Navigating the car market in Uruguay during the late 1970s presented unique challenges, a far cry from the diverse options available in many parts of the world. My father, seeking a replacement for his trusty but aging ’68 Nova, soon discovered this firsthand. While the eventual outcome might be hinted at by the title, let’s rewind and explore the journey that led us to an unexpected member of our family: the Chevrolet Chevette.
Back in 1977, my dad decided it was time to consider an overhaul for his ’68 Nova 230. However, before committing to such an expense, we embarked on a search for alternatives. Uruguay, and indeed much of Latin America at the time, wasn’t a place where you could simply walk into a dealership and find a wide array of vehicles, regardless of budget. This limitation significantly shaped our options.
Let me recount the initial contenders we considered before the Chevrolet Chevette entered the picture. My father, at that time, was adamant about sticking with a six-cylinder engine. This preference, born from familiarity and perhaps a touch of habit, was soon to be challenged by the realities of exorbitant fuel prices in Uruguay, a consequence of those very gas-guzzling engines.
One day, an intriguing advertisement from the American Embassy caught our eye. They were offering two vehicles for tender: a nearly new 1975 Nova with a mere 10,000 kilometers on the odometer, and a 1970 Argentine Falcon, boasting considerably higher mileage. Naturally, we went to inspect both.
The 1975 Nova was remarkably pristine, equipped with a 250 engine, automatic transmission, power steering, and power brakes. It was a base model, devoid of air conditioning, finished in a golden brown hue with a complementary interior. Intriguingly, the embassy’s protocol at the time didn’t permit test drives. The mechanic on duty would merely start the car for potential buyers, limiting the inspection process. Despite its age, being only two years old, the Nova was subject to taxes, typically waived for diplomats, amounting to a hefty $11,000 USD in 1975. While I can’t recall the exact price of a new Nova then, this figure seemed inflated.
A 1975-1979 Nova, similar to the one considered, highlighting its basic features. Image courtesy of Hannes from the Cohort.
Despite the price, Dad submitted a bid, but we were ultimately outbid. A low-mileage, two-year-old Nova was indeed a coveted and expensive vehicle in Uruguay. The 1970 Argentinian Falcon, conversely, failed to impress. It showed clear signs of neglect, requiring a repaint, and felt dated despite its relatively young age. An American driver familiar with a 1962 Falcon would have felt right at home in it, even down to the left-hand starter.
To give you a visual, I searched for representative images of the Argentinian Falcon from that era. While minor variations might exist between these and the specific car we saw, the overall shell, headlights, and key details are consistent. It’s worth noting that these cars, now over half a century old, are often well-preserved, a stark contrast to the neglected state of the six-year-old Falcon we encountered in 1977. Interestingly, it was common to see aftermarket headrests and shoulder belts added to Argentine cars, mandated by road safety regulations also prevalent in Uruguay. The sight of these additions on even small cars like a Fiat 600 was quite amusing.
For those interested in delving deeper into these vehicles, todofalcon.com.ar is a valuable resource, packed with reliable information and captivating photographs, provided you understand Spanish.
Having explored these initial options, and still without a Nova replacement, our car search continued. A visit to a local import car dealer presented another set of possibilities. On a particular Saturday morning, the dealership showcased a 1975 Chevelle 4-door sedan parked alongside a 1975 Chevrolet Opala. The Opala, essentially a Brazilian iteration of the Opel Rekord C, utilizing a Chevy II four- or six-cylinder engine and drivetrain, didn’t particularly capture my attention. However, the Chevelle did. Upon closer inspection, something seemed amiss. The interior was entirely black, and the upholstery felt distinctly like plastic. A glance at the dashboard confirmed the absence of air conditioning. Popping the hood revealed power steering and power brakes, along with a six-cylinder engine, ticking the boxes for basic features.
A 1975 Malibu, resembling the basic Chevelle model we inspected. Photo by Jason Shafer.
This ’75 Chevelle was significantly more basic than the one pictured. It lacked a vinyl roof, SoftRay glass, and sported only basic dog dish hubcaps. In earlier years, it might have been classified as a Chevelle 100, emphasizing its stripped-down nature.
My father joined me, briefly examined the Chevelle for a mere two minutes, and promptly declared, “No way. Parking this near the office will be impossible, and the fuel consumption will be even worse.” He pointed out the recirculation system, adding something along the lines of, “We’ll have to wait longer before we can get another American car.” His attention then shifted to the Opala, which appeared brand new with only 11,000 kilometers on the clock. It featured a 151 CID engine, a three-on-the-tree manual transmission, power brakes, and a radio, representing a fairly basic specification. However, a significant drawback was its color: the exact blue shade used by the Uruguayan Air Force. Given my father’s position as the chief cardiologist at the Central Military Hospital, he was reluctant to drive a car that might make him appear like a military officer around the clock. Despite its reasonable price, he decided to pass on both the Chevelle and the Opala, opting to wait and assess the performance of the overhauled engine in our ’68 Nova. As you might anticipate, that engine overhaul didn’t quite deliver the desired outcome.
