I thought that perhaps after 7 years, I might experience some twinge of homesickness upon my return to Florida–but instead, I found it even more foreign than the last time I was there.

Certainly, some things were simpler to get done there; and traveling alone, having almost everything handicapped accessible was really nice.  But I was forced to travel alone because the US Embassy here was, as to be expected TOTALLY UNCOOPERATIVE in arranging a Visa for one of my assistants to accompany me.  As far as I can tell, from multiple dealing with the US Embassy here, apparently they think the Americans with Disabilities Act does not apply to them, and I have had less cooperation and more downright obstructionism from the Embassy than from any other source in my entire travels.

Nevertheless, I was able to get around in Florida quite nicely–I rented a Chevrolet Suburban, which was big enough for me to drive and flew into Orlando via Panana.  Doing that saved me hours clearing Customs and Immigration in Miami, which is a particularly onerous form of purgatory…

After that it was a 2-hour drive to Clearwater and my hotel.

The most important things I did were personal; I spent a lot of time with my nephew and his fiancé, went to my home church, and, for the first time was able to visit my brother’s grave.  (As some of you may remember, he died the day I left Costa Rica to move here.)

The negative things that I noticed were a few incidents of anti-white racism:  one blantant by a “Best Buy” employee; another was that there were simply too many choices for everything in every store.  After living outside the US for 12 years, I can’t deal with 37 kinds of everything, when I have grown accustomed to 3 or 4–it really made shopping a lot of work.

The amazing thing was that every time I thought of home, it was here in El Pinar, not anyplace in the US.

Uruguay is not perfect, it certainly has its problems, and is no longer even a particular inexpensive place to live.

Nevertheless, it is home.  While I was gone, I missed the people, the culture–the myriad little things that make a place home.

I was happy and relieved to return.  Even better, on Wednesday my nephew and his fiancé will be visiting for 10 days.  If everything  goes as planned, they will return to Florida and start packing to move here ASAP.

Sin dudas, Uruguay es mi hogar–without doubts Uruguay is my home.

In my next post(s) I will talk a bit about the “retirement havens”  so much promoted by International Living and some others with a pecuniary interest in promoting them…

I am told that there are one or two “Ropas Grandes” (Big Clothes) stores in Montevideo, but since “big” is a relative term, I haven’t held out much hope of finding anthing useful there:  at 6’4″ (1.93m) and more kilograms than I care to admit, I think I need to be looking for a store that sells Ropas Enormes.

My nephew also brought the second of three parts of my annual vitamin supply (trying to get vitamins shipped to Uruguay is one of the nightmares of living here–you need permits from 3 different ministries).  Don’t get me wrong.  They do sell vitamins and supplements here, but, on average, I need to take six of the local pills for every one of the pills I can import from Yankee occupied America.  This means that instead of the 18 tablets and capsules I take daily, I would need to take about 108 if purchased locally.  That evens strains my Uruguayan nationalism!

That being said, I must admit that I try to buy as many things here as I can: the major exceptions being gigantic clothes, vitamins and handicapped specialty items.

They do have wheelchairs here–but the wheels they use are horrible.  They are bicycle wheels.  So unless you are a feather-weight, they don’t hold up very long.  A few places use plastic wheelchair wheels, but they seem to be made out of Red Chinese junk that last for 30 days or at least 1 hour after the warranty has expired–besides, who the heck can read the “Limited Warranty” when it is written in Mandarin characters?

We came up with a couple solutions to the bad wheels–the best has been putting 6 or 8 iron big spokes within the bicycle wheels.  This provides the strength necessary, but makes the chairs so heavy only Borko or a fork lift can carry them.

For virtually everything else I have found a good local substitute or work-around.

