Passenger

In the morning I squeeze in a coffee and some light blogging in the Hotel Argentino, once the biggest (and implicitly, the best) in all South America. I´m still living on the boat. There´s black and white photographs from the 1930´s on the walls that look like the final shot from The Shining.

In the afternoon, we rent a car and take an enjoyable coastal drive upto the town of Rocha. It´s a quiet, largely untouristed little colonial town, surrounded by open green planes with cows meandering, and the odd gaucho shuffling those cows from one place to another. As the sun sets, it´s a lot bigger (or possibly closer)than I ever recall seeing it. It´s also bright red. Chris and Steve speed up to try and find a vantage point for a picture. I think Chris has just caught it before it disappears into the ground.

In the evening, we walk through the square network of single floor terraced buildings of various heights and shades of ageing pale. We stumble across a stage across a little sreet where the locals are putting on ten minutes shows - a choir, some traditional dancing, and band. Chris quips that the boys in the second show look like they´ve been reluctantly pushed into dancing with their mothers.