La Semana Santa in Paraguay and Bolivia

Santa Cruz de la Tierra, Bolivia
9 de abril de 2009

Semana Santa, or Holy Week, is huge in Latin America. It is far more than a week of religious observances. For Latinos it's a time for extended vacation, as well as a time for spiritual reflexion.

The first signs of Semana Santa started weeks ago while I was still in Buenos Aires. For the bottom half of South America this is the last hurrah of summer--the last holiday before the onset of winter. Every travel agency in Argentina and Uruguay were advertising for Easter get-aways--often to the same places we escape to: Florida, Cancun, and the Caribbean. But, in this year of la crisis economica, many Latin Americans are staying closer to home and escaping to beaches is Brazil or visiting places in their own country.

Chile, Argentina and Uruguay are secular countries, much like the United States. Bolivia, on the other hand, is culturally much less secular, and it is for this reason that I chose to be here for Easter Week.

The week began, however, in Parguay. Last Saturday, the day before Palm Sunday, or Domingo de Ramas, I began to notice people selling palms on the streets of Asuncion. These were not the ordinary palm fronds that we get at home but, rather, palms reshaped into baskets, crosses, flowers, hearts and designs that defy description. On Sunday, I got to a small chapel early. At the beginning of the service, the priest and his assistants lead a procession into the church. A group of young men were carrying a large statue of Jesus riding on a donkey. It was placed at the front of the church and would remain there for the duration of Holy Week. As the statue was carried into the church, people waved their palms enthusiastically. When the triumphant Jesus was placed on the altar, the priest then blessed the palms, and a traditional Mass followed.

By Thursday I had arrived in Southern Bolivia, in its largest city, Santa Cruz. Thursday morning shops and stores maintained their normal business hours. By 1:00 p.m. it was blistering hot and I escaped to my hotel to take a nap. When I reemerged onto the streets, all the stores had closed and would stay closed until Monday. This was a national holiday, a time to return to villages and time to spend with family and friends.

The cathedral in Santa Cruz is the diocesan center for this part of Bolivia. La Ultima Cena, the Last Supper, observance began at 5 pm. I had expected it be in the church, but it was held outdoors, on the broad steps leading into the church. This was high Catholic. The Bishop presided with an entourage of priests. The most powerful part of the service was the washing of feet. Twelve boys had been chosen and the Bishop, with the help of two other priests, presided over this ritual.

By 7 pm it was time to move on to another church, La Mansion. At first glance I would have said this was a Protestant mega-church. It was huge and had I not looked closely I would not have seen some of the subtle Catholic imagery in the church. People came and went. The service began with music, praise, and prayer and repeated that cycle for over an hour. Ten minutes into the service I realized I was in a Pentcostal Catholic church. People lifted their hands, prayed in tongues, waved their palms. This was a spirit filled church and it was hard not to participate. None of the traditional Holy Thursday rituals were present. From what I could, this was a service of deep thanksgiving.

There was an air of festivity on the streets outside La Mansion. People were selling all sorts of things: hamburgers, hot dogs, empanadas, popcorn, palms, of course, candies, Bibles, balloons, fruit, and juices. Several people had wheelbarrels filled with Easter eggs. I asked one woman if this was a new custom in Bolivia and she said that it had only entered the culture within the past few years. The streets were packed with people. This was the beginning of five dias de feriados--public holidays.

I walked back to my hotel. There was such a fun feeling all around me that I hated to pass up the opportunity to be part of it. On the way back, I stopped into another church--La Igelsia de San Francisco. I was, after all, on the full Semana Santa ecclesiastical tour of as many church services as I could see. I wanted the whole Holy-Week-in-Latin-America experience. The lines going into the church were thick with people. I followed the crowd, stuffing myself into the masses. As people entered, they touched each statue then crossed themselves. I am still not sure what all these people were doing. I had expected to see an exposed consecrated Host, but there was none. The crowd was jovial and this was clearly an important part of the Jueves Santo, Holy Thursday, experience.

