Uruguay 1

Arriving in Montevideo (the mandatory) one hour late, we took a cab downtown and began yet another search for a room.

I may have touched on this recently but the excitement of sourcing a suitable bed for the night has all but left us so the next hour was not the most enjoyable.

The first room we tried was discounted on account of price and the second because we wouldn't have stayed there if it were the last flea-pit on this earth.
With spirit flagging I asked Kerry to look at the next one on her own and just tell me "yea" or "nay", I simply couldn't face hoying my case up a flight of stairs to be shown yet another drab and characterless room.

I wished I had though. Standing outside in the street in my 'sminkers', blue shorts that have somehow been faded to a pinky hue by the sun, I felt an itch on my left calf and looked down to see half a dozen mosquitoes attached to my leg. Bites on the other leg soon became apparent and by the time we'd found an acceptable gaff I was histrionically nursing 21 itchy welts which I could have cheerfully dug out with my penknife in order to relieve the discomfort.

We paid a high price for our room and though it was about the size of a telephone box, had no wi-fi and a mattress seemingly made of stone we had had enough. This would have to do if one, or both of us, were not soon to become quite mad.

We chose our dining emporium carefully as we made our first foray into the Uruguayan night: with a plague of mosquitoes visible as we walked, it had to be somewhere indoors.
We found somewhere affording said prerequisite though it turned out to be a noisy and tacky joint patronised by a rather disgusting-to-behold mayonnaise addict.
This fellow was eating a hot dog and squirted huge amounts onto every mouthful, dollops that, over the period of our being transfixed, squelched over large areas of his face, the table, most of his clothing and his hands.

Despite wearing a long-sleeved shirt I received two more mozzie bites, through my shirt!
Voracious buggers they are here.

After a poor night's sleep and a feisty breakfast we acknowledged that this couldn't go on and we simply had to get to the coast and relax.
Montevideo would have to wait until we had rediscovered our mojo.

We made our way back to the bus station and bought tickets to the nearest coastal resort mentioned in the Lonely Planet, that of Piriapolis.

What? The nearest seaside resort to Montevideo is a Greek island?

No, Piriapolis is a 90 minute drive east from Montevideo and is named after an enterprising fellow called Francisco Piria who built a large hotel here about 100 years ago and ferried Argentinians to it in order to enjoy the beach and warm waters.
(For those that like me to spoon feed you every morsel of information you need, 'Polis' is Greek for city or city-state. For those that don't you may omit to read the text within these brackets.)

Everything had become a trial by now: attempting to understand the unintelligible Uruguayan accents at the bus station, dragging our cases along the unpaved road from the bus station once we arrived at Piriapolis, trying to find the right room for our Christmas by the seaside.

That last quest really was tricky. We thought we might stay for anything up to two weeks so it was critical we secured the right room at the right price, though we were soon to find out that the right price doesn't exist in these 'ere parts.

We pitched up at a nice seafront place and soon ascertained that the nice room with a view was about $120 more per night than we really wanted to pay.
Despite our audible scoffs at his quote, the owner offered to look after our bags while we sought the right room - a much appreciated gesture.

Well, we looked at so many rooms it got to the point where we could no longer remember which one we liked best or which had which features.
Kerry was still ailing with her stomach bug so traipsing around in the heat was getting to her, thereby getting to me.

After three hours of looking, punctuated by lunch, we finally opted for the splendidly appointed (if you like 1970s, beige corduroy wallpaper) Davivas Hotel, a snip compared to some of the others, sea view, balcony, breakfast, wi-fi.

Exalted, we returned to our kindly baggage minder and walked back to the Davivas, checked in and promptly lay on the bed in a state of sweaty and semi-crazed delirium.
Kerry curled up in the foetal position to ease the pain coursing through her guts and I thought I'd have a quick check of the old footy online.

Pillow in place, belt undone, glasses perched on the end of my hooter........................no Internet.

