But, I beg to differ; at least in part.  Uruguay is not very Catholic, but the people here are VERY religious, and almost all of them practice what amounts to Uruguay’s State Religion (even those who are also practicing Catholics).

Need a hint?  Check out Uruguay’s flag–the emblem of its State Religion is emblazoned there….

The State Religion of Uruguay is SUN WORSHIP.  That’s right, good old fashioned (or should I say “ancient fashioned”) unabashed adoration of Sol Invictus, the unconquered Sun.

Perhaps one of the reasons for the popularity of this religion is that it has few commandments, lots of feast days, no fast days and everybody loves its required pilgrimages.

COMMANDMENTS:

I.  Thou shalt worship the Sun whenever possible, if only for a few minutes at a time between clouds or even in the dead of winter.

II.  Thou shalt wear as little clothing as the weather permits when worshiping the Sun.

III.  Thou shalt drink maté and eat bizcochos daily in honor of the Sun.

IV.  Thou shalt make pilgrimages to Punta del Este (or father East) as often as possible.

FEAST DAYS:

Any time the Sun is out, especially if you can find an excuse for not working and going to the beach instead.  Paros and huelgas (protests and strikes) are considered signs of special piety towards the flaming deity.

FAST DAYS:

Are you kidding?  Asado, chivitos and milanesas are ALWAYS appropriate.

PILGRIMAGES:

Trips Punta del Este are required as often as possible.  Special devotions are mandated every day from 15 December through the end of February.  The especially devout also make pilgrimages to Rocha whenever possible, and the ultra orthodox worship on the beaches there that are accessible only by 4 wheel drive army vehicles.

And if you think the Uruguayans are NOT serious about their religion, they even made a hole in the ozone layer so they could worship more intensely–beat that for dedication…

Nevertheless, in moments of clarity, I realize that taking Spanish in school would have been of little utility here in Montevideo, because, despite what they may say, they don’t speak Español here; they speak Rioplatense Uruguayo, which is NOT to be confused with either Rioplatense Porteño, or Español del interior.

Spanish-speakers are very picky about their language.  (Does anybody know the word for Spanish-speakers that is parallel to “Francophone” or “Anglophone”?  I can’t find it and I have looked high and low…) For example, in school they taught Castellano Español (Castillian Spanish).  But when I once used the word “Español” to a Cubano friend in Florida to describe his native tongue, he was insulted and told me that “only Mexican migrant workers speak Español, I speak Castellano”.  So I started using the word Castellano instead…

…Until I was in Gibraltar and used the word Castellano when speaking to a local Gibraltarian (all of whom are amazingly totally bilingual).  He went into a tirade and explained to me, in what can best be described as indignant and excited utterances that “Castellano was the language of the damned Madrid centralists, and that Andalusian was perfectly good Spanish as well; and I should understand that in Gibraltar they speak the Llanito dialect of Andalusian, NOT Castellano”.

Great! After that I was afraid to call the language anything…

Then came my horrendous stay in Costa Rica where they have the habit of changing the diminutive “ito, (as in Puerito, cafecito, etc.)  to “ico”, hence their nickname of “Ticos”–I have some other names for them, but I cannot add them here as this is a family friendly blog.  Anyway, despite, the “ico”, Costa Ricans also claimed to speak “Castellano”….

Finally, I arrived in Montevideo and encountered Rioplatense Uruguayo, although I had no idea that was what it was at the time.

I distinctly remember having breakfast in my hotel and requesting  “servietas papeles” (paper napkins).  I pronounced the word slowly and clearly using the Cubano Castellano I had been taught.  But the waiter looked at me as if I had spoken in Turkish… Then he brightened and said (phonetically transcribed) “ah, servishettas”, after which he brought the napkins.  As before, my internal reaction is quite unprintable here, except perhaps in to use the Latin phrase “illegitimi non carborundam est” (I apologize to any Latin scholars if I have mispelled anything).