Back at the Cathedral, the same thing was going on, but the church was so much larger that it absorbed people more easily. This time the Eucharist was exposed, but in the foreground was a diorama of the Last Supper with assorted images added. There was a table with bread and wine, and the floor was a crown of thorns, a whip and thirty pieces of silver. May people were deep in mediation, but overall the mood was high spirited. This was, for many, as a friend once said about contemporary weddings, more show than sacrament.

In the end, in my opinion, the Pentecostals trumped out the Cathedral. They had stripped away the ritual that many people simply do not find satisfying. They had gone directly to the source. As I reflected on this, I realized that this was a Catholic response to the ever-growing number of Protestant converts in Central and South America. The service was essentially evangelical Protestant, although there was a Mass with the Eucharist being an essential part. But prayer, praise and music, from what I could see, dominated.

Friday morning the streets were empty. Not a store or shop was open. Today was Good Friday, or Viernes Santo. At noon the Cathedral was first on my schedule. The Seven Words of Christ was the liturgy for the afternoon, but so much of it was lost on me because I could not follow the Spanish. It was, essentially, brief sermons on the last seven utterances of Christ, linked together by a wonderful, small orchestra.

At three, La Mansion hosted the same liturgy, but what impressed me was that most of the congregation followed along in their Bibles and many of the meditations were done by woman. (There had not been a single woman on the altar at the Cathedral. ) There was much music, contemporary in nature, but in the end it was the Word that dominated the liturgy.

By now I was hungry, and I took a church break for dinner. At six, though, I was back at the Cathedral for yet another liturgy. This, too, was done outdoors on the steps of the church. The park is front was swimming with people and as far as I could see people lined the streets. By 6:30 Christ was dead and a solemn procession began. I use the word "procession," because that is the word the Bolivians use, but to me a procession implies a relatively small group of people. When I say that thousands of people participated in this event I do not exaggerate. To use the word parade would diminish the event, so we´ll just call it by what is was--a procession.

The park and streets were alive with activity. By now, bouquets of fresh basil were being sold. I had not seen this before and when I asked someone the only answer I got was that this was a Bolivian Good Friday tradition. More people were buying more palms, as well as the usual assortment of refreshments. Kids were carrying Bugs Bunny balloons. Many people had rosaries or were carrying statues of Jesus or crucifixes. A lot of people were carrying candles.

The Legion of Mary opened to procession. I had to chuckle at the macho Latino boys, spinning their rosaries on their fingers, checking out the girls in the crowd. Different fraternal groups followed--Sisters of the Dominicans, the Miracle of Jesus squad. Hundreds of people paraded past. Next to follow were the clergy who had participated in the earlier liturgy. Once these groups passed, a huge black cross, draped in white cloth and wreathed in flowers, carried on the shoulders of ten men, emerged. People would leave their place on the procession route, approach the cross, touch their palms to it, or touch their hands to it. Hundreds more people passed. A large statue of Mary, dressed just like a Domincan nun, was carried by a contingent of ten woman. Eight female Santa Cruz policewoman acted as honor guards. Hundreds more people passed.

A large statue of St. John was next, carried by another ten men and flanked by a contingent of eight male Santa Cruz policemen. As each statue approached, a truck with speakers on it was within sound distance. There was an ongoing recital of the rosary. People continued to step out of place to place their hands or palms or bouquets of herbs on the statue. This time hundreds and hundreds of people passed.

By now the faint sounds of a drum and brass band could be heard. Following the statue of the living Christ was the three foot by eight foot silver, wood and glass coffin containing the dead Christ. His body was clearly visible, covered in a thin gauzy material. This time it was not possible to step out of line. A hundred young people, hands linked, protected the coffin and the twenty eight men carrying it.

The brass band, at least a hundred strong, followed. And following them were hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of people. The stream was seemingly unending. This was my time to join the procession, walking in tune to the band, joining the faithful in this procession around the city core.

