Utterly Uruguayan - Mate-ing Rituals - 12 Nov 2002
Voyeuring
At last, Tango in B.A.
The Zoo
Diverse Buenos Airxperiences
Uruguay - Land of the Content
Smugglers Haunt
Gang show
ëMare
Stop press
The full Monte
Recycling with cycles
The way back to BA
One fine evening we met up with all of the Buenos Aires based members of the Hot Rock trip who were impatiently awaiting their trip down to the southernmost town in the world to commence vertical activities. Most of them were staying at a hostel down the road, so we rolled up with the intention of going out for yet more steak.
The place has a rather nice roof top terrace to enjoy the warm evenings and sink a little wine. Johnny had us on a bit of a wine tasting exercise to test a selection of local cheapies to elect the wine of choice for the bar on the truck. They ranged from seriously rank sweet white to medium bodied red.
As the bottles were consumed we realised that a whole collage of soap operas were unfolding in front of our eyes. Facing the terrace was a large apartment block and as different lights went on in the selection of residencies we were treated to insights into the private lives of the Argentines. It was a bit like a cross between Big Brother and Celebrity Squares with the advantage that there was the excitement of the unknown, as each new apartment flicked on a light.
The boys of course were most fascinated by a brace of chicas (binties to you) in various stages of dress who, to our knowledge, spent an hour and a half drying their hair and were still at it when we left. The girlies clearly liked to be watched, their mirror was in the window so to use it they were forced to stand full frontal in front of the window. Early on in the viewing the caught us watching them, waved and then without embarrassment continued their performance. Nice one - some how it seems less intrusive if they like you to watch.
The girlies present were more enthralled by the glimpses of a naked bloke, we christened the naked chef) in one of the top apartments. The annoyance was the frosted glass that only gave muted images of his manhood. Still imagination is always better that the reality.
There were three jolly fat blokes in a window lower down, one of which lying on his side waving to us on the balcony in his Bermuda underpants. Another was ironing their clothes and the third popped in and out of the kitchen with tasty morsels for his pals.
It seemed a little bizarre to be ëvoyeuringí as we were, but the locals showed no intention of closing curtains and perhaps this posing is how they get their kicks. All very odd.
The second weekend in Buenos Aires we managed to get to the area of the city famed for its out door tango performances ñ San Telmo. Thankfully, this time the weather held and we treated to stylish execution of the noble art by appropriately clad couples. I had expected more of an open plaza with various tangoers tangoing for it. In fact in this quaint little corner of town are wall to wall antique stalls (mostly selling silver cutlery ñ is this where Argentina got its name?)
The surrounding houses are more original than most we have seen ñ Buenos Aires has suffered from sixtiesitis as have so many cities and towns of the world. Filled with galleries and cafÈs, they clearly do quite nicely out of the tango spotters. I believe they are missing out on a huge market with young British tourists who would buy ëIíve been tangoed in San Elmoí t-shirts by the thousand.
I have to say though that I am getting somewhat tired of the ëliving statueí street artists that seem to be plaguing the world these days. It seems that you cannot take a picture of a delightful street scene anywhere without having one of them at the least in the corner of the frame. Hrmmph, hrmmph. Wouldnít happen in my day.
We did a bit more sight seeing as the weather continued to prove fair. Carrying on out of town, one comes to the legendary Boca Stadium, home of course to Boca Juniors. As we passed, there was a crowd gathering outside and remembered that they were due to play River Plate in the huge derby match of the year that very afternoon. We passed by before the Latino football supporter temperament cut in. Weíve been watching a bit on telly and it seems that every match involves some pretty serious terrace action. Just the other day fans being charged by police fell down a 4m deep ha-ha with obvious consequences. Iíve decided to wait for a less sensitive match somewhere in South America before sampling the experience.
ëGOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLí later in the afternoon, as we passed a bar, Boca scored and the commentator let rip in standard fashion. Iíve timed a couple of these outbursts and the record Iíve got evidence of so far was 17 seconds. Mad!
The pleasing side effect of this passionate love of football and the absolute faith in their local teams means that we have not seen one single Man U shirt in the two weeks weíve been here. Not surprising you may think, but after wall to wall red through Eastern Europe, Middle East and Africa, it comes as a most refreshing change. I think we could settle here.
