Uruguay travel | Travel Thru History

Pablo Neruda’s Romantic Hideaway

Atlantida, Uruguay

by Lisa Marie Mercer

Were he alive today, exiled Chilean rebel poet Pablo Neruda would have appreciated Uruguayan President Jose Mujica. This folksy leader, a rebel from the same era as Neruda, would have welcomed the poet with open arms, and Neruda would surely return the embrace. Uruguay holds a special place in Pablo Neruda’s heart. It was here that he lived with his mistress, Matilde Urrutia.

Serendipity transported me to Pablo and Matilde’s romantic hideaway in Atlantida, Uruguay. In May of 2011, my husband and I decided that we were ready of the next chapter in our life’s adventure– we would move to Uruguay. There was one small problem: I did not speak a word of Spanish, and most Uruguayans do not speak English. A google search delivered me to Spanish Uruguay, an organization that teaches Spanish and arranges temporary housing for students.

Spanish Uruguay has two locations– one in Montevideo and one in Atlantida. Since I was no longer interested in the nonstop action that characterizes the city life, I chose the enchanting coastal town of Atlantida. Pablo, the son of the lead professor, sent me photos of two living locations. One was a high rise near the beach, the other was a small, enchanting apartment complex called Isla Negra.

Instinct told me that the latter was exactly what I was looking for. I searched google in order to learn more about the complex, but my research took a detour and brought me all the way to Chile. Author Ruth Kozak, in her article titled Visiting Pablo Neruda’s Houses, describes Isla Negra as “a house that resembles a ship.” Fascinated, I read the article, but still wondered if there was any connection between my Isla Negra and the Isla Negra in Chile. My search brought me to a house along the Rambla in Atlantida.

The Poet and Politician

Isla Negra was one of the many one of the many houses belonging to Pablo Neruda, a romantic poet who writer Gabriel García Márquez referred to as “the greatest 20th century poet in any language.” His passion for politics equaled his capacity for love.

In 1945, the people of Chile elected Pablo Neruda, a communist, to the Senate. His tenure did not last long. Neruda was a friend of 1946 Radical Party presidential candidate Gabriel González Videla, who asked him to act as his campaign manager. Little did Neruda realize that that his friend was setting him up for betrayal. After winning the election, Videla outlawed communism. When Videla sent striking miners to military prisons and concentration camps, Neruda criticized his former friend in a senate speech titled “I Accuse.”

The poet’s outspoken nature brought about an order for his arrest. Neruda’s loyal supporters smuggled him and his wife, the artist Delia Del Carril, from home to home. The couple traveled around South America and Europe for the next three years. It was the trip to Mexico in 1949 that would change Neruda’s life forever.

A disabling bout of phlebitis kept Neruda in Mexico for longer than he intended to stay. His friends hired a Chilean singer named Matilda Urrutia to care for him. The nurse-patient relationship blossomed into a lasting romance. During Neruda’s exile, he traveled from country to country, while his beloved Matilde shadowed him. The lovers arranged a clandestine meeting wherever and whenever possible.

By 1952 corruption had triggered the fall of the Videla government, and the Chilean Socialist Party was nominating Salvador Allende for president. Neruda returned to Chili to live with Delia, but he constantly found ways to rendezvous with Matilde.

Matilde’s Story

In her book titled My Life with Pablo Neruda, Matilde describes how she and Pablo developed a thirst to be together all the time. They decided to take a vacation in Atlantida, where their Uruguayan friend, Alberto Mántaras, lent them his vacation home. The house, which still sits across from the beach in a fragrant forest of pines, became their secret romantic hideaway.

The lovers quickly fell into a domestic routine. During the daytime, they swam in the warm and marvelous water. Pablo was convinced that he might forget how to swim, so he begged Matilde to float by his side. In the evening, Pablo would set the dinner table and embellish it with items he found along the beach. While Matilde cooked dinner, he acted as bartender and prepared aperitifs for both of them.

The couple collected flowers and pressed them into a scrapbook filled with Neruda’s poetry. They gave it to Mántaras in gratitude for letting them stay at his house, and named the book Ode to the Flowers of Datitla. Datitla was the code name for Atlantida, which Neruda used in all of his poems, because nobody was supposed to know where he was.

