Walking

One of our great joys here is taking long walks. Flat little Uruguay does not have much variation in scenery, and the sameness can be boring after a while for someone like me whose idea of hiking means steep trails. However, we have found some lovely places to walk which we have not yet tired of. Behind La Gaia is a large fenced in piece of land, maybe 500 acres. Tired of walking only on the road near the house, one day we climbed through the wire fence to walk through an adjoining field. The next day we did the same thing, but went further. Finally on one of our walks, we were met by a man on a horse, the caretaker of the property. We asked for his permission to walk there. After he realized we were not hunters, he gave us his blessing. The property has hills, outcroppings of lichen covered boulders, remants of old stone walls and strange steep-sided valleys. We have to skirt the occasional herd of cows. Even in autumn, tiny wild flowers in yellow, white, purple, pink and blue still manage to thrive. We see liebre (giant rabbits), which to my immense dissatisfaction, our dogs love to chase. I suspect that I will never get it through their thick skulls that this is unacceptable. We also see eagles and a strange long-necked quail-like thing that bursts into the sky with a sudden noisy racket. These creatures nestle unseen in the grass and do not reveal themselves until nearly stepped on, when they startle me as they take off. Also hiding in the grass is the occasional snake. Last week Cesar found a red, yellow and black snake. I said, "oh, that snake is just pretending to be poisonous. See how it looks like a coral snake?" Well, it is a good thing I did not choose to show off by picking it up. I looked it up in our reptile book when we got home and saw very clearly that it was indeed a coral snake. Note to self: stop picking up unidentified snakes. No, scratch that, do not pick up ANY snakes. I will put herpetology right next to mycology on my list of hobbies to NOT take up... With those, it is too easy to die from a misidentification. So, we made it home alive and I am typing this from beside the fireplace instead of from a hospital bed.

Near miss with a coral snake.

Incomplete house.

Happy dogs.

Big sky.


Our own personal stonehenge.

We Like It Raw

Our milk, that is. We have discovered raw milk and are now hooked on the stuff. Devotees of raw milk tout its health benefits. I cannot prove that it is better for me, I just like the fact that it is delicious and all natural and I know its source. Before you get all squeamish about drinking unpasteurized, unhomogenized, straight-from-the-cow milk, consider this - do you know where your food comes from? Do you care? I hope you do. I do, and that is why I am happy to know the cow that our milk comes from and to know the farmer who cares for her.

I admit that initially I had reservations about drinking unpasteurized milk. This was just due to my ignorance. I did not know what it would taste like and have heard many warnings against its consumption. The milk was brought to us as a gift from a friend who knew we were curious about his cows. I assumed that it should be used in cooking rather than consumed as is, so I used our first five liter batch to make dulce de leche. However, we liked the rich creaminess and clean taste of the milk and were soon asking for more. Cesar, true to form, immediately researched the topic and discovered some very interesting things about fresh, raw milk.

For starters, the pasteurization process which kills harmful bacteria also kills beneficial bacteria and destroys certain enzymes which aid digestion and boost the immune system. One of these friendly bacteria is lactic acid bacilli. When this heat intolerant bacterium is destroyed, the milk cannot sour and simply decomposes eventually. This is why old pasteurized milk gets very stinky and foul after its expiration date, whereas raw milk simply sours. Pasteurization changes the composition of milk in other ways too. It makes calcium less soluble and therefore more difficult to absorb by the body and it makes the lactose more soluble, therefore more quickly absorbed. Of course one takes the risk of consuming harmful bacteria as well, such as Listeria, E. coli and Salmonella. But if the cow is pastured rather than kept in a pen and the farmer takes all necessary precautions to keep her clean and healthy, I feel this risk is small. I believe I would be more likely to get nasty pathogen like E. coli from eating bagged spinach in the USA than I would from consuming milk from our friend’s cow. However, be careful before you try this at home, kids! If you do not know the cow and do not have complete confidence in the person who cares for her, do not drink it raw.

We visited our farmer friend at his house for the first time. He let me milk the cow. As a new experience, it was fun, but I wouldn’t want to have to do it every day. His family has four cows and they must be milked twice every day. It does not matter if you are sick, it is freezing cold outside or you are just sick of milking the darn cow - it has got to be done. Each cow gives about seven gallons of milk a day. Perhaps we will own a cow someday. For now though, we are happy just to have a source of fresh raw milk that we know and trust.

Are you curious about raw milk?
Further reading:
from the Washington Post: The Raw Deal
from the New York Times: Making Their Case for Raw Milk and Should This Milk Be Legal?

