You can’t visit a town in Uruguay without seeing a statue or
bust of José Artigas, the father of the country. His vestige looks down on the Urugayos in almost every plaza or school
in the country. His image is on the money. His portrait is almost ubiquitous as
the mate they drink. Funny thing is,
he was never even president.
In June of 1982, I made the six-hour trip to Tacuarembó,
Uruguay, on the Onda (the prominent
bus company of the day) sitting next to a guacho.
I tried to carry on a conversation with him, but it was pointless. I began to
wonder if they taught me the wrong language. Thirty years later I drove a
rental car into Tacuarembó with my oldest son Rian, and my sixteen-year old,
Carson. I made the trip halfway around the globe to drop Carson off to live
with the Fontes family so that he could experience life outside (way outside)
the United States. I was also excited to spend some time with my sons.
I had the address to the home, but it wasn’t on the map, and
my phone’s GPS wasn’t any help. “Don’t worry,” I told my boys. “Everybody in
town knows David Fontes.” I stopped at the gas station and asked for
directions. Nobody knew the address, but when I mentioned David, they had him
on the phone in less than five minutes.
Small countries have more reason to celebrate their heroes
than big ones. The heroes of small countries have a bigger impact on their
history and leave bigger scars on the psyche of the population. Smaller
countries also have fewer heroes to choose from. Artigas was no exception. His
passion for the cause of the Orientales
was unparalleled. He displayed all of the stubbornness and fire of an ardent
patriot and put his own life on the line over and over again for the cause of
independence.
We spent the afternoon in the house of friends and got
Carson settled in. That evening we went to a mixer at Alianza School, the
English school administered by David. I think we intimidated his students a
bit. Maybe the setting was too formal, or maybe it was my domineering nature,
but the students were a bit shy that evening. Having learned other languages, I
can relate to that knot in your gut that keeps your mouth from working properly
when you try to speak. I think the fear springs from looking stupid or inept.
It takes courage to thrust yourself into another language and another culture.
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| Rian straddling the border |
The next day, Rian and I took a trip to the border town of
Rivera. The pleasantly hilly city sits smack dab on the border between Uruguay
and Brasil. We cruised around the open-air market in search of trinkets in both
countries. We ate lunch in Uruguay. We went to the bathroom in Brasil. We
literally crisscrossed the unseen line multiple times and discussed the
possibilities of disappearing off the grid in such a town (if the occasion was
ever required).
That evening we returned to the Fontes’ home and had our
last dinner with Carson before leaving him to learn about life abroad on his
own. When I hugged him, I wondered how the experience would change his
perspective of the world and what impact it would have on him.
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| The Tower of Terror elevator |
Since we were off the beaten path and traveling during the
off season (it was the dead of winter in the Southern Hemisphere), we had some
interesting hotel stays. One night we froze to death until my son figured out
that the maid had left a window open behind the curtains. Another hotel was so
old that the only electrical outlet was in the bathroom, and the elevator
looked like it came from the Tower of Terror. We only rode it once. Water
pressure was usually lacking, except for our hotel in Buenos Aires, where the
shower felt like a fire hose. We chalked it all up to the adventure.
When you make a journey down memory lane be prepared for
some emotional potholes. I had some wonderful reunions with friends from years
past. They had flourished and found a measure of happiness and success, and our
visits were warm and satisfying, but not everybody’s story has a happy ending.
Thirty years ago, I knew a successful doctor of a small
town. He had a wonderful wife, two children, and lived in a big house. He had
helped me deal with the stress of being a Branch President (the same as a local
Pastor or Minister) at twenty-years old in a foreign country. I owed him a
debt.
I searched him out and found him in a small row house on a
dark street. When I knocked at the front door he said he remembered me, but I
think he fibbed a bit. We sat at a small kitchen table in a bare kitchen. The
night was cold, but he had no heating. Once a portly man, he was now thin, and
wrapped in several layers to stay warm. His eyes vacillated between a far-off
look and semi-wild excitement. He spoke of his life in platitudes with
exaggerated smiles, but when I asked about his family, the truth was
self-evident.
His wife had divorced him several years ago because of his
drinking problem. Then she had contracted cancer and died. His son still lived
with him, but from what I could gather, the son had fallen into the same
addiction trap as his father. When I asked about his daughter, he laughed
nervously and told me that she was very busy with her life and rarely stopped
by.
Still true to the message of hope I delivered to a good
doctor thirty years ago, I reminded him that the atonement of Jesus Christ
could still apply in his life. I’m not sure if my words penetrated, but his
face clouded over. When we embraced before I left, he pulled me so close that
the stubble on his face rubbed against my cheek and he held me longer than a
customary abrazo.
The next day we
put Uruguay behind us and took the ferry across the Rio de la Plata to Buenos
Aires.
José Artigas had a grand vision for the region surrounding
the Rio de la Plata that mirrored the structure of the United States, but as is
often the case, his vision of independence was overruled by the political
ambitions of others. He was outmaneuvered and sent to voluntary exile in
Paraguay where he remained until his death.
We spent two days in Buenos Aires enjoying the sights of the
“Paris of South America.” We spent all afternoon at the open-air market on Calle Defensa. We ate the famous Argentine
beef until we were ready to moo. My son Rian found a leather jacket for a great
price. We hopped a tour bus and saw the highlights of the city. We enjoyed the
sights and sounds of a hustling, bustling city tucked so far away in the south
that people forget that it’s there.
Our last night in Buenos Aires, I woke up in the middle of
the night thinking about our trip. Although it had been interesting, and we had
passed several happy moments as father and sons, and with friends, the journey
had a lackluster feel to it. I had expected more. I felt like José Artigas. I had
bigger plans, but due to circumstances beyond my control, I would have to
accept the reality of the day, and move on.
Sometimes we make grandiose plans that never come to
fruition. We feel like the things we do don’t make a difference in the world.
We struggle to understand why others can’t see our vision for the future.
Perhaps we too are exiled by the workings of others, or by our own decisions to
move on. But life’s struggle is never wrought in a vacuum. Someday maybe, just
maybe, the relationships we build, the friendships we forge, the lives we try
and touch, will bear fruit, and future generations will honor us for what we
attempted to accomplish.
We made our way back across
the Rio de la Plata and on to Montevideo so we could catch our flight back
home. Our last morning of the trip, I went for a run along the boardwalk. It
was a great morning for a run. The temperature was cool, but not cold. The
slight breeze was welcomed, and the sun was climbing in the sky. Traffic buzzed
along the street as I took it all in. As I rounded a small point, the crowded
buildings of downtown Montevideo came into view. Off in the distance in that
concrete jungle was a plaza with an enormous statue of José Artigas on his
horse, and below the statue lay the remains of the exiled liberator that became
a national hero.
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| The statue of José Artigas |
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