Tales from an Old Smuggler

We left Daymán early yesterday morning, before the sun came up. We weren’t exactly sure where to catch the bus and couldn’t quite understand what the guy at the front desk was telling us. He seemed to be speaking in some sort of ancient dialect of an unkown origin. Whatever it was, it wasn’t English. Seeing the look of uncertainty in our eyes, the desk clerk decided to show us the way to our bus stop. It was a full five minutes away by foot, our travel method of choice. There was a fierce storm approaching, but it was clear sailing at the start of our journey. Wanting to be cordial, I tried to make a little small talk with our guide. Contrary to what you might believe, this isn’t easy between two people who don’t speak the same language. He did tell me though, that storms in this area weren’t necessarily all that common, but were muy fuerte.

As we approached our still unseen destination, the storm was close to overtaking us. I sensed that the bus stop would be readily visible once we rounded the next corner and tried to indicate to our guide that we could make it on our own the rest of the way. A stubborn guide from the old school, he insisted on seeing our safe passage all the way. As the first drops of rain started to fall, so too did the thunder raise its deafening roar. We had reached to safety of our surprisingly sheltered waiting point for our next leg of the trip to Colonia del Sacramento. Stefani and I were safe from monster in the sky, but I couldn’t say for sure what lay ahead for our mighty guide. As he faded out of view on his return voyage, the first pellets of hail began to fall. Godspeed, fearless leader.

About fifteen minutes later we were settled in for what we had been told by our travel agent would be a six hour bus ride from Salto to Colonia. After about a three and half hour nap, I awoke looking forward to passing the rest of the time reading and, as we had successfully weathered the storm, viewing the countryside from our porthole. If it hadn’t been for the occasional palm tree or cactus, I wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between this section of Uruguay and the land I’d seen so many times before on drives along the back-roads of central Indiana. Nothing but trees and farmland. After a few more stops in small towns, we were informed that this trip was actually eight hours instead of six. That was eight hours to start the day without food. No me gusta.

We finally made it to Colonia and checked in at our hotel. It’s a very nice hotel by backpacker standards and expensive by those same standards. Colonia del Sacramento is a port town set up back around 1680 as a means to smuggle British goods into the Spanish colonies here. Much of the Barrio Historical has been preserved and restored to resemble its old self. It’s a charming area with cobblestone streets and old-style street lamps lighting the way. It’s easy to imagine the streets filled with pirates and shifty-eyed smugglers mingling with street vendors and street walkers alike. It’s a different time now, though, and they were void of those characters during our tenure there and for the most part, empty altogether. Many charming restaurants and bars line the old streets and beckoned our call. We chose the Blanca y Negra, a little place promising great food and live jazz. Upon surveying the menu and discussing our options with the waiter, it became clear what our next move would be. We had to politely excuse ourselves and step across the street to the pizzeria that fell within our budget. It was a great meal, complete with drinks and we even had money left over for lunch the next day. A day that would be filled with wandering the streets once populated by the smugglers of the 17th century.