Uruguay: Colonia & Rosario

To my knowledge there are seven football clubs called Everton in the world: the one in Liverpool, one in Chile (that I visited back in May), one in Uruguay and four in Argentina.

During my final week in South America I wanted to visit a couple more.

After a week in Buenos Aires the trip back over the Rio Plata to Uruguay probably came at the right time. BA is a city that sucks you in, particularly with its amazing nightlife, and my liver had begun to take a bit of a battering. Detox time in sleepy Uruguay, then.

I went back the way I'd arrived, by catamaran. A short three-hour trip across the straits and I was in Colonia del Sacremento, one of Uruguay's top tourist towns.

I hadn't booked any accommodation so took a ten-minute walk from the dock to the town. The walk took me through quiet streets lined with golden-leaved trees:

There seemed to be no-one about. The only thing missing from the scene was a tumbleweed silently blowing across my path.

It's autumn/winter in Uruguay at the moment and there was a nip in the air. People were sweeping away bundles of leaves from the front of their doors, scarves wrapped around their necks to keep out the cold. It felt like a provincial English town in November.

But there was little English about Colonia's small historical centre. After I checked into a spookily quiet hostel, where the woman on reception seemed completely shocked to have a guest standing in front of her, I took a short walk into town.

I believe Colonia is Uruguay's oldest settlement, and you could see that in the unevened cobbled streets that wound their way through the attractive centro historico:

Most of the small shops and restaurants were closed, due to siesta or the fact that there were about three tourists currently in Colonia. It felt like I had the town to myself.

So with nothing to do, no-one about and nothing open I took the only option and walked around the place. For hours.

I took pictures of some classic cars, like this:

And this one, sat outside an aquarium and driven by some fish:

Colonia is situated on the river, so I went down to the small harbour:

Again, I was the only person there - it was like I'd stepped into the Uruguayan Twin Peaks.

With nobody about to take my picture, and wanting a record of my visit to Colonia, I took a snap of myself squinting into the sun:

So I killed time by wandering aimlessly and waited for a restaurant to open. I had walked past four or five places that were closed, and didn't look like they'd be opening anytime soon.

Worried that I was going to go to bed hungry in this strange ghost town, I walked into a shop (that sold camping equipment, to nobody) and asked if there was a restuarant open anywhere.

The woman, again surprised to be confronted by another human being, took a second to compose herself before giving me directions to a place a few blocks away. I walked there and found a social club; old men were playing chess and drinking thimble-fulls of dark spirits.

However, there was a food menu and a couple of locals were actually eating food. Result.

I sat down, ordered a variety of things that had no connection to each other (spring rolls, tuna salad, lasagne) and stuffed myself. It seemed that in Uruguay you should eat, and fill yourself, when you get the chance.

In the morning I had a spring in my step as I checked out and walked to the bus station near the dock. I was off to a place called Rosario, an hour inland, to visit one of the seven Evertons.

The bus journey took about an hour, including a random change of bus on the side of the dual carriageway, and I was soon being dropped off in Rosario's main square.

I had again arrived in a place without accommodation but, unlike tourist-friendly Colonia, Rosario was very much a regular Uruguyuan town that didn't seem to experience many visitors - except curious English Evertonians like me.

So I wandered up and down the streets of the town looking for somewhere to stay. I had been walking for almost an hour, without sight of a posada or a hotel, when I walked into a restaurant and asked a woman if there were any hotels in Rosario.

She pointed down the street, to the one area I had not yet covered, and told me that there was a hotel there. I walked down and was soon checked into the Hotel Rosario, a nondescript motel-like place with dark corridors and a roaring fire in the hallway.

I had already made contact with the vice-president of Club Atletico Everton via John Shearon. If you've already read my post about my visit to the Chilean Everton you'll know that a group of Everton fans came over to visit the the South American Evertons in 2009.

John was one of those fans, and he also set up The Ruleteros Society in 2002 as a way to tie together the various Evertons around the world. 

