Rio de la Plata – The sunken Battleship

So bye-bye Buenos Aires.

Our relationship was short and intense, almost like an extended one-night stand. So once again I say goodbye to a place where I felt comfortable, I take my backpack (has it become heavier?), a quick handshake, a last 'See you' and the chill house is past.

The streets have become old acquaintances, as have the metro stations, even some of the people who sell all kinds of things at the roadside or some beggers in the metro giving me a yearning look.

Incorporating a city is a quick process. Or is it a kind of conquest? We come as strangers, feeling in the wrong film for a long time, longing for familiar places and people, and suddenly and unexpectedly we become part of it. We now breathe the same air as the locals, begin to feel their feelings, develop an understanding for their particular problems and longings – and still we know that we will always remain strangers.

We are temporary guests ...

 

The Seacat Company's ship is ready to sail, a colossus of a steamer, swaying softly in the cloudy-brown water of the Rio de la Plata.

The terminal is reminiscent of bus terminals or airports. Long queues in front of numerous counters, people sitting on uncomfortable chairs in front of an awful lot of luggage, silent and lost in oneself. Or one sits down in one of the many restaurants for a last coffee until one realizes that it is time to leave for customs.

I don't know where Argentina ends and Uruguay begins. It is a kind of no man's land between the countries, belonging to no one, so a non-existent piece of geography outside of any affiliation.

Here are the passport controls, but in this inhospitable place, the passport is not simply checked, oh no. First, you're photographed without cap and glasses, stripped naked, so to speak. Afterwards, the picture is compared at the speed of light with all the Landolts in the world who may have already committed a crime.

But only the fingerprints (I feel like being at Scotland Yard) clearly prove that this Landolt is completely without fault and can be trusted. The stern lady rises gracefully, waves me along and takes me to Uruguay, only to do the exact same thing again, but in the opposite direction.

 

mark rothko

Hundreds of cars have been swallowed in the basement of the huge ship. The upper deck is reserved for the first-class passengers, a grim uniformed man makes sure that no second grader gets lost in the realm of VIPs.

We, wedged between the decks for the cars and the VIPs, sit in long rows on blue seats and wait for the things to come. The window seats are of course long occupied, but later it turns out that we don't miss anything.

A short tremor in the trunk announces the departure.

 

The last look back to Buenos Aires is full of sadness, as the city has poured all its charm over me.

In addition, in advanced age one increasingly begins to ask oneself whether such a remote place might be on the travel plan again. Probably not, therefore another reason to squeeze out a fictitious tear.

But then I look ahead again, to a new country, Uruguay, of which I don't know very much, at most some knowledge about football.

Two-time world champion, who managed 1950 at the Maracana Stadium in Rio to plunge an entire nation into deep depression and provoke decades of trauma (but only until the infamous 1:7 in the semi-final 2014 against Germany, but that's another story), twice in the semi-final. The soccer players are quite hated, being called bullies, calf kickers and ear biters like Luis Suarez.

And otherwise: the smallest country in South America, quite flat, lots of cows and a capital with one of the most beautiful names of all, Montevideo.

Everything else will show up.

We are approaching at a majestic pace the middle of the Rio de la Plata, as I know, the grave of many ships, many of them German warships, the most famous being the Admiral Graf Spee'.

The book about the end of the proud ship I devoured as a teenager. Somewhere down there, not even deep in the shallow water, lie the remains of the huge battleship that was sunk by its own crew after the end of the Nazi regime. It is definitely worthwhile to check out the information at Wikipedia or elsewhere. Like no other symbol, it manifests the end of the thousand-year Reich and the desperation that went with it.

Rest in peace …

 

And then we enter real Uruguayan soil, we have reached Colonia, a small pretty town belonging to the Unesco World Heritage.

Unfortunately, time is far too short, it's already around five in the afternoon, the bus to Montevideo will take a good two and a half hours for the 190 kilometers. Sitting next to me is an elderly lady who turns out to be Australian and is a travelling fan like me. Instead of enjoying the scenery of the new country, we exchange crazy stories resulting from years of travelling the world, laughing heartily at each other's stories from Indian bus and train journeys thus experiencing short and extremely entertaining hours to Montevideo.

But once more - goodbye.

 

The disappeared hotel

The cab driver speaks perfect English; even before I have gotten in, he tells me his life story, starting with his Portuguese origins, the detour to Canada and being stranded in Montevideo. His relationship problems are also addressed, and he seriously asks me if he should leave his wife after all.

Before I can give him an adequate answer, we have reached the address of the hotel (I'm glad), but where is the hotel?

No sign, even the name on the doorbell is wrong.

Neighbors indicate that people come and go, but their expressions do not suggest anything good. Several knocks and ringing do not lead to anything, my adrenalin level rises to threatening heights, and so we decide (thank God the cab driver stayed with me; probably he is still waiting for my answer regarding his divorce intentions) to look for another hotel.

 

Then a hostel

So back from the dubious surroundings to the busy city center again, while the cab driver is thinking about where to take me.

Obviously my appearance (?) did not convince him of much spending power, so he takes me to a hostel, one of those hotel-like establishments that are mainly frequented by young backpackers with a modest travel budget. Usually there are no single rooms, you sleep in rooms with different numbers of beds, mostly bunk beds, and share bathroom and toilet.

So not really what my heart desires. Before I can recover from my shock, the cab driver has disappeared and, since it is almost eleven o'clock in the evening, I have no choice but to bite the bullet. After all, I'm the only guest in a huge room with about ten bunk beds, so there's room for twenty people.

Grumbling I try to make the best of the situation, and indeed, eventually the tiredness falls over me like a rock and I doze off, surrounded by nine bunk beds that watch over my sleep as silent guards ...

 

Mileage: 190