Saturdays start slow. Even hound dogs sleep in, worn out from chasing girls all night, and finding food hard to get too.
On the river, small boat Captains are pushing their speed boats hard, taking two, three, four paying customers further up the river where dorados are waiting to be reeled in at ” La Zona” where fishing is often good and gringos like to go.
On the pier this morning, early, there is a photo shoot in progress with three young girls dancing, modeling swimsuits, posing for sexy photos and getting direction from an old bald impressario wearing sunglasses. When the teens change costumes a matronly attendant holds up a coat for them that becomes their changing room.
Clowning around, their boss balances on the back of one of the benches on the pier and dances while a film crew snaps shots and gives him appreciation.
The girls love it.
I don’t know what they are all trying to sell so early in the day, but youth and sex sells most anything anytime.
Behind the news is always old men with money and lots of connections.
This is my second trip to the Dayman termas but there are others in this province. About 80 km from Salto are the Termas of Arapey with five star hotels, water parks, restaurants, shopping, The Dayman termas are only a short bus ride out of Salto and the facilities here are not pretentious, These mineral baths bring tourists and money into the town throughout the year.
Leaving the termas and strolling the village, I think about vacation rentals, consider how it would be to own a place here to rent for income. I have seen people around the world doing this on small to large scales and making it work.
Near the back of the village I find a property that might work for me and make me money. This complex, as described by its large billboard in front, has the latest nuances and features its own hot pools, wi-fi, laundry room, patios and balconies, and security. It is not too large, but at 45 units there will be monthly fees and management costs.
Thinking further, I conclude there has to be more than fishing for dorado’s and hot soaks to entice me to come back to Salto and a vacation rental somewhere else would probably bring me a better return on investment and be more appealing to more paying guests.
I keep my eyes open this afternoon instead for a good place to have lunch.
Hot soaks make me want to take a nap, but money thinking always makes me hungry.
Real estate can be a good place to invest, especially with banks paying next to nothing interest, but, right now, I haven’t even decided on a place to live.
Right now, renting versus owning, and where, is an argument more compelling than hot soaks in Uruguay.
One of the first things I pick up in a new place is a local map.
I find main streets, find plazas, find the river, find the bus terminal or airport, a good place to eat, the farmacia, and someone who knows a little English if I get in a jam. The map the hotel gives me is called the “Plano Urbano de Salto.” One of the things to see close to where I’m staying is the Museo of Bella Arts.
This museum was once a huge home belonging to the woman whose portrait is on the wall when you first enter. The pink colored house is on Uruguay street and is open, free of charge, to anyone who wishes to see inside. Entering the museum, you see that the lady collected art, and, when she passed, left the house and art as her memorial.
One of the smaller, and maybe least ostentatious paintings, is of a gaucho.
In this oil painting, a solitary gaucho poses for his portrait while his horse looks back at him and waits for marching orders.
ThIs cowpoke travels light, has his bedroll and jerky and saddlebags, wears loose fitting and comfortable clothes, and looks ready for anything. Out in the wilderness, alone, he has to solve problems and is reliant on his wits, his experience, and horse to get him through dangerous times.
Being a gaucho must be a little like being a soldier in war. You have days and days of boredom and waiting punctuated with brief episodes of stark terror when bullets fly past your head, and any one of them could send you where you don’t want to go.
Gauchos and cowboys are something that Uruguay and the United States used to have in common.
However, it is hard to see how two countries who admire self reliance and the pioneer spirit have done so much to stamp it out.
The only place we see wild spirits now Is on television and in movies.
Thanksgiving is a peculiar American invention and even more peculiar since Indians had as much to do to do with losing America as Europeans had winning it.
A couple of colder winters, more cold hearted Indians, and the invasion would have been postponed but Medicine men knew invaders were going to keep coming and roll over them like a storm of locust. You can’t hold back tides of people leaving lands where they are persecuted and coming to a place their dreams tell them will be a Heaven on Earth.
Landing in Salto, Uruguay, I do the best I can to honor Pilgrims and the first Thanksgiving where, according to legend, Pilgrims and Indians sat at the same table and had a fine meal together, without fighting.