Ninety minutes later the fraternities, statues, and glass coffin returned to the church. Hundreds and hundreds of people were singing--Jesu, Jesu Christo, yo te adoro. Jesus, Jesus Christ, I adore you. The procession and all the statues entered the cathedral. The coffin was placed in the middle aisle , eight large candles surrounded it, and the statues of Mary and the living Christ flanked it. The body would be waked until midnight. Thousands of people poured into the church, standing in line to touch the coffin, to place their palm fronds on it., to kiss it. People lingered, people prayed, some people wept. There was absolutely nothing phoney about this display of fidelity and emotion.

After their visit to the coffin, congregants would find a seat in the church and sit with their friends and families. Some were saying the Stations of the Cross at their seats; others knelt in prayer. It was just like a large family wake where, once you have paid your respects to the family and deceased, you kick back and enjoy the company of people you´ve not seen in awhile.

Meanwhile, at some of the smaller altars, people were lighting candles, praying to statues; others were following the visible Stations of the Cross, praying at each one. Hundreds of candles were being lit and people were praying over them.

Outside the once quiet streets had a holiday feel about them. All the food vendors were out, restaurants were open and the jazz bar kitty-corner to the cathedral had started its Friday night entertainment.

I had never experienced a Good Friday like this, although I have experienced larger scale Buddhist/Hindu festivals in Asia. There were many comparisons. In this culture, this was a seamless extension of the secular and the religious, just as it is in India or Burma. No one would have thought to say this was a violation of church and state. This was simply a cultural extension of the lives of the majority of Bolivians. (On the other hand, the federal government on Wednesday did say that it was distancing itself from these traditions. Evo Morales is making an attempt to separate the too-powerful church/state relationship.)

I lingered in fascination at the four hour velado (from the word vela, meaning candle) , or wake. For me this was a unique experience. Saturday, I knew would be much quieter, a good day for me to travel to another town where I would experience Easter.

By the end of Santo Viernes, the Cathedral had trumped La Mansion, sheerly by its power and pagaentry. I just could not see the La Mansionites expressing their faith in this way, anymore than the Cathedralites could express their faith in Pentecostal fashion. Many branches, but one trunk, Jesus told us. This was a perfect way to experience two branches.

Saturday was a travel day. Churches were silenced, so this was a good day to be on the move. A ten hour bus ride brought me out of the hot, humid Amazonian lowlands to the lovely town of Cochabamba, at 8,000 feet. Easter morning, I rose at 5:15 to participate in the first service of the day--an Easter procession. Well, I was disappointed. Maybe there were 30 people. The women went one way carrying a large statue of Mary, and the men went another carrying a crucifix. Each group circled a city block then returned to the church. I went back to bed.

At ten, though, I did go to church , but, as is the case in Latin America, Easter is all about Friday. There was a large statue of the risen Christ on the altar and a banner proclaiming ¨Why are you looking for Jesus here? He has risen.¨ But, sadly, the service was lackluster as best. This wasn´t a congregation that sang and at one point the lector almost begged the people (and this is a pretty faithful paraphrase), ¨Come on people, sing! Jesus died for your sins. Sing!¨ In Bolivia, as in the rest of the Spanish speaking world, Semana Santa had come to an end. Easter was just another normal Sunday.

I had a feeling, though, that had I been at La Mansion, the service would have much more exhubarent!

It's my Birthday and I'll Cry If I Want to: Iguazu Falls & the The Jesuit Missions of Argentina and Paraguay

August 11, 2009
Montreal, PQ, Canada

I start this entry a full four months past my 60th birthday, a birthday I thought I had under control. After all, I didn't like turning 30, 40 or 50, but once past it I just moved on. Somehow I seem stuck, as do others I know who've just turned 60. It just seems....so...old. But that, I know, is all relative to one's point of view, so it's best to go back to what I wrote a few days prior to March 30th. Find joy in the celebration and find thanks for having got this far.

But I'm 134 days ahead of myself. I need to back up.

It had been my plan all along to be in this particular corner of Argentina for my birthday. I'd turned 50 in an exceptional place in Australia ten years earlier and I wanted to replicate it, but on another continent. So...how could one get much better than Iguazu Falls--the continent's largest waterfalls--and the fabulous Jesuit missions that hug both sides of the Parana River.