One of my favorite local solutions has to do with furniture.  You can have furniture “built to fit” in some of the smaller stores in the northern part of Montevideo more cheaply here than you can buy new furtnitureat some place like Divino.  So I had extra wide wing-back chairs and a love seat built.  Then, to add height to them (and also make them more handicapped friendly) I have metal frames with wheels built on the bottom of them–thus they are wide enough for my rather large bottom (or two or three average Uruguayos) and high enough so I am not chewing on my knees when I sit down.

One other work around I am trying does require the importation of a key element:  a US style sprinkler hose.  I bought one from Amazon.com and it is being shipped in via Miami Box.  (Since it is under US$50, it will come through customs without a problem.)  I had to buy it in the States because I couldn’t find anyone here who had any idea what i was talking about (and the idea of poking pin holes in a regular hose just didn’t seem feasible).

If you haven’t figure out where I am going with this, you are not from the South in the “Old Days”.  We used to call this “Florida Air Conditioning”–it works especially well on tile roofs, like I have now.

It really is very simple.  You put the sprinkler hose on the roof and turn it on during the heat of the day.  The evaporating water takes the heat out of the tiles and cools the rooms below them by several degrees.  So, unless the laws of physics are different south of the equator (which is a distinct possibility), it should work.  I will let you know.

Boy am I glad I used to build “Rube Goldberg” machines–that talent has saved me more often than I care to remember in the last 10 years.

Providentially for me, I enjoyed decent health until the accidents that crippled me in 1998. By that time I was living outside the United States, so I was able to afford health care even without insurance. (Admittedly, some of the health care was provided by practitioners whose credentials might be considered by some–anyone with an IQ above 30 –as suspect. I remember that on the island of Nevis they only had one class of physicians, and consequently even Chiropractors could prescribe drugs- “take two of these pills daily, and return three times a week forever”. The the university degree of the chief health officer of the island, a doctor whose name I do not remember, was R.N.)

But all of that changed when I came to Uruguay! Every legal resident who pays Social Security is entitled to choose from among several HMOs which are totally paid for by one’s Social Security contribution. In addition, there is also a government health service to care for the needs of the poor, and private health insurance as well (for which I could not qualify because of my pre-existing conditions).

Since I am working and paying social security I now have health insurance. Santiago researched the various plans and chose COSEM because it was reputed to have the best doctors and the newest facilities.
Eight days ago I went to COSEM for the first time to see a general practitioner in order to get a referral for a specialist. I was impressed with the modern facility. I did have to wait about an hour to see the doctor, but I have waited longer than that in the US and then had to pay $120 for the privilege. This visit cost me nothing. The doctor gave me a referral to a dermatologist to deal with the skin on my left leg which had been ravaged by a seven-year long staph infection.

Perhaps the most impressive thing was that the doctor did not tell me to put Dr. Selby ointment on my leg–in Uruguay Dr. Selby is the equivalent of “take two aspirin and call me in the morning”.

Santiago went to the front desk to make the appointment for me. He was told that there were no dermatologist appointments available for more than a month. However, the general practitioner had marked my need as “urgent”, so the scheduler told Santiago he would find an appointment for me quickly and call us with the time and day. That was Friday, March 7.

My appointment with the dermatologist was on Tuesday, March 11. I don’t think I could’ve gotten in that quickly in the US under any circumstances short of third-degree burns covering 80% of my body.

When the day came for the dermatologist appointment I cleared my calendar just in case there would be a long wait. To my pleasant surprise, there wasn’t. I was the second person on the list, and don’t think I waited more than 10 minutes. The dermatologist was knowledgeable, and gave me some prescriptions that have helped me tremendously. I started seeing improvements very next day. Some of the things the doctor prescribed were available right there at COSEM’s pharmacy and were extremely inexpensive. The rest we had to buy at a local pharmacy, but the price there was discounted as well because of my COSEM membership.

The whole process was easy, and frankly, encouraging. Virtually every encounter I have had with physicians in Uruguay has been positive.