La Boca itself is an arty area of town close to a small harbour. The houses are painted in bold single coloured walls with contrasting shutters, each house differing from the next. Some walls have had large surreal bas reliefs added, others look on the verge of falling down. The fusion is really rather lovely.
The queues of tour buses heading down the main street were a little sad. 40 yards away there was a most suitable area for parking up the coaches so that a bustling bus free zone could be maintained. I guess itís a bit too much to ask the tourists to get out of their seats. Most of the poor blighters looked quite morose sat inside their cages, though.
Had they got out to take in the street show performed in front of a rapt audience of locals and had they been perceptive enough to spot the jibes of the artists they would have much enjoyed it. At the end of their act they soaked up the applause from the crowd and implored them not ask for ohtros (in a very English voice) but for otros (with a hard o). They went on to take the mickey out of Americans and other tourists to the delight of the onlookers. I must say I found it rather refreshing that they were not sucking up to their bread and butter.
The artists housed in the area, or should I say the galleries in the area that showed the work of artists probably miles away, produced some reasonable stuff, but the racks of paintings on the street failed to capture our wallets. Nice photos though by a guy whoís been all round Argy with his panoramic camera. Had to have a couple of those.
Buenos Aires has a zoo. The animals donít seem too unhappy. Most of them are not indigenous species and we wondered a little as we wandered round as to what the point of these places is. The answer I guess is mostly as an interesting diversion for errant fathers to take their children on their weekend visit. Better take a time out from writing as Iím getting a bit cynical.
Honestly, though, Hippy and I are a bit sad and enjoy going around doing impersonations of the animals and stuff. Judging by the reaction of some of the small children in groups with their teachers, my Mohawk may have taken a little explanation. They seemed distracted from their Angora rabbit stroking experience as we passed.
Police in B.A. have a wide range of transport; cars, mopeds, electric golf carts, Moto Guzzi bikes, Kawasakis, Hondas et al. The best of the lot though is the huge quad bikes that they hoon around on. It seemed to miss the point of bike type transport viz the ability to be able to cut through the crowds. As we walked home form the zoo, all became clear as we passed through a park with broad tarmacadam paths which were being regularly patrolled by the quadding cops.
No sign of crime here it has to be said and the parks are used to the full at lunch times by sunbathing office workers. Another element amongst the park users are the cat lovers of Buenos Aires. The cats obviously know where to go for a good feed and hung around in their scores as random old folk turned up with tasty tit bits. On reflection, this is one of the huge differences between Africa and what we have seen of South America. (which is little!) Argentineans are mad keen on pedigree dogs and keep them in excellent condition. The classifieds are full of ads for Airedales and the like. Quite extraordinary.
Now the bike still had the electrical problem that it had had in Cape town funnily enough the sea cruise over the Atlantic had not managed to cure it. The bike had been in with a mechanic for a couple of days and they had been through a few theories already and failed to find the route of the problem until they checked the rotor that had been replaced in SA. Needless to say Pat was not a happy chicken; we now have to send to England to get a part that we got changed only a month ago.
We had been in BA long enough and were getting itchy feet to move on so decided to abandon the bike while the part arrived and is being fitted and nip over to Uruguay. Ever since we had met a lovely lady in Cape Town from there we had been looking forward to having a look around.
An early start to catch the ferry meant that muggins here had no sleep. There is a strange mechanism in my body: it hates mornings and at times feels physically sick when forced to emerge from bed, but when it has to get up really early it stops me sleeping all together, so I presumably am then unable to sleep through the alarm.
Our chosen ferry port was a little known suburb of greater BA called Tigre, a lovely little place and it has the most romantic border control yet ñ an Alpine style office with flowers around it and a river running outside. Something worth waking up for. The journey across the river Plate reminded us of journey up the Pomeroon in Guyana, we cruised past islands surrounded by mangrove fringes and watched the inhabitants wave from their wooded stilted houses as we passed. The murky coffee coloured river broadened out as we neared Carmelo and the memories faded. We were glad to have made the crossing in a modern catamaran rather than a leaky old speed boat, though.
We did realize as we came off the boat onto a new foreign land that we were carry contraband in the form of an orange and an apple, we had failed to consume on the boat. Pat scuttled surreptitiously back onto the boat and handed over the offending items to a couple of deck hands who seemed quite made up with their additional lunch.
