One Street, Two Countries: Exploring the Unique Border Towns of Rivera and Livramento

The twin cities of Rivera (Uruguay) and Santana do Livramento (Brazil) exist in a unique symbiotic relationship that locals call frontera de la paz—the peaceful border. Unlike most international crossings with their intimidating checkpoints and stern-faced officials, here the countries blend together along Avenida Sarandí, the main commercial street that serves as the invisible dividing line.

On my first morning, I wandered down this avenue in a state of perpetual confusion, my phone constantly alerting me to network changes as it bounced between Brazilian and Uruguayan carriers. The only clear indicators of which country you're in are the subtle shifts in language on storefront signs and the currency being accepted.

What makes this border particularly fascinating is its status as one of South America's oldest examples of a conurbation—two cities from different countries that have grown into each other so completely that they function as one urban area. Locals cross between nations for daily shopping, dining, and socializing without paperwork or formalities, creating a microcosm of international cooperation that feels increasingly rare in our border-obsessed world.

One of the most fascinating aspects of straddling this international line is the opportunity for strategic shopping based on fluctuating exchange rates and tax differences. Locals have perfected this art; I quickly learned to follow their lead.

The Uruguayan side, Rivera, is famous for its duty-free shops (free shops) where you can find everything from fine wines and chocolates to electronics and perfumes at significantly reduced prices. I spent one afternoon exploring these shops, picking up gifts for friends back home at prices that made my New York-calibrated budget breathe a sigh of relief.

Meanwhile, crossing to the Brazilian side of Livramento offers better deals on groceries and everyday items. I found myself adopting the local habit of mental currency conversion gymnastics, trying to determine which side offered better value for each purchase. My currency converter became indispensable for quick calculations between reais, pesos, and dollars.

For accommodation, I discovered staying on the Uruguayan side offered better budget options. I chose a modest but clean guesthouse just two blocks from the border, where the owner—fluent in Portuñol, the local Spanish-Portuguese hybrid language—provided invaluable tips on navigating the dual economy.

As a drone photography enthusiast, I was eager to document this unique border situation from above. After securing the necessary permissions (a process requiring separate applications in both countries—one of the few reminders that this is indeed an international border), I sent my travel drone skyward at dawn when the streets were quiet.

The aerial perspective revealed what's impossible to see at ground level: the subtle urban planning differences between the two nations. The Uruguayan side features a more traditional Spanish grid pattern, while the Brazilian neighborhoods show a slightly different architectural style and road layout. From above, you can actually trace the invisible border by these urban design differences.

One particularly striking view came from hovering above the International Plaza (Plaza Internacional), where the circular design is split precisely down the middle, with Brazilian and Uruguayan flags flanking the central monument. My drone filters proved essential for managing the harsh South American sunlight and capturing the subtle color differences between the two sides of the plaza.

For those interested in drone photography here, remember that flying across the international boundary requires authorization from both countries' aviation authorities. Despite the seemingly relaxed border, aviation regulations remain strictly enforced.

My passion for ceramics inevitably shapes my travel experiences, and this border region didn't disappoint. While not as renowned as some of South America's other ceramic centers, I discovered that both sides of the border maintain distinct pottery traditions worth exploring.

On the Uruguayan side, I spent an afternoon with Señora Elena, an elderly potter who creates pieces influenced by the indigenous Charrúa designs. Working from her small home studio just three blocks from the border, she showed me how local red clay is processed and formed into utilitarian pieces that carry echoes of pre-colonial patterns.

Crossing to the Brazilian side, I found a more Portuguese-influenced ceramic tradition, with brighter glazes and more decorative approaches. At a small workshop in Livramento, I was invited to try my hand at their wheel, my fingers remembering the techniques I'd learned during my sabbatical in Japan, though adapting to the different clay body was challenging.

For fellow ceramics enthusiasts, I recommend bringing a clay tools kit if you plan to participate in any workshops. Local studios have basic tools, but having your own familiar implements makes the experience more rewarding. I always travel with a small set that fits easily in my checked luggage.

What fascinated me most was how these ceramic traditions, like the communities themselves, have begun to cross-pollinate, creating border-zone pottery that incorporates elements from both national traditions—a perfect metaphor for the region itself.

Perhaps the most fascinating cultural aspect of Rivera-Livramento is its unique linguistic situation. Here, the border has created Portuñol (or Portunhol)—a fluid blend of Portuguese and Spanish that locals slip in and out of with remarkable ease.

During my weekend stay, I found myself constantly adjusting my limited Spanish and even more limited Portuguese, often within the same conversation. In a café straddling the border, I ordered in Spanish only to have the server respond in Portuguese, neither of us acknowledging the switch as anything unusual.

To prepare for this linguistic adventure, I spent the weeks before my trip listening to language lessons on my language learning earbuds, which helped me recognize key phrases in both languages. These translator earbuds proved invaluable when conversations became too complex for my basic language skills, especially when discussing ceramic techniques with local artisans.

The language situation perfectly embodies what makes border communities so special—the pragmatic adaptability of people who live between worlds, creating hybrid solutions that outsiders might find bewildering but locals consider entirely natural. One elderly shopkeeper laughed when I asked which language we were speaking. 'Neither and both,' she said with a shrug. 'Just border talk.'