Doesn’t play well to my ear, even (or especially) knowing (which I didn’t) its Urban Dictionary definition: an obnoxiously enthusiastic US Marine. Another definition: Un motard, ou motocycliste, est un conducteur de motocyclette. Les conducteurs de side-car, de trike et les pilotes de compétition peuvent également porter ce nom. The funny thing about that definition is that I got to the end of the second sentence before I realized it was in French. Up until then it’s just a couple of letter-changes away from Spanish.
I have shared my fascination with motorbikes here, their number of passengers and what they carry. This rigging of our massage therapist’s to carry his massage table strikes me as rather clever — though I didn’t notice if it hides the brake light.
If there’s one thing I’d care to win less than a trip to Brazil for the UY-UK match, it’s probably a noisy, rattling and dangerous (especially given Uruguayan drivers) pile of outdated technology. Not that I stand a chance of winning (oh, such stinkin’ thinkin’!) but fortunately cupones (coupons) were only offered upon purchase of certain Father’s Day (today in Uruguay) items, and we’ve only bumbled into a couple of those the last few weeks.
Around $9,000 new in the land of the Untied Snakes, prolly $19-20,000 here. I found the local web site, but under precios it has no prices. It does have an enticing shot of snow-capped mountains, though …
… amusing because Uruguay has neither snow nor mountains. Oh, details.
Confiscated motorbikes behind the Intendencia. Judging by the tree growing, they’ve been there a while.
How things work (officially) in Uruguay is seldom the same as how they work in reality.
When I realized, in 2012, that I’d forgotten to renew my driver’s license (doing the homologación from a foreign license is easy, but they only gave me two years), I researched and discovered that 1) if you miss renewal by under two weeks, no problem, 2) between two weeks and two years, you have to take the written and driving test, and 3) after two years you have to take driving school.
In my case, the two weeks had passed, and the two years would come next October, but my foreign license—from Mexico—expires two days from now.
Today was my appointment. I was a little nervous about taking a test in Spanish, though I had studied the Manual de Aspirantes and found nothing daunting. I figured the driving part was no problem. I’ve gone 40 years without an accident (other than bozos running into me).
The whole process took over and hour and a half: present required paperwork. Wait. Name called. Take paperwork to cashier, pay $1,000 (USD 45). Get in line. Give receipt. Wait. Name called. Photo taken. Wait. Name called. Sign here; here’s your license.
After yesterday’s pozo negro, our friendly backhoe (retroexcavadora) operator started in on the tajamar, or pond (background) in the local lingo, which we hope will fill with runoff water, for which here he’s digging a diversion channel from the road. ‘Tis an experiment; I’m not sure rainewater will be enough, but we always have the windmill, and by now a considerable length of hose, since I planted out fruit trees far from the house.
Last night he parked his backhoe at our neighbor’s, because someone lives there. He left on his moto, and I was wondering about the logistics of that.
Lo me encanta, I said as I watched him strap the moto into the bucket as he prepared to leave. I love it.
Uruguayo, he replied, beaming, of course pronouncing it ur-u-GUA-zho.