Cocaine

At the sound of  a thud, I´ve turned around to find an old woman collapsed on the floor. I did nothing, the pavement was her enemy. I picked her up, and spent the rest of the morning walking around Montevideo like Julius in Chapter two of Twins.

I´ve taken an extra night here, mostly for the benefit of my skull, which the internet assures me requires a more sustained bath. The only thing left to do is visit the old meat market, Mercado Del Puerto. The market building has the metal framework features of a familiar UK train station. It houses ten or so of barbeque stall-come-resturants. Some are busier than others, but otherwise, there´s not much to pick between them. After a wander around, I decide on the only stall where chef is de-boning and and chopping meat. As far as I´m concerned, that´s dinner and a show. As I work through two heavy-set steaks, he chops meat and throws it onto the one-by-two metre wood fired grill. I can hear the rest of the chefs singing in the kitchen just out of sight. They´re not big on rare steak over here, but what I get is excellent. I´ve cleaned the plate like a mid-nineties Fairy Liquid commercial.

As I´m walking back to my hostel, I´m stopped by a very friendly fellow who wants a go on my ukulele. The uke´ tends to attract the crazies and oddballs, which is nice. We have nice back and forth, afterwhich he introduces me to another friendly man in a nearby doorway who is a cocaine retailer. I´m not too keen on descending alone down the anonymous hallway, and recalling instruction not to take sweets from strangers, I pass on the offer.