In 1997 Anibal took Helena and I to the piece of land he owns at Caracol, which is just across the lagoon from José Ignacio. On our way we took a short detour, into a pine forest by a lake. Driving off the main road onto a sandy track, Anibal’s white Volkswagen got bogged down. The more the engine revved and the wheel span, the more intractable it became. We ended up camping in a clearing, even though we were no more than a few kilometres from Caracol. We got there the next morning after some locals lent us some planks which gave the car sufficient traction to escape.
On this trip, I returned to Caracol for the first time in eleven years. The last time there was just a plot of land. We found a space in between the trees to pitch tents, and attempted not to walk into the fearsome cacti after dark. Both Anibal and Helena were bitten by horseflies, which lay their eggs under human skin. Weeks later tiny beasts were still emerging. Now, much of the land is cleared. Anibal has built a skeleton house with a beautiful thatched roof and a chimney. Running water is on its way, as well as poles for electricity. The house is still some way from completion – Anibal pitched camp inside it, I slept on the concrete floor – but nevertheless the transformation is remarkable.
However, this is nothing compared to the development of the land on the other side of the lagoon. Not so long ago, José Ignacio was still a fishing village. Now it’s a chic resort. It’s where Martin Amis lived during his Uruguayan sojourn. The road from the lagoon to José Ignacio is no more than a few miles, fronting the ocean. In the decade since I was last there, palatial houses have sprung up across the road from the beach, each on their own generously sized plot of land. These houses are, without exception, built with inordinate good taste. Most seem to owe a debt to Frank Lloyd Wright, with their flat roofs, organic, asymmetric design, and use of (presumably) local stone. They are light, spacious and attractive.
After José Ignacio the highway leads to Punta Del Este. For several decades Punta has enjoyed a reputation as the most sophisticated resort in Latin America. It was a rich person’s playpen as long ago as 1961, when Ernesto Guevara addressed a meeting of regional leaders at a summit there. Wealthy Argentines, Brazilians and North Americans have built vast houses here. It’s a far cry from the development in Spain or Mexico. Only on the periphery of the city do the tower blocks start to spring up, but even these holiday apartments are well designed, without a hint of the tackiness of European hotspots.
The scale of the building and the development over the last decade, in spite of the economic crisis which heralded a new century, is surprising. However, even more remarkable is the fact that, on this beautiful stretch of the Atlantic in the third world, we didn’t pass a single house which looked affordable to anyone who wasn’t at least a dollar millionaire. The transformation of the small villages on the road into Punta reflected this prosperity. Rather than almacens and fly ridden boliches, they contained sushi bars and designer furniture stores.
What has been created around Punta and Jose Ignacio is, in effect, a country within a country. A state with little financial or cultural connection to the capital, even though it’s barely a hundred miles up the coast. This state feels like an aesthetically cultivated paradise, inhabited by a class of people who have nothing in common with the vast majority of Latin Americans.
As we drove back, Anibal pointed out the area we had camped in ten years ago when the car got bogged down. Back then it had been pine forest with a few shacks where some locals lived. Now the land has been cleared. It’s occupied by half a dozen vast houses, their glass frontages flooded with coastal light; their outdoor wooden decking adorned with pot plants and barbeques. The pine trees have vanished, annexed by the state within a state.
On this trip, I returned to Caracol for the first time in eleven years. The last time there was just a plot of land. We found a space in between the trees to pitch tents, and attempted not to walk into the fearsome cacti after dark. Both Anibal and Helena were bitten by horseflies, which lay their eggs under human skin. Weeks later tiny beasts were still emerging. Now, much of the land is cleared. Anibal has built a skeleton house with a beautiful thatched roof and a chimney. Running water is on its way, as well as poles for electricity. The house is still some way from completion – Anibal pitched camp inside it, I slept on the concrete floor – but nevertheless the transformation is remarkable.
However, this is nothing compared to the development of the land on the other side of the lagoon. Not so long ago, José Ignacio was still a fishing village. Now it’s a chic resort. It’s where Martin Amis lived during his Uruguayan sojourn. The road from the lagoon to José Ignacio is no more than a few miles, fronting the ocean. In the decade since I was last there, palatial houses have sprung up across the road from the beach, each on their own generously sized plot of land. These houses are, without exception, built with inordinate good taste. Most seem to owe a debt to Frank Lloyd Wright, with their flat roofs, organic, asymmetric design, and use of (presumably) local stone. They are light, spacious and attractive.
After José Ignacio the highway leads to Punta Del Este. For several decades Punta has enjoyed a reputation as the most sophisticated resort in Latin America. It was a rich person’s playpen as long ago as 1961, when Ernesto Guevara addressed a meeting of regional leaders at a summit there. Wealthy Argentines, Brazilians and North Americans have built vast houses here. It’s a far cry from the development in Spain or Mexico. Only on the periphery of the city do the tower blocks start to spring up, but even these holiday apartments are well designed, without a hint of the tackiness of European hotspots.
The scale of the building and the development over the last decade, in spite of the economic crisis which heralded a new century, is surprising. However, even more remarkable is the fact that, on this beautiful stretch of the Atlantic in the third world, we didn’t pass a single house which looked affordable to anyone who wasn’t at least a dollar millionaire. The transformation of the small villages on the road into Punta reflected this prosperity. Rather than almacens and fly ridden boliches, they contained sushi bars and designer furniture stores.
What has been created around Punta and Jose Ignacio is, in effect, a country within a country. A state with little financial or cultural connection to the capital, even though it’s barely a hundred miles up the coast. This state feels like an aesthetically cultivated paradise, inhabited by a class of people who have nothing in common with the vast majority of Latin Americans.
As we drove back, Anibal pointed out the area we had camped in ten years ago when the car got bogged down. Back then it had been pine forest with a few shacks where some locals lived. Now the land has been cleared. It’s occupied by half a dozen vast houses, their glass frontages flooded with coastal light; their outdoor wooden decking adorned with pot plants and barbeques. The pine trees have vanished, annexed by the state within a state.
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1 comment:
where did DBC Pierre
stay during his sojourn?
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