My Thanksgiving meal is a small individual pizza, that really isn’t pizza, and a couple of beers.
If those first Pilgrims and Indians had known about pizza it might have become our traditional Thanksgiving fare instead of turkey.
What the Indians back then needed was a casino to capitalize on tourism.
Then odds would have been in their favor, without reservations.
Thanksgiving just isn’t the same when you celebrate it overseas.
Some American traditions just don’t translate well.
Salto is known for termas, hot mineral baths.
The Dayman terma, not far from Salto, can handle hundreds of visitors at a time. It has spas for those that want a massage.There are eating facilities. There are lockers, picnic tables and shaded areas to take rest out of the sun. It costs five dollars U.S. to use the terma facilities all day and they are open seven days a week.
A ticket seller at the entry asks where I am from and tells me about his son who lives in New Jersey. It seems lots of people know about New Jersey in Uruguay. All I know about Jersey, from friends, is that spring and fall are the best times of year to visit and Jimmy Hoffa is buried somewhere in the Garden state under a slab of concrete.
The baths this morning aren’t crowded and I watch scattered old men and women with old fashioned swim caps wading in the middle of enormous hot water swimming pools, floating on their backs, sharing gossip in groups of two or three. Kids stand at the edge of the pools, look, then leap into the water with a splash and a squeal.
The hot baths of Salto are a Christmas present I am opening when I come back tomorrow.
These terma’s are the biggest bathtubs I’m ever going to have a chance to soak in.
The exterior of this old home, turned into a business, looking older than dirt, catches my interest.
As in Montevideo, there are antiquated homes in Salto too.
These were built in the last century, or before, and feature ornamental stone work, balconies, tall shutters, statues, touches of Greek and Roman architecture. Some have been renovated, replastered, replumbed, and reinhabited.
This old casa on a street off the main thoroughfare is one that needs more care than it will ever get. While it waits for someone with a dream to fall in love with it, it is a garden shop – El Nuevo Vivero. Inside, plants and trees for sale are placed in empty rooms and since there is no roof on much the building, rain waters them right where they stand.
The sign in front says the business is open on Saturdays and Mondays. This morning the front door is open and someone rustles inside. It is Wednesday.
A young man comes to the front door to see what I want and invites me to come inside to look at his business even though he is closed.
Guillermo is having mate first thing this morning and shows me some of his plants. He is wearing a Brazil soccer shirt and we laugh about that. People take soccer serious on this continent. How can you be a good Uruguay citizen and not wear a Uruguayan soccer shirt?
In the U.S., this place would be closed for code violations. Here, there is no harm, thus no foul.
I buy a few plants and donate them to the front desk at the Los Cedros hotel where I am staying.
When I leave the shop, with my plants,, the ” Closed ” sign, in the front door, still hasn’t been replaced.
A business, it seems to me, that won’t open its doors for a customer, even when the closed sign is in their window, isn’t much of a business.
This morning, I walk down Calle Uruguay, all the way to the Rio Uruguay.
This river separates Argentina and Uruguay. Though it isn’t the Mississippi or the Nile, or the Amazon, it meets the rock test. If a body of water is so big you can’t throw a rock across it, it becomes a river. The rivers, long ago, were the original freeways and big paddle wheels moving up and down the Mississippi are still romantic. Mark Twain, as great a writer as he is, looked fondly back on his days as a riverboat captain as some of his happiest.
Walking down Uruguay Street is an easy walk and when you come upon the river you are surprised there are so few craft on it. There is a new pier that lets me walk out over the river. A lady walking her dog takes a few snapshots this morning but no one else, but us, is on the pier. A ferry chugs past us taking people to Argentina – those who have their papers in order.
I spy a fisherman docking his small boat on the river bank and hold up my phone to ask permission to take his photo.
He stands up in his boat, lifts two huge catfish he has caught and gives me a thumbs up. People here are so friendly you wish some of it could be spread around the world. His catfish are so big I can see their whiskers from the bridge I’m standing on.
