So, onto Uruguay. Or as Homer Simpson once called it, You're A Gay.
After a relatively quiet week in Asuncion I was looking forward to moving on. My bus to Montevideo - the last long bus journey of my travels - was scheduled to leave on Saturday morning at 8am and would take 23hrs.
I got a cab to the terminal, almost gagged while using the stinkiest toilet in Paraguay, and then searched for a place that would change my Paraguayan Guaranis into Uruguayan pesos.
It didn't surprise me when I read in my guidebook that the Guarani is not changeable outside Paraguay. It's probably hated by bankers in other countries.
A currency where a pint of milk will cost you thousands, a TV millions. Why don't they just lob off a few noughts and make life easier for us all?
I confidently strolled up to the shady-looking cambio man in his 1970s-era booth and stuffed my last few thousand Guarani across the counter.
As usual, I had forgotten to check the exchange rate for my next destination so had no idea whether he ripped me off or not. Either way, I had a few Uruguayan pesos of mercifully small denominations.
The bus was a semi-cama: reclining seats but not the full bed that I had experienced in Argentina.
The bonus was that there were only 13 passengers for the trip south, so we all had a double seat to ourselves. I turned on my iPod, occasionally snoozed and watched the world go by as we crossed from one side of Paraguay to the other.
At some point during mid afternoon we got to the border with Argentina.
A quick leg stretch and a passport stamp later, and we were crossing over the bridge that forms the border between Paraguay and Argentina:
We travelled down the border between Argentina and Uruguay for the rest of the day, had a pit stop in a freezing cold petrol station somewhere, and reached the border crossing into Uruguay at about 11pm:
I got a slap on the wrist from the customs officer for taking that pic. As you can see, it obviously contains a lot of sensitive information; who knows what could happen if it fell into the wrong hands.
Strange as it may sound, some of my best memories of these past four months in South America have been the bus journeys. Sitting in the same seat for 23 hours may not be the most comfortable way to pass the time, but I've loved watching the world go by while listening to album after album of my favourite music.
You inevitably spend a lot of time with other people as a solo traveller: in dorms, on nights out, doing tours and activities. The time I spend on transport is my chance to zone out, to remember stuff I've been up to, to plan ahead. Me gusta.
My last nightbus journey was kind enough to give me a stunning sunset-and-moon view out my window:
I then managed to catch some sleep before we arrived in the Uruguayan capital at 7am.
I walked into McDonalds at the bus terminal where I found Montevideo's drunken youth stumbling over each other to order bagels, coffee and juice. It was a Sunday morning after what was obviously a heavy Saturday night.
The Arriba Hostel was one I had found online after reading some glowing reviews. It had only been open since the beginning of the year and was housed in a converted old building.
The friendly night guard Fernando gave me a great welcome, I caught an hour's kip in my dorm, and then got up at about 9.30am.
I'd checked the football fixtures a couple of days previously and had seen that there were two games happening in Montevideo that Saturday: one at 10.30am and one at 3.30pm. I was going to try and do both.
First up was Defensor Sporting v Tacuarembo. And no, I'd never heard of them either.
But it turns out that Defensor were champions of the Apertura (the opening half of the season) and were going into this final game of the Clausura (the closing half) in second place. Clearly no mugs then.
They couldn't catch leaders Nacional, but this would be a good warm-up game ahead of the cup final the following week (where the winners of the Apertura and Clausura play each other).
It was only 15 minutes to their ground from my hostel, and the walk gave me my first opportunity to see Montevideo. It appeared to be a relatively wealthy place with some decent restaurants, clean streets and people busily getting on with their weekends.
A Canadian girl I'd met in Asuncion described Montevideo as a 'strange' place where odd things happened to her, and to other people she had met. One incident, down by the sea wall, involved her being flashed at and followed by a weird man.
Luckily I avoided flashers, or any other strangeness for that matter, but I was only there for about 30 hours.
Defensor's stadium is situated on the banks of the Rio Plata which meant I spent a couple of hours being wind-whipped by the cool winter breeze coming across the water.
But apart from the temperature, the morning was a success. The colours of the club, purple and white, reminded me of Fiorentina and the few fans that had given up their Sunday morning for the cause were clearly proud of how their club was competing with Uruguay's big two (Peñarol and Nacional).
It was another game with a small attendance - maybe a thousand people - so I spent the game moving to different places on the terracing. Mainly to keep warm.