That was my introduction to Rioplatense pronunciation in which the “y” (when used as a consonant) and the “ll” are both pronounced like “sh” or “zh” in English.  Everywhere else in the Spanish-speaking (spanophone maybe?) world they are pronounced like the “y” as a consonant in English.

The other big difference is the use of “vos” alongside “tu” in the second person  familiar form.  I have been told that “vos”  (instead of, or interchangeably with “tu”) is a holdover, or perhaps more properly a hangover, from medieval Spanish.

For many months I spoke both Cubano Castellano and Rioplatense Español badly, but in tande.  Words I learned before I moved here were pronounced in Cubano and new words that I learned here were pronounced in Rioplatense.  Finally, in my efforts to de-gringoize myself, I totally converted to Rioplatense.

But then Rioplatense backfired on me last April in Panama when our Panamanian attorneys made fun of my Rioplatense pronunciation.  As you may expect, that just meant that I would find ways to use it more often. Sanitago sold out and switched to Castellano, and then accused me of being a “Uruguayo Nacionalista”…

But when I came home to Uruguay I was convinced I finally had the various versions of whatever you call that language straightened out in my mind….

Until earlier this week, when it was explained to me, that Rioplatense Uruguayo is different that Rioplatense Porteño in that the people from Buenos Aires NEVER use “tu”, and only use “vos” or “vosotros”:  AND that the people in the interior of both Uruguay and Argentina do not speak Rioplatense (of whichever dialect) at all.

Therefore, after careful consideration, I have decided to have Borko teach me Serbian…

Because yerba maté (the tea and the gourd) is so popular in Brazil, Argentina and Uruguay, there are many different styles of  matés from which to choose.  Being the clumsy sort, I asked for one with the legs firmly attached to decrease the chances of spilling both the tea and the tea leaves all over my keyboard.  So my maté is not fancy–it is simply a workman-like gourd with four well braced feet attached and a metal rim around the top to further prevent me from breaking it.

I understand there is some arcane process for preparing the gourd for use, but since I am not yet a Uruguayan citizen, it is illegal for me to know the secret.  I think is involves snippets of ritual from the Freemasons, the now extinct (or nearly so, depending upon with whom you speak) Charrua Indians, and probably a bit from the 16th century Rituale Romanum.

Starting the day with yerba maté is quite an evolution for me (and we all know how much I dislike that concept). No doubt some of you will remember my description of the taste of mate in my book as similar to “cigarette ashes”.

The main reason for changing was simply that I thought drinking maté might be healthier for me than consuming a liter of coffee every morning.  Certainly, there appears to be a consensus that maté is superior.  But then, there was once a consensus that Saint Joan of Arc was a witch a needed to be burned at the stake…

For the sake of accuracy, I must point out that in many situations, yerba maté can be extremely dangerous.  More than a few Uruguayos bear the scars from this danger.

The primary danger from yerba maté is not the chemical that supplies the stimulation in place of caffeine, it is from the darned thermos bottle that is invariably carried by maté drinker crooked in their left arm (unless they are southpaws).

More than once, some holding a maté in one hand and a thermos in their arm has leaned over to give me an abrazo and poured boiling water on me–once day they even managed to scald my dog Harry.  This is not fun!  Now, when someone approaches me with a thermos in their arm, I stiff arm them like a Notre Dame lineman and hope that my exposed arm doesn’t get burned…

Maybe it is a hold over from the concept of “the survival of the fittest”?

Nevertheless, we have an opportunity to do it now. We don’t need to make a choice between going to the

• Southeastron Coastal Uruguay Living in Piriapolis Party (SCULPP) OR
• Noche de las Luces in Montevideo.

I know what a Southron is, but what the heck is a Southeastron? Sounds like someone from Miami (and real Southrons know it is pronounce My-am-ma, not the Yankee version, my-am-mee).

Anyway, the Piriaoplis gathering is starting in the afternoon, and the Noche e las Luces, by definition doesn’t start until the night.

So why not do both? I am… Details on the SCULPP are at: http://www.sociedadsouthron.net/forums/viewtopic.php?f=12&t=1198.

