Bahia Blanca II

To Bahia Blanca

Photos: House, Casino (all money goes back to Buenos Aires), Tree broken in storm now art piece, Remembering where I am.

            The distance between Monte Hermoso and Bahia Blanca is about 70 miles so there was no rush to get going. I had breakfast in the hotlel lobby that overlooks the sea and the sun rising from the East. An older couple, perhaps in their 70’s sat down at the table next to mine and we struck up a conversation. It centered around the usual things, Obama, the economy, and Kitchener. Kitchener is the current Argentine President. The previous president was also a Kitchener, her husband. The general consensus from every Argentinean I’ve spoken with is that Kitchener is doing a poor job and should be voted out. One of the complaints is that the administration is raising export taxes directly affecting farmers during a year when massive droughts have reduced the harvest by over 1/3 of the previous year and the global commodities prices are down.  Another complaint is that there hasn’t been any progress in reducing violent crime. The last is that she has abused presidential power by changing the date of the elections to be held several months earlier than normal. The reason for this is fear that her falling popularity will continue to erode as more time passes making her reelection impossible. When I asked, “how does such a poor politician win a free election?” I was told that they buy votes. Representatives go into the poorest of neighborhoods and hand out money for a mark on the ballot. It amazes me that this is legal and that it actually might work so I’ll look for some confirmation of this before taking it at face value.

            Leaving the city and the ocean behind I made sure to enjoy the cool air on my face, to notice the blooming puncture vine on the sides of the road, and the white butterflies who have all hatched from their cocoons simultaneously. Unfortunately a large percentage of the butterflies wind up as yellow streaks on my windscreen.             After 70 miles of flat grasslands, sometimes brown instead of green, I pulled into Bahia Blanca, a bustling port city with 300,000 people. Big enough to have a modern art museum and a university but small enough to feel relaxed compared to Buenos Aires. While at the tourist information center in the town plaza I met two locals standing over another KLR just like mine. The owner of the bike, and the nearby Café Boston, was selling the bike to the other guy. Both were very interested in my bike, the modifications made, and the sound of the engine. After an hour of storytelling I made for the hostel, unloaded my bags, and took a drive to explore the city.  The modern art museum had some interesting work, including fake shelf mushrooms made from wood growing up a wall, and a tray pulled from a Honey Bee box that had pollen loaded in wax cells. The pollen was organized in several perfectly shaped hexagons. How do the little bees know how to make perfect hexagons?

            I drove past the university and through the town’s major park. Various soccer games were in progress; kids and their grandparents were feeding swans and sipping matte near the lake. I stopped to watch some talented teenagers catching big air at a BMX racetrack in the center of the park before leaving.

            Back at the hostel I met the motorcycle mechanic next door. He was happy to show me his shop, and his 1980 six cylinder Honda race bike. Classic shop with tons of old bikes and pin up girls on the walls. He said buying used parts from the United States was easy but that it’s really hard in Argentina. When I asked him why, he explained that it’s because you’re not allowed to sell used vehicles in Argentina. If there were a market for legal used parts it would support an entire industry of dismantling stolen vehicles to sell the parts.  No used parts = less stolen vehicles.

           

            Alan Laurland is an owner and executive of XL construction who has family living in Argentina. He put me in touch with his cousin’s husband Alberto in Bahia Blanca. Alberto picked me up at the hostel and drove me to his house, an apartment on the 5^th floor of a newly remodeled building. The house is very new and has amazing views of the city. I was introduced to his daughter before we left to his Wednesday night English class. A substitute teacher was there for the night surprisingly centered most of the class on me, a native speaker. I explained my travels in Chile and Argentina and then the subject matter moved onto America, the economy, and politics. I took the America bashing without having my feelings hurt. Afterward we headed back to the house and ordered take out empanadas.