First, next to the cameraman:
And then behind the goal where Defensor's small band of singers congregated:
Here's a shot of the main stand, if you can call it that:
What surprised me was the quality of the football. Uruguay is the eighth country I've visited in South America and I've seen at least one game in each country. The skill of the Defensor players, and the way they passed the ball around, was probably the best I've seen out here.
In the first 20 minutes we were treated to move after move of great one-touch passing. They came so close to scoring several times but couldn't find a way past the obdurate visiting keeper.
Then, after about 25 minutes, they scored.
The rest of the game was more of the same. One-way traffic as Tacuarembo's weary defenders threw themselves in the way of the purple Defensor onslaught.
Unfortunately we weren't treated to any more goals. It was a 1-0 that should have been a 10-0.
After watching how they played football, met a couple of their friendly fans and saw a record of their modest-but-impressive trophy haul, I decided that I would keep an eye out for Defensor Sporting's results in the future.
On the way back to the hostel I popped into the supermarket to buy some provisions. Nothing had a price on so I didn't go crazy: a pack of spaghetti, a jar of pesto and some water.
The price? Eight pounds.
I looked at my receipt as I walked out and saw that a jar of pesto in Uruguay apparently costs five pounds. I might start growing my own basil and set up a pesto business in downtown Montevideo.
I had then had a refuelling stop back at the hostel, heaping spoonfuls of the pesto into my mountains of spaghetti (well, if I paid that much for it I was going to be a greedy bastard and get my money's worth).
Before long it was time to leave for the next game: Peñarol v Racing Club.
I thought I'd left for the game in plenty of time. Peñarol own a ground in the north of the city, but play the vast majority of their games in the Centenario Stadium - the ground that hosted the 1930 World Cup final.
After what seemed like an age I eventually managed to hail a cab and got him to take me to the Centenario. There were less than 10 minutes til kick-off and as we rounded the bend on the approach to the stadium something wasn't right. There were no fans there.
I asked the driver if there was a Peñarol game happening here today. No, he said, it's at the other ground. Shite.
Sensing my urgency to get to the match, he put his foot down as we tore through the Montevideo suburbs towards Peñarol's stadium. We made it eventually and I ran to the box office, paid about a fiver for a ticket in the stand behind the goal and got in.
Peñarol, the Manchester United of Uruguayan football, have an awesome reputation - on and off the field. A couple of years ago FIFA comissioned an independent group of statisticians to judge who were the most successful South American clubs of all time. Peñarol came top.
Their fans are notorious for being a bit feisty, so I tried to remain under the radar during my time at the match. I had landed in the end where their 'lads' stood, and saw several guys that looked fairly brutal. Facial scarring, built like sheds, etc.
For that reason I was a bit tentative about getting my camera out, but managed a few quick snaps:
The stadium itself was a bit of a dump. No floodlights, scummy toilets and poor views of the pitch.
Peñarol had rested a few players ahead of the following week's Copa Libertadores final and their play lacked any spark. Racing, another club from Montevideo, were more sprightly and had the better of the chances on a bobbly pitch.
With the game petering out to a 0-0 stalemate Racing - attacking our end - scored a late winner.
Their fans up the other end of the ground went bezerk, letting off green-coloured flares and jumping around on the terrace. Getting a result over Peñarol, particularly away from home, is a big deal in Uruguay.
That game at Peñarol was my fifth game in five days; five days that also included a 23hr bus journey. I love the way football fixtures work out sometimes.
After the game I got a cab back to the hostel and had a quiet night in. It didn't seem that much happens in Montevideo on a Sunday night.
The following morning I decided to check out and get myself across the Rio Plata to Buenos Aires. I'd consistently heard great things about BA from many of the travellers I had met and Montevideo wasn't really grabbing me.
On the walk to the ferry I saw some of the imposing squares and buildings that form the heart of the city:
And then it was onto the catameran for the three hour journey to Argentina. The boat was pretty swish: comfy leather seats, good food and wifi.
As we left gloomy Montevideo we passed several cargo ships coming into the docks:
The rain during the crossing was the first bit of rain I can remember since Ecuador. I might be wrong on that, but I've experienced great weather all the way down South America. I suppose it was time the weather gods dealt me a bad hand.
After a decent journey the skyscrapered skyline of Argentina's capital came into view:
I had a week ahead of me in one of the world's biggest party cities. Just what the doctor ordered.