Well, I wasn't disappointed.

I'd come first to the gateway city of Posadas, five hours from Iguazu,but just across the river from Paraguay. My first goal was to explore the two UNESCO World Heritage sites of San Ignacio Mini and Santa Ana--two of the 33 still standing Jesuit Missions that encircles the Parana River in Argentina, Paraguay and Brazil. This trip would only bring me to a handful of them.

In all fairness, the Argentinian side of the border provided better interpretation centers, but the Paraguayan side had the better preserved missions.

But my real mission was to be in Igauzu on the 30th. I arrived on the 28th and spent both the 29th and 30th exploring. Up and down paths I went...from the top of the falls to the river below. I walked every path available. And, in so doing, met Bill. We were both standing at an overlook watching the falls. I spoke Spanish to him, but he responded in Australian English. Yes, he'd be happy to take my picture, and "what brings you here?" he asked. "It's my birthday," I said. "I wanted to be in an phenomenal place for my 60th and this was my choice."

Turned out that he was at Iguazu for the very same reason. We both celebrated our birthdays on the 30th! He, though, would be turning 62.

So...we became travel partners for the next two days. I told him I had very definite plans for the 30th--the full Iguazu adventure package that included a 30 minute jungle ride, and a cruise in a fast boat on the river right to the falls where we'd descend under them for a full soaking.

On the morning of the 30th, we met each other at the bus stop and jointly celebrated our birthdays. What a fortunate coincidence.

That evening, over a vintage bottle of Diet Coke and a perfectly grilled Argentinian sirloin, we shared the day's experience and toasted the end of a perfect birthday,

If you gotta turn 60, you might as well do it in style!

The News From Paraguay

Asuncion, Paraguay
6 de abril de 2009

Lily Tuck won the 2004 National Book Award for her dark witted, lushly characterized novel, The News From Paraguay. It fictionalizes the life of the country´s founding father, Francisco Lopez and his Irish mistress, Ella Lynch. I´d saved the book until I got to Parguay; it´s been a great read. I recommend it.
The good news from Paraguay is that it´s been an abundant week full of surprises, warm people and great weather. It isn´t very often that countries spook me, but Paraguay caused some anxiety. I only remember Romania and India doing that to me, and it´s simply because I´d functioned on very little information. But...truth is Paraguay spooked me. I know of absolutely no one else who´s ever been here. Not a single person I´ve met this winter, even those traveling for a long time, entered the country nor intended to enter the country. Some people who asked where I was going would look at me in a funny way when I told them where I was going, then they´d change the subject. Needless to say I was a bit uneasy in the days and weeks leading up to my time in this interesting, unexplored corner of South America. Paraguay should give no one cause for alarm.
But...WOW! I arrived in a small city a week ago with the intention of using Encarnacion as a base to explore the Jesusit Missions on this side of the Parana River. After those days, I bussed north to the capital, Asuncion, and have been based here since then.

Paraguay is the Latin America I know and love. To be a bit honest, I was getting a bit bored in Argentina and Uruguay. They were settled by millions of Italians and one has the feeling he´s in Europe instead of South America. There´s no diversity and there´s very little evidence of indigenous culture. Paraguay, on the other hand, is full of non-Latino immigrants from Korea, Japan (like this couple seeing flowers at a street market), and the Middle East and it´s got a strong indigineous culture in the Guarani people who are Paraguay´s first people. The culture is so dominant that most everyone in the country speaks Guarani first and Spanish second. The government, in its respect for its indigenous, named its currency the Guarini. ($1.00 buys 5050 Guarinis. To be a millionaire costs less than $200.00 US.)