Of course, secret romantic affairs rarely stay that way. Rumors of Neruda’s mysterious mistress filled the streets of Santiago. It was a few bottles of wine that let the proverbial cat out of the bag. Neruda returned to his home in Chile, to discover that some of his bottles of wine were missing. His gardener was the only one who knew their location, and since he could not explain why they were missing, Neruda fired him.

The gardener was a good friend of Neruda’s driver, Manuel Araya, who was the only person who knew about Pablo’s dalliances. In her book, Matilde states her suspicion that the driver gave the gardener some ammunition by telling him about Pablo’s mistress, which if course, got back to Delia. Pablo and Delia divorced, and Matilde and Pablo eventually became husband and wife.

Pablo Neruda died on September 23, 1973, 12 days after the September 11 fascist coup. While he allegedly died of pancreatic cancer, but in June of 2011, Chilean Judge Mario Carroza ordered an investigation into the possibility that Neruda was murdered for his leftist beliefs, and his criticism about the coup.

We might never learn the truth, but a house along the Atlantida beach serves as living proof that despite hardship and conflict, the Nobel Prize winning poet and his lover had a romance that even the most cynical person would envy.

After reading everything I could about the romantic history of Pablo and Neruda, I longed to visit his Atlantida home. Much to my dismay, the house, which was once a museum, is now a private home, but even its exterior whispers of a dramatically romantic past. Look carefully, and you can travel back in time and imagine Pablo and Matilde drinking aperitifs on the terrace, or making love behind the lace curtains.

If You Go:

Visitors to Uruguay fly into Carrasco Airport in Motevideo. At the time of publication, a visa is not required for entry. Atlantida is about a 30 to 40 minute drive from the airport. The address of the Pablo Neruda house is: Calle 10 Rambla Playa Mansa, Atlantida Uruguay. The last time I walked by, there was an alquiler turista sign on the window of the second floor, which means tourist rental. It might be the perfect place for a romantic getaway!

A few small hotels line the streets along the Rambla, all located within a few blocks of the Pablo Neruda Home. These include:
Hotel Saint Moritz
Cabanas Paradise
Tupungato Hotel

About the author:
Lisa Marie Mercer is the author of Breckenridge: A Guide to the Sights and Slopes of Summit County. After traveling all throughout the world, she and her husband decided to explore the expat life in Atlantida Uruguay.

All photographs are by Lisa Marie Mercer.

Casapueblo in Punta Ballena, Uruguay

Home of Carlos Paez Vilaró

by Paola Hanna Fornari

Today we’re going to buy a painting by a well-known Uruguayan artist. The low autumn sun is bright, and the coast road is virtually deserted. Our destination is Punta Ballena – Whale Point – seventy-five miles east of Montevideo, the Uruguayan capital where we live.

Carlos Paez Vilaró, the artist, spent thirty years developing his unique home/hotel/museum/studio from a shack, into Casapueblo, the massive, rambling, white-domed creation it is today. As in his paintings, there are no straight lines in this unique cliff-hugging structure. Over the years, he added segments, stretching it along the hillside, up towards the sky, and down towards the sea. He compares it to an oven-bird’s nest. ‘I apologize to architecture for being as free as an oven-bird,’ he says.

We start our visit with an introductory video, narrated by the artist’s deep, raspy voice. We travel around the world with him to Africa, Polynesia and Europe. We see his huge murals brightening up airports in every continent. We see him with Dali, Picasso, Emperor Haile Selassie, and Brigitte Bardot. But his greatest hero is Albert Schweitzer, whose leprosarium in Gabon he visited.

We see him in 1972, when his son went missing in the Andes plane crash along with a team of rugby companions and friends. For three months Carlos Paez Vilaró kept hoping, and parked himself in Chile, helping with the search long after many had given up. When news came that survivors had been found, he was handed the list to read live on Uruguayan radio, before he knew if his son was among them. He blocked out the names with a sheet of paper, sliding it down, row by row, revealing one name at a time. His son’s was fifth, and as he read, he realized another list was forming in the minds of families and friends, of those the mountains had not spared.

After viewing the video, we wander through the museum looking at his paintings which show the influence of Picasso, Dali, his travels, African rhythms, and Uruguayan constructivism. We eventually choose a small one, painted in 2003, depicting some of his classic themes – on the left a bare-breasted woman sitting at a table, on the right, a higgledy-piggledy mass of houses, and in the background, a huge ship. The black outlines are bold, and the hues are pink and red, touched with greenish blue, like a Uruguayan sunset.