I say virtually because there was one doctor that I had to endure who started out with the tired old litany of “you’re overweight”. Gee, really? I didn’t know that: I thought I was the perfect weight for someone 7’6″ (2.25 m). That encounter was actually pretty funny because, as she was talking, in Spanish of course, Santiago became visibly upset. He told it was because he knew I would not like what she said. I told him that I would absolutely not be angry or upset because I intended to ignore her completely.

Those who know me even casually know that I am a libertarian/right-wing nut. By rights, I should hate the medical system here. But I can’t, because even before I am a libertarian, I am a utilitarian; and Uruguay’s medical system WORKS!

The short story is, that unless I want to stand before the Heavenly Throne in very short order, I need to shed 100 kg (about 220 lbs) of weight–in other words I need to lose more than an entire Copperhead in body weight. At this point, the only way to achieve that is through surgery. My body has just been too messed up by the years of infection and powerful drugs to admit of any other course of action.

I’m not going to go into all the medical details, because this is not a medical blog, it is a Uruguay blog. Nevertheless one of the big things on the minds of so many people considering a move to Uruguay is: “What is the quality of the medical care in Uruguay?”

From my perspective, it is superb!

It is very different from the medical care to which people in the US have become accustomed. Treatments here are based primarily on the science and art of medicine and NOT on insurance companies’ actuarial tables or anticipatory defenses against lawsuits by junkyard dog attorneys.

The first thing one notices is that the attitude of a doctor here is infinitely less haughty than most of his American counterparts–their bedside manner is more that of a trusted advisor than some kind of Aeschylapian demigod. In reality, they come across as very much like the ‘good old local doctor’ of days gone by, before medicine in America was taken over and destroyed by the insurance companies and the government.

If this judgment sounds too harsh to you, let me tell you about my last two doctors’ appointments, and you can judge for yourself.

Last Thursday, I had an appointment at Hospital Militar to consult with a doctor about the possibility of weight reduction surgery. I met with Dr. Luis Taroco, who it turned out, was the Head of Surgery at the hospital. He was a chubby man of average height and the first words out of his mouth were, “you are expecting someone skinny?” That put me at ease, at least I wasn’t going to be faced with a lecture on my weight from a “body Nazi”. He spent the next 45 minutes detailing the options in front of me and explaining which one he thought was best and why. He told me the entire process through which I would have to go, and he even told me how much it cost. (I can’t remember the last time a Yankee doctor deigned to mention money.) That consultation costs me a total of 237 pesos Uruguayos, about 10 Yankee dollars.

At the end of the consultation I thanked the doctor and gave him a copy of my book about living in Uruguay.

Later that evening, I received an e-mail from Dr. Taroco thanking me for the book and sending me an article in English detailing everything he had told me during our consultation. I was really impressed–I think that’s the first e-mail I’ve ever gotten from a doctor that was attending me.

Yesterday I had an appointment with Dr. Taroco’s partner, Dr. Pedro Rivero Amespil, in order to actually initiate the process that will lead to my surgery.

Their offices were located just a block off of Bulevar España in Parque Rodo. The building was an example of the fine, well preserved, classic architecture so often found in Montevideo. Marble floors and real wood paneling displayed the wealth of a previous time.

Santiago (a.k.a. Jimbo) and Borko (a.k.a. Bubba) were with me: Santiago, to translate and Borko, to drive and push the wheelchair–Borko is proud that he is one of the few people who manages to “push me around” on a regular basis.

Amazingly, for a medical office in a country that is so polite, and is so friendly, there was no handicapped ramp. Instead, I was greeted with three marble steps. Borko took the wheelchair and went in first, and I followed tottering along on my canes. It would have been sheer hell had I not been able to do so—I think a derrick would have been required…

The lobby was spectacular: more marble and wood dominated by an antique fireplace. On the left was a steep metal staircase that seemed entirely out of place, and that I was afraid I would have to try to scale.

We arrived 15 minutes early, so I expected a good long wait. To my surprise, a white coated gentleman descended the stairway within a minute or two, got a key from the receptionist, and led us back to an outside consultation room on the front landing of the building. The hand-made double wooden doors were opened to admit my wheelchair.