I phoned Jorge, the vice-president, and arranged to be picked up later at the hotel. I therefore had a few hours to spare and spent the time having a great lunch and then taking in some of the street murals that are a trademark of Rosario:

Soon it was evening, and the friendly face of Jorge met me at my hotel. Luckily he could speak English as my Spanish is still at a basic level. We got in his car and drove off towards the edge of town.

Club Atletico Everton (or CAE as I will call them from now on) had played a match just two days before my visit, a match I had planned to go to before I heard about the Boca Juniors match happening in BA.

It was a tough decision to make: CAE or Boca, but watching a Boca game had always been something I just had to do. In the event, CAE had played out a 0-0 draw in their second game of the season.

CAE are very much an amateur club and play in a six-team league with other teams from Rosario. Jorge proudly told me that CAE have more matchgoing fans than any of the other clubs, and are renowned for their battling qualities on the pitch.

First up, he drove me to a small training pitch where several of the players and a couple of coaches were just starting their evening training session. Despite being an amateur side, with players holding down regular jobs, the skill and fitness of the players was impressive.

I enjoyed leathering the ball at the keeper a couple of times, luckily not embarrassing myself, and the coach even joked that I should stick around and play for the team at the weekend.

I think the players were probably wondering what this foreign body was doing watching them training, but they were in good spirits and were happy to pose for a pic:

Afterwards Jorge and I drove to the other end of the small town to visit the headquarters of CAE. Even though I wasn't going to see a match, and the club does not own its own stadium, I knew that they owned a proper (social) club all of their own - and visiting it was the reason for my return visit to Uruguay.

There are sporting clubs all over South America like CAE, places where members of the community congregate, play sport, organise events and have a beer. However, I doubt any give a friendlier welcome than the one given to me in Rosario.

As soon as we walked through the door, Jorge was introducing me to the guys settled around the bar, explaining the reason for my visit. Everyone I met seemed genuinely interested in why I had travelled there, asking me questions (via Jorge The Interpreter) and telling me about the history of their club.

The reason I had come on a Tuesday was because that was the night when the committee who run CAE hold their weekly meeting. I was taken past the recreation pitch out the back of the bar, which the club have fought hard to win a improvement grant for, and upstairs to the small office where the meetings take place.

In the room were the various members of the committee, many of them ex-players of the club - like Jorge, who had played for CAE for over twenty years until age caught up with him. The guys gave me the current season's shirt to try on, which I wore before getting a photo of myself and Jorge:

I was then surprised to receive a CAE pennant from the committee as a gift to mark my visit. This is me with the most recent two club presidents:

I was chuffed with how they had welcomed me into their club - great guys all working their hardest (for no pay) in order to keep CAE going. I got a final snap upstairs with the whole committee...

...before heading downstairs to enjoy a drink with some more of the locals.

CAE has a proud history and I took my time walking round the clubhouse looking at old photos, plaques and an impressive trophy cabinet. Here are just some of them:

 

I love that massive trophy. It makes the European Cup look like a pint pot.

After the committee had finished the meeting upstairs, they came down to the bar where we shared another beer before sitting down to eat. With jokes flying (mainly banter between those who support Penarol and those who support Olimpia), we were given plate after plate of sausages, steak, cheese and more.

I was introduced to various people, including some players who held semi-legendary status in these parts - and who were still heavily involved in the club.

This is me and a guy who had the nickname of 'flea' during his player career - a name given to him because of his ability to irritate defenders, and his diminutive size:

The previous visit by John and the other Evertonians clearly made a big impression as all the guys in the bar enjoyed recounting stories from that visit - mainly involving nightclub shenanigans and Evertonians walking around wintery Rosario in T-shirts.

The final act of kindness on a night to remember was when the current coach presented me with a green-and-yellow CAE ship in a bottle, and a selection of stickers from the club.

The welcome that I received at CAE was something else. John had described them as 'good lads', and that's what they were. A great bunch of people working hard to keep the famous name of Everton alive and kicking in Uruguay.

Uruguay: Montevideo

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.