We had arrived in Piriapolis a little before 0900 on Friday the 2nd of March and secured alongside the haul-out finger. We were met immediately by two Prefectura officials, who took our data and welcomed us to Uruguay. They told us to report to the Aduana, Migracion and Prefectura offices in the next few days. We liked the casual approach, so we went below and slept.
A couple of hours later I went up to the marina office and checked-in. It is a modern marina with a huge work yard and a 50-or-more-ton travel-lift wide enough for most catamarans. It is owned and operated by the Ministry of Transport and Public Works through the National Hydrographic Department. We had fond memories of the wonderful facilities and services at the Mexican equivalents of this public marina complex, and we were looking forward to a similar experience here.
In the office was a huge lady with day-glow hair. She exuded an attitude that this was her own private domaine and that we very privileged to be able to use the marina and to have her serve us. In her I saw the perfect caricature of a self-important, job-protected civil servant. After what she likely thought was the appropriate amount of ignoring my presence in an otherwise vacant office, she finally stopped sucking her thumbs and called a fellow to come and show me to a mooring, so we could move off the temporary one.
The mooring I was shown was next to last along the breakwater. There are no floats, and the breakwater wall is about 2 metres high, done in a post and beam construction with two concrete beams, one at about half a metre up from the water and the other as the edge of a broad public walkway along the top. There is absolutely no security nor any privacy. There is a line of buoys about 5 or 6 metres apart and 30 metres out in the basin from the wall. There is plenty of space for floats and fingers in the basin; maybe they are planned for later. There were two mooring spaces open, the one closer in was too narrow.
The mooring buoys have no strops, simply a rusty iron fixed eye. I took the dinghy out and tied a loop of polypropylene through the eye so we had something to pick-up on the way by. We then motored Sequitur over, picked-up the loop, put one of our bow shore ties through it and backed in to the wall through the 6-metre gap between a catamaran and a 15-metre Argentine sloop. The marina staff do not assist in any way.
On Friday evening we celebrated our arrival in the sub-tropics; our first time in a warm, dry climate in over a year. I sautéed some Ushuaia scallops and prawns in butter with garlic, onions, button mushrooms and Falklands red and green peppers and served them with tarragoned basmati rice and a garnish of Falklands tomatoes and shredded basil. With dinner we enjoyed a bottle of Undurraga Brut Royale.
On Saturday morning we walked through the downtown to the fierra, the weekly market set-up in the fields at the northeastern corner of the city. We found repetitious stock from the same wholesalers on each stand. There was very little local, though we did find some very fresh fine green beans and bought a kilo. We had left without breakfast, so from a passionate little baker we bought a half-a-baguette-sized nuts and honey filled cross between a croissant and sticky-bun and munched on it as we walked back to the beach and the Hotel Argentina.
Hotel Argentina was built in 1930, likely at the height of the town, which was named after its founder, señor Piria. The hotel is the focus building of the town, and the town is a tired and dwindling beach resort with vacant buildings, vacant lots and failing businesses all along the once prime beachfront. The beachfront businesses are now mainly empty restaurants and cafes intermingled with tacky kitsch shops all with stock from the same suppliers. We were not impressed.
We bought some fresh camarone from a stall across from the marina, and for dinner I sautéed them in butter with garlic, shallots, button mushrooms and red and green peppers. With them I served green beans almandine and a garnish of Roma tomatoes and shredded basil. We thoroughly enjoyed a bottle of Montes 2010 Leyda Sauvignon Blanc.
On Sunday, while Edi kept the washer-dryer busy finishing the cleaning-up of our cold-weather clothing and washing the salt out of the cockpit cushion and pillow covers, I puttered with a list of blue jobs.
Monday, after a brunch of Falklands back bacon, crumpets and Sibie's friends farm eggs daubed with hollandaise sauce and garnished with tomatoes and basil, we headed off to Migracion with our papers from Aduana and the Prefectura to finish our check-in process.
We walked through town half an hour to the bus depot and bought tickets at about $2.60 each for Bus #1, the air-conditioned highway bus to Punta del Este. About 30 kilometres out of town we were dropped at the side of the highway at the exit to the airport. From there we made it across the divided roadway, up the access road, through the parking lots and into the terminal to find air-conditioned relief from the 35º day. Inside we tracked-down someone to get a Migracion officer to take us backwards through to the uncleared side of international arrivals and into an office, where we were processed for a 144 Pesos fee, about $7.30.
We walked back through the midday sun to the shade of a highway-side bus shelter, where we waited nearly an hour for the first bus to Piriapolis. This happened to be the number 8, a local seaside rattletrap at 26 Pesos, $1.30 each, which dropped us off half an hour later across from the marina. We had tried to have the Migracion officer clear us both in and out at the same time, but he said it was not allowed, so this nearly four hour process will need to be repeated when we clear-out.
