Kindness of Strangers

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

The one thing we really wanted to do in Uruguay was visit an estancia, essentially a large tract of open farmland where livestock roam and gauchos rule the roost. In recent years a number of tourist-oriented estancias have opened their doors, in the hopes of giving visitors an intimate understanding of rural life. Uruguay boasts over 200 government-designated estancias turisticas (Argentina offers even more), but many of them offer subpar experiences, pushing hundreds of tourists through 20-minute pony rides and bad parrilla buffets.

We were looking for the real deal. We wanted to ride alongside real gauchos, the ones with floppy berets and baggy jodhpur pants whose job was wrangling cattles, not posing for photos for Linda from Pismo Beach. We wanted to sing folk songs from the campo, cook tender cuts of meal over a roaring campfire, and recline on a nappy wool poncho while sipping mate under a canopy of stars. While we’re not plucking hay out of our hair, we found the next best thing at Estancia La Sirena, which we soon discovered was one of the three oldest estancias turisticas in the country, having shown farm life to city folk like us for nearly 20 years.

After a four-hour bus ride from Montevideo to Mercedes, a rural hamlet on Uruguay’s western border, we were collected by Juan, sporting blond curls and piercing ice-blue eyes. Much like Argentina, Uruguay was largely populated with Europeans in the 1800s, leading to people looking more Anglo than their indigenous neighbors to the north. On the bumpy ride in the pick-up truck to the estancia, another 20 kilometers down dusty lanes, Juan told us that the bus station had burned down. What he didn’t tell us was that the bus station had burned down the day before, and that trying to buy an outbound ticket would become a difficult task in the coming days.

When we finally pulled up to La Sirena in a plume of dust, we were greeted with a gorgeous sand-colored manor house that looked like something straight out of New Mexico with its Spanish colonial architecture, a jumble of adobe, wrought iron, tile, wood, sweeping portals, and chunky vigas. The guestrooms abutted the main house: there were only six rooms, and only one other guest staying the first night. A lazy windmill sat in the center of the yard, surrounded by a battalion of rustic lounge furniture. At the edge of the yard sat a crumbling stone shed, which had been converted to an outdoor parrilla. Wheat-colored farmland stretched as far as the eye could see, the only sound for miles a cacophony of birdsong.

A delicious homemade lunch was served: wedges of vegetable empanadas; rolls of tender pork stuffed with red peppers; delicately roasted baby potatoes and carrots, dotted with the ubiquitous Uruguayan mayonnaise; a fresh chopped salad of soft lettuce and ruby red tomatoes; and fruit for dessert. Always fruit for dessert. Full and happy, we took an afternoon siesta, then enjoyed afternoon tea with fluffy, fresh-baked butter cake.

As we munched, we were greeted by Lucia Bruce, the matriarch, who runs the estancia with the help of her husband, Rodney Bruce; between the two of them, speak excellent English, French, and, of course, Spanish. Lean, lithe, and tan, we weren’t surprised to learn that Lucia had been a tennis champion in a former life; in fact, the whole family seemed to be accomplished sportsmen. The evidence lain in the den, whose shelves were crammed with tarnished metal cups and fading photographs extolling countless victories.

After getting to know one another, Lucia provided us a tour of the property. The house, which once belonged to Rivadavia, the first president of Argentina, was purchased and carefully restored nearly 12 years ago. She pointed out hidden nooks and crannies, magical spiral staircases, trap doors, and decorative details, all with a history. Lucia shared information about the country’s history, too; the Rio Plata, which translates as the Silver River and connects Uruguay and Argentina, was believed to be the passageway to Inca gold in Peru and beyond.

It was time to set out for our first horseback ride, personally guided by Lucia. After hoisting ourselves onto the animals – it had been quite some time since either of us had ridden, and our legs would pay the price the next day – we began to meander through the fields. Our horses ambled up beautifully parched hills, the cotton clouds floating overhead through an impossibly blue sky. Lucia stopped frequently to identify local flora and fauna, relay anecdotes about local history, and share some of her own personal history. We eventually made our way down to the cobalt river, where lazy burnt sienna cows grazed and glanced sideways at us. After a long, hot day, the water was inviting, and after changing behind a stand of trees we plunged into the cool water and floated dreamily in the late afternoon sun.

