Kindness of Strangers

Friday, January 9, 2009

What do you know about Uruguay?

Chances are, not much. I know I certainly didn’t. Cast off in a largely forgotten corner of South America as the continent’s smallest Spanish-speaking country, a thumbnail of land sandwiched between giants Brazil and Argentina, it hasn’t gotten the credit it deserves as a tourist destination. Most visitors, if they make it here at all, head to Colonia for a day trip from Buenos Aires, or hit the souped up beach resort of Punta del Este, which people joke is a suburb of Argentina. Indeed, nearly 50% of all Uruguayan tourists hail from Argentina, but even a brief introduction to the country indicates that Uruguay is one hour but light years away from its tony neighbor.

We began our whirlwind tour of Uruguay in Colonia, opting to stay the night rather than make the typical day trip. A former Portuguese outpost, the town is postcard perfect, offering shady, tree-lined streets; rows of tidy, colorful buildings; stretches of rough-hewn, cobblestone streets that edge towards the water; and total peace and quiet. It was hard to believe that we were only an hour from the honking and buzzing of Buenos Aires.

I immediately noticed that Uruguay is a cultural blend of its neighboring Argentina and Brazil. With Argentina they share their Italian heritage; the gaucho culture, South America’s maverick cowboys; and a curious penchant for mate (pronounced “mah-tay”). This was a custom that I previously associated with Argentina, but its roots seem to run deeper in Uruguay. Mate, a bitter herbal tea, is meant to be shared, a cup often passed between friends, whiling away a lazy afternoon. Uruguayans tote their own mate cups around everywhere, filled to the brim with a bright green concoction of herbs, a thermos loaded with hot water and tucked under their arms to facilitate easy refills throughout the day. Mate cups look like a hollow gourd, a slender metal “straw” resting on the side. Street vendors sell mate accoutrement, from cup holders to metal “tripods” to brushes to clean the straws, and it’s the only place I’ve been in the world where you can purchase new thermos lids on a street corner. Montevideo’s beaches are crammed to the gills with mate-toting locals on a Saturday afternoon, and toy stores sell “My First Mate” sets for kids.

The influence of Brazil is felt in Uruguay’s musical traditions. After the day trippers emptied out of Colonia, we had the town to ourselves for an evening. As we strolled towards dinner in the waning light, bemoaning our recent turn of bad luck, I heard a rhythmic beat pulsing nearby. “Oh god,” I groaned, “not a drum circle.” Suddenly, from around a corner, a flash of red and white appeared, swooping to and fro. A noisy procession of people was making their way down the street, a cadre of energetic samba dancers followed by a clutch of exuberant drummers, led by a young guy waving a gigantic flag. It was a candombe, an informal street dance that erupts in neighborhoods, usually on the weekends.

We watched the mass slowly shimmy their way down the street, and I was most impressed by the elderly man and woman who shook their rumps while wielding canes. This type of procession is something I’ve always associated with carnaval and Brazil, but I’ve had a serious education since arriving in Uruguay. Candombes take place year-round, although things heat up around carnaval as groups intensify their practice sessions in anticipation of the real deal. And while we’ve come to associate carnaval with Brazil, the celebration takes place all over South America, with major events in Bolivia and Colombia. I just had no idea that Montevideo’s carnaval, a 100-plus-year tradition, was so huge.

My education continued at the Museo del Carnaval in Montevideo, a repository of artifacts and knowledge related to the city’s strong carnaval tradition. We were lucky enough to catch an English-speaking tour, led by the passionate Vicente, which provided strong insight into the carnaval experience. Much like Mardi Gras, carnaval is a grand party that precedes Lent (the only difference being that carnaval lasts 40 days rather than one drunken week). But the first seeds were planted nearly 200 years ago, when Africans from Angola and Congo found their way to Uruguay, typically as slaves. At that time nearly 70% of the population was Black, compared to the 5% of present day. The Spanish didn’t allow the Africans to practice their traditions inside Montevideo’s city walls, so they moved outside to play their music, often shackled at the ankles. It was here that candombe was born, a shuffling wave of song and dance that paraded through the streets.

Eventually, the secular and nonsecular united, the traditions of African celebration combining with the religious ideals brought forth by the Spanish. Candombes were traditionally led not by someone carrying a flag but a broom, used to “sweep away” any evil spirits that might be lurking. Next in the procession came two people, one carrying a moon and the other the sun. Then were the figures of “mother” and “father,” the mother wearing a flouncy, colorful dress and the father bedecked in a stodgy black suit, carrying a doctor’s bag crammed with herbs. Next came the dancers, and finally the drummers.

Vincente showed us the largest drum to ever be carried in a candombe procession. It weighed 10 kilograms, and the drummer propped it on his knees for hours as he paraded through the streets, all for the chance to win a big bottle of wine and a place in the history books. The original drummer returned to the museum last year: his knees are still scarred 30 years later. Vicente proudly showed us some of his own “war wounds.” “This one’s from January sixth,” he told us, pointing to a scarlet gash on the side of his finger. “You get hurt, but it’s a sacrifice. You don’t feel the pain while you’re playing. Not until after.”

Something I didn’t know about carnaval is that the candombe is only one part of the celebration. Murgas are also important, essentially theatrical performance that take place in hundreds of massive, hand-made stages all over town.

Modern day carnavals also place a huge emphasis on floats – but this is no Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Vicente complained that carnaval had become increasing commercial over the years, and the city was trying to get back to its roots. There is a huge influence on delivering a social message through carnaval, the result of which placed a significant damper on the event during the military dictatorship of the 1970s and 1980s. Now, the museum is educating people on how to make their own floats out of recycled materials, emphasizing that carnaval is the people’s parade in which imagination trumps money. (For those Seattleites out there, think Fremont Solstice celebration.) The museum displays an amazing variety of hand-made costumes, papier mache figures, and floats, all born out of the human spirit of ingenuity. A Hugo Chavez mask took centerstage. “We like to make fun of political figures,” Vicente said, “including our own. We haven’t made an Obama mask…yet!”

Despite its similarities to its neighbors, Uruguay is just different enough to feel distinct. Milk comes in plastic bags, the mechanics of which baffle us. Chivito sandwiches are all the rage. The people are super friendly and laid-back, and with a capital city of only 1.5 million people, everything feels small and cozy. Rolling into Montevideo a few days ago, I felt like I did when I arrived in Portugal, that I had discovered a unique corner of the world that wasn’t overrun by tourists.

We met two older ladies on a sidewalk in Colonia one evening. They had propped themselves up in battered lawn chairs next to their apartment building, a common sight in Uruguay, and before we knew it we were telling them our tales of woe from the past week. The next day we found them in much the same position, as if they had never gone to sleep, and our conversation continued. We covered a variety of topics, from global warming to the ills of texting. I was floored that they had been to Montevideo, nearly three hours away, but had never been to Buenos Aires, visible from the very spot they were sitting. They seemed equally surprised that two young people wanted to take the time to chat with them. “Most young people, they are too busy.” The more talkative of the two summed up Uruguay’s mate culture best. “The most important thing in life is to take it easy and to get to know people.” If we weren’t running late for our bus, I’m pretty sure she would have passed the mate cup right then and there. We bid them a long goodbye, promising to return one day. “We’ll be right here, waiting!” they shouted after us. I hope so.