Although there are a few fascinating old hotels and homes, mostly in Germanic and Italianate style, we found no charm in either the geography nor the people of Piriapolis. Because the town is a beachside resort and holiday destination, everything seems overpriced, this on top of Uruguay being one of the most expensive countries in Latin America. The marina facilities are basic and expensive, many of the staff are rude and we sensed an air of contempt for 'Gringos'. We didn't seem welcome, and since there is no safe anchorage alternative, we decided to move on.
On Thursday morning I inquired at the marina office about getting some diesel. Miss Dayglow punched the buttons on the office phone and thrust the handset at me. I spoke with the man who operates the fuel pumps in the marina yard, and learned he is not allowed to fuel foreign boats on the same day as contacted. This appears a way for the marina to extract an additional day of moorage. I organized fueling for 0900 on Friday.
There are gasoline and diesel pumps alongside the wharf, the first we have seen in over two years. However, the marina rents the space alongside the pumps, so it is necessary to raft-up on the boat already there. To ensure we were in position to get our fuel, immediately the British sloop, Cutting Edge left the spot on Thursday morning, we moved Sequitur over to nest on the resident boat.
While I was in the dinghy organizing the bow line for our move off the mooring ball, I noticed three bolts missing on the chainplate holding the anchor roller to the bow. It appeared they had sheared from the strain in some of our anchorages. There were still four bolts holding things in place; however, I wanted to replace the missing ones before we headed out. I had none that would fit, so I went to the office, where Miss Dayglow called the yard supervisor, who called Julio, who came aboard to look at the job. He said no problem, he had stainless bolts, nuts and washers that would fit; it would take him less than an hour. He then said he had spare time now, but that he couldn't do the job until the next day because of the marina policy. I booked him for 0830.
After lunch we repeated the commute to Migracion at the airport. This time we caught a rattletrap bus both ways, and the process took just short of four hours. Piriapolis is certainly not a boater-friendly port.
On Thursday evening we had Phil and Julia of the sloop, Illawon aboard Sequitur for drinks and nibblies. They had built their steel boat in Toronto and sailed away in 1992 and they have been sailing around the world ever since. They were moored just astern of us at the fuel wharf. Among the things we learned from them is that Canadians require a visa prior to entering Brazil, that the closest Brazilian Embassy is in Montevideo and that the process can a week.
On Friday morning Julio arrived promptly at 0830 with an assistant, and in forty minutes they were done and paid. Less prompt; however, was the fuel attendant. The appointed 0900 came and went without him, as did 1000, and with this came another day's moorage; check-out time is 1000. We continued to wait through 1100, 1200 and 1300, then at 1330 we were told the fuel man was coming at 1600.
While we were waiting for the fuel attendant, Edi and I had gone to the marina office to pay for our now 8 days of moorage. Miss Dayglow's math was off; she counted our stay as 7 days instead of 8. Even so, for the 7 days we were charged 9047 Pesos, about $462, the most expensive moorage we have seen since leaving Vancouver. Also, in her ineptitude, she had insisted on taking Sequitur's length off the Ship Registry document, and we were charged for 13.82 metres, the tonnage length between the inside of her stem and the forward side of her rudder post. Sequitur actually measures 17.67 metres overall. Had she been sharper, we would have been charged over $700.
Shortly before 1700 the fuel attendant arrived. With less than a metre to spare, I stretched the hose across the inboard boat and took-on 687.5 litres for 23,650 Pesos, about $1206. At over $1.75 per liter, this is the most expensive diesel we have seen on our voyage. I then had to go with the fuel attendant three kilometres across town to the gas station to pay the bill.
We then took the paid and stamped marina invoice and our stamped passports to Aduana to get their stamps, and then we walked the kilometre to the Prefectura to get more stamps and a zarpe. The watchkeeper at the counter seemed uncertain of the procedure, and insisted that he needed our original Ship Registry document, which he needed to stamp. No amount of explaining could convince him of his error. Frustrated, we walked back to the marina and I dug-out an expired Ship Registry document, and to hedge my position, the current one. Fortunately, when I arrived back at the Prefectura, there was a more knowledgeable watchkeeper on duty, and as I suspected, the document was not needed. When he asked our destination, I told him we were heading along the coast of Brazil, but not necessarily intending on stopping there, because we had no visas. He suggested Canada as our destination, and I readily agreed.
At 1000 on Saturday the 10th of March we left Piriapolis with a zarpe to Canada.