During the next 30 minutes Dr. Rivero went over much of the same information previously discussed with Dr. Taroco. He went on to tell me that their goal was for me to be the very first patient using a new laparoscopic surgical procedure which is far less invasive, hence far less dangerous than flaying me like a catfish. (I think its because I am the biggest person they have ever had squeeze through their doors.) I was told that tests would commence next week with the goal of surgery around the end of June.

Again, as with Dr. Taroco before him, I was impressed with Dr. Rivero’s manner–I really felt like I had gone back in time 40 years. The meeting ended with handshakes all around and that was that. There were no charges; there were no tests–the purpose of this meeting is simply to get acquainted.

Wow!

So, if you ask me in the future, “wouldn’t you feel safer getting your surgery done in America?”, and I just laugh and walk away, remember this post.

This is a full-sized, 8½ x 11 inch paper back, with color covers and black-and-white inside. Because of its large size is much easier to read than the pocket-sized edition produced locally.  The price for the full-size paperback is the same as the retail price for the e-book, US$30. For payment, lulu.com accepts Visa, MasterCard, Discover, American Express and PayPal.

One other note: there was a Yankee Naval vessel holding station a few kilometers offshore for my house–obviously they were here in connection with that politicians visit.  I didn’t mind the ship that much, until I noticed that as I went from room to room its weapons readjusted accordingly…

You may recall that on the 27th of January I reported that Borko finally had his visa application approved. However, due undoubtedly to the Southern Hemisphere Effect, it took more than a week for that visa approval to be translated into an actual visa stamp in his passport. Despite that delay, Borko arrived at the Carrasco International Airport on February 15, one day after his 27th birthday. So I guess that coming to Uruguay was his birthday present.

Now that he has been here for 10 days and is gradually settling in. He’s starting to learn Spanish—unfortunately the staff have been teaching him those Spanish words that cannot be reproduced in a family blog. We bought him a mountain bike (why the heck we need a mountain bike in a city that at best resembles a wrinkled tablecloth is beyond me) to make it easier for him to shadow me when I am on my scooter cruising at full speed. You should see the looks we get when we go shooting along the Rambla.

Borko is actually the perfect shadow. Like every good shadow he’s taller and thinner than the original object; in my case the taller can actually be quite difficult however the thinner is pretty easy, any average sized grizzly bear will do.

Yesterday, we decided to go on a city tour by bike and scooter. I generally use the side streets, because they are safer, being less crowded with cars. As I mentioned in one of my previous entries, things like handicapped ramps are a little less available than Iranian Buddhists. So I cruise along the streets.

Our first stop was Punta Carretas Mall—we heard that there was a Burger King in the food court and had to check that out or drown from salivating.

But we almost didn’t make it: not because of the traffic, not because we got lost, not because of the distance, not because the scooter broke down; but because the rentacops at the mall wouldn’t let Borko park is bike in the parking lot! That’s right, you did not misread, they would not let Borko park is bike in the parking lot!

There is only one entrance to the mall with a ramp, that is on the side with Don Pepperone. However, there is no bike rack anywhere in sight. So the simplest thing seemed to be to take the bike and park it in the parking lot chained it to a metal post…

My God in Heaven, you would have thought that Borko was starting to film a porno movie in the parking lot the way the rentacops reacted. (That actually might have been allowed.) Well one immediately raced over on a bicycle to stop Borko lest he molest the lamp pole by chaining his bike to it–he was almost immediately backed up by a second rentacop, this one on a motorcycle, in case we should try to flee.

They kept on gesticulating when I asked them “¿donde?”. I then called one of our staffers on my cell phone to try to talk to the rentacop, but neither of the yellow uniformed geniuses would take the call. I know you may find it hard to believe, but by this time my usual genial and pacific nature was wearing thin, so I told them “quiero hablar con su Gerente”, which I intended to mean “I want to speak with your manager”. I must’ve been pretty close, because after only 15 minutes a guy in a tie showed up. He and I still couldn’t get past the gesticulating stage, but at least he would talk to my staffer on the phone.

