was right but the travel bug had well and truly bitten me and now here I was heading for Uruguay which to many of my friends must have seemed like I was heading for the moon. The attraction for me though was to visit Uruguay’s premier football club Penarol. A name I remember from when I was a kid, when they contested the World Club Championship. The days when it was a one off game between the European Cup Winners and South American Cup Winners. I was also interested in finding out more about the German ‘pocket battleship’ the Graf Spee that sought refuge from the Royal Navy during the early stages of the War in 1939. The Spee had caused carnage in the South Atlantic sinking Allied merchant ships at will. She was finally caught up and damaged by the cruisers Exeter, Ajax and Achilles. Seeking refuge in Montevideo for repairs which was denied, Captain Langsdorff scuttled the Graf Spee in the estuary of the River Plate. A story immortalised in the film ‘The Battle of River Plate’. Langsdorff later shot himself in a hotel room in Buenos Aires.
I was woken in the middle of the night by a huge thunderclap which for a minute had me fearing the ferry to Montevideo might be cancelled. By morning though the threatened storm had subsided and after leaving details and my large suitcase in a lobby at the Crillon until I returned a couple of days later, arranged with reception, I strode off to begin my next adventure.
The ferry was a big ugly looking tug and well worn, more African Queen than Queen Mary and was well packed. Don’t know why I was surprised at this but I took a seat by the window so I could get a good view of the crossing and the mighty estuary of the River Plate. I was soon joined by a family of squawking kids and their mother who quickly became a distraction. Pain in the fucking arse in other words. That aside, what surprised me was how calm the sea was, and the colour. Murky brown resembling that of Corby boating lake after a thunderstorm. Took around and hour to get across to a place called Colonia from where it was a two hour bus journey to the capitol. Finally in Montevideo there was no point in trying to figure out how to walk to my hotel, the Hyatt Centric. Everything being alien I took a taxi. An obvious slice of common sense which I adhere to everywhere I go.The Hyatt Centric was situated right on the waterfront which was nice. Looked a wee bit out of place in an area which otherwise looked less than desirable and up-market.
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| The murky waters of River Plate |
The language continued to be a problem. Trying to communicate at reception, giving my details and paperwork was almost exasperating. I was given a complimentary glass of wine, which tasted like cold tea, while they tried to decipher my papers. Finally I was given a room and a key. And if I thought my stay was off to a bad start, when I entered my room, I found two women sitting there! They looked at me, gawping with as much surprise as I did them. They were clearly settled, enjoying a drink and a chat. I apologised and went back to reception to explain the situation, best I could. They apologised for the mix up and confusion, well I think they did, and I was given another room. With a lovely view of the ocean I have to add.
First night in Montevideo was spent primarily in a bar I came across while walking along a street parallel to the waterfront. The Prima Donna had a nice seating area outside which, after taking a look inside, which looked a right dump, I took a pew under a pagoda to relax with a beer.
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| The Prima Donna |
I took a stroll along the waterfront on the way back to my hotel, it was getting dusk and I found a bench to watch guys fishing on the promenade. So peaceful. Before retiring I went into a supermarket for a couple of cans and was ignorantly told by two armed security men to take my rucksack off and put it in a locker. Fuck me did they think I was going to rob the place! It was their attitude, as if they suspected everyone was a bandit. Did make me think though. Is it my British accent? Are the British really welcome in this part of the world? Might be me but most people I had come across acted as dumb as shit! And ignorant!
Next morning I went in search of the Naval Museum which I thought might be around the harbour which was conveniently only a ten minute walk away. There wasn’t a lot to see, some lovely old buildings, warehouses and plenty of ships in dock but hardly anything on show of the German battleship Graf Spee which was disappointing. A monument was the best it could do. Standing alongside a giant container ship was amazing, intimidating even. Mammoth thing! I felt quite dwarfed, and dumbfounded. How do these ships the size of skyscrapers stay afloat? One of the wonders of the world. Looking for some advice in what direction I should be taking for the city I approached a security guard expecting to get some short shrift but found him really friendly and amiable. And he spoke English! Had a lovely chat with him about the Graf Spee, obviously they are taught the history of this famous wartime ship in Uruguay and he was very informative, explaining the salvaging problems, which was eventually halted when Germany filed complaints and wished their battleship to be left in peace on the bed of the estuary and designated a war grave. Some artefacts were recovered before they achieved this though and were on display in a museum close to the city centre. Only problem was, it being a Sunday, the museum was closed! Nonetheless I bade my friend farewell, wished him a good day and proceeded on my way.