            While I was out with Alberto the hostel was being used as a classroom for tango lessons, and according to another traveler, was quite a party. When I came back at 11:30 pm things had quieted down and I made to get into bed. About half an hour later pounding on one of the doors outside startled me. I heard voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying, a door slammed shut followed by footsteps in the courtyard, and then pounding on my door. I asked “who is it” and the voice of a woman answered with words I couldn’t understand. I opened the door to an intoxicated woman in her 20’s. Swaying, she asked me for the time. I told her. Then she asked me again, and if she could keep me company in my room. I told her to get lost and shut the door in her face. Listening behind my door I heard her footsteps walk away and her pounding on the next door. She looked more like a crazy person than a working girl and I wondered how long before she would be kicked out of the hostel. Actually, how did she get in? I locked my door and waited for Brooke to get home from her evening race in Georgia. The WIFI signal didn’t work in my room so I entered the courtyard to make the connection. After a few minutes talking with Brooke the crazy woman appeared from one of the adjacent rooms. She headed straight for me and started to ask me unintelligible questions reaching to touch the computer in my lap. I told her off and she quickly left, but not back to her room. I watched her walk around the corner and try to open the door to my room?? I yelled some choice words and she left my door unopened and disappeared towards another part of the building. While talking to Brooke the woman reappeared and I watched as she tried her key in a series of doors, until she reached her own and closed the door behind her. What did the other guests think? Five minutes later her head peaked out and she shouted what are you doing” and closed the door. I said goodbye to Brooke and went back to my room being sure to lock the door behind me. When I woke up and entered the courtyard the crazy woman’s room was empty. Some other travelers confirmed she was sick in the head and were happy to see her leave. The hostel seems normal again.

Photos Villa Gessell to Miramar

Buenos Aires to Villa Gessell and Miramar

Leaving BA was something I had been looking forward to and with a strong running bike, tank with new gas, aired up tires I was ready to roll. Although I had to make a final pass on the Aveneda 9 de Julio so I could document what its like to drive on an 8 lane street through one of the worlds most densely populated cities. This little project probably cost me about an hour by the time I navigated the one-way streets, traffic lights and traffic jams back to the main drag out of the City. I got lost along the way and spent about 15 minutes driving through the ghetto and various freeway overpasses until I was able to get going in what I thought was the right direction.  At a stop near the on ramp I asked a driver with his window down if the Highway went to “La Plata” and he said no. Sh*t I said to myself. The light turned green and I was forced ahead by the honking traffic behind me and guess what. The onramp had a big sign that said “La Plata”. Bingo.

 I drove through more ghettos before the horizon started to change from city high-rises to the open green expanse of pampas grass and single story buildings lining the roadsides. Then it hit me. The smell of Latin America. Smoke billowed onto the road from nearby burn piles, a mixture of plant material and trash. After being in Buenos Aires for 3 weeks I had forgotten the familiar odor of the country side; a smell that I’ve developed a familiarity with since my trip to Central America 8 years ago. This small association brought me back into the world of adventure and dreams.

I spent the next few hours passing flat, hill less, bump less, dirt pile less, flat as a lake grasslands. 

Closer to the coast a strange site appeared, the ground was no longer flat. Instead sand dunes appeared along with forests of costal pines. I follow the deep green trees and rolling dunes South without a clear view of the Atlantic until reaching the beach town of Teresita.

 I pulled off the inland highway and drove about 2 miles through town to get a look at the sea. The main street was lined with tourist type shops for clothing, bikes, motorcycles, beach and fishing gear, and fast food type establishments, the majority of the businesses being closed due to the off season. At the end of the road was the Sea. A flat sandy beach with brown water 100 yards out due to the fact the Rio de la Plata flows nearby, bringing all of Buenos Aires pollution with it, not to mention pollution from a Uraguayan paper mill that has become such a point of protest in Argentina that they’ve permanently boycotted an adjacent boarder crossing into closure. 