“Go catch some more,” I shout across the river to him.
He doesn’t understand English, but he knows what I am saying.
Big fish give you bragging rights.
One of them is worth more than ten little ones, even if they don’t taste half as good.
The bus ride from Punta Del Este back to Montevideo takes three hours and ends at the Three Crosses Terminal.
Downstairs, bus companies, representing large and small bus lines that cover all routes in Uruguay, are selling tickets and loading luggage and passengers.
Upstairs, there is a mall with shopping, places to eat, and entertainment. At a place where people from all over the country come and go and have time and money, what better place to put a mall?
Christmas is here and instead of Santa’s elves, we have cute little cows.
Riding the bus is how i most often get around in foreign countries. The bus service in Uruguay is well run, not expensive, and connects you to all towns and cities of note whenever you have to go.
From Three Crosses, I am headed for Salto, a city famous for hot mineral springs and the perfect travel doctor’s prescription for a weary traveler.
Warming up in hot mineral baths is something even the ancient Romans did after a long year of subjugating and taxing their neighbors.
We have hot mineral baths in New Mexico, too.
These have to be better because I had to come so far to get here.
If I were a cow, the only place I would want to live would be Uruguay.
Much like Arabs love their desert and sailors love their ocean, cows have to love this country. Those of us going to Salto on Monday, and there aren’t many of us, board the bus at twelve thirty in the Montevideo terminal and don’t see anything but green grass for the next seven hours. In many places the grass is knee deep, and, along the way, there are cows, horses, sheep doing what they do best – grazing.
The panorama is expansive rolling hills covered with green under a light blue canopy that supports puffs of white clouds drifting in a gentle wind like small sail boats.
You have cries of overpopulation yet we drive through thousands of acres of terra firma with water, the potential to raise unlimited cattle and crops, and few people.
It is not like there isn’t money in the countryside. You see expensive farm equipment parked in front yards and they are the same expensive machines you find in Ohio or Kansas or Texas. You see nice vehicles and big houses on hills overlooking the highway that have impressive iron gates, tree lined entries, and panoramic views.
Along the way we motor through rolling grass covered hills, wooded areas that grow timber harvested for several large paper mills for a world that is still not paperless. The government is working on the highway and we go through several toll booths that signal different provinces of the country. Little towns we drive through here are trying to stay viable,just like those at home, trying to stay alive as their population ages, kids move away, storefronts shut down, and expenses of keeping city services continue to rise.
They should have named this country Greenland, but that name has already been drawn out of the hat.
Rocha was my original goal.
My bus gets to Rocha and within a few minutes I am wondering why I bothered to make the trip?
Sometimes you get to a point where you get stuck and the best thing to do is go to a restaurant, have a drink, and evaluate. So, I go into a place called the “Americano Grill”. At the grill, my waitress finds a customer who speaks English and he tells me how to get to La Paloma. I have to return to the main square and catch a bus there because it is twenty miles to La Paloma, too far too walk even on a good day.
La Paloma, when I arrive, is another sleepy laid back surfing village, reminding me of Piriapolis without the Argentine Hotel and lion statues.
Locals here are getting prepared for their tourist season. School kids, at recess in the schoolyard, look studious in their white lab coats, with black bows, and school bells call them back to classes as I walk by on my way to the beach.The kids remind me of my school days, on the playground and standing in front of classes with chalk on my fingers.
A dog in the middle of the road, nonchalant, too smart to take a nap there, but not in a hurry to move, captures the mood of this little burg.
La Paloma, in baseball terminology, turns a strike out into a double off the center field wall.
After an afternoon of walking and picture taking, I catch the last bus from La Paloma back to Rocha, then catch the last bus out of Rocha back to Punta De Este. I get home in the dark, walking four blocks from the bus station to the hotel.
Salto is the next city I visit, circled on my Uruguay map.
Countries are a lot like people – they often keep their best features hidden till you get to know them better.
When you compare kids, people, or countries, you find they are never so different you can’t find things to like, and never so much the same that you get bored with them.