The museum, overlooking the sea, was smaller than I anticipated, presumably because they didn’t have much to show. There were a few items on display on the lawns, a huge gun and various other nautical pieces. Not being a mariner, I didn’t have much of a clue what they were but obviously they were important enough to be salvaged and put on display. Having read the book of ‘The Battle of the River Plate’, seen the film, knew the history, it was quite something to be standing here taking all this in. Staring at this weapon that sent shells miles to sink merchant ships in the South Atlantic Sea. Every now and again in life you come across things that feel quite surreal. This was one of them.
Mission accomplished, if with a feeling of underwhelment, the rest of the day was spent mooching around the shopping precincts, walking along back streets which reveal how and where the real folk live in these places. Often find these to be rundown, streets littered with rubbish, houses, buildings boarded up, the sense of decay all around. I find it fascinating. Taking photographs as I went along I stopped to watch Montevideo’s version of Pink & Jones operating a house clearance. Compared to the removal vans back home this looked quite primitive. Flat back covered lorry, like a wagon train, a couple of guys shouting, farting around, struggling, was amusing to an extent. Could of course been a ‘home’ job. I was thinking this and remembering when me and Sue moved home in 1978 and my mate in the Post Office, Cliff Hughes ‘borrowed’ a Royal Mail articulated lorry to move our furniture!
Rambling on I came across a bus station and so enquired if there was a service to the football stadium of Penarol. Turns out the club had moved to the outskirts of the city, which entailed about an hour’s bus ride.
Back in the hotel, lying on the bed half naked after a revitalising shower, I was taken aback when the door suddenly burst opened, and in walked a lady, apparently to check the contents of my fridge! She dropped her wares, cans of tonic and coke, shrieked an apology and made haste. I know imagination can run wild but the shriek was more in surprise that the room was occupied…I’ll leave it there!
I was up early, enjoying the view of the morning sun over the sea before going for breakfast. Where my eye was caught by a middle aged couple sitting opposite in the dining room. The guy was taking photographs of his wife or partner or whoever she may have been with his expensive looking camera, not an ipad or a mobile phone, the genuine article. A Canon by the look of it. She was scooping up her cornflakes, pausing and posing while hubby took a snapshot. This went on for about five minutes. What was that all about? Made me smile as I ate my egg and bacon anyway.
Montevideo was beginning to seem a very strange place. With strange people. There didn’t appear to be any souvenir shops, newsagents, butchers, bakers, the bars were more like hideaway speakeasies, the people looked at you as if you were from another planet when you spoke to them. Nobody attempted to try and converse in English, which after all is universal. I felt it was almost as if Uruguay had been tucked away and forgotten about in a small corner of this continent. Certainly Montevideo was nothing like Buenos Aires, a beautiful city by comparison.
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| Pink & Jones |
And who was Frank? You may ask. Wikipedia gave the answers;
‘Frank Henderson arrived in Penarol probably in 1890 from Chile. The family had been living there for at least two years. And Henderson was not strictly a railway man. He was an accountant. He was a Scot and representative of the family's general interest in railways in Britain and elsewhere in South America and in the Uruguayan railway in particular. Born in London, his family is said to have come from Langholm in The Borders. His grandfather was born in Edinburgh. Frank was the fourth of four sons of George Henderson, a major shareholder in the Manchester Ship Canal and in port developments and telephone and electrical systems worldwide. He also financed a number of railways in the United Kingdom and internationally, was chairman of the London and North Eastern Railway from 1899 until 1922 and a Member of Parliament from 1898 to 1906. Frank was sent to Uruguay to expand and look after the railways financially with his younger brother, Brodie, an engineer, looking after it and similar investments in Argentina. Frank Henderson would remain in Uruguay for the best part of a decade. He would then move on but still have roots across the River Plate. In both Uruguay and Argentina, Frank would see football expand and consolidate. In Uruguay, another Scotsman, John McGregor would be its first star and as he waned, he was replaced by another, James Buchanan.’ (Wikipedia)
After getting a photograph of the railway engine I walked around the bowl of a stadium looking for somewhere I could sneak in. To no avail. There was nobody around apart from a security guard dressed like a commando and I attempted to engage him in some friendly chit chat - and you’ve guessed it. I might as well have been talking Chinese! I told him I was from England, a football fan, a Penarol fan in fact, which was a lie but worth a shout. I held up my ipad indicating I wanted to take a few pictures, I’d travelled to the other side of the world for this, couldn’t he let me in just for a few minutes? He understood some of that content, as indicated when he grunted with all the antipathy of a bulldog chewing a wasp. ‘Visitors, no!!’ he growled. Fuck me. ‘Ignorant prick!’ I said to myself. Didn’t say that too loud though, in case he shot me!
