You Can´t Always Get What You Want

In the morning, I´m almost forcibly removed from my hostel. The owner explains, in no uncertain terms, that I must leave after check out. Of course, those certain terms are all Spanish, and fly over my head, but I get the idea and make my exit in myown good time. Breakfast is a slice of pie and the last of my ale - Shepherd Neame´s Spitfire.

Later, I arrive in Montevideo. Most travellers I´ve met are carrying something like a one hundered litre bag or bags. I´m packing a forty five and a nine. I´ve got little more than two pairs of trousers, one pair of badly oil stained shorts, one pair of swimming shorts, two jumpers, three t-shirts, a shirt, and a handful of socks and underwear. just. For need to do things, I´ve also got trainers, trek shoes, rock boots, sandals, and newly acquired seaworthy wellington boots. The addition of wellington boots and a weighty adult male Sea Lion skull is proving to be a pain on the long walk from the bus stop into town. Travelling light is tough.

I´ve walked around much of the old town in the afternoon. It´s nice enough, but nothing has overhwelmed me. Almost as much as in Buenos Aires, the pollution is nice and thick. From the end of a long concrete fishing pier, distant pollution also makes for another nice sunset. This time, the bright red horizon fades up into orange, then green, pale plue and slowly into a dark blue.

In the evening I wander back to a colourful little Peruvian restaurant in the poor, noticably dilapidated side of town. I conciously choose a table and seat that offers a good defensive position from both behind and the front door of the restaurant. Judging by the rolling garage door front, I guess it´s a converted garage. It´s been given a nice enough paint job and some basic tables and chairs are laid out. There´s a group of Peruvians sat around a table beers enjoying themselves. I don´t get much of a stare as I walk in. Nothing much happens after I sit down. After five minutes, I´m looking around waiting to be presented with a menu. A girl in casual streetwear walks upto the table and sets down a plate of rice and chicken with a couple of slices of potato. I question if this is for me - "¿Para mi?", I think. She turns her head halfway around as if to check, but quickly decides that of course it´s for me, and answers "Ci", with a face of confusion for why I´m asking. I don´t need to be told twice. I´m more than happy with this arrangement. As I´m wiping my fingers from their work stripping flesh from bone, I´m presented with a glass of red liquid. I think it´s water melon juice. Does such a thing exist? The whole thing is so cheap, I´m embarassed to have to pay with a note that´s equivalent to USD 40.

As I walk back to the hostel just outside the restaurant, there´s a group of inoffensive looking teens. A girl of maybe thirteen or fourteen asks me for money. I reply, "no, sorry"- "Lo siento". She insists it´s "por la leche, por la leche". I don´t know why she´s so keen on milk. On a second glance, I notice she´s quite pregnant. I still don´t know why she needs to buy milk, and wander off on my way.