"Er, there's no Internet in the room Kerry".

"Huh?"

"THERE'S NO BLOODY INTERNET"

I think the scientific term for our reaction to this state of affairs is "to have an egg".
I sought our proprietress and after much arm waving, gabbling and indiscernible gibberish on both sides we were checking out, swatting mozzies on our legs as we went, once more into the hideous breach.

I have no doubt that, had she had the energy, Kerry would have wept at this point.
Realising this I led us to the Rex Hotel, a slightly pricey number but one with a nice clean room, pool, and a few other nice-to-haves.

We checked in and lay on our bed in a
state of sweaty and three quarters-crazed delirium.
Kerry curled up in the foetal position to ease the pain coursing through her guts and I thought I'd have another go at the footy.

Pillow in place - check, belt undone - check, four-eyes in situ - check......................,....no Internet.

"Oh, bloody hell, there's no Internet in this room either".

"Huh?"

"THERE'S NO BLOODY INTERNET IN HERE EITHER"

As we lay there wondering whether to end our misery by self-asphyxiation or do a Reggie Perrin and just swim out to sea there was a meek knock at our door.
It was the receptionist, come to tell us that the wi-fi wouldn't work in this room but if we'd care to follow her she would upgrade us to a superior suite for no extra charge.

Well, that cheered our misery ingrained faces up no end. The new room was fabulous; it was large, had a big telly, a minibar, great big shower, wi-fi, the works.
Proof that it sometimes pays to have an undignified and girly strop within earshot of officialdom.

And here endeth the whining and whinnying, the griping, the sulks, the moaning, the sobbing and wailing, the beefing and the grousing.
We were on holiday, by the sea, the sun was shining and we gradually began to feel good about everything again.

Our first day in Piriapolis proper was spent lolling by or in the pool on our air-beds. The two I've been lugging around since Costa Rica both burst but old faithful, "Wilson", Kerry's since Cancun, was still going strong.
By day two, with Kerry's Egyptian elixir having worked its magic on her stomach, she felt up to crossing the road and sitting on the beach.

Sunday was a very hot day, hot enough to render our factor 30 inefficient, resulting in scorched buns for Kerry and a face like a Belisha beacon for me.
We nursed our tender skin in the pool on Monday and with Christmas day being wet and windy we were afforded another day's recuperation.

Boxing day wasn't the greatest weather either and we began to get a little bit stir crazy, stuck in the room for hours on end with nothing much to say or do.
Though we did if course have the Internet!
I realised that we had hit a low when Kerry began to reflect verbally on the unusual design of the light bulb in the bedside lamp, and I engaged her with my own thoughts on it.

We needed a change of scenery, a breath of fresh air, we needed to get out.
We considered various ways of introducing change and interest into our days but ended up taking the easiest option.
We got trolleyed.

We bought a litre of wine at the supermarket and drank it whilst watching a South African nutter on the telly pulling huge snakes from under piles of corrugated iron with his bare hand.
Abuzz from that excitement, we went across the road to a restaurant and complemented our juicy steaks with a beer before striking up conversation with the party at a nearby table.

The British Head of Marketing for a leading sportswear brand, her German husband and another Brit about to re-emigrate to Sydney were travelling together for three weeks over Christmas and we found we had an awful lot in common with them.

Most remarkable was that "Jacks" was an absolute doppelgänger for Fi, one of Kerry's best friends. Looks, voice, attitude, ballsiness, it was all there and the more the grog flowed, the more rip-roaring time we all had.
(So I'm reliably informed, I can't remember much).

The two fellas were a hoot too and the night passed in a flash.
It turns out that we didn't get in until 2am, an ungodly hour for your generally clean living heroes.

Needless to say, the next day was spent nursing quite dreadful hangovers but where better to do so?
We had but nothing to do all day, so we did it.

Yes, this is working out quite well. The trials and tribulations of getting here are already near forgotten.
All hail the recuperative powers of a Uruguayan beach.