After a relatively quiet week in Asuncion I was looking forward to moving on. My bus to Montevideo - the last long bus journey of my travels - was scheduled to leave on Saturday morning at 8am and would take 23hrs.
I got a cab to the terminal, almost gagged while using the stinkiest toilet in Paraguay, and then searched for a place that would change my Paraguayan Guaranis into Uruguayan pesos.
It didn't surprise me when I read in my guidebook that the Guarani is not changeable outside Paraguay. It's probably hated by bankers in other countries.
A currency where a pint of milk will cost you thousands, a TV millions. Why don't they just lob off a few noughts and make life easier for us all?
I confidently strolled up to the shady-looking cambio man in his 1970s-era booth and stuffed my last few thousand Guarani across the counter.
As usual, I had forgotten to check the exchange rate for my next destination so had no idea whether he ripped me off or not. Either way, I had a few Uruguayan pesos of mercifully small denominations.
The bus was a semi-cama: reclining seats but not the full bed that I had experienced in Argentina.
The bonus was that there were only 13 passengers for the trip south, so we all had a double seat to ourselves. I turned on my iPod, occasionally snoozed and watched the world go by as we crossed from one side of Paraguay to the other.
At some point during mid afternoon we got to the border with Argentina.
A quick leg stretch and a passport stamp later, and we were crossing over the bridge that forms the border between Paraguay and Argentina:
We travelled down the border between Argentina and Uruguay for the rest of the day, had a pit stop in a freezing cold petrol station somewhere, and reached the border crossing into Uruguay at about 11pm:
I got a slap on the wrist from the customs officer for taking that pic. As you can see, it obviously contains a lot of sensitive information; who knows what could happen if it fell into the wrong hands.
Strange as it may sound, some of my best memories of these past four months in South America have been the bus journeys. Sitting in the same seat for 23 hours may not be the most comfortable way to pass the time, but I've loved watching the world go by while listening to album after album of my favourite music.
You inevitably spend a lot of time with other people as a solo traveller: in dorms, on nights out, doing tours and activities. The time I spend on transport is my chance to zone out, to remember stuff I've been up to, to plan ahead. Me gusta.
My last nightbus journey was kind enough to give me a stunning sunset-and-moon view out my window:
I then managed to catch some sleep before we arrived in the Uruguayan capital at 7am.
I walked into McDonalds at the bus terminal where I found Montevideo's drunken youth stumbling over each other to order bagels, coffee and juice. It was a Sunday morning after what was obviously a heavy Saturday night.
The Arriba Hostel was one I had found online after reading some glowing reviews. It had only been open since the beginning of the year and was housed in a converted old building.
The friendly night guard Fernando gave me a great welcome, I caught an hour's kip in my dorm, and then got up at about 9.30am.
I'd checked the football fixtures a couple of days previously and had seen that there were two games happening in Montevideo that Saturday: one at 10.30am and one at 3.30pm. I was going to try and do both.
First up was Defensor Sporting v Tacuarembo. And no, I'd never heard of them either.
But it turns out that Defensor were champions of the Apertura (the opening half of the season) and were going into this final game of the Clausura (the closing half) in second place. Clearly no mugs then.
They couldn't catch leaders Nacional, but this would be a good warm-up game ahead of the cup final the following week (where the winners of the Apertura and Clausura play each other).
It was only 15 minutes to their ground from my hostel, and the walk gave me my first opportunity to see Montevideo. It appeared to be a relatively wealthy place with some decent restaurants, clean streets and people busily getting on with their weekends.
A Canadian girl I'd met in Asuncion described Montevideo as a 'strange' place where odd things happened to her, and to other people she had met. One incident, down by the sea wall, involved her being flashed at and followed by a weird man.
Luckily I avoided flashers, or any other strangeness for that matter, but I was only there for about 30 hours.
Defensor's stadium is situated on the banks of the Rio Plata which meant I spent a couple of hours being wind-whipped by the cool winter breeze coming across the water.
But apart from the temperature, the morning was a success. The colours of the club, purple and white, reminded me of Fiorentina and the few fans that had given up their Sunday morning for the cause were clearly proud of how their club was competing with Uruguay's big two (Peñarol and Nacional).
It was another game with a small attendance - maybe a thousand people - so I spent the game moving to different places on the terracing. Mainly to keep warm.