In Buenos Aires I´d met an Argentian who reduced all Paraguayans to coke-sniffing addicts. What I´ve found were incredibly nice people who went out of their way to help me when I appeared lost or confused, which is most of the time. :)

This is what I like:

In most of Latin America church and state and normal life blend together rather easily. It´s quite common to see stores and businesses having names that invoke religion. I have seen the Virgin of Pilar bus company, the Virgin of Fatima Pharmacy, and the Virgin of Caaupe grocery store. (So many virgins!) My favorite, though, is the Niño Jesus Peluqueria--the Baby Jesus Barber Shop. In our culture, the fundies would have a field day saying the church was being mocked, and the far left would tell the businesses to keep church out of public life. That´s just not the case in most of Latin America, and it´s kind of fun to see how shops and stores are named.

Most people do not have cars so public transportation is wide-spread, cheap and really efficient. It´s also a GREAT place to people watch. Yesterday, I spent two hours on two different buses. In the course of those two hours all sorts of people got off and on the buses selling all sorts of things: one guy had a basket of apples, pears and plums; another man was selling belts. A granddad and his grandson got on for a time. Grandad played the accordian and both of them sang. Another man played his guitar for ten minutes. All manner of kids sell candy, gum, dried bananas and papayas, batteries, potato chips and soft drinks. My favorite, after rattling along on Paraguay´s not-the-greatest-in-the-world roads was a Coca Cola vendor selling bottles of Coke that he´d pour in a glass for you. Right behind him was a young woman selling chipa, a yummy cheese bread that´s found all over Paraguay. Heck...no need to get off the bus to buy food. Local bus ride are never boring with this sort of on-going entertainment. 
 
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I’ve been reading Lily Tuck’s The News from Paraguay and liking it a lot.  It’s 1854 and the future dictator of Paraguay, Francisco Solano, begins his courtship of the young, beautiful Irish courtesan Ella Lynch. Ella follows Francisco to Asunción and reigns there as his mistress.   The books has been one of my left-handed guides  to the country, and especially to its capital, Asuncion.

But, as good as the book is, the country is even better.

I arrived in Asuncion shortly after the celebratory birthday and the city has been a delight, all due to some unexpected surprises.

 

On my first night in the city I was eating in a small restaurant and I overhead two young Americans.  American English was not something I was hearing a lot  of, so I finally interrupted their conversation to ask them a few questions, assuming that they were tourists. Far from it. They were in the Peace Corps and I think they needed to talk to another countryman just I needed to talk to them. We joined tables and chatted for over two hours.

 

Both Justin and Audrey had trained deep in the countryside outside of Asuncion, but were now stationed six hours away. The next day was Saturday and Justin was going to visit his host family. Would I like to join him? Well, dah! One of my primary travel philosophies is dropping Plan A when a better Plan B emerges.

      Saturday morning we met at 9:00 a.m., hopped on the first of three busses and rode two hours out of the city. I had no idea where I was, so it was very good to have a tour guide. From the bus stop, we walked another three kilometers down a red clay road, under a searing mid-day sun, past farms, past crops of sugar-cane, yucca and soy; past cows and horses and chickens and goats and pigs; past acres and acres and acres of coconut palms until, finally, he ducked down another dirt path which led us to a small family compound. What a wonderful opportunity Justin had given me.  We were way off the normal tourist track and I had a chance to spend time with Justin and his Paraguayan family.

 

 

 

 

     For me it was an opportunity to see how the majority of Paraguayan´s live, to see their pet monkey, to meet the aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews and grandparents, to share a simple meal that had been prepared in Justin´s honor; to see the garden that Justin helped plant. (He´s a bee keeper and agro-specialist, and had Justin not shown this family how to plant and maintain a small subsistence garden, they wouldn´t have one.) It was a wonderfully quiet visit, something no tour could ever have provided.

On the way back to Asuncion the hot, sunny day turned suddenly dark. The most powerful front I´ve ever seen pushed black, black clouds in coupled with a black rain. I later learned it had mixed with a volcano that had erupted earlier in Chile. It was so weird to have the gorgeous day turn into night time in a matter of minutes.

 But Paraguay hasn’t been bereft of problems.  Poverty has loomed about me in frightening ways.