Carmelo, well what can say! The tranquility overwhelms you, it was exaggerated by the fact that we arrived at siesta time, which is clearly an institution. The streets were quite, with a couple of jovial dogs trotting along the pavement and the odd geezers sat in a doorway chatting with a mate or two over some matÈ.
MatÈ is even more of an institution in Uruguay than in Argentina. Every other person walking down the street has a vacuum flask under one arm and a matÈ cup with straw in the opposite hand. Some even go to the extent of having a complete matÈ kit with them housed in a case similar to that for a large pair of binoculars. Needing more than one hand for any particular operation is no handicap to the hardened matÈ drink; riding a motorcycle, driving a municipal bus, riding a horse or even (the absolute pinnacle of achievement) riding a motorcycle at about 20 mph guiding a horse by itís reins and matÈing all at the same time Impressive stuff.
The moped thing here rivals southern Europe for popularity. Most refreshing it was to see girls, wives and mothers at the helm for a change. Even in cosmopolitan Buenos Aires it was rare to see the female of the species riding with hubby on the back.
I think this is possibly the first country since Eastern Europe where women seem to play a relaxed equal role.
Being just over the water from Argentina and being something of a weekend getaway, there is a beach resort complete with casino and a half respectable riverside park. The park is frequented by numerous scabby mongrels and, par for the course, one of these flea bitten rag bags tagged along with us. Then his friends joined us until we looked like some kind of Pied Pipers. We shook off all but scabby 1 by kicking, hurling stones and being generally nasty. Our faithful friend was not up for going though and followed us for a good few hours including a half hour bar stop ñ he was waiting for us when we came out. As we dined in the evening he was gazing at us from the other side of the road. One can only assume that he was expecting scraps. Strangely, as we emerged from the restaurant he had finally gone home. He must have sussed that we had nothing for him.
The calm is quite intoxicating here. People seemed so relaxed and at one with life that at first I thought there was compulsory Prozac consumption or I had come across the nation where the ¥invasion of the body snatchersí was set. But it became clear that this seemed to a nation that truly deserves its reputation of being the most friendly and hospitable nation in the Americas. I could learn to live here.
There are old people! When you have been away from the UK for a while you kind of get used to the fact that there are very few old people and here there are loads. It seems that the tranquil nature of the people is also good for your health with the average life expectancy reaching figures that sit comfortably with those of the rich West. It does mean that over 60% of this nationís spending is on pensions though and its national debt is one of the largest per capita in the world. At least it seems to have its priorities right with a decent welfare state rather spending the nationís money on warring with countries far away that have done us no harm, like good old Blair.
OK Uruguay has had its fair share of dictators but at least it knows how to get shot of them. (no pun intended)
The streets have all manner of cars on them, going back to the 30s and 40s. I havenít seen so many vintage cars since Syria. This is a classic car buffís place for a holiday. But these majestic beasts are intermingled with 70s Austin Maestros (god help them) , Chevrolets, Citroen jeeps and a whole circus of bizarre automobiles.
Sitting watching the river flow past, and the listening to the quick trot of a horse and cart over the bridge I found it impossible to picture myself rushing around clock watching in the hustle and bustle of the UK. This is the life.
Down the river a bit is Colonia, supposedly the old smugglers inlet into South America. Full colonial two storey houses. Now those seedy times are gone and the cobbled, tree lined streets have a genuine ease that pervades the air. We drank wine over looking the river, strolled the streets, drank coffee and joined the locals in siestaing.
As we had been wandering around the tourist trail in town, we had come across the theatre and in search of further amusement had perused the forthcoming events board. On Sunday night, an extravaganza of local music was promised for the princely sum of 25 pence. We could not turn this one down; Rumba, tango, traditional music and dance. It seemed the perfect way to catch up on Uruguayan culture in one sitting.
We toddled along on Sunday night somewhat daunted by the fact that it was due to start at 9 p.m. In true amateur theatre form, it did not kick off until about 9:30 We were a little concerned that the audience seemed to be made up mostly of people in dancing costumes rather than the host of local dignitaries that such a prestigious performance merited.
We had decided to slink into a quiet corner of the balcony, joining the teenage lads who felt too cool to be in the general auditorium but wanted surreptitiously to watch their friends perform. As the balcony filled with scantily sequined dressed 9 year olds it became clear that we were in the equivalent to back stage and the teenagers fidgeted with the tetchiness of no longer being cool.