I trudged back to the bus stop where I had got off and waited for ages for a bus to come along. Eventually one did. ‘What a waste of fucking time that was..’ was all I could think as I took a seat.
However, the journey back proved to be entertaining if not bizarre. A guy came on board at one stop singing and playing his guitar before jumping off at the next one. He was good too. Another chap who jumped ship at the same time kissed the driver! Well that was odd. Then another bloke got on, walked up and down, chopsing away to nobody in particular at a hundred words a minute, and then tried to sell Elastoplast! His idea of a sales pitch I guessed. Like he was a salesman! He was followed by another guy selling sweets. Weird bloody world at times. Weird bus come to that!
I was desperate for a drink.
February 21st Tuesday
I was entering the final stages of my three week long trip. The day was spent mostly in transit. Taxi to Montevideo Bus Station, two hours bus ride to Colonia, ferry to Buenos Aires where I was greeted with a thunderstorm. Walking back to the Crillon I was ‘absolutely drowned’.
It was time to get things in order for the following day’s return to Blighty. A 13 hour flight to Heathrow. I went for a final walk around at night and a couple of beers. Next morning I was up early for breakfast before checking out. Went for a short stroll to pass the time before my taxi arrived at around 2pm to take me to Ezeiza International Airport.
Sitting in the reception area, checking the weather and the news on my ipad, a smart looking guy approached me, with a notepad, briefcase and pen in hand. ‘Good morning” he said, to my surprise. First time anyone had spoken to me in English! I replied the same, wondering what it was he wanted to ask me. Now he had grabbed my attention he continued; Had I been in Buenos Aires long, did I enjoy myself, all the usual boring survey stuff. I engaged him, something to pass the time I mused and then somehow we got talking about the Falklands War. At this he became quite animated. He informed me of the losses, the casualties they had entailed. I told him about my friend who lost his life, Alex Shaw. As if to say, ‘yes, we lost some soldiers too..’ Seeing he was getting quite emotional I asked him how the defeat, which was now over 30 years ago, was still regarded and felt by the Argentinians. This started a rant. He refused to acknowledge the name ‘Falklands’. Every time he referred to the islands as the Malvinas. OK I got the point. He informed me that the war was still high on the curriculum at school, the children were taught the history of the Malvinas, the proximity of them to Argentina, the 1982 War that Maggie Thatcher started. That they would never give up on the Malvinas. They belonged to Argentina. He was adamant and agitated at this. For a minute I thought this conversation was going somewhere I wasn’t really interested in. Didn’t want a fight on my last day in South America!
I was glad when my taxi arrived.
The flight was on schedule, I settled down for the hike, a long night was ahead of me. If I could get some sleep, intermittent it may be, I would be relatively refreshed when we arrived in Heathrow at around 7.30 in the morning. All went well…until..
I was aware that while I’d been away a storm, called Doris of all things, had caused havoc and decimation across the country. Not too concerned, all I was thinking about was getting home to Corby. Everything went smoothly. The Heathrow Express to St Pancras was on time, no hanging about. My train was due to leave at 9am. Then it went pear shape.
Thousands of people were milling around the platforms at St Pancras, all looking bemused and stranded. I jostled my way through the crowd to Platform 1. The overhead notice board was completely blank. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked a ticket collector on the gate. ‘Haven’t you heard?’ he replied, as if I was thick. ‘Overhead cables at St Albans have come down, it’s chaos everywhere”. Then I asked, what was apparent, the dumb question. “How?’ He looked at me as if I was gormless. ‘Storm Doris!” He was obviously feeling the stress. More than likely been bombarded with the same inane questions all morning. Nevertheless I asked him how I was supposed to get home, will my ticket be valid for another train. He informed me that if I could get anywhere near my destination, my ticket would be accepted at another station, like Kings Cross over the road. Great I thought. I made my way over to Kings Cross which was similarly rammed with people. The notice board indicated that some trains were still operating. I’d figured that if I could get to Peterborough from here, I could then be able to get a bus to Corby. A train was due in ten minutes! The ticket collector accepted my pass and I was finally on my way home, relieved and knackered. An hour later I was in familiar territory and by chance, the Peterborough to Corby bus was all ready in.
By the time I got home it was 1.30. I’d been up for nearly 30 hours. Been to South Africa and South America. Sinking into my bed, these thoughts were in my head. It had been quite an adventure. I drifted off to sleep, and slept, once more, like the ‘proverbial log.’