‘Would you like to meet the artist?’ the saleswoman asks.

She leads us through a honeycomb of stairs and corridors to his studio, filled with old books and antique African carvings.

Eighty-six-year-old Carlos Paez Vilaro is like his paintings: striking. He tells us about Africa. ‘I fell madly in love in Cameroon,’ he says with a smile. ‘Don’t tell my wife.’ He continues. ‘Once I filmed an artist painting a nude woman, her hair blowing in the wind, against the backdrop of Kilimanjaro. The film was shown in Cannes.’

‘Why have you started using such bold colours?’ I ask. ‘Your earlier paintings are more restrained.’

‘I had heart surgery earlier this year. I was close to death. An artist doesn’t choose what to paint – it just happens. These colours must be my last desperate search for the vibrancy of youth. I love life. But it’s my sunset now. Every day, here at Casapueblo, we have a ceremony: we watch the sun going down over the water, and observe a few moments’ silence.’

We thanked him for the tour and went away with one of his remarkable paintings. It was an honour and a privilege to meet Carlos Paez Vilaro. And whenever I look at the subdued sunset colours of his painting I think of the artist, and all that we learned from him that day.

Casapueblo Museum Admission in Punta del Este

Watch a video tour of the Casapueblo museum:

If You Go:

Casapueblo is located about one hour’s drive east of Montevideo, Uruguay by car or bus, and just a ten minute ride west of the well-known resort of Punta del Este.

For more information about Carlos Paez Vilaró as an artist, his life, his work, and Casapueblo, see his Wikipedia page.

About the author:
Paola Fornari was born on an island in Lake Victoria. She has lived in a dozen countries over three continents, and speaks five and a half languages. Wherever she goes, she gets involved in local activities, explores, and makes each place home. She recently moved from Uruguay to Belgium.

Photo credits:
Carlos Paez Vilaró photo and works by Carlos Paez Vilaró by: Wagner T. Cassimiro “Aranha” / CC BY
All other photos are by Paola Hanna Fornari.

Drinking Mate is a Tradition in Uruguay

Socializing With Your Mate Uruguayan Style

by Paola Fornari

‘Let’s sit on the zaguán,’ my friend Rosa says. The zaguán is the space between her front door and the street. We squeeze out two plastic folding chairs and a table.

I’ve been invited to matear, Uruguayan style.

Mate is a national social pastime here.

The mate is a calabash: you fill it with a bitter dried leaf called yerba, add boiling water, and sip it through a bombilla – a silver straw. The whole set of mate, bombilla and yerba are also referred to as mate, and the verb, matear, means to sip it.

There are rules: you carry your mate in your hand and flask under your arm, or put everything in a leather case called a matera, but you can’t order it in a bar. It’s something personal, which you pass around your friends. Groups of young people sit in parks, chatting, enjoying the sun and sipping away. In street markets, or even in business meetings, people clutch their calabashes. Kiosks sell hot water to refill flasks. During summer months, when hoards of Uruguayans hit the beaches, first aid centres are set up to deal with burns.

‘Okay, Rosa, I want to get this right.’

Rosa pours cold water onto one side of the leaves, digs a hollow with her straw, and starts sipping.

‘The leaves have to hinchar, to swell. You use cold water at first; otherwise the straw clogs up. I’m inviting, so I sip till the temperature is right. It’s rude if I give it to you luke-warm.’

She sucks, and when a gurgle indicates she has drained her brew, she fills it with boiling water, slurps again, checking the temperature, refills, and hands it to me. I sip. We chat. I learn that is impolite to hand the mate back before the last drop of water is finished. You need that slurpy noise.

‘Yuk! You don’t want to sip someone else’s water!’ Rosa says. I wonder about the hygiene of the operation. ‘Most people share with anyone. But I’m selective.’

I’m honoured.

‘I’m the hostess, so I fill. And we chusmear. We gossip about passers- by.’

‘Rosa, if gossiping is part of matear, I’ll go for it.’

‘Ooh, see that woman? She’s asquerosa.’ Nauseating? I wonder why. Rosa explains, ‘She moved into the area and rebuilt the house next door. Loads of money. Moans all the time: says my pipes are wrong, my bathroom is making damp seep into hers…’

A man walks by. I nod and say ‘Buenas tardes.’

‘No, don’t greet, just smile. Don’t say anything unless you know the person.’

‘But I don’t know anyone.’

