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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 5th 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.
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