The resolution was that they still would not let Borko park his bike in the parking lot (incredible!!!), but that someone would escort Borko into the bowels of the building, where a bike rack was hidden.

Of course, that was on the entire opposite end of the mall, which was not accessible by wheelchair or scooter so I got to wait for another 15 or 20 minutes while they escorted Borko around the building, into the sub sub basement, up the lift, across the entire mall, and finally back to the handicapped ramp. At this point I had spent nearly an hour trying to get in to the d****d mall. If we had not had to work so hard for it, I would have just gone away!

Is going to be a long time before my desire for Burger King overcomes my distaste for that mall!

In fairness, the rest of the afternoon was wonderful. After we left the mall we headed south to the Rambla, then around the golf course to the north, back to Sarmiento, and then East on the back streets toward home.

Every time I tour through Montevideo, I am struck by the tranquility of the city, and the almost endless succession of picturesque streets. The tree covered avenues, the multitude of green spaces, the mixture of classic and modern buildings, and the almost imperceptible confluence of business and residential spaces makes it a pleasure to wander about.

Every time I get angry, or annoyed, or frustrated with something here, I have only to cast my mind on those arboreal streets and I can’t help but smile…

Driving the scooter along the sidewalk, (or for the Brits and/or Engs out there, along with the pedestrian pavement) is much harder.  To begin with there are pedestrians; if most of whom are substantially less attentive to where they are going than the drivers of vehicles.  Gaggles of people seemed to stumble down the street more involved in sharing their maté and gossiping, than they are watching for any likely obstacles.  Fortunately, my scooter has the modern version of the antique “cow catcher” from steam engine days, which efficiently carves its way through the swarms of hoi polloi.

Then there are the missing bits of sidewalk–most of the time, this just means a slight jolt as the wheels drop a couple of centimeters onto the under pavement: occasionally however these “irregularities” go deeper until they reach the sewers, or even the upper reaches of hell.  Cracks and gaps, some of which are several inches (or 2.54 times more centimeters) also add to the excitement.

The very best part however, are the street corners: except for a few handicapped ramps lightly dusted around the city to give the impression that someone does give a damn, most street corners are a real challenge.

My scooter, built on the chassis of an Israeli Battle Tank (they tried the chassis of a French tank, but it would only go backwards), is designed to climb curbs of 2 or 3 inches (5 to 8 cm).  But here it is stymied by curbstones which are two or three times that height.  The only alternative is to find a convenient driveway which can be used to transition from the sidewalk to the street, and then find a similar driveway on the other side of the street on which to transition from the street back to the sidewalk for the next block.  It only seems complicated when you try to explain it; in practice it is much, much worse.

Sunday, Deb offered to walk with me to the Old Maz meeting.  Accordingly I met her outside her apartment and the “Pocitos endurance trials” began.  The first block was easy, they had us fooled–they actually had a handicapped ramp on both sides of the street corner.  This is going to be a lot easier than I thought!

Then we came to the next corner: damn, double damn!  There was not a handicapped ramp to be seen anywhere.

I suggested to Deb that she cross the street there, while I raced off to the right, up the side street until I found a driveway, checked for traffic, and shot down the driveway into the street at a 45° angle heading for a driveway on the other side that would get me back on to the sidewalk for another block.  Having reached the second sidewalk, I did a sharp left and shot back down the side street to meet Deb, made a right turn at the corner, and continued on with her.

And so it went, street after street, after street, after street, ad nauseum, ad infinitum… In fact, it became so commonplace that I was lulled into a false sense of security, at which point the “pothole demons” pounced.

It was in the very last block before Old Maz–I decided to shift from the right side of the street to the left in order to save going through one extra corner at 21 de Setiembre.