‘Okay, don’t say anything unless I know them. You have to differentiate between those you know and those you don’t.

An elderly man passes with a dog. ‘Not all there’.

We pass the mate back and forth. Every few fills, Rosa shifts the straw around the wet leaves.

‘How’s Carmen?’ Rosa asks. She met Carmen at my house recently.

‘Ah, poor Carmen, she’s the first of twelve siblings. When she was fifteen, and her youngest brothers, twins, were a few months old, her mother gave one of them away – can you imagine? She handed him over to a stranger, then left. With another man. Carmen didn’t see her again till last week, at a funeral. But Carmen’s kids refuse to call her grandma. Can you blame them?’

Is this me, talking about other people’s affairs, and judging?

Rosa pours the last drops from the flask, and sips the mate del estribo. The dregs.

‘Great, Paola,” she exclaims. “You’ve managed to matear and chusmear, simultaneously. You’re a real Uruguayan now.’

Montevideo Highlights Tour

If You Want to Know More:

Mate (drink) in Wikipedia
Welcome Uruguay – about mate

About the author:
Writer, EFL teacher, teacher trainer, and translator, Paola Fornari was born in Tanzania, and has lived in a dozen countries over three continents. She has recently moved from Uruguay to Belgium. She describes herself as an ‘expatriate sin patria’. Wherever she goes she make it her business to learn the language, get to know the local people and customs, and discover the country’s remotest corners. She became interested in writing in mid-2006, did a short Open University creative writing course and a Writers’ bureau course, and began getting articles published in 2007.

Photo Credits:
All photos by Paola Fornari.

Discovering La Virgen de la Yemanja

Montevideo, Uruguay

by Paola Fornari

Today, February 2nd, is the day of the feast of the Virgen de la Yemanja: the patron of fishermen. This evening, after dusk, people will flock to the Rio de la Plata, dressed in white, bringing gifts for her: sweets, clothes, and jewellery – gold chains, necklaces and watches. The gifts will be sent out to sea on paper and cardboard boats, to sink to the bottom, or be washed up on the shore.

The hurgadores in Uruguay are people whose livelihood depends on rubbish. They go about with a horse and cart, fishing through bins, particularly in “nice” areas, for bottles, old clothes, cardboard, anything that they might be able to sell.

Tonight the hurgadores will sleep at the beaches, waiting to see what the Rio brings in tomorrow. A feast day for the Virgen, and a feast day for the hurgadores.

At six-thirty I put the lead on the dog.

“So, Perdida, let’s go down and see what this Virgen de la Yemanja business is all about.”

Perdida wags her tail and whimpers with excitement, and we start our fifteen minute walk to the Rio. It’s a cool, sunny evening.

I’m not sure what to expect. Certainly I’m surprised that there are so few people. And even more surprised when we catch our first glimpse of the Rio. On the shore is a beautifully constructed cardboard boat, decorated with tinsel and flowers … and another a bit further along.

Watermelons are strewn on the beach. We move closer. One boat appears empty. The other holds some carnations. A couple stroll up.

“Could you tell me more about this?” I ask.

“Well, they’re celebrating the Feast of La Virgen de la Yemanja”, the woman says.

“Who are?”

“Those people over there.” I look to where she’s pointing. About half a dozen people, dressed in long white robes, are coming down the steps onto the beach, carrying a big cardboard boat.

“Is it a sect?”

“Well, a religion, really. The Ubanda. Mostly fishermen. They’re thanking the Virgen for their blessings over the last year”. These white-gowned hippie-gypsy types hardly look like fishermen.

We wander westwards. In front of the Casino Hotel, a few people are building a sandcastle. As I get closer, I see that it’s a large altar.

A girl with blue hair is preparing a path from the altar to the water, neatly edging each side with alternating candles and flowers.

We move closer. “Señora,” I say, “could you explain? I’m a foreigner.”

“The altar is for the Virgen de la Yemanja. She should be here, but she hasn’t arrived “.

“The Virgen? She’s coming?”

“Yes, she was due at seven, but the bus must be delayed . Here, take this card.”

The Virgen’s business card? “La May Adelcia”, I read, under a 60s faded black and white photo of a dark buxom young woman. I turn it over. “Consultations: Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays 10 a.m. – 6 p.m.”

It’s seven-fifteen. I approach another couple, and show them the card. “Ah, the May”, they say. “That’s not the Virgen. It’s a woman priest. A man priest is called a Bay. They are the Virgen’s representatives on earth.”