To Kiss, or Not To Kiss?

The New York Times reports today that many New Yorkers are now squeamish about handshakes and air-kisses because of fear of transmission of swine flu. Not so in Uruguay, where a single kiss on the cheek as the usual greeting between friends and acquaintances is a deeply engrained part of the culture. Even now that the Uruguayan public health minister has confirmed that there is one suspected case of infection in the country, I don’t think people will think twice about kissing, and I hope they don’t.

There are slight variations in the custom for men and women. Men meeting for the first time usually shake hands only. However, male relatives and close friends will exchange a single kiss on the cheek. Kissing men on the cheek is in no way an affront to a man’s machismo. I have seen members of that uber-macho profession, the Policia, exchange a kiss in hello. Women, however, can kiss everyone. So, women kiss women and men; and men kiss women and close male friends and relatives. Got that?

The same goes for goodbyes. Just like my mother does in the U.S., much to the chagrin of my dad, when you leave a place you say goodbye to everyone individually. Not doing so is unthinkable. And of course, if you kissed them hello, you kiss them goodbye.

As for the kiss itself, it is a quick but sincere peck on the right cheek, not exactly an air-kiss and not a lingering pressing of lips to cheek – that would be icky. In Uruguay, they kiss once, not twice like they do in Italy.

Overall, Uruguayans are very polite, to each other and to foreigners. I think this kissing custom may have something to do with that. When a kiss is exchanged in greeting people, one is reminded of their humanity. There is less of a barrier between people and I think this makes them more considerate of others.

This is never okay, though, anywhere.

Things We Take For Granted

On Tuesday I took my first shower in five days. I know what you are thinking and I am just sorry that no one has invented click and sniff technology for the internet. No, my hygiene issues were not by my choice and no, I had not joined some odd religious sect that prohibits bathing. Rather, the pump that pulls water from the community well had stopped working during the worst possible time - semana de turismo. Elsewhere in Latin America, the week is known as semana santa, or “holy week”, for the week ending with Easter Sunday. However, very secular Uruguay calls it tourism week. Never wanting for an excuse to stop work, virtually the whole country goes on vacation. As far as getting a repairman out to the country to fix the pump during semana de turismo - forgetaboutit.

Me climbing the water tank in the back yard. Bravo Randy & Michelle for having installed such an awesome holding tank.

Fortunately, the pumped well water goes to a two thousand liter holding tank behind the house before being used for bathing, cooking, cleaning and flushing the toilet, among other quotidian things we take for granted. Used conservatively , two thousand liters can be made to last a while for two people. It was the weekend before semana de turismo that we noticed our lack of water pressure. Usually this just means that someone has turned it off because of pipe repairs or something like that. On Monday, we still had pathetic lack of pressure so we went to check it out. Bad news - the pump was powered on and just not working. So began our conservation efforts like “navy” showers and a “if it’s yellow let it mellow” policy. Eventually even the super short showers ceased and we reverted to taking what I call bird baths with store-bought water heated in the kettle on the stove.

The pump is back in business as of last Tuesday. We thought we were conservative with resources, but after this, we became aware of how much we had been wasting. We were grateful to be able to flush the toilet again just by using the lever. I even looked forward to washing dishes using the tap water. There is nothing like doing without something for a while to really appreciate it.

La Vuelta Ciclista del Uruguay

160 professional cyclists came flying into Montevideo yesterday in the final stage of the 10 day Vuelta Ciclista del Uruguay. It was the 66th Vuelta and was won for the first time by an American*. That American was Scott Zwizanski of the Minnesota based Kelly Benefits Strategies team.

A Uruguayan team won the team award.

Cesar and I drove to Montevideo to see the finish. We claimed an early handhold on the roadside barrier so we could see the racers on their final sprint to the finish. Then we watched the crowd fill in around us. People watching was almost as much fun as watching the race. Most people were drinking mate. Pretty girls representing large companies, like Claro, were handing out balloons and other advertising freebies. Hawkers sold trinkets, flags and peanuts to the spectators. Spectator does not seem an apt word to describe those waiting to see the race though. When the peloton whizzes past at 35mph, there really isn’t much to see besides a quick blur of color. Then it’s over. The fun was the building anticipation of when the peloton would make its appearance.

So there we stood, taking pictures of the crowd, admiring the architecture, and watching the race officials try to keep the course clear of people. The crowd grew and grew. Then a buzz seemed to swell among the waiting crowd - they were coming. First a long stream of support and marketing vehicles came plowing through, honking their horns and waving to the crowd. Then came the motorcycle escorts and finally the mad crush of riders. At this point in a stage race, the race is pretty much already won, baring any accidents.