The first ¥turn¥ was a group of eight highly proficient traditional dances performing a rich fusion of flamenco with Irish and country dancing. (Bear in mind that the ethnic blend of Uruguay is incredibly diverse ñ surnames such as Williams abound) So far as attire goes, the lads resembled Cossack dancers with long close fitting but baggy boots, baggy plus fours and silky shirts. The girls wore long flared skirts and simple peasant blouses. They were fantastic which is something to be said when the soundtrack to which they danced seemed to be being produced by a wax cylinder.
Pat was a little disappointed that we had chosen such a high vantage point when the dancing got more energetic and the circular skirt flew up as the ladies spin on stage, glimpses of the forbidden were enough to tantalise.
Next up and not to be out done was the local primary school drum and Rumba band. Not particularly inspiring on a performance level, their 30 minute set was kept entertaining by the two mascots that were in attendance.
The drummers were a group of youths with scarves on their heads and their mascot was a two and a half year old lad similarly attired. The dancing group consisted of ten or so scantily clad 9 year olds with a strange group of hangers on. One was the epitome of an American primary school performance Abraham Lincoln, one his wife, their maid and a poor lad trying to twirl and toss his baton.
The mascot for the dancers was a similar aged little girl who clearly had such stage fright that she had to be placed on stage and then stood petrified, with a ëIím going to pee my pantsí expression on her little stressed face. She then shuffled round to her fellow toddler and they began kicking each other in the shin behind a row of other dancers. Their antics continued; the drummer decided to dump his drum with his Dad and then insisted on it back again, the girl stealing his drum stick, them toddling on and off the stage or in and out of the other dancers trying to perform at random points, etc.
I can well imagine the casting of this performance. ¥Watson, you have no rhythm and no skill, so you will be the old man. Crompton, you have no rhythm but can be trusted not to hit anyone with the baton and so you shall perform that job, etcÖ
As for me I would be back stage, not wanting the limelight.
I squirmed to think of my past playing a Bambazoolian Way dancer. Ask the family about that one.
Strangely, that was the end of the performance and as the audience took away their children, it was clear that we were the only impartial observers. Still, it was a fascinating insight into family and culture of this region and we came away really rather entertained.
I was walking down the street quite happy and content when I realised that there was something wrong. My clothes felt wrong. It was my bra you see, it was empty. Now my breasts had not mysteriously fallen off, I had not got my credit cards. For me my bra is a mini safe less conspicuous than a money belt and certainly less accessible. No I admit I am a complete worry pot about losing things and have repeatedly insisted on emptying out our luggage to check that something has been packed. Generally, the object is there snugly packed where it should be and the worry was unnecessary. So when I insisted on returning to the hotel to check after we had set out for the day Pat, understandably, was none too chuffed.
We mozzied back to the hotel and we rummaged and rummaged to no avail, the credit cards were not there. I actually felt semi-relieved that at lest this time my worries were not just paranoia, and I would not have Patís grumpiness to deal with. But now there was the problem of finding out where they were. The obvious place was the hotel in Carmelo.
This was going to be something of a trial of our Spanish fluency. First we had to sort out the telephone number of the hotel in Carmelo and then be able to explain to the manager who we knew spoke not one jot of English that we had left our cards. As I was getting the telephone directory off the manager of the hotel that we were at, I explained using the best parlance that I could and a few diagrams and so forth that we had left our tarjettas de credito at the last place.
He seemed to understand and when I asked him where there was a telephone that I cold use to call the hotel, he not only gave me a lift over to the telephone office on his bike, but insisted on making the call for me. As I listened in, it was clear that the other guy did, indeed, have the cards and we arranged for him to hold onto them until we returned at the end of the week. We were made up with the fact that Uruguayans as a rule are honest and helpful and what had seemed to be an insurmountable problem had been resolved in no time at all.
It is easy to forget when youíre sat at home that cancelling cards while travelling is all very well apart from the fact that you end up without cards for a month or so until you can arrange some way of getting them out to you. Hence the reason for keeping them in such a safe place. No one gets at my wifeís bra without my say so.
(or mine!)
I will make a point of frisking Hippy every morning from now on. Who knows, it may put an extra spark in our relationship.
