El Mate

3G in Montevideo

Uruguay Route 7, Melo to Montevideo

Melo, Uruguay

Melo turned out to be a pretty strange place....

Santa Maria, Brazil pushing on to Melo, Uruguay

January 2nd was cloudy and rainy all day. We were a few hundred kilometers behind schedule, and getting tired. The towns along the way south of Frederico Westphalia are very nice, clean, orderly, small and simple houses but well kept and complete. No junk cars, no improvised fences, no trash at all. Houses are painted in various pastels, alegre. We set a goal of Santa Maria for a break, which turned out badly, because it is a big city. Once we got sucked into the center, Friday afternoon traffic, no parking, we're hungry, beginning to wonder if we should just spent the night and start out early. Way behind schedule. Finally parking and making it up to the town square, all the restaurants are closed until 8PM. We order a burger in the only place open, but end up giving it away to a grateful old fellow, as we lost confidence in eating it. Now lost in Santa Maria, we lunch in a bakery, then head out, doubtfully, a bit tired, into threatening rain, trucks, the highway. But once on the road, the clouds and my head cleared, and we were on our way, with a change in plans. Instead of heading for Rio Grande on the coast, we opted to cut a couple hundred kilometers but cutting straight south, to hit the Uruguay border inland. The countryside changed from populate and green to grey and desolate. The sense of risk growing with darkness approaching. Under darkness in a bizarre little rabble strip of buildings we hit the border, the Brazilian authorities altogether absent, and the Uruguayans like characters from a novel: first the immigration official, unshaven, in a oddly ordered little shack, a soap opera playing on the TV, an old typewriter. The custom guys, even stranger, like we interrupted their card game. A couple of questions, a peak in the trunk, and we're off.

Then it got really dark. Swampy blackness to either side. No traffic either way. Dark. A dog like critter climbs up from the banks in a flash in the headlights and then under the wheels. Darker. Loose and tense, alert, moderate speed. Then, out of the darkness, a shape on the left, swerve, a form, a glimpse of figure holding up motorbike with an impossible load on the back. Just missed him. Darkness. A few houses, or hovels. More darkness, windy blindness. Some figure emerges vaguely before us, in the middle of the road, another motorbike, another impossible load, no lights, just a vague splotch of grey in the blackness, going my 30 mph. Maybe less. As we approach, we can hear it is a 2 cycle bike. As we pass, we can see more clearly. Two 5 gallon gas bottles mounted on each side, 4 gas bottles, above, an impossible load, maybe 4 feet off the back of the bike, one can hardly see the rider for the load, not a all from the back. No lights. We plow on through the darkness, 50 kilometers to Milo. On to Milo. The odd customs agent had said, yes, good hotels in Milo. On we go....

Frederico Westphalen

Frederico Westphalen appeared as an oasis after a long day out of Misiones, Argentina, Santa Catarina Brazil, and onto Rio Grande do Sur, where all along even the service station convenience stores were closed for New Years day. Built into the rolling hills of Rio Grande do Sur, Westpahlen is clean, all late model autos, the shop fronts prosperous, with wide streets and a life-is-good aspect. A great casual patio restaurant on the town square, just below the church, was the only thing open besides the two downtown hotels, where in both the hotel clerks relaxed on lounge chairs on the sidewalk to greet any travelers who might happen through their town.








A kilo of mixed red and green grapes, the best I can remember since my childhood.

Dionisio Cerqueria

Finally making the Brazilian boarder on the early afternoon of the first at Dionisio Cerqueria, where Brazilian Federal Police put up a challenge to Ana Michelle's patrimony ... when we arrived they were in a heated argument with some folks who were turned back for lack of documentation of a minor child.













Having made it into Brazil, we had no Reales, and everything was closed. Finally we found a roadside fruitstand that accepted our Pesos. Our New Year's day dinner.








A rememberence to those who came before...













I think I already said Magnificent Rolling Lush Green Hills back in Misiones, and here, twice again, with the distinction of being under cultivation, and hosting fine little ranches.








Menacing clouds rose to a blinding downpour, sitting it out by the side of the road, cold, sweet rain becomes hail, and back to rain.