In the photo above which I took yesterday afternoon, I was standing in Uruguay looking north past the border marker into Brazil, and Uruguay has claimed that field since 1851and still does and does not approve of the presence of this giant lump of cement, but I do. I love this kind of crazy map making madness so it was inevitable I would drive across Uruguay to check out the village of Masoller (pro: mas-oy-yer).
Friday morning saw Rusty leap out of bed promptly at eight when I got up. One day of rest had been what he needed after a busy Wednesday and my goal yesterday was to reach the informal Brazilian border.
The first border of business was to buy more tolls for my Uruguayan toll reader which is easy to do. I walked up to the office which is staffed twenty four hours and gave the lady my license plate.
Then I swiped my credit card to the tune of $40 and I had banked ten more toll payments in five minutes for use on Uruguay’s rather enjoyable main roads.
The day started out gray and overcast and we got our apparently daily dose of rain…
But as the day progressed the sun came out and we found ourselves in a 70-degree day with blue skies dotted with big puffy clouds. Uruguay continued to look green and fresh with farms ranches and forests dotting the rolling countryside. An easy three hour drive except Rusty needed his breaks so we took a bit longer.
Herewith a few pictures of the road north.
Mono culture forests:
There are hills in the far north as we shall see:
I pulled over here to make a u- turn back to a turn out I had passed where I planned to have lunch and let Rusty enjoy some grass.
I got the third degree at a police checkpoint somewhat to my surprise. I was pulled over and presented my drivers license and registration and then the senior cop cane aboard very politely asking permission and looked through our drawers and cupboards and fridge. I’m assuming it was curiosity meanwhile his young sidekick chatted away with me telling me he grew up in Brazil and speaks Portuguese and is learning English. The encounter has a slightly surreal quality to it, very friendly and so forth and they even posed for a photo.
I actually enjoyed the chat a measure of how much I miss a co-pilot perhaps.
By around four o’clock I turned left off the main highway onto a much less smooth road going west toward the goal, which it turned out was a thousand feet up in the rolling hills of the north.
About six miles from the village of Madoller there was a wild camp marked in iOverlander so I figured it would be a good idea to check it out.
The west side of the river was indeed impossible to reach in a delivery van so I turned around and returned to the main road. I’m much easier in my mind fording large puddles now we’ve got rid of the low slung second alternator.
We had a thousand foot climb up to the mesa on which Masoller sits and the drive was accompanied by warning signs invent seen in a while warning about staying in gear and being aware of steep hills. It was short and thus rather fun as a change from the flatlands. Keep your car in gear:
If you look at the photo below the dotted lines outline a 50,000 acre field, about ten miles deep across the middle to Masoller following the red line. It’s called the Rincon de Artigas (
Artigas Corner) and it was created by a diplomatic error.
In 1851 Brazil and Uruguay signed a treaty confirming Uruguay’s independence while establishing its borders. Around Masoller they agreed the border should be Winter Creek (
Arroyo de la Invernada) which was unfortunate as they did not establish which creek exactly was the border. Uruguay’s creek by that name lies across the top of the triangle while Brazil’s follows the lower part of the triangle. Google accepts there is a dispute by marking the border as a dotted line but Brazil doesn’t care. They aggravated the Uruguayans by building a giant cement marker at their chosen southernmost spot.
Rusty was standing in Uruguay organizing the local dogs while I was in Brazil waving my camera around. The right hand side of the street is Uruguay, the left is claimed by Brazil.
No one lives in Brazil here but the Shell gas station is Portuguese because Shell has no franchises in Uruguay. Beyond the gas station are a few Brazilian houses in the village of Albornoz. The whole place is quite weird especially when you consider how neurotic the US has become about border walls. This place is wide open.
I put out a pile of food for the dogs and stuffed my privileged princelibg back aboard GANNET2 and went off to see if they were selling gas at Brazilian prices, half that of Uruguay. No such luck but their billboards are in Portuguese.
I discovered to my relief the attendant spoke Spanish so while she filled me up with the usual $8:45 a gallon regular gas I quizzed her about life on the border.
The shirt version is that they are Uruguayan and though the border runs down the street it doesn’t make much difference to them. We feel forgotten by the government she said sadly and you can see why. I unfortunately forgot to ask for a picture so this was the best I managed. I need my wife to stick her camera in their faces.
Masoller is also known for a battle fought in the vicinity in 1904 effectively the last battle of a prolonged civil war between the Whites or Nationalists and the Reds also known as the government forces.
The rebels were retreating and decided to face down the government troops in the village figuring if they lost (again) they could leg it across the undefended border into Brazil and escape their pursuers.
And in fact that’s what happened and the government troops stopped at the line unwilling to create an international incident with Brazil.
Mind you just last year Uruguay wrote a stern diplomatic note protesting the construction of windmills on territory they insist is disputed land. The note doesn’t seem to have put off the Brazilians as you can see:
And life in Masoller trudges along no credit to the enlightened government in Montevideo which limits itself to firing off diplomatic notes about nonsense.
The place seems like it could use some investment.
It left me feeling rather saddened by the condition of the residents.
I got out of there.
On the way back to the main road I gathered across the plain which sits at an altitude of 1200 feet which is I suppose good for wind generators. I checked out the other possible wild camp and found the approach to that one was also pretty much washed out.
I gave up and drive to the Ancap gas station on the highway and asked to park among the logging trucks. Rusty are ate a huge dinner and passed out. And so did I after I wrote this.
I actually enjoyed the chat a measure of how much I miss a co-pilot perhaps.
