Voyassitude

I’m fed up. Irritated. The endless, boring monologue from the tour guide, coming through the bus speakers to pierce my ears, doesn’t do any justice to the wild weather outside, made up of fierce winds and the crashing waves from the Río de la Plata river. We’re on our way to Punta del Este, but ever since the vehicle started its march under a rainy Montevideo, the tour guide hasn’t stopped talking, bombarding us in both English and Portuguese with a memorized script she’s evidently recited countless times.

That’s why I choose to ignore her invitation to visit the Casapueblo Museum when we make a forty-minute stop in Punta Ballena. In its own silly way, it almost feels like an act of rebellion to go against the suggestion of this tour guide who’s killing me with boredom. As soon as I step off the bus, I check Google Maps to let it dictate what to do or where to go, and I immediately find my destination. Playa las Grutas, a rocky beach with some grottoes and a great rating in the app, is just sixteen minutes away. I don’t think twice. I abandon the bus, the tour group, and the museum to embark on a fleeting adventure.

Just a couple of people cross my path during my rapid walk. I leave houses and roads behind to wander into sandy pathways leading to the caves. I check the route on my phone over and over again, aware that once I reach my destination, I will only have some ten minutes available to explore and enjoy the place before the tour bus leaves. With each passing minute I ponder if I’ve made a mistake, if I should rather turn around. But once I arrive at the beach and the furious Río de la Plata winds hit my face, I succumb to the moment, feeling invincible and infinite.

At 11:54 a.m. I capture the first picture of the grottoes. A minute later, I climb some rocks, look up, and an aquatic horizon greets me, beach and river and breeze expanding before me. There is not a soul in sight, and for a glorious instant I like to believe that I’ve discovered a gem hidden from the rest of the world, me as a Colombian conquistador spellbound by this tiny corner of Uruguay.

I put on my red sunglasses, turn up my earphones’ volume, and combine the music with the place. The overcast sky imitates the gray color of the waters below crashing on the coast. And I’m just there, longing to stop time, assessing the consequences if I skip the rest of the tour so that I can remain anchored to that beautiful end of the world called Punta Ballena.