by Jerold Last
Suzanne asked me somewhat pensively, “You know, Roger, I’ve been thinking about how easy things have been so far. We walked into the first bar on Columbo’s list, had our first rowdy conversation and two beers, and now we’re honorary Nazis meeting the crème de la crème of Nazihood in the Mercosur. Doesn’t that seem a little too easy to you?”
“Not necessarily. You need to remember what a small country Uruguay is. Everybody knows everybody else in whatever social stratum somebody is into. It’s not surprising that Columbo was able to come up with an accurate list of bars where we might meet the necessary people, and it’s probably not bucking the odds a whole lot that we hit the jackpot on our first effort. It’s not like the USA where there are lots of big cities and lots of regions. In Uruguay, everything but the cattle is in Montevideo. We may have lucked out on that first try, but I think the process was bound to work sooner or later.”
We had reservations at a local estancia to spend a couple of days learning about life as a modern-day yuppie gaucho. After a brief debate we had selected a high-end estancia where everything would be elegant and we’d have a real vacation. This was San Pedro de Timote, a historic estancia founded in 1854 by Pedro Jose Jackson (but with its roots tracing to an early Jesuit settlement in 1740, the first European agricultural activities in what is now Uruguay). Currently this was the most elegant and luxurious tourist estancia ("Hotel de Campo") in Uruguay. Our $110 per day per person (the off-season rate) bought us luxurious accommodations, four excellent buffet-style meals per day, unlimited horseback riding with or without a guide, an evening "hayride" to see the local nightlife, and lots of other amenities on some 1,000 acres of parks and grounds we could explore on our own.
Lunch at the estancia was a welcome break from driving. Suzanne changed into her usual South American tourist outfit, which she would be wearing for the next week or so, Levis and a tee shirt. Two horses, Suzanne, and I went for an unguided ride on the range as our first afternoon activity. The horses were well trained so easy to ride and rapidly adjusted to our level of skill---experienced but rusty. The campo (rangeland) was green and lush pampa consisting of rolling meadows that were lovely to look at, but much the same for endless miles. This is not a "real working ranch", but a tourist hotel with some beautiful historic buildings on site. We rode several miles at a walk and trot, sharing the scenery with cattle and our horses. The sky was deep blue, the day was sunny and warm, and life was good.
"Hey there," I said a little tentatively, "We both seem to be relaxed now. Is this a good place to get back to that discussion we started in Montevideo a couple of nights ago about our making a few rug rats together?"
"Why not? I didn't want to push, but I hoped we could get back to thinking about our future."
We first met about six months ago when Suzanne hired me to investigate her father's murder. She and I had been a couple since we returned from Salta, Argentina, where we spent an intense week investigating her father’s killing. Since then, we lived together in the Beverly Hills house she inherited upon her father's death. Nominally, I was there as her bodyguard as well as her lover. Since our return to Los Angeles there hadn't been any problems, so we concluded that whoever had hired the men who killed Suzanne's father wasn't worried about us. My bodyguard duties with Suzanne were over.
"We've been a couple for about half a year now, since you hired me to go to Salta with you. From my point of view, it's been a great half-year. How about you?"
"You should have a pretty good idea of how I feel. I've told you several times that I love you, and that's not something I do casually. It's been a great half-year for me, too."
I reached over, got a hand on Suzanne's shoulder, pulled her close, and kissed her long and passionately. Her lips parted and her tongue played with mine. I could feel both of our bodies respond.
Our horses pulled apart and the moment was past.
"Wow," I said. "What's a reasonable amount of time to be engaged, do you think?"
"About half a year," was Suzanne's response.
"Would you prefer a large wedding or a small intimate ceremony?"
"A small intimate ceremony," Suzanne replied. "We could have a big party some time after that if we need to get the families and friends together eventually."
"Can we make a date for exactly six months from now for a small ceremony?"
"Yes, but you're forgetting something important."
"Suzanne, I love you. I've loved you since the day we met. I want to have children with you and grow old together. Will you marry me?"
"Yes, with pleasure."
We kissed again, long and deep.
"How long is your current prescription for birth control pills good for?"
"About six months. Maybe a few weeks less."
"Don't bother renewing it."
"Are you sure you know what you're doing?"
After Salta we were both happy living together as a couple in Suzanne's huge Beverly Hills mansion. Neither of us seemed to be in a hurry to change the current living arrangements. Our established routines from before we met continued and new routines together were added. Our romance flourished. The sexual urgency of that first week in Argentina became a meaningful engagement in each other’s lives. There was more now than just frequent sex, although the sex part was still very nice. But something important was missing for me, and apparently for Suzanne as well.
"I love you Suzanne. But we both know there's more to life than sex and companionship. I'm totally ready to begin that family we talked about. I gather you are too. Let's give this whole thing some time to sink in. If you want to change your mind between now and next September, we still have a great life. As they say in poker, I'm all in."
Another reining in of my horse led to another passionate kiss. Things felt right. It seemed Suzanne was on the same page. We continued our ride, finding continuous excuses to touch. Eventually we headed back to the hotel.