I chose a likely driveway, shot out into the street and pointed my scooter at another driveway which seemed to offer an easy ingress to the sidewalk.  Somehow, the light and shadows fooled me.  Instead of a smooth incline from the street to the sidewalk, my front tire hit one of those holes that leads straight to the seventh level of Hell: bam!  From 6 kph to a dead stop!

I bent the accelerator lever with my body, but my cat-like reflexes (about as good as those found in any stuffed animal) nevertheless kept me from falling.  Either that or it was my size 15 shoes which I routinely use as outriggers…

The final score: Pocitos 1, The Southron 0.

Epilogue: Something in the under carriage was knocked out of whack, and the front tire gradually deflated.  The Southron ended up being ignominiously carted home in Julio’s Peugeot Partner along with the scooter.  Yesterday, we called the motorcycle mechanic, and the damage is not bad: only $100 and three days.

All of which goes to prove that it is safer riding the wrong way down a one-way street than riding on the sidewalk—maybe that’s something like the water draining clockwise instead of counter-clockwise?

I decided to take it for the most challenging test drive possible–no, we did not take it to where the Uruguayan army as field exercises, we took it to a place infinitely more challenging– the mall: Montevideo shopping. So, with low confidence and high skepticism my nephew, Nick, and I set off to test the scooter.  I wasn’t sure we would even make it there because of the steep incline, but the scooter climbed it is nimbly as any mountain goat.  Once inside the mall I managed to get through the main entrance, all the way down the long axis, into the elevator, and down to the bottom floor without killing or maiming anyone.  Then the real challenge began.  We went in to Tienda Inglesa, the big grocery store.  I have seen the sardine cans more loosely packed than that.

I lead with the scooter, and it followed with a shopping cart.  As I found things that I could reach I half handed, half tossed them over my shoulder to Nick.  Things went as well as could be expected–I didn’t destroy anything, or injure anyone.

Until checkout–when the arms on the scooter seat got wedged between the two checkout counters… at which time my cell phone rang and one of my friends from America wanted to chat.  I’m afraid that what ever response I snarled was not exactly Happy Christmas.  We finally got scooter unwedged; and I drove it around the line of checkout counters to meet the groceries on the other side.

Everything after that was anticlimactic.  We made it home without incident.  The scooter was a huge success.

More about the scooter later I have to get ready to church now.

My business partner, the Copperhead, also had plans for that weekend in BA, so he agreed to travel with me there and back, and go off on his own in the interim.

So, first class reservations we made and tickets purchased for pickup at the terminal.

We arrived at the terminal at dusk for the evening ferry. I was actually taken aback by the high quality of the terminal–it was as good as any first class train station or airport. I guess in the back of my mind I was comparing it to ferries in the West Indies which belch diesel fumes and the “terminals” for which are rum shacks along to wharf. I didn’t see a goat or a crate of chickens anywhere.

The staff at Buquebus in Montevideo were marvelous! They had previously been called by my assistant and someone immediately came out to help with the wheelchair and our luggage. We got checked in and they asked if we wanted to go to the first class lounge right away, or wait a bit. We agreed that NOW was a good time, as you seldom get that offer in South America.

The gentleman from Buquebus took us to the head of the immigration line, we passed about 100 people waiting and got those formalities taken care of while we waited on the side.

Immigration is handled very efficiently at both ends. At each terminal there are officials from both Uruguay and Argentina sitting side by side. When you clear immigration from Uruguay the official hands your passport to his Argentine colleague and you then clear immigration into Argentina. Coming back the reverse occurs in BA. You still have to clear customs when you get to your destination port, but experience shows that is usually perfunctory.

We were then taken in the elevator/ascensor/lift to the first class lounge to await boarding. When the time came, I was pre-boarded. Copperhead pushed the wheelchair as our luggage was already checked. The ramp onto the ferry was a bit steep, but manageable. But at the very bottom, instead of flattening out for an easy transition, the ramp was rounded off in a 90 degree arc; so much so that I had to get onto my two canes while Copperhead handled the chair. If I were a paraplegic, it would have been very difficult.