Coming into the final stage, Zwizanski had a 59 second lead. This may not sound like a lot, but it is an insurmountable lead to overcome in a single stage. His job on this day was to maintain his lead while staying away from any accidents. His teammates were there to make sure that happened and to help catapult him into the lead group of riders nearing the end of the race. When a group of riders comes across the finish line in a big bunch as they did in this race, they are all given the same time - the 59 seconds held.

The awards ceremony was a bit jumbled and done in no particular order. When they finally got to Zwizanski, he looked a little confused. You would be too if you had to stand exhausted and completely spent on a stage where everyone was talking in a different language. I imagined him thinking, “just get me back to the hotel for an ice bath and massage, damnit”! He was especially confused when they gave him not one but two huge trophies.

Kelly’s other squad won in the Tour of Thailand.

* The term American technically could be applied to any person from North, Central or South America. However, people from the United States also use it to describe themselves as being from the United States of America. It is in this sense that I use it here.

Cow Candy

Uruguay is a country of cows. There are approximately four cows to each human in Uruguay. That is a whole lot of milk. I think that explains Uruguayans’ addiction to dulce de leche, the creamy sweet stuff made from cooking milk and sugar. Dulce de leche is popular in all of South America, but the Uruguayans take it to new heights with their consumption of pastries filled, drizzled, daubed or smothered with it. Walk into any panaderia and you will notice that most of the sweets on display involve dulce de leche. Sadly, they are not very into chocolate here and their chocolate generally stinks.

So what is it exactly? Dulce de leche, heaven on a spoon, is a caramel colored, exquisitely smooth, and very sweet spread. It can be smeared on toast, used to fill cakes, cookies and crepes, or just eaten with a spoon from the jar. North Americans usually mistake it for caramel. It is like caramel, but more creamy and milky in taste and texture.

Living here, I knew I would have to battle my dulce de leche addiction. For the first couple of months, I put off buying any. Then I caved and bought a jar of the La Pataia brand (my favorite). Once the jar was gone, I vowed to not buy any again. That does not mean I don’t eat it when we go out, but there is no reason to have it around the house.

That was until yesterday, when a friend brought us five liters of fresh milk. Just that morning that milk had been in his cow. By the evening, the milk was in my pot, being simmered with sugar, a small bit of baking soda, and a bit of orange zest until it was transformed into the sticky goodness that I love. My first time making real dulce de leche (some people cheat by submerging an unopened can of sweetened condensed milk into a pot of boiling water for three hours) I was expecting disaster, but it was quite easy to make. Or maybe I should clarify that by saying it is easy if you don’t mind stirring the pot for two hours while it reduces and cooks until light brown in color. Luckily, Cesar shared in the stirring duty. The result was creamy and smooth. The taste was sweet, with the rich flavor of caramel and a delicate hint of orange flavor that gave it nice depth.

Now I have to figure out what to do with the stuff. It can’t stay here, or I will eat it all.

A Visit from Mom and Dad

On Thursday night, we saw my parents off from Carrasco airport. They had been in Uruguay just a week for their first trip here, their first ever to South America. My dad kept remarking about how surprised he was that it was so lovely here. I’ll have to review my previous blog entries - maybe I have done Uruguay some disservice in this blog and that is why he was expecting “West Virginia”. I found this notion of his extremely odd, but maybe my postings about dead cows, dogs, giant kitty litter piles, errant bulls and all manner of biting insects had something to do with its formation.

At Arlecchino, home of the best gelato in Punta del Este.

That preconception happily dispelled, we enjoyed showing them around. They benefited from our first five months of trial and error as we got our bearings here. We distilled down the very best of our first months and tried to show them a good time. Uruguay cooperated with perfect weather. And to make sure we had plenty of Uruguay to show them next time they are here (it is a small country after all), we spent two nights in the throbbing, pulsating, very much alive city of Buenos Aires. It was our first overnight trip to the big city (and I mean big, B.A. alone has nearly four times the population of the entire country of Uruguay). In Uruguay, we were the expert guides; but across the river, we were every bit the unaware tourists and didn’t mind playing the part.

Mom and me on the steps of the very swanky Alvear Palace Hotel in Recoleta, Buenos Aires. We stayed across the street, at the Ulises Suites boutique hotel.

Mom and Dad are safely home in northern Virginia now, fresh with new experiences to share with the rest of our family. Steve (Dad) has a little saying – “company and fish, they both smell after three days”. Maybe, but I was still sad to see them go.