First British bike spotted since Nairobi. This a sidevalve 1940s BSA in absolutely fantastic condition. I was inspired to wave the rider owner and, unfazed, he obliged and we shared a few mutters about British iron before he roared off into the distance again. I am sure he would have spent more time with us if weíd been on the bike, but as it was I guess he left wondering why on earth a be-Mohawked punter had waved him over.
Monte Video is so named because there is a monte that it has a view of. Regrettably, the city is as most cities are ñ built up ñ and there is no view of the said monte unless you find a suitable corner of a third floor office.
Travelling around by bus is something of an alien experience for us and we are beginning to see the major advantages of being independent. When you land in a city at a bus station that is out of town you then have to find a bus that heads to the centre and then a hotel at the right price. The latter involves traipsing aroung with your backpack (or in our case a couple of grotty hold alls purchased in Cape Town).
The major advantage is (for those of us who actually want a cultural experience) that you get to be in close proximity to locals for finite periods of time and can engage in conversation with too much fear of getting too far beyond the ëwhere are you fromí conversation. Indeed, we met the most charming chap over a cup of coffee at MV bus station. With our feeble Spanish, we managed to fill him in on our travels and plans, etc. He, in turn, told us all about himself; mechanical engineer, worked with Bethlehem Bridge (are you reading this, old fella), his family, politics and all sorts. We came away chuffed with our ability to communicate and delighted that this chap had made the effort to humour us and be so affable.
It is interesting to note, in fact, that backpacking is something of a misnomer. In our experience, no one with a back pack ever actually puts their arms through the straps and goes for anything approaching a hike. In fact, it seems that the shoulder straps are an annoyingly complicated hand hold designed to dangle through luggage racks and tickle the passengers below. Most ëbackpackersí actually catch taxis from hotels to stations.
We were annoyed by the fact that the youth hostel was far more expensive than any of the local hotels which could provide a clean, safe, double room with privado for half of the cost. Seemingly, gone are the days when hostels of this ilk were the cheap option and they simply prey on poor young folk who do not have the confidence to look elsewhere for a place to lay their heads.
I donít remember if we mentioned the recycling culture that exists in Buenos Aires. As the bin bags are put out on the streets, they are successively rifled by; the cardboard man, the plastic bottle man, the metals man, etc. These guys known as ëcartoÒerosí seem to be reasonably organised with depots every few blocks where they trade on their haul to a big fish and so on.
Monte Video has the same principle in action, but here the guys are of a higher class. Some have bikes, many trolleys and the big fish go around with horses and carts. Where thereís muck and all that. The downside of these activities is that the un-recyclable remains are left strewn over the pavements. Buenos Aires, to itís credit, does seem to have fairly competent municipal street cleaners. Monte Video does not. Enough said.
I did think it would be nice if the local people sorted their rubbish for the cartoÒeros so that they didnít have to go through the humiliation and squalor of scavenging in bins. But as Pat probably rightly pointed out, if they did some commercial enterprise would take over the processing and the homeless would be left without any income at all.
If you happen to be keen on pork make your way to Uruguay, it has the tastiest, most succulent pork I have ever tasted. This may have something to do with the number of free range snufflers we spotted roaming in meadows as we travelled on the bus. It is a pity that pork has gone out of fashion as everyone has got diet conscious, but I am sure in 10 years time some medical report will testify to the contrary.
There is a decent set of museums in Monte Vid. The best thing about them is that they are all gratis. The charming girl we met at the first one was a little apologetic that the contents would not compare well to British counterparts and when we explained that most British museums owed their fascinating content to the fact that most of it was stolen on a grand scale she was much amused. Of course, just as in other 'new world' countries, history does not stretch that far and for the most part the displays were concerned with the creation of the state.
We did our best to get up to date with the journal in an internet cafÈ but it was difficult to concentrate as there was a chap using the net-phone who clearly had a bad line and was talking extremely loudly. This in itself is not too much of a distraction, but the content of his chat was. ìCan you please talk in English so that no one else will understandî Her response was that she had another caller on another line who required her services in the Castellan lingo. After a while our man gave up and surfed for more respectable fun.