On that particular ferry the main difference between first and economy class seems to be that the first class passengers board first to choose the good seats. we got one right up front where I could park the wheelchair and look out the front window. Unfortunately it was dark so I didn’t see much.

Much to Copperhead’s annoyance, I fell asleep in my wheelchair about 30 seconds after we left the dock. The next thing I knew, we were two hours out. When I woke up, Copperhead looked vexed and said, “you b*****d, I’ve been trying to sleep for two hours and you dozed off imediately”. I replied that I was sorry, shifted in the chair and promptly fell back asleep. The next thing I knew I was in BA.

We waited until the other passengers disembarked before attempting our own landing.

The ferry ramp in BA was the same as in Montevideo, except now I had to get up over the rounded arc at the bottom, which I did, again with two canes and even more difficulty. At least the ramp was more level.

When we got inside the terminal there was no one to help us. In fact it was almost empty. We found an elevator, but when we got to the bottom, the only door was marked “Entry Prohibited – prohibida la entrada”. So we went back upstairs and Copperhead left me at the top of the down escalator while he went for help. A few minutes later he returned with a Buquebus baggage handler in tow. He took us back down the selfsame elevator we had been on previously and then through the “Entry Prohibited” doors. This brought us to customs. As we were literally the very last travelers of the night, they were anxious for us to get the heck out of there so they could go home. I think we could have had rifle barrels sticking out of our luggage and still gotten through without being checked.

Needless to say, Buquebus did not get high marks for helpfulness in BA.

The return trip was similar, but with regard to being handicapped, perhaps a bit worse. No one at Buquebus in BA would help with the wheelchair! After literally 6 requests, one employee agreed to lead us through immigration to the first class lounge, but would NOT lift a single finger to help.

In contradistinction to Montevideo, you have to go through a metal detector in BA – undoubtedly to prevent the ferry from being hijacked to the Falkland Islands…

I had a Swiss Army Knife in my coat pocket, which set off an alarm. I had to check it before I could proceed. In all fairness, the Buquebus employee did agree to take the knife and check it and return with the receipt. I hope he didn’t strain a hernia or something.

Immigration was as previously described. After which we were taken to the first class lounge.

When the time for boarding came, there was no pre-boarding, and the crowd pushed past us. Again no help from Buquebus personnel, and the same terrible ramp again.

This time we were on a much bigger ferry. it had a separate first class section–which was up 4 steps with no ramp. Once again I did the crab walk with two canes for the trip.

I stayed awake on this trip, since it was daylight and there was something to see. Copperhead put his coat over his head and passed out. He must had had a really fun weekend…

I had high hopes that Buquebus in Montevideo would perform as well on our return as they had on our departure.

One more vain hope dashed upon the cruel rocks…

There is no elevator that goes from the disembarkation area to customs! Instead you are taken back out through the embarkation area! We ended up back in the main lobby at least 100 meters from our luggage and customs clearance.

Copperhead left me and went to collect our luggage, which he did without a problem. We took a taxi and left…

In summary: The Trip on the “fast” boat from MVD to BA takes 3 hours in each direction and usually leaves withing a half hour of the scheduled departure time. The trip is comfortable in airline style seats and there is ample food and drinks available for purchase during the trip. The lounges are really nice at both ends. This is a really low tension alternative to flying and takes you from downtown to downtown. However, during the highseason the lines can be very long and if you are not traveling 1st Class you must arrive early and stand in line waiting to board you may be left with a poor seating choice.

But if you are handicapped, and especially if you are wheelchair bound – it could be pretty rough. I am having this translated and sent to the Managers of Buquebus at both ends, the Society of the Handicapped here, local Letters to the Editor, and the President of Uruguay, who is a physician.

We’ll see if anything changes.