That mysterious fourth meal per day turned out to be British-style high tea, scheduled for 4 PM, in honor of the Jackson family who owned this property in the 19th century. High tea gave us a soft deadline to get back to the hotel from our ride if we were hungry. More for the experience than the food, the high tea ritual beckoned.
High tea was civilized---a buffet table of freshly made cake and pastries and a choice of coffee or tea.
Recommended activities between high tea and dinner included walking on the grounds and visiting the historical church buildings on site. The old church grounds were magnificently kept with tree-lined pathways made of stone, tiled fountains and planter boxes for the larger trees, and the elegant old church itself.
We did both of the recommended activities, followed by a scheduled "hayride" on a tractor-towed wagon that advertised it would show us the "local nightlife".
The hayride attracted most of the guests, so it was crowded. It was after dark and pitch black outside beyond the range of the hotel's lights. We drove about the same direction as our earlier horseback ride, following the beams of the tractor's headlights. Our guide explained to us in Spanish what we were passing by, especially what kind of trees we were seeing. Suddenly the guide asked all of us to be very quiet while we looked at the herd of animals in front of us. Several dozen large animals stood in place grazing on the rich grass, and apparently weren't bothered by our lights or smells. No, it wasn't cattle. It wasn't sheep or camelids. It was a herd of carpinchos (capybaras in Portuguese), the largest rodents in the world. The average carpincho we saw probably weighed about 125 pounds (the largest, the older females, were perhaps 150 pounds or larger) and were about 4-feet long with large, barrel shaped bodies. They reminded me of guinea pigs, but these were guinea pigs on massive doses of steroids. The animals were perhaps a couple of feet tall; it was hard to tell from our vantage point on the elevated wagon. Carpinchos are no longer legally hunted for food in Uruguay, but they consume large amounts of grass and are often killed by ranchers to protect the grasses for their cattle. They are also hunt
ed or farmed for their hides, which can be tanned to a premium type of leather, especially in Argentina. The animals are very docile and are sometimes kept as pets.
The hayride delivered us back to the hotel in time for the traditional Uruguayan dinner at 9 PM. The main course was a choice of beef (lomo) or rack of lamb grilled to order. Salads, side dishes, vegetables, and a selection of desserts were available buffet style. Interestingly, even though all of the food we could eat and all of the horses we could ride were included in the price we paid for the room, we were billed separately for anything we ordered to drink whether it was coffee, tea, water, wine, or liquor.
The dining room was crowded for dinner. Thus, we ended up sharing a table for four with another couple, who introduced themselves in good English as we sat down.
“Guten abend, Buenos noches, we’re Dr. and Mrs. Krautlieber, from Sao Miguel do Oeste, in Brazil. You were speaking English – American, I presume?”
“Yes. California,” I answered. “I’m Roger Bowman and this is Suzanne Foster. And yes, English is much easier for me. What brings you folks here?”
“Ah, very good. My wife and I are here for a short vacation from my work. I am a physician in family practice in Sao Miguel. It is a small community by American standards, perhaps, but I have a lively practice, which is good,” he continued with a warm smile. “How have you been enjoying Uruguay?”
“This is our first day anywhere in Uruguay except Montevideo. So far we’re liking what we’ve seen and the people we’ve met,” I said, intending to stay non-committal.
“Have you heard anything about the spectacular murder case in Montevideo?” he asked.
“Do you mean the one the newspapers are calling The Ambivalent Corpse?”
“Yes, that’s the one I meant. We are in a rather isolated part of the world where few things catch the attention of the international news media like this has.”
“Everyone we met in Montevideo talked about it, so yes, we have.”
“Did you know that the victim was from Sao Miguel, and that I actually knew her as a child?”
“Wow, what was she like?” Suzanne jumped into the conversation with “innocent” curiosity. “Can you tell us anything about her?”
“Of course. She was a bright little thing, but like any of the children of the time, of no unusual interest to the community at large. As a young adult, she left Sao Miguel to move to Paraguay and continue her education years ago, but we’ve followed her story, since Paraguay is not the usual choice for our children when they leave home. She married and had a child, but seems to have had a variety of extramarital affairs with both men and women. According to her husband, who was from Paraguay, she would just disappear for days or weeks at a time with no explanation of where she went or what she did while she was gone. The poor fellow could only conclude that she was cheating on him. I can’t imagine how upset he must have been when he found out she was cheating on him with a woman this time. In a Latin culture like ours, they will have a difficult time finding a jury that will convict him of doing anything criminally wrong for having killed her.”
“So they’ve found him and charged him with the murder?” asked Suzanne.
“Not yet. But it’s only a matter of time until he is found. But enough gossip about our disturbing news for the moment,” Dr. Krautlieber continued. “Tell us something about you and what you do back in the United States.”
“Well, I’m a lawyer, doing mostly patent work, and Suzanne is a biochemist teaching and doing research at UCLA.”
“It’s been a long time since I took classes in biochemistry in Medical School,” replied Dr. Krautlieber, leaning back in his chair and getting comfortable, “but I remember some of the basics. Can you tell me a little bit about what kind of research you do?”
