Arte por Excelencias - - Perú -

Four hours by bus is what it takes to re­ach Mon­te­vi­deo air­port —taking rou­te 10 up to km 264½—from the en­tran­ce to Cabo Polonio.

Lo­ca­ted in Roc­ha, Cabo Polonio se­ems not to know that the world out­si­de spins in a dif­fe­rent way. We cros­sed du­nes and wo­od­lands and we tra­ve­led along se­ven ki­lo­me­ters ri­ding over that me­tal be­ast that would buf­fer us from the en­tran­ce up to the be­ach.

The bre­e­ze is co­o­ling us down and the hou­ses are like whi­te and co­lo­red litt­le squa­res that take sha­pe as we draw ne­ar . The­se litt­le hou­ses lied down one day, play­ful, al­most naked, over a gre­en lawn hill. Pe­o­ple in Cabo Polonio co­mes to and fro. That is why the­re is not one sin­gle per­son from the first sett­lers, as told by one of the ol­dest town vi­lla­gers. Not all can en­du­re so much si­len­ce and lo­ne­li­ness.

The­re are no pa­ved ro­ads or elec­tric li­nes. The­re are two or three shops, a cou­ple of bars and res­tau­rants of every ca­te­gory and the «go-ahe­ad» hip­pies open their han­di­crafts and sou­ve­nirs pre­mi­ses.

The in­ten­se win­ter cold em­bra­ces a cou­ple of bra­ve and lo­nely guests un­til sum­mer re­turns with vi­si­ting young guys from many parts of the world. They walk alo­ne on the be­ach, day and night, mes­me­ri­zed by their reu­ni­on with si­len­ce.

It lo­oks like no one has told Cabo Polonio that the world has an “im­por­tant” ra­ce against exis­ten­ce. It is a pro­tec­ted area that has not yet suc­cum­bed to hu­man stu­pi­dity. Anyo­ne can vi­sit it, anyo­ne can find a spot on the be­ach from whe­re he can ga­ze at its won­der­ful sea, take a dip and talk to stran­gers that tu­ne in with con­ge­ni­a­lity, or, as they say out the­re, to the full.

In con­trast with the ri­di­cu­lous af­flu­en­ce of Pun­ta del Es­te, Cabo Polonio is still one of the few si­tes that pre­ser­ves the purpose of li­fe: the sim­ple be­auty, tho­se small things, the oran­ge light of the sun about to set, a star-lit stre­et, a ca­bin with cand­les, and the sound of a laugh burs­ting in the dark.

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