See you there!

This party is a combination of a US middle class “Sweet Sixteen” party, an upper class “Coming Out” debutante ball, and a solemn affair of State. The last time I was at something as elegant was at Ronald Reagan’s Second Inaugural Ball…

The party was held at the Hotel de Prado–an ancient hotel in Parque Prado that has been completely renovated to host affairs such at these. Its former elegance had been faithfully restored down to the details on the “gingerbread” moulding.

When we first arrived, the entrance looked a bit formidable for a wheelchair, but the parking lot traffic cops directed us to a more accessible place around back–the very same place where they trundle in the cases of beer and booze. (I might never have gotten in if this was a “dry” affair.)

Things were supposed to start at 9PM–we arrived at 9.30 and were among the first.

Everything was done perfectly. There were greeters in clown suits, who ushered people to their tables (it was just like something with Ronald McDonald, or a US National political party convention!) There was a main ball room and then a couple of side salons for the overflow crowd. Mercifully, we were seated in one of these–all the way in the back corner. This meant that I could at least hear most of what was going on, despite the dance music. Once seated, we were served a steady stream of potent potable and appetizers all the way until dinner; which turned out to be just a tiny bit later than I had anticipated.

The crowd looked to be above 200 people. My colleagues told me that there were present and former cabinet ministers in attendance–along with their personal (sometimes unrepeatable) opinion of each one.

I think things actually started around 11PM. (By that time I had consumed a goodly number of vodka tonics, so some things are a tiny bit hazy.) The band struck up “the Blue Danube” (Die Blau Donau for perfectionists) and the affair was well and truly begun. I couldn’t see much from the back–being in a wheelchair makes you shorter than anyone except midgets, tiny children, and most of the people in Central America–but I was told that the birthday girl started the affair by waltzing with each of her close male relatives–starting with the proud father. (I guess this way she gets the family out of the way and can spend the rest of the time making whoopee with her friends.) Later on, there was a 5 minute video of her life.

Then there was a lot of dancing. It started out with real music, but eventually it morphed into percussion only. At least it wasn’t rap. (It must be easier to dance to the beat of the drums if you don’t have to worry about little things like harmony and melody…)

As I recall, more or less, the starters for dinner appeared around 1AM, and the desserts around 3AM. The main course was obviously wedged in between somewhere, but, like a witness before a Congressional Committee, “I have no exact recollection of those events Senator…”

About 3.30AM things really got exciting–a troupe of belly dancers appeared. It was a real “dance of the seven veils” kind of thing right out of Aladdin and his lamp.

Shortly thereafter, being a mere gringo, I was wheeled, exhausted and half asleep, to the Land Rover and then taken home. I am certain the party went on until breakfast , and probably even later.

It was a spectacle to remember!

Friday I ordered a enslada mixta, a mixed salad with greens and assorted other stuff that they throw in—I throw back out anything I can’t pronounce (plus any carrots which I can pronounce). The waiter asked me if I wanted dressing: my choices included several types of oil, a couple types of vinegar, and a half lemon thrown in for variety. I prudently chose the virgin olive oil and the balsamic vinegar—mainly because I knew what those two were.

But there are other choices as well. Our local Uruguaya-Americana food expert, Clara, has been kind enough to put together a glossary of terms to help me and other ignorant gringos like me. A quick review of the glossary shows me the following oil and vinegar choices (Southron kibitzing is in italics—don’t blame Clara):

Aceite = oil—I guess this is the “oil du jour”

Aceite de Oliva = olive oil (a wide selection of types, flavors and strengths)—if there is such a wide selection, how come I only ever hear of ‘virgin’ and ‘extra virgin’—how the heck do you get an extra virgin anyway?

Aceite de girasol = sunflower oil

Aceite de maiz= corn oil

Aceite de arroz = rice oil. Used for frying as it tolerates higher heat.

Vinagre = vinegar—I guess this is the “vinegar du jour”—I am never ashamed to use a good line twice…