“Certainly,” Suzanne answered, gearing up to talk about her favorite topic. “I analyze the DNA sequences from plants that might have medicinal value, looking for proteins that could be useful as drugs against cancer and other diseases where traditional drug therapy doesn’t seem to be enough to cure the diseases. One of the reasons we’re here is to find potential research collaborators who can help me with access to local plants that we can analyze to examine their potential as new drug sources.”
“Really,” the doctor replied, “then perhaps I should tell you that our local branch of the National University of Brazil in San Miguel has a very good Botany Department. I know several of the Professors there, both professionally and socially. You should meet with them and see if any of them might be potential research collaborators. Ask for Professor de Silva, if you do visit there. He’s fluent in English and a real expert in our local flora. He should be able to help you connect with the local expertise in the areas you’re looking for. Will you be anywhere near Sao Miguel on your vacation?”
“That’s an odd coincidence, but we were planning to drive right through there on our way to Iguazu Falls when we left here,” I answered.
“Then you must plan on stopping there and talking to Carlos de Silva,” he said enthusiastically. “And while you’re there in Sao Miguel, make sure you try the sauerbraten, dumplings, bratwursts, and kraut. That’s real comfort food!”
After more small talk, we said our goodnights when the Krautliebers left the dining room and we stayed at the table for desert and coffee.
After dinner was WiFi time for catching up on e-mail, then back to the room for bed and to discuss tomorrow's plans. Suzanne, always the type-A personality overachiever, was already feeling a little bored. She suggested that we resume our real trip rather than spending another entire day "doing nothing." We'd go riding again in the morning, eat lunch at the hotel, and check out. We could drive all the way to the Brazilian border before dinner.
Climbing into the queen-sized bed, we snuggled together, our naked bodies feeling just right together. Suzanne was tall enough to make a perfect fit.
"Do you feel any different now that we're engaged?" I asked Suzanne, just to make sure that her earlier commitment was genuine and still in force.
"Technically, we're not engaged till you give me the ring," she answered. "But until we get back to Los Angeles this will have to do."
She turned around to give me a long sweet lingering kiss that curled my toes. After a minute or two we separated.
"So, how did you like Uruguayan lomo on the range?" Suzanne asked me.
"It's just not the same for me when the next line of the song is, "Where the deer and the carpincho play," I answered.
We went to sleep for the second night in a row before midnight.
Chapter5.North to the Border
After breakfast, I conferred with the desk clerk about our departure and travel plans. We were welcome to have lunch at the hotel before we left. There was a direct road back to route 5, so it would take us less than 5 hours to get to Rivera and we'd easily be there in time for dinner.
It was easy to maintain a steady 70 mph after we got to route 5. There was very little traffic, and most of the vehicles were large trucks and buses. However, driving in Uruguay's cities (and in all of Latin America) is not for the faint of heart. Several years ago, when the LA Dodgers weren’t doing very well, there was a joke about what the Dodgers and Michael Jackson had in common. The answer was that both wore one glove on the left hand, but for no apparent purpose. Drivers respond to lines on the roads in Uruguay the same way. Most people drive on the lines, rather than between them. There is a certain economy here—a 2-lane road can fit 3 cars abreast—but there is a negative karma extracted from fellow drivers and passengers. A Uruguayan I asked explained to me that the lines were “merely suggestions.”
Outside of Montevideo, the rest of Uruguay is very thinly populated. This was the Uruguayan pampas, the region where beef and dairy cattle are grown by the millions. Wherever we looked we saw grass, great green landscapes of plains and rolling hills, with an occasional tree near the road or on the horizon and an occasional group of cows eating the grass. Imagine rural cen
tral Wisconsin in the spring or summer but as a country rather than a state. What we didn’t see were people, houses, towns, or buildings. Suzanne fell asleep off and on during this part of the drive, which was pretty boring. I envied her the nap, but had to keep my eyes open to drive.
As we headed further north, I began seeing tree plantations planted in dense rows, primarily eucalyptus but some pines pruned up so that the first 30 feet had no branches, standing straight and tall. These trees are harvested for pulp production and for fuel for the asados of Montevideo. Eucalyptus is preferred for farming because the trees grow very quickly and can be harvested 8 or 9 years after planting as seedlings. Such plantations are becoming more and more common as the number of cattle is decreasing for economic reasons.
Grass for cattle feed is no longer a profitable crop for the big estancias. Two major (and controversial due to Argentina's concerns about water pollution from the mills) new pulp and paper mills on the Uruguay River consume much of this local tree production. This is yet another major area of disagreement between the two neighbors. Argentina actually closed the bridges between the two countries for more than a year arguing against building these paper mills on the Uruguay River, at least for Uruguay's benefit on the east side of the river, and there was a lot of ill will between the two countries as a result. The President of Argentina found it politically useful to fan the flames of chauvinism to distract attention from his country's economic problems, so there was almost a war over this issue a couple of years ago. This got me thinking. I woke up sleeping beauty, napping contentedly beside me, with a question.