The sun dipped low in the sky, and we began our homeward journey, the horses trotting a little faster. “They know they’re going home,” Lucia said. As we mounted that same grassy hill, the sky was perfectly clear, pale blues bleeding into soft tangerine. I have heard people talk about big sky county, hinterlands where that great canopy seems to stretch like a canvas to the ends of the earth. Until then, I never understood what a big sky felt like. I found myself memorizing this moment, something I don’t often do, but it was one of the most exquisite sunsets I’ve ever witnessed. We enjoyed a crisp beer as the sun made its final descent, nibbling on local sausage and cheese as fireflies danced through the yard. After handcut pasta and a bottle of Uruguayan wine, I went to bed with a single thought planted firmly in my mind, one that I haven’t had much these days: I can’t believe this is my life.

The next day brought more beauty. It was a scorching day, so Lucia arranged to take us to the river. She drove her battered, ancient Mercedes to the water’s edge (I completely delighted in the fact that she drove a Mercedes in the town of Mercedes), and we edged ourselves into the bracing water, fighting our way through the current to the pebble-strewn sandbar in the middle of the river. Here we began a simple but surprisingly fun routine: walk to the edge of the sandbar, let the river carry you downstream to the other end of the sandbar, and repeat until sunburned. After lunch and a siesta, we headed out on horseback back to the river, where Rodney met us with his boat. We motored to another section of the placid river, breezing past deserted beaches and reedy shores. Frolicking in the sand of a tiny strip of beach had never been such fun: these were truly life’s simple pleasures. As we trotted back towards the house at twilight, I found myself singing, “Home on the Range.” Even Lucia joined in.

Back at the ranch, we had requested a traditional Uruguayan parrilla, which our hosts happily arranged. A fire roared in the massive outdoor oven over a system of steel ramps, where slabs of meat sputtered under a tent of corrugated tin. Angel, La Sirena’s talented cook, explained the unique Uruguayan style of grilling as he flipped the meat and shoveled glowing orange embers from under the oven’s elevated fire and transferred them to just below the meat. The meat is grilled on an incline, wherein the fat runs down a plank and not on top of the simmering coals, which would create a direct flame. “This is nothing like an Argentine parrilla,” Angel assured us. “They use charcoal. It’s a totally different taste.” By 11 o’clock the extended family was assembled and we were ready to start dinner. First, grilled salchichas, fat medallions of country sausage, were presented on a wooden trencher. When those were polished off, multiple courses of meat were served, from beef tenderloin to rack of lamb. Great spoonfuls of chimichurri were dabbed on the meat, an especially popular Uruguayan condiment of chopped parsley, coarse garlic, and oil and vinegar: potent but delicious. Potato salad and green salad rounded out the meal. “A very typical Uruguayan parrilla,” confirmed Rodney. Over dinner we talked about politics and the US’s relations with Latin America. We talked about our trip. We talked about how we met 11 years ago. It was a real family meal.

People often ask us what have been our favorite countries that we’ve visited on this trip. It’s an impossible question to answer. Rather, there are certain experiences that we’ll never forget: this is one of them. As we sat waiting for our bus that would take us from Mercedes to Buenos Aires, the burnt shell of the station to our backs, we were grateful that Lucia had spent hours the day before procuring tickets on our behalf, as a ticket counter no longer existed. Sure, we didn’t see any gauchos at La Sirena, but as we waited a man in flannel shirt tucked into baggy forest green pants, an alpine-looking hat perched on his salt and pepper head, hopped onto a bus. “Look!” I cried to Maikael. “A real live gaucho!” It wasn’t what I expected. It never is. But it was good enough for me.