Writing Articles

‘We are NOT going back for your mobile,’ my husband says. It’s mid-morning, and we’re fifty miles north of Montevideo on the Ruta 5, half way to Durazno.

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The outside temperature is 90. Fortunately, I find the phone in the jumble of rubbish under the seat. This is the first time in my year-long writing career that I’m doing serious research. I have a lot to learn. Lesson 1: Be organised.

I’ve been shortlisted as a Lonely Planet guidebook writer. The news comes in November. I am to select a town, not too big, not too small – one that inspires me - for my assessment task. I can choose any time in the next two months to receive the brief, after which I will have three weeks to complete the task.

My first choice is Cabo Polonio, the shabby bohemian seal colony three hours east of Montevideo – one of my favourite places in the world with its iodine-soaked wind, distinctive smell, burrowing owls, and pure energy.

On 2 January, my brief arrives. My heart sinks. Among other things, I have to review three hotels, three restaurants, and a drinking venue. Worse, I have to provide a ‘good quality, clear map’ showing places such as the bank, the post office, the internet café, and the hospital. The map must mark the freeway, main roads, and secondary roads. Cabo Polonio is too transient. There are no roads, no permanent buildings, and a wooden cabin letting rooms today may not be here tomorrow. Lesson 2: Be flexible.

I need a change of plan. How about Durazno? It’s a pretty town of 30,000 inhabitants, two hours’ drive north of Montevideo, plum in the centre of Uruguay. I’m sure to find everything I need, including a map. Most importantly, Durazno features in no English-speaking guide I know of. Whatever I come up with will be original. What’s more, I’ve met Maria, the mayor’s wife.

I have another good reason to visit: I want to see the Cross. I have been to Durazno three times, and I’ve never managed to see it. The twelve-foot crucifix caused some controversy a few years ago and was taken down from behind the altar in the main church. Some say it disappeared; others say it’s locked in the sacristy – I must find out. Lesson 3: Be ambitious.

I have trouble finding accommodation. The local eco-tourism guide is inaccurate, and the Internet gives me no joy. Although it’s the tourist season, this doesn’t apply inland: many ranch owners have gone to the coast. Lesson 4: Consider the season.

I text Maria. Within minutes I have a hotel booking. Lesson 5: Use your contacts.

As we approach Durazno, my mobile rings. ‘This is Juan. I’m the Director of Tourism at the Town Council, and the mayor has asked me to be at your disposal for the entire duration of your stay. Could you join me for lunch at the ‘Pan y Vino?’

And the ‘Pan y Vino’ is where two days of intensive ‘hands on’ research starts. With my camera, paper, pencil, and brief, Juan and I explore every corner of Durazno and its surroundings. Juan’s plan differs from mine: he wants to show me clean, plane-lined streets, top restaurants, spotless beaches, new houses built for flood victims. He is conservative, and a Catholic. Fine, but I want the whole picture.

‘Juan, I’d like to see the Cross,’ I say.
Two years ago a parish priest, considering the sculpture to be sacrilegious, removed it. Some people deny its existence.
‘The Cross? Why do you want to see that? It’s sacrilegious.’

I insist, and soon a lady in the church museum is opening a door with a huge key. We squeeze into the tiny room, which is completely engulfed by the massive sculpture. I crane my neck to see the face. The Christ figure has indigenous features. His arms are held firmly by his sides rather than nailed to the cross-bar, in glorious defiance. A resurrected, rather than a suffering Christ. Breathtaking. Lesson 6: Trust your instincts.

We have dinner at the campsite. Juan is uncomfortable when I go to inspect the toilets. I decide that despite his expertise, I would like to spend time exploring on my own – no side, no prejudices. I tell him as diplomatically as possible that I will meet him at 5 the following afternoon.

By the time I get back to the hotel, my exercise book is full of scribbles, and my scruffy backpack full of visiting cards, bills and flyers. I have nowhere to transfer all my information to. I find a large envelope and stuff everything into it, except for the exercise book. I go through my notes, numbering, arrowing, labelling. Lesson 7 (the most important): invest in a laptop, keep in your hotel room, and transfer all your information onto it as soon as possible, especially if your organisational skills are as bad as mine.

Next day is busy. At breakfast the receptionist approaches me: ‘Are you the Irish lady writing the book about Durazno?’ My husband urges me on with a stare. ‘Yes,’ I lie, confidently. ‘Would you mind doing a spot for local television?’ Kick under the table. ‘I’d be delighted,’ I lie.

I go to the tourist office and pretend I’m looking for accommodation. The tourist office cleaning lady happily takes me to see the less salubrious corners of Durazno. She doesn’t ask why I want Town Council maps, but we get them. Lesson 8: Travel incognito, at least for part of the time.

At 3, I have my television interview. A lady comes to the hotel with a movie camera and asks me four questions. I feel I’ve fluffed it with my disastrous Spanish, so I ask her to do it again. Worse second time round.

I meet Juan at 5, and we work with my itinerary, rather than his. ‘Hey, how come you know about this hostel? How come you know about this craft shop?’ he asks. He is decidedly uncomfortable, and I am happy. Lesson 9: Show who’s the boss.

We have dinner at a pizzeria (his choice – fortunately there’s no TV so I don’t have to see myself on the 9 o’clock news), and the restaurant owner, Marina, doesn’t allow me to pay. This bothers me, but I can’t refuse. Juan and I exchange business cards and part.

Next morning I go to pay my hotel bill. ‘Oh, there’s nothing to pay,’ the receptionist tells me. ‘It’s on the Town Council’s tab’. I am annoyed; I don’t want to be indebted to anyone. But there’s no point complaining. They wouldn’t understand. I tell myself it’s cultural, and they’re just being kind and welcoming – they don’t necessarily have a hidden agenda. Lesson 10. Turn the page. Move on.

I go down to the river for a row. No-one is up yet, and the only sound is the lap of my oars. I pull the boat up onto a deserted beach, and swim, surrounded by swooping swallows. A kingfisher flies by.

Yes, this is the heart of Uruguay. It deserves to find its way into an English guide. And I’m going to help put it there.