Leaving Monte Video by bus, we were afforded an excellent view of the monte itself. It is clear that the Spanish word monte does not only translate as mountain. In fact the precise translation of Monte Video is: View of a small hummock just up the river. Still, given the rest of the surrounding countryside, I can see why they were excited enough to name a town after it.
Our arrival back in Carmelo was nervous. Would our hotel proprietor actually have our cards or had he given it away to one of his friends to take a short holiday with. Although we were quite sure that the inhabitants of Uruguay are honest to a man, there's nothing like having the evidence in your hand (or in Hippy's case, in your bra). He showed us our room and made small talk (for that is all we understand in Spanish) but did not seem to be making a move to proffer the necessary. Hippy got more and more fraught until finally he sloped off into the back of the gaff and returned with the much missed plastic.
Pat had finally succumbed to my cold and I was off on prezzy buying duties to say a thank you to the very nice man at the hotel for looking after my cards. I, of course, had forgotten that here in rural Uruguay siesta can be for up to 4 hours in the afternoon. Walking in vain for 20 minutes I finally found a little shop open and asked for:
ìvino tinto, por favor?î
blank face
ìbino tinto?î
ìah si!î, and pointed at a carton of wine.
Great we were making progress. But somehow a carton of wine seemed a shabby kind of present. I tried and failed to explain in pigeon Spanish that I did want wine but in a ìbotellaî (pronounced botessha here), but all she could say is how muy muy rico the wino was and why did I want a bottle. I gave up and said Ciao and I was off.
On to the next shop, after another 20 minute search for an open shop. A supermarket in a room about 4m by 3m and half empty selves. Again only cartons. This time I plucked up courage and tried to explain that I didn't want a carton because it was a present for someone.
I was met with a blank face again. She didn't understand. Now I was resorting in stick man drawings on a piece of paper. It became clear she thought this is for my boyfriend. I tried and failed to say that it for someone male that is not a relative, but a friend and not a boyfriend. You can probably see how confusing this could all seem in broken badly pronounced and poorly grammatically constructed Spanish. In the end, I had been in there for 10 minutes, 2 gents had tried to join in assisting and she had convinced me to buy something in florescent blue foil, that I had no idea want it was, but I had managed to gather, I think, that it was something people gave each at Christmas or birthdays. The thing in the foil, could be anything from perfume, to a jack in a box, but it cost a quid and I had wasted so much of the lady's time that I felt obliged to walk out with something.
I would make one last attempt to buy some wine, just in case when I peered through the foiled thing, I had bought something entirely inappropriate. In the end I looked into a stationerís, because it was open. There on the shelf were bottles of wines. Why had I not thought of this before! Looking in supermarkets, how ridiculous, it is obviously going to be with the envelopes and note books. The lady even offered to ìvolverî¥ (wrap) it for me. How nice is that! After nearly 2 hours of effort I was quite worn out, but at least I was furnished with something semi appropriate. The thing in foil, turned out to be a large currant bun
We had enjoyed the delights of the river front at Carmelo before but could not resist another walk along the shore before dinner. This time we managed not to accumulate a collection of dogs and so we were much relaxed and in good spirits when it came to us dinner.
This town is not swamped with cheap eateries and so we trotted back to our previous haunt where we were greeted by the waiter as if we were long lost family. Even though we plumbed the depths with our cheap selection from the menu (double egg and chips, I kid you not) he maintained his effusive jollity all evening. It turned out that this wizened old chap was of Italian extraction which probably accounts for the fact that we understood about one word in four of his banter. As far as we could tell he had a son who was an architect in England and the man himself had been a P.E. instructor. We knew that he had appreciated our custom for when we left he smothered us with kisses as is the norm here amongst friends. We were really rather touched.
During the meal we had something of a ®Groundhog Day® experience. Every four minutes a lad with a three wheel delivery bike passed laden with all manner of amplification and sound projection equipment. The message that it delivered was synchronised to begin just as he passed the same shop on each round. It was hard to make out the fuzzy message, but we mused that it must have been deriding this first shop and trying to draw away their customers to far better offers/service elsewhere. Another thought hit us. In the UK large numbers of teenagers generate hideously small sums of money for themselves by the delivery of printed media. This seems to be pretty unique to Britain (and maybe the US where they hurl papers onto peoplesí lawns at a great rate) and the prospects for employment for youngsters elsewhere are scarce. Here, publicity is obviously the replacement.