First, next to the cameraman:
And then behind the goal where Defensor's small band of singers congregated:
Here's a shot of the main stand, if you can call it that:
What surprised me was the quality of the football. Uruguay is the eighth country I've visited in South America and I've seen at least one game in each country. The skill of the Defensor players, and the way they passed the ball around, was probably the best I've seen out here.
In the first 20 minutes we were treated to move after move of great one-touch passing. They came so close to scoring several times but couldn't find a way past the obdurate visiting keeper.
Then, after about 25 minutes, they scored.
The rest of the game was more of the same. One-way traffic as Tacuarembo's weary defenders threw themselves in the way of the purple Defensor onslaught.
Unfortunately we weren't treated to any more goals. It was a 1-0 that should have been a 10-0.
After watching how they played football, met a couple of their friendly fans and saw a record of their modest-but-impressive trophy haul, I decided that I would keep an eye out for Defensor Sporting's results in the future.
On the way back to the hostel I popped into the supermarket to buy some provisions. Nothing had a price on so I didn't go crazy: a pack of spaghetti, a jar of pesto and some water.
The price? Eight pounds.
I looked at my receipt as I walked out and saw that a jar of pesto in Uruguay apparently costs five pounds. I might start growing my own basil and set up a pesto business in downtown Montevideo.
I had then had a refuelling stop back at the hostel, heaping spoonfuls of the pesto into my mountains of spaghetti (well, if I paid that much for it I was going to be a greedy bastard and get my money's worth).
Before long it was time to leave for the next game: Peñarol v Racing Club.
I thought I'd left for the game in plenty of time. Peñarol own a ground in the north of the city, but play the vast majority of their games in the Centenario Stadium - the ground that hosted the 1930 World Cup final.
After what seemed like an age I eventually managed to hail a cab and got him to take me to the Centenario. There were less than 10 minutes til kick-off and as we rounded the bend on the approach to the stadium something wasn't right. There were no fans there.
I asked the driver if there was a Peñarol game happening here today. No, he said, it's at the other ground. Shite.
Sensing my urgency to get to the match, he put his foot down as we tore through the Montevideo suburbs towards Peñarol's stadium. We made it eventually and I ran to the box office, paid about a fiver for a ticket in the stand behind the goal and got in.
Peñarol, the Manchester United of Uruguayan football, have an awesome reputation - on and off the field. A couple of years ago FIFA comissioned an independent group of statisticians to judge who were the most successful South American clubs of all time. Peñarol came top.
Their fans are notorious for being a bit feisty, so I tried to remain under the radar during my time at the match. I had landed in the end where their 'lads' stood, and saw several guys that looked fairly brutal. Facial scarring, built like sheds, etc.
For that reason I was a bit tentative about getting my camera out, but managed a few quick snaps:
The stadium itself was a bit of a dump. No floodlights, scummy toilets and poor views of the pitch.
Peñarol had rested a few players ahead of the following week's Copa Libertadores final and their play lacked any spark. Racing, another club from Montevideo, were more sprightly and had the better of the chances on a bobbly pitch.
With the game petering out to a 0-0 stalemate Racing - attacking our end - scored a late winner.
Their fans up the other end of the ground went bezerk, letting off green-coloured flares and jumping around on the terrace. Getting a result over Peñarol, particularly away from home, is a big deal in Uruguay.
That game at Peñarol was my fifth game in five days; five days that also included a 23hr bus journey. I love the way football fixtures work out sometimes.
After the game I got a cab back to the hostel and had a quiet night in. It didn't seem that much happens in Montevideo on a Sunday night.
The following morning I decided to check out and get myself across the Rio Plata to Buenos Aires. I'd consistently heard great things about BA from many of the travellers I had met and Montevideo wasn't really grabbing me.
On the walk to the ferry I saw some of the imposing squares and buildings that form the heart of the city:
And then it was onto the catameran for the three hour journey to Argentina. The boat was pretty swish: comfy leather seats, good food and wifi.
As we left gloomy Montevideo we passed several cargo ships coming into the docks:
The rain during the crossing was the first bit of rain I can remember since Ecuador. I might be wrong on that, but I've experienced great weather all the way down South America. I suppose it was time the weather gods dealt me a bad hand.
After a decent journey the skyscrapered skyline of Argentina's capital came into view:
I had a week ahead of me in one of the world's biggest party cities. Just what the doctor ordered.