This weekend an old repair on one of my teeth gave up the ghost, and the resolution to the situation was anticlimatic. While the price of many things here mimics that back home: food, rents, local opportunists playing at business, etc… it turns out actual professional services don't sting the same way. For less than a whole benjie composite resins were artfully applied and cured, a procedure my brother confirmed would have run around two benjies back in old country. I regret the professional was not inclined to take photos while juggling the resin and the very blue curing light.
This happened after the morning where the Republic's star lighter was moved to throw away a perfectly good rant because the new management managed to put together a castle for their discussions. Last week's dread has been replaced by tempered optimism. Somehow, in spite of myself, shit seems to be working out now that I have stepped back and let others step forward. Pete's ill timed post mortem, already late the morning he published it, was still further off the mark mere hours later. Shit could still go South1, but in much the same way building an ISP has a recipe, doing business in a Republican manner has examples to follow as well as guidance.
I went South looking for opportunity. I learned that on my own, I am insufficient to captialize on the opportunity. Through honesty and good faith, I survived. Other investors found the mess I made interesting enough to bring management to it and… HOLY SHIT I'M A GRINGO WILDCATTER! Just like that. Mircea stepped back, and enough Republicans came together in time to make something that can work. Still, I have to work a spiritual program one day at a time and keep my ego in check, because the only reason this is happening is I got out of the way.
Colonize or be colonized was an open question when I got here. With my fall and the emerging landing, I can't see value in any course other than embracing the Gringo identity. Not estadounidense, but Gringo. Foreign, from the North,2 and with alien species of machismo.
There is some machismo here, the locals insist. And yet when I explain what a rollor coaster my business activites in Uruguay have been to the girls at the CoWork, they seem to interpret the theme of my narrative as "Balls, big ones". Not the kind of machismo that leaves old men with permanent stankface or the kind that leaves the local boys dressing like Urban estadounidense thugs while politely allowing the gingo passage.
The local tendancy to be in the way, literally and metaphorically, has to be my reminder to remember my place. Seriously the locals walk through doorways and just fucking stop to look around dazed while occupying the most incovenient location possible. In spite of the nation's economy depending entirely on the good will of Brasileros who enjoy beaches, cannabis, and the safety that comes from being in Uruguay rather than Brasil. Yet with the encouragement of the local pantsuit press (archived), the big attraction that grew tourism and foreign income to the country gets squeezed by the injection of socialism and police seizures of pantsuit unblessed product in a market small enough that a seized car trunk can make a difference.
They buy into and they cargo cult the pantsuit Hegelian cycle. Contrary to Pete's assertion however these are far from the dumbest orcs imaginable. This isn't either of the other, more problematic southern continents. Pantsuit hands them just enough of a recipe through Hollywood and then the locals execute it misguidely for the purpose of becoming more Hollywood themselves.
For quite some time I have been heralding the Republic's arrival online in Qntra. Now that Republicans are moving in the world to secure online, I look forward to getting to continue playing the herald of the Republic's arrival.