I pulled out my guidebook to read up on the area and it stated that the water was unsuitable for bathing and that the resort type towns for the next 20 Km were run down and not really worth visiting. In agreement I headed further South to a less toxic environment. Pulled into the town of Villa Gessell noted to be more relaxed and less expensive than the neighboring fancy resort town of Pinamar.

In Villa Gessell I planned to wake up before the dawn so that I could go for a swim while the sun rose over the beach, an incredibly romantic way to start the day. When I opened my eyes the sun was already up and my room was freezing. I put on my puffy jacket, canceled my date with the ocean, and set out for coffee.

The town of Villa Gessell is a tourist Mecca during the summer and a ghost town the rest of the year. The high-rise condos, ice cream stores, beachside bars, and restaurants said to swarm like anthills during January and February looked plague stricken. Empty, boarded up, sad, and lonely. In the absence of people is seemed absurd to build up a dense infrastructure that is only useful for human entertainment 2 months out of the year.

            Needless to say I never found my coffee. Instead I walked along the beach picking up shells from the hard packed sand. Hunger called me back to the city center after and hour of exploration and I followed the trail of senior citizens holding grocery bags to the supermarket where I bought supplies for breakfast and lunch. I headed back to the hostel where I enjoyed peach marmalade on baguette to the sound of chirping birdies in the sunlit garden.

The towns have a strange similarity to South Lake Tahoe in that many of the houses are designed to handle a snow load. An interesting design element considering it doesn’t snow at this beach.  

            I loaded the bike and hit the road. Noteworthy sights included a sleeping burrowing owl that wasn’t very happy about my arrival, cities with sand roads instead of asphalt, which creates the never-ending job of a water truck driver spraying down the roads so they’re useable. Remember the last time you tried to drive your car or bike onto the beach? And lots of flat grass fields, again, the ideal natural habitat for???? You guessed it, little green parrots. Tons of them.

            I am staying in a hostel in the town city of Miramar, nicknamed the city of bicycles. It won its nickname because bicycle was the preferred method of travel before everyone in the Western World fell in love with McDonalds. There are still a ton of bikes in town and the hostel has a pack of mountain bikes for guests use. I am the only guest staying here. The owner of the hostel is a young Argentine currently working in Miami. His brother’s girlfriend checked me into my room and then served me matte and introduced me to her Mom, Aunt, and cousin who peppered me with questions for an hour.  They think I’m crazy for traveling alone.

 

Drive with me through Buenos Aires

9 de Julio is the main street through Buenos Aires and has 8 lanes of traffic in each direction for a total of 16 lanes. Its not a freeway. It has pedestrians, cross traffic, and is generally in a state of mayhem. The video is tame compared to what I've experienced on the road. Normally the cars don't pay any attention to the lanes. They merge without warning and if they can crowd another driver out of a space they will. Motorcycles drive twice as fast as the cars and constantly split lanes. They must think I'm an idiot for driving so slow.

San Telmo Street Fair

Abandoned Blog returns in Buenos Aires

Apologies for abandoning the blog.  After the last post Mish and I made our way back to Santiago Chile stopping to stay with our friends in Chiloe and Anna in Talca. Berta put us up for the night in Santiago and the next day we crossed the Andes into Mendoza Argentina, an area famous for its wines. From Mendoza we drove to a town named Rio Cuarto. 6 hours of riding though flatlands of industrial corn and soy fields. From Mendoza to Buenos Aires was much of the same, except we entered Buenos Aires, a city of 14 million, at night and in a rain storm. Quite possibly the most dangerous experience of my life as nothing could have prepared me for the aggressiveness of the drivers. Magically we made it into the city center and our destination without getting lost. Mish's wife Susan flew down and met us in the city and we spent the next two weeks doing city things. Museums, plays, restaurants, shoe shopping, etc. A highlight was visiting the famous cemetery in Recoleta, a city within the city that houses the most wealthy Argentineans of the past. The Mausoleums may house entire families and extend 3 stories below ground, the caskets stacked one on top of another all the way up in some cases.

Photos of Recoleta Cemetary