Meet Gabi, champion of "chess sub-18" in South America. He's only 11 years old, and he has beaten professional chess players seven years his senior. He's a bright boy. And he's Jewish too.

His bar mitzvah is fast approaching, and his parents, Oscar and Sandra, are getting worried. "He's had many chess teachers, and he has learnt well," says Oscar, beaming, "but he knows almost nothing about Judaism. And here in Dolores, how's he going to learn about his heritage and prepare for his bar mitzvah?"

We tell him that in today's technologically-advanced world, almost nothing is impossible. We make a commitment to learn with him once a week via Skype. Gabi is thrilled.

After a few chess games, which we understandably lose (Levi almost drew once), we move on to our next meeting.

Are you Jewish, or just kosher?

On our way, in the middle of nowhere, a tire pops. To make matters even more interesting, the only living things around us are cows staring at us from behind a fence. We try calling, but our cellphones indicate that there's no reception.

After what seems like forever, a car passes by. The kind man takes us to a nearby police station, where we meet Officer Pedro, our new friend, who comes back with his police car and helps us fix the wheel. No, he's not Jewish... :)

Pedro to the rescue.

We move on.

Jack owns a big clothing store. After chatting a bit, he says he wants to tell us something: "I didn't grow up religious like you guys, and I never had a Jewish education. In fact, I never knew what Shabbat was or what it implied. Then I got married. I knew that Friday night was a special night, because that's what Dad always said. So in order to honor the Shabbat, my family and I sit down to eat chocolate every Friday night. That's our way of commemorating the special day."

Now that's inspiring!

After explaining to him a little about Shabbat and some traditional ways of celebrating it, we leave...a little different than before we walked through Jack's door.

It is Thursday in Paysandú, and we still have to decide whether we should go back to Montevideo (the capital) for Shabbat or try to make a minyan (prayer services) here. There had once been a large community here, but time had done its work, and although the old synagogue is still open, the fifty-or-so Jews who remain here rarely use it.

Thursday night we find out that someone from the community has passed away and the Jews left in the city would gather at the synagogue for Kaddish.

We lead the services and say some words of comfort to the bereaved relatives. We invite everyone to come back the next night for Shabbat services, followed by Kiddush, challah and some gefilte fish.

After one of the busiest Fridays of our lives (whew!), we are finally ready. Expecting 15 people, we started getting worried when 20, then 25, then 30 people show up—we only have 20 pieces of gefilte fish!

We sing, we dance, and the prayers are uplifting. The festive meal is unbelievable. People are so happy, after not having such an event in many years. There are stories, memories, words from the heart and a warm atmosphere around the table.

Immersing our food-prep utensils in natural water, so that they may be used with kosher food.

Surprisingly, there is even enough gefilte fish.

Saturday night, we get a phone call from Mario, the president of the community. He wants us to join him for lunch and meet his family. "What could you guys eat?" he asks us, half expecting the answer. "Well, I guess Pringles, fruit and Coca Cola would be just great," we tell him.

As soon as we come, the questions start coming…and coming. Before we know it, it's been five hours! After a final farewell, we say goodbye to Paysandu, and hello to Salto, a city famous for its "termas," natural hot baths. It's not so famous for the six Jews who call it home.

Enjoying Coke and Pringles with the entire family.

We search for Henya, an older Jewish woman. We are told that she passed away two days earlier. She left behind a son, Martin, who is the supervisor of a nearby supermarket.

He's home, we are told, mourning his late mother. We go to his house, and although a bit confused at the beginning, not knowing who we are and what we want, in matter of minutes we become fast friends. He opens up to us about his mother. We offer him the opportunity to do something for his mother's soul by putting on tefillin. He starts crying. This is the very first time Martin is putting on tefillin. He doesn't know what they are yet, but he is willing to learn. After some explanation, we help him put them on. It's hard for him to finish saying the blessings. He is crying and choking over his tears. When he is finished, he says, "Thank you. I really feel at peace with myself and like I really connected with Mom. You guys are direct messengers from G‑d…"

As soon as we arrived at our first stop, in the city of S. Jose, we come across a Jew, a shochet from Israel, who is on his way home. He was very surprised to see us walking down the street of an almost "Jewless" city. We told who we are and what were doing. He replied, "You're Chabad? Let me show you something." Out of his wallet, he pulled an original copy of a letter that the Rebbe, of blessed memory, sent to him around 35 years ago, in which the Rebbe wrote on the bottom, "And may you have much success in the dissemination of Torah and mitzvahs."

What a start!

"It's been two years since I put on tefillin."

We visited a man who can neither walk nor talk. As soon as we came in, his face lit up. He was so happy to see us. He started motioning frantically with his hands. We couldn't understand what he was saying. Finally, he took out a paper and wrote (in Spanish): "It's been two years since I put on tefillin." We were awestruck. This man can barely do anything. Yet, he is bothered by the fact that he was not able to do the mitzvah of tefillin. We helped him out with a few things he needed around the house. He bought a book about Judaism from us and insisted on paying, although we tried to convince him that he should take it as a gift.