This is the second poorest country in South America.  Children often get on busses and ask for money or food.  One boy, this evening, barefooted and dirty, passed out religious pictures then attempted to sing a song. Locals often hand out a few coins. I was left with a sadness in my stomach. Is this boy homeless? Is he choosing to do this as some kids do? What´s his family like?  Should I take him off the bus to buy him some food? In the end, I take my lead from locals and dig into my pockets.

 

Of course, not everyone who gets on the bus is begging. Vendors get on and sell everything imaginable.  My favorites are freshly poured glasses of Coca Cola and chipa—a uniquely Paraguayan cheese biscuit that is sold everywhere.  They’re addictive and I’ve been buying them at every turn.

 

As it´s been with all the places I´ve liked, I really didn´t want to leave Paraguay. There was still so much more to experience but, in truth, Paraguay is a place best visited in their winter. 95 degrees each day was growing a bit tedious. Easter beckoned in Bolivia and I had a flight that had to be kept, so I left Asuncion for Santa Cruz, Bolivia and an up-close-and-personal encounter with Semana Santa--Holy Week in Latin America.

Zero to Sixty in...60

Iguazu Falls, Argentina
On the tri-border of Argentina, Paraguay and Brazil
March 28, 2009

The summer I graduated from high school I went to New York City for the first time alone.  I'd been there many times before, but always with my family.  It was 1967--the "Summer of Love"--and hippies were everywhere.  While roaming around Washington Park in Greenwich Village I bought a pin that said, "Don't trust anyone over 30."  I was eighteen and thirty was, well...unimaginable.

That was 42 years ago.  In two days I turn 60.  Twice as old as that dreaded age I imagined in 1967.  What happened and how did I get this far so fast?  It truly does feel like "Zero to 60 in sixty seconds."  What do I do now?  Buy another pin that says "Don't trust anyone over 70?"

Last summer, while I was planning this trip, I knew I'd be away for this special day, and I knew I wanted to do something that neither my father nor grandfather had done on their 60th.  Where in this great, exceptional world of South America, would I really like to be on March 30th?

Iguazu Falls was the clear winner.

These are the biggest waterfalls in South America.  Indeed, they are the biggest in all of the Americas.

I have not looked forward to this birthday.  I know it's only a number, that all it means is that the earth has gone one more time around its orbit.

Still...60! But I am grateful, grateful beyond belief.  I think of all those who died prematurely, long before 20, 30, 40 or 50. I keep reminding myself that 60 is a gift.

"The gift of 60," I keep telling myself.

So, how will I spend the day.  I will wake to thanks, take a swim in the pool, eat breakfast and spend the day exploring the falls.  And, in keeping with my promise that I'm going to do something my father and grandfather didn't do.  I'm going to rappel down a waterfall, glide through the jungle on a cable, and ride some rapids--in other words, the "all inclusive Iguazu Adventure package."  And when the day is done, I'll eat a medium-rare Aregentinian steak, order a fine bottle of Diet Coke, and eat more dessert than I should.

And I will give thanks--again.

 

Cowboys and Palm Trees: Uruguay for the Unbeliever

Posadas, Argentina
March 26, 2009

I like small countries.  They're much easier to manage, which is why Uruguay was so appealing after the frenetic maelstrom of a month in Buenos Aires, a place I was more than ready to leave.

My first goal was the capital, Montevideo.  Geograpically, it's only three hours across the Rio Plata, but in other ways it's a world apart.  I boarded a fast boat on March 16th, crossed the river, met a bus that brough me the rest of the way then checked into a small hotel.

It always amazes me how neighboring countries can look and feel so different once a border is crossed.  Think of lovely downtown Mooers, NY and teh charming village of Hemmingford, Quebec.  It was a bit like that once I left Colonia, Uruguay and headed east to Montevideo.  Wha struck me immediately was the open space.  Uruguay is loaded with wide open speaces.  This was farm country.  Indeed, as I would come to see later, most of Uruguay is farm country.  I liiked it almost at once.