People are wandering down to the beach. Each group has at least one maté, the calabash which Uruguayans carry around, containing a strong type of tea, which they sip through a silver straw. The Rambla is filling up too. People on bikes, skates, walking, jogging.

We look back at the sand altar. There is definitely some activity now – it’s almost eight – so we move closer. A group has formed, and in the centre is an elderly woman wearing a long pink satin dress and a rich brocade beige shawl. I recognize her as an aged May Adelcia from the photo on the card. Her white-clad acolytes look like doctors, apart from one young woman who, over her whites, has a bright red sarong tied over one shoulder like a Maasai. On the altar stands a statue of the Virgen, wearing a blue satin dress and a cape. She is decked with bead necklaces. Aha! So that’s the Virgen they were waiting for!

In front of the altar is a large plastic inflated dinghy. People are queuing up to lay gifts inside. I can’t work out whether the people crowding around are part of the ceremony or just onlookers.

The May gives a signal, and she and her assistants walk down the path to the river shore, chanting softly. Together, they raise their arms to the sky. Suddenly there is a loud hacking noise. I think that the May is having a fit but then I realize she’s laughing – a strange, guttural croak.

They walk back to the altar, except for one young man who prostrates himself in the water.

The crowd is thick now. Perdida and I scramble onto the Rambla to get a better view. My camera battery is flat. Perdida is shivering. So am I. It’s eerie. A fat couple beside me pass their warm maté to and fro.

The May and her followers are chanting and shuffling. The May is holding a bottle of Fanta Orange.

“Is the Virgen drinking?” asks the fat woman.

“Yes, says her husband, “Can’t you see?”

All I see is the May dancing around the Virgen pouring Fanta Orange onto her expensive-looking clothes.

“How long does this go on?” I ask.

“Oh, till morning,” says the fat lady.

“They will dance when the Virgen has gone out to sea”.

Perdida and I are really cold now. I decide to go home, recharge my camera battery, and come back to see the end of the action. But home is warm and cosy, so I settle down to a cup of herbal tea.

But next 2 February I shall wrap up warmly, and dance all night on the beach until at dawn, the treasure-filled cardboard boats carrying the Virgen and her treasures are sent out to their fate on the Rio de la Plata.

– First published in ‘The Oldie’ (UK) March 2007.

Notes:

Yemanja is a goddess originally of the Yoruba religion, who has become prominent in many African-American religions. Africans from what is now called Yorubaland brought Yemaya and a host of other deities/energy forces in nature with them when they were brought to the shores of the Americas as slaves. She is the ocean, the essence of motherhood, and a protector of children.

In Uruguay, her feast is of relatively minor importance, whereas in Brazil it takes on huge proportions. Every February 2 in Salvador, Bahia, there is a celebration which involves thousands of people lining up at dawn to leave their offerings at her shrine in Rio Vermelho. Presents for Yemanya usually include flowers, perfume, and objects of female vanity (jewellery, combs, mirrors). These are gathered in large baskets and taken out to the sea by local fishermen. Afterwards a massive street party ensues. In Rio de Janeiro, Yemanyá is celebrated on New Year’s Eve, when millions of people dressed in white gather on Copacabana beach to greet the New Year, watch fireworks, and throw flowers and other offerings into the sea for the goddess in the hopes that she will grant them their requests for the coming year. Paintings of Yemanja are for sale in Rio shops, next to painting of Jesus Christ. They portray her as a woman rising out of the sea. Small offerings of flowers and floating candles are left in the sea on many nights at Copacabana. In the Umbanda religion, Yemoja is a goddess of the ocean and patron deity of the survivors of shipwrecks.

Photo Credits:

Beach group image by Free-Photos from Pixabay
Iemanja statue by FrancoBras / CC BY-SA
Watermelon on beach by Paola Fornari.

About the author:
Paola Fornari was born on an island in Lake Victoria, and was brought up in Tanzania. She has lived in almost a dozen countries over three continents, speaks five and a half languages, and describes herself as an “expatriate sin patria”. Her articles have featured in publications as diverse as “The Buenos Aires Herald”, “The Oldie”, and “Practical Fishkeeping.” Wherever she goes, she makes it her business to get involved in local activities, explore, and learn the language, thus making each new destination a real home. She has recently moved from Uruguay to Belgium. Read Paola’s blog on www.writelink.co.uk