The Opala pictured here is both similar to and different from the one we considered. The “4100” badge hints at a 250 CID engine, a detail one might easily miss on the street. The image description mentions automatic transmission and air conditioning, features absent in the model we saw. Power steering and brakes were also optional. The front end bears a strong resemblance to the 1972/1973 Chevelle.
The rear design, with its Chevy-esque round taillights, is quite appealing. Brazilian owners at the time often added a third pair of rear lights, mimicking the look of a mini-Impala.
By August 1978, roughly halfway through our car-seeking journey, the Uruguayan car market offered a clearer picture of mid-range options. These cars were categorized more by price point than physical size.
The contenders in this segment included the VW Brasilia, Fiat 128, Chevrolet Chevette, Renault 12, Ford Escort, and the Grumett, a locally produced fiberglass station wagon based on the Chevette, which would eventually be superseded by the imported Chevette Marajo. A few less common models also existed within this price range. With the exception of the Grumett and the Escort (imported as kits from England), all these cars were imported as CKDs (completely knocked-down kits) and assembled domestically.
The Grumett, in essence, was an Opel Kadett derivative with a modified front end and mechanical components. The Brasilia was the most affordable, including a four-door variant, but the price difference was marginal. The Fiat 128, Chevette, and Grumett were closely priced, while the Escort and Renault 12 were slightly more expensive. A buyer considering any of the first three models could generally afford any within that group, potentially even opting for higher trim levels and additional features.
The Brasilia, built on the Beetle chassis, suffered from lackluster performance, weak brakes, limited cargo capacity, and a noisy cabin, leading to its swift removal from our shortlist. The Grumett was also dismissed due to my father’s aversion to fiberglass cars. The Escort was deemed uncomfortable, and the Renault 12 exceeded my father’s budget at the time.
This narrowed our choices down to the Fiat 128 or the Chevrolet Chevette. As is often the case, car enthusiasts harbor strong brand loyalties and biases. In our family, Fiats were the subject of ongoing jokes, resulting in its elimination from consideration.
And the winner emerged: a 1978 Chevrolet Chevette, the Brazilian version of General Motors’ “T-car” platform, globally recognized as the Opel Kadett C and its various siblings. It was delivered on Tuesday, August 15, 1978, at 4:30 PM, bearing the Montevideo license plate 300-111 – details only a true car enthusiast would likely recall. Three Chevette models were available: the two- and four-door sedans, and the two-door Rally, primarily a cosmetic enhancement package. The Rally featured blacked-out chrome trim (excluding bumpers), a tachometer, vacuum gauge, ammeter, a “RALLY” stripe, sport wheels, and wider tires. Despite extensive searching, I’ve been unable to locate a photograph of this specific model, suggesting either their rarity today or that they’ve been repainted or modified over time. The sole model available for immediate delivery was a canary yellow Rally, which, for its era, possessed a genuinely sporty aesthetic.
The Brazilian GP version of the Chevette, resembling the Rally in graphics and color scheme.
One initial challenge arose immediately after taking delivery. I had to instruct my father on engaging reverse gear. This was his first four-speed car and his first vehicle in three decades with a floor-mounted gear lever. His driving experience dated back to a 1940 Ford A, from a time when Uruguay still adhered to driving on the left side of the road.
I demonstrated the technique: hand on the lever, press down, slide left, and forward. That was all it took.
“How did you know that?” he inquired.
“Because I was the only one at home who actually read the Nova’s owner’s manual,” I replied. It was a fortunate piece of knowledge, as I later discovered that the Nova employed several different gearboxes, each with unique shifting mechanisms.
I thoroughly enjoyed our Chevette, particularly my daily school commutes with my father. He deemed me old enough to handle warming up the car myself in the mornings. I’d head down to the garage, engage the choke, start the engine, and listen to its sputtering during colder mornings. My father, a stickler for following manuals, adhered strictly to the Chevette’s owner’s manual. For reasons unknown, the manual recommended parking the car in reverse rather than first or neutral. One day, I neglected to put it in neutral, leaving my foot firmly on the clutch. As my father approached, I exited the car, and the sporty Chevette promptly rolled backward. Fortunately, his reflexes were sharp, and he narrowly avoided being struck by the door.
Our neighbor’s Citroën Méhari, belonging to Dr. Martínez, a large animal veterinarian who used it for rural patient visits, wasn’t so fortunate. The Chevette’s door detached the Méhari’s door, damaging the convertible roof retainers. My punishment for this lapse in caution was a temporary driving ban. However, the greater ordeal was confessing to Dr. Martínez and facing his understandably displeased reaction, even after my father’s stern reprimand. To compound matters, the Méhari was brand new.
Our Chevette’s time with us was brief but eventful. Mechanically, it was excellent, surprisingly agile despite its 1.4-liter engine and 65 horsepower. Fuel economy was significantly improved compared to the Nova. However, rear passenger comfort was severely lacking. Its low stance made entry and exit challenging. Ironically, despite our jokes about Fiat’s susceptibility to rust, the Chevette developed rust issues in the front fenders, rocker panels, and driver’s side floor, despite having only 60,000 kilometers, a considerable mileage for cars of that era. My father soon began contemplating trading it in, recognizing that car ownership in Uruguay was unlikely to become any simpler.
Related CC reading:
CC Global: The Brazilian Chevette