Montevideo was a delight.  It's not that Buenos Airest wasn't deglightful in its own way, but Montevideo was likeable for what it was not.  Unlike its neighboring city, Montevideo wasn't a city with attitude.  It wasn't diry.  The air wasn't full of carbon dioxide and cigarettes moke.  (Argentinian smokers are pigs who think nothing of smoking everywhere.  There wasn't caca de perro on the sidewalks.  In fact, I didn't see many dogs at all,  Maybe Uruguayans eat them.

It had a similar architecture, but it was much better maintained.  I love Art Deco, and Montevideo was loaded with beautiful examples of a `930's building spree.  And, unlike where Mexico City, where air quality has really taken a toll on this style of architecture, Montevideo's examples are in far better condition.

There were 25 kilometers of beaches in the city and, while the water quality wasn't the greatest, they're still wonderful. Unlike Buenos Aires which only had swimming pools, Montevideo's beaches were a wonderful way to wile away a day or two.

                                                                                                                                                                                   I spent five days in the city, and took two day trips out of it.  One trip was to Punta del Este, which is one  

of south America's premier beach towns. 

But it was early fall and much of the town had closed itself up for the season.  Still, our tour allowed three hours in the town and I spent most of it on its gorgous Atlantic beaches.  The water, which had traveled north from Antarctica, was too cold for my tastes. 

I wanted to explore more of rural Uruguay, plus I knew I had to head north to reenter Argentina later in the week to get to Iguazu Falls for the end of the month, so I chose the small border city of Salto, six hours north of Montevideo.  I'd chosen the place because it has so many hot springs nearby and i'd been told that the small resorts in the area are really pleasant.  How right they were.

                                                                              
As I headed north, the landscape began to change.  While Montevideo and Buenos Aires are on the edge of sub-tropical, the area I was traveling towards was definately sub-tropic.  Miiles and  miles of palms and eucalyptus and sycamores passed by window as  we travled north.  There were open prairies, grazing land, farms and small towns.  While coastal Uruguay is a bit hilly, the area north flattened ut.  I had the feeling I was entering big sky country.  It was sunny and clear and the horizon went on forever.

I spent four days outsdie of Salta as a spa/resort with three spring fed swimming pools.  It certainly wasn't cold in Salto, but I must that dipping into hot-thermal waters was mighty relazing.  The spa was wonderful, but I wanted to see more, so one day I rented a car and headed even further north.

One of the appealing things about Uruguay, at least for me, is its lack of population density.  From Salta I drove 100 miles north and only encounted two very small towns.  I would stop the car often to take pictures.  It was like being in Kansas, but Kansas with a twist.  The landscape was flat with rolling hills in every direction.  There'd be large stand of cattle and cowboys (gauchos) herding cattle.  Once I slammed on the brakes when I saw two emus at the top of a small hillock.  High prairie grasses glittered in the sun and goldenrod abounded along the sides of the road.  A dead armadillo gave me a clue to the ecosystem I was enjoying. 

By noon I wanted a bite toeat and especially to get something to drink.  There had been no stores along the road, so I was dependant on small towns where I knew I'd find small grocery stores.  Belem and Constitucion were delightful but, in truth, I'd go out of my mind if I had live in either of them.  Both were located on small lakes, both had a population of about 1,000 and borth were like stepping back in time.  I reallly needed to drink something at each town, but each town only had one store.  In belem, the store looked as if it hadn't been renovated since it openend in 1932.  The refrigerator coolers were ancient, the proprietor was ancient, the stores had shelves of old clothing, farm supplies and a small amount of foodstuffs.  The bus company that serviced the town used busses from the 1950's.  For a time, I thought I'd been time-warped..

It was a fun day, but the car rental was only for a day.  I would be quite content to spend the next day, my last, hanging out at the thermal fed swimming pool of my spa/resort

Salto and Uruguayan big sky country had seduced me with it all-day summer shimmer of brilliant sunlight and its long, bright, early autumn days.  It had seduced me with its prairies and small towns that stepped out of another world.  I could have stayed longer, but it was time to move on.  I had a date with destiny and destiny was not about to wait.