With our Yiddish-speaking friend.

We met an older Jew who told us that he doesn't believe in G‑d. We told him that although he doesn't believe in G‑d, G‑d believes in him. He smiled. We offered to lay tefillin. with him. He refused, saying he never did it before and doesn't want to do anything Jewish, and feeling Jewish inside is enough.

We spoke to him in Yiddish. He liked that since it reminded him of his parents and the olden days. Our conversation went on for over an hour, all in Yiddish. At this point, we were close friends. Before we left, we asked him again if he's sure he doesn't want to put on tefillin. He relented. We helped him with the straps, and he repeated after us, "Baruch … atah ..." Suddenly, he burst out crying, tears running freely. Putting a hand on his shoulder, not really sure what to say, we reassured him that right now he's connected to G‑d in a special way. He said, choking, "Mein tateh, mein tateh (my father, my father)." He chanted the Shema, all the while sobbing.

Before we left, we hugged warmly, and he told us to please come back.

Installing a mezuzah.

Hi,
We are travelling through Uruguay.

Most of the time we meet Jewish people and help them do mitzvot.

Sometimes, people on horses overtake our car. This is mostly okay, but sometimes you need to be careful!

Or else, we may not make it to our next appointment…

Or enjoy the beautiful sunset.

330 Sarandi St.

The house seems too small to merit a house number. We knock on the door and are greeted by a tired woman who looks about seventy-five. The afternoon sun envelopes her in a haze, accentuating her washed out features.

She introduces herself as Manuel's mother. "You're looking for Manuel? He's still sleeping."

After telling her who we are and what we came for, we tell her all about Shabbat candles and what a great mitzvah it is to light them every Friday evening.

We see a man in the back of the house, walking towards us. With a sleepy face, Manuel invites us to come inside and have a shmooz. A few minutes into the conversation, we realize that he's no happy fellow. Ever since his business shut down thirteen years ago, he has been destitute. His family life isn't too much better. For the past seven years he lives with his elderly mother.

He tells us he's so depressed that he doesn't know why he's still alive. He's not even sure if G‑d exists. But one thing he knows is that he's a Jew. Not that he ever did anything for it or knows what it really means.

We ask him if he has put on Tefillin before. He says he hasn't. He's not even sure he knows what Tefillin are. We ask him if wants to put them on, "It's a mitzvah, a good deed, you know."

He argues that there's no point in putting them on if he doesn't feel it. We compromise; he will put them on but won't say any prayers.

We roll up his sleeve, tighten the strap around his arm, and start saying "baruch…atah…." Manuel echoes our words in stilted Hebrew. He's very moved.

After removing the Tefillin, he goes to the back of the house and comes back with an old coin in his hand. It's a coin from 1905 which he received from his father and is therefore very dear to him. He's giving it to us. We give him the book Towards a Meaningful Life, hoping that it'll give him motivation to go on.

We turn to the old woman and ask her if her son has a Jewish name.

"Of course he does! By his brit, we gave him the name Menachem. His full name is Menachem Mendel."

Our new friends

Paysandu, Uruguay: A city where the amount of Jews equals that of its cyber cafés (about 150).

We are greeted warmly by the president emeritus of the community, Mr. Mario Fremd, who helps us out with the addresses of local Jewish people.

Hard at work in the kitchen

He tells us that the community has an old synagogue which is only used twice a year, on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur.

Right then and there, we make a decision. We will stay for Shabbat and help arrange a Minyan for Friday night services, followed by a Kiddush and Shabbat meal.

Phone calls to Montevideo, and arrangements begin.

We start making our rounds, inviting people to come and take part in this historic event.

"Don't forget," we tell them, "tomorrow night, 7 o'clock at the sinagoga, followed by chicken soup." How do you say gefilte fish in Spanish? Coming from New York, it is hard for us to believe that people don't know these staples of Jewish culture.

We shop, cook (oh no!) and do everything else to prepare. For how many? We'll just have to wait and see...

By Friday night, we're all set up (don't ask how) and twelve people arrive.

The northernmost point of Uruguay

We pray and sing like never before. Before we know it, we are all clapping, stomping, and whirling around the ancient sanctuary. This is a moment we wouldn't have given up for anything!

After the last of the prayers, we chant the Kiddush and sit down to a sumptuous meal, of gefilte fish garnished with tomatoes, followed by some much-appreciated, delicious meat, home cooked in Montevideo (thank you, Mrs. Shemtov).

Everyone gets a chance to speak a little about themselves and about their Jewish experience.

By the time the meal is over, the decision is made to gather for services every month, no matter the turnout.

We agree that it's a good beginning, and assure them that it won't be long before they see the fruits of their efforts.

We say goodbye to Paysandu... and hello to Salto, a city with just twelve Jews.