Warning: this blog post contains the phrase 's***-pit'.

A ferry across the River Plate took us to Uruguay, which is a land more Argentinian than Argentina. For example, everyone drinks mate (pronounced 'matay' not mate as in the cockney 'awite mayte'): even more so than they do in Argentina.

Mate seems more of an identity issue than tea is to the English. They put the 'yerba' leaves in a little silver, or wooden, cup, and pour boiling water on them. There's a little a metal straw going into the cup which sits amongst the lose leaves... everyone has a Thermos of hot water under their arm with which they top up their brew and one of these little cups (grannies and teenagers alike). There's a whole ritual with it about how you should pass it and sucking until you get the slurp of an empty cup three times is considered very bad form. In a sense it's a process that is more akin to smoking than drinking.

We tried it on a tour bus and it tastes bloody awful. It was like over-brewed tea; very bitter. (I concealed my disgust and raised my eyebrows and tilted my head in the international sign for 'interesting', but Jill openly looked like she'd chewed on a turd.) Saying that all the best things take a while to enjoy: beer, exercise, olives... jazz (though I still don't like jazz).

Uruguay also has lots of steak and of course the gauchos to go with it. I really want to go to a gaucho ranch and go horse riding in the mountains (despite never even having sat on a donkey). Apparently they don't wear cowboy hats though which is a real disappointment (I packed two cowboy shirts to go with one especially). When we talk about it Jill always refers to the fact we will be riding "Groucho" style, and for a while I didn't correct her. Although, I'm sure it would be a much better experience if they gave everyone plastic glasses with a moustache and a cigar.

Our first stop in Uruguay was a town called Colonia Del Sacremento, which is really pretty. Everything is cobbled and postcard-nice. There are lots of American day trippers from BA who fall over themselves about it all. The American ladies' faces all look stretched and all the men wear 'fannie packs': both men and women alike wear caps. Saying that, everyone here thinks we're American too. (I concede that I've got a face from Happy Days.)

So here's the funny bit... most of the travel blogs I've read are quite sickening: endless lists of wonderful sights and exhilaration. So I thought I'd share our most s*** experience so far with you, I know I'd want to read about it while I was in gloomy England.

The reason we came to Uruguay was to tour along a few beaches, eat good food etc etc. The Lonely Planet guide (which you feel such a pleb reading as all backpackers have a copy) told us that our eventual destination, Punta Del Diablo, was, a 'fabulously remote, seriously underdeveloped and stunningly picturesque little fishing-surfing village' (South America on a Shoestring p.976). Okay, so the only time I've been fishing involved me and Dave and Will getting drunk and dangling a rod in the canal, and I've never been surfing, but the write up did sound wonderful.

Three buses along the coast and a full day of travelling later (we were now very near the Brazilian border), we get dropped at the end of a dirt track. As the bus driver throws our packs on the side of the road I ask, 'Esta lejos a la playa' (is it far to the beach). He nods and explains that it's six kilometres away. Oh, and I've forgotten to say, that's six kilometres with 17 kilogrammes on our backs... and it was raining heavily for this walk. This walk to the beach.

It was the first time that we hadn't pre-booked our hostel. And so we set off, sure that we would find a nice place, the weather would clear up and we'd have a lovely stay.

An hour later down a dirt track and the sea, the grey sea, was finally in sight we started to see the odd local staring in puzzlement. Just to explain, when you have a huge backpack on you instantly feel like a tremendous tit: the butt of a slapstick joke. But this was not the usual self-consciousness of feeling like a big wobbly breast, they really were wondering why we were there.

The 'town' was about four streets, filled with little wooden cabins. This would have been delightful in the sun but it was muddy, foggy and raining. And deserted.

We found a hostel and were told that the rooms were $40 US, twice as expensive as we'd paid before. When we were shown to our freezing cold, damp room, we found a scorpion, a large spider, several hundred starved mosquitoes and a hole in the door which the rain and wind came though. It was the s***-pit that I pre-warned you about.

The owner explained that it's normally $60 a night in the high season, because of course, no one comes before mid-December. No of course they don't Pedro. The town was completely deserted and everything was shut. Thanks Lonely Planet you hippy, bead wearing, lentil-eating f***ers.

(Just as a footnote, we are having a lovely time and I'm only whinging for comic effect. The next post will be from Iguazu Falls... that really was great).