T.G.I.F.? That’s not needed. Every weekday here is like a Friday.

Although it started with a bang, the Fray Bentos excursion turned out to very tranquilo. After a mixed drink mixed culture party - brimming with brazilians, chileans, uruguayans, and norteamericanos (yet no white nor black russians) - it seems that staying out until 5 am isn’t such a good idea when you have an 8 o’clock bus to catch. It goes without saying that my head didn’t respond to the first or second alarm. Instead I woke at 7:51am to Matt’s text reading “donde andas” (where are you). I didn’t respond immediately since his guess would have been better than mine.  

After the afternoon hangover subsided, I found myself breezing through the countryside. Luckily there was no need to buy another ticket since the man in charge of printing tickets had a knack for niceties. “Pero solo esta vez te lo regalo, ta?” (I’ll get another one for you now, but only this time ok?). It was as if he thought I tried to miss my bus but wanted to forgive me.  

Uruguay’s land has little use - farming, a house here and there, and plots of eucalyptus plantations constitute the main attractions. But the scenery looks bucolic through large glass panes and helps soothe your nerves before arriving.

Matt already looked settled into the slow Fray Bentos lifestyle when I stepped out of the bus. He was probably high (film kids, you know?) or at least dazed by the town’s incredible amount of scooters. We took a walk to see the wide stretch of Rio Uruguay, got a bite, and reserved a double in a quaint hotel. The rest of the day, we took some pictures and wrotes notes before the sunset.

Although 4 km away from the center of town, the Botnia smokestack sticks its neck out high enough to see over two story buildings. The next day we visited the plant, amazed at the frequency of trucks flowing in with wood and out with nothing. The scale that Botnia’s cellulose plant takes up - not bearing in mind thousands of hectares of genetic forestland - likens itself to the size of a small airport or prison. Matt and I talked to some of the few Sunday workers and soon shimmied our way towards El Puente Internacional de General San Martin, the bridge that connects both country’s shores. In November the bridge and airspace over the cellulose paper plant were closed due to the 40,000 some-odd environmental protesters from Gualeguaychu, Argentina. Since we walked to the bridge and Matt had his camera in hand, it didn’t surprise us that the guards wouldn’t allow passage.

It’s truly amazing the controversial impact this company has had on the country – environmental, economic, political, and social. Nonetheless roughly 90-95% of Fray Bentinos favor the plant with the same amount of Argentines against it. For the sake of blogosphere curtness and courtesy, I recommend you read the final grant report if you’re interested in learning more. The topic fascinates. But if you do read it, please don’t print it. That’d just add salt to the wound.

After our fair share of interviews and footage, Matt and I headed back on Monday in time for night class. The rest of the week has been eventful, beginning my investigation at Endeavor and dreaming a bunch in spanish. Yesterday I gave my 50-something friend, Sergio, a tutor lesson over some chivito and delicious picada. Making Uruguayan friends prooves tougher than my stint in Mexico and requires much more effort. Half of the people in my classes are 30 years old or more with real jobs and/or families. But little by little I’ve been forming buddies and seeing more and more familiar faces.

Last night I walked to the bus station around 10:15 as I always do. This time it was a little more surreal – besides the modest nocturnal protest taking place on the main drag of 18 de Julio, I noticed something funny. Headlights shot out more than usual. The air seemed thicker and opaque. Was it mist? Fog? Nah, it ouldn’t be, I thought. The air felt dry. Was it the beginning of cataracts? Nah, too young for that.

That night I watched a futbol match with Diego. The field the two teams were playing on was obscured by a dense white froth. Since both were Argentine teams and Diego said nothing, I just assumed I was going crazy or hallucinating. That could be fun, I thought, so better not to ask.

The next morning I discovered the real culprit upon turning on the Channel 5 news (yeah, canal 5). Argentines were burning their fields outside of Buenos Aires. Traffic accidents and facemasks consumed Buenos Aires. And 400 kilometers away, Uruguay could see and touch the smoke.  Both countries really enjoy sharing filth, depending on which way the wind blows and current flows. I guess I wasn’t going crazy. Damn. I’ll just have to eat more empanadas.