4-28-10 Comodoro Rivadavia, Argentina

This is not the nicest place I’ve ever been. We’ve been seeing a lot of good stuff in Argentina so I suppose it’s only fair for us to see some of the other side. If Argentina were the US, then this part of the country would be much like North Dakota, central Nevada, or Kansas in its entirety. There is nothing out here worth seeing really. Sure, there are interesting things here and there, but nothing that can’t be seen elsewhere and better at the same time. The only reason people are here is because they don’t know any better. The landscape is nothing but rolling hills covered in some sage brush-like plant. Dead alpacas are seen about every 15 miles. Dead coyotes are every 20 miles. The wind is constant, only varying in direction, intensity and frequency of gusts.


We arrived yesterday around 1pm and found a bike shop that had tires for Mark, but they were closed for their mid-day siesta and wouldn’t reopen until 3:30 so we went off and found a little hospedaje owned by a friendly older guy who showed us around the place. They have a long garage for our bikes which is important as a safe place for the bikes is a prerequisite for a place for us to stay. Our room is a bit barren except for the large painting of eight wild stallions running through water that looks like it has lightning bolts coursing through it. The comically muscular horses have unusually long snout-like faces and extra large eyes. There are four Chinese symbols on the painting as well. It is stunning, thought provoking and of Peruvian quality even though we are in Argentina.

The bathroom is a real treat. It’s set up like an RV bathroom in which the shower and toilet are all in the same area. The design of this place baffles me. The floor plan is the same size as two refrigerator boxes placed end-to-end. Long and narrow. At the far end of the hallway-like room is the toilet. Adjacent to the toilet is the leaking shower head (there is hot water, though!) from the shower head back to the door is about 8 feet of walking space. The drain is at the door as well, so the water has to run down the little hallway before hitting the drain. All the plumbing is done externally thus the shower head could be relocated to an ideal spot in minutes with nothing more than a Leatherman, a garden hose and two clamps.

The kitchen which we were free to use was along the same level as the rest of the place. Most notable was the prison shank sitting next to the sink. It looked like some old sort of machete which had been ground down to a butcher knife size. The handle was impressive, made out of numerous layers of burned and melted plastic bags wrapped around each other.

After the brief showing of our luxo-hotel we rode over to the bike shop where Mark got a new set of Metzlers put on. Argentines have a funny way of pronouncing foreign words as though they are Spanish. I suppose we do the same at times in the US, but not to the extent that they do it here in Argentina. My favorite thus far has been their pronunciation of the word ‘Firestone’. They say ‘Fee-ray Ston-ay’. The mechanic put one of the tires on backwards but happily changed it when we pointed it out.

Upon getting back to our hospedaje the friendly older man was no longer there. In his place was an unfriendly older man. We started pulling our bikes into the parking area when he started throwing a fit, saying that there is no way the bikes would fit and that there needed to be room to walk to the back of the garage. I assured him that they would fit just fine but he carried on protesting with the typical pessimistic attitude that Argentines are known for (it clearly states so in my guide book even).

Mark and I blatantly ignored the guy and proceeded to park the bikes just fine (It would have been too easy to make a comment regarding American ingenuity so I held my tongue). Once parked the guy protested again, saying that there was not enough room to walk past. There was over 3’ of walking room between our bikes and the wall which he said was not acceptable even though his personal motorcycle protruded well beyond ours. “Hay muchas gorditas aca?” I inquired sternly. He said nothing and walked away.

One thing that I’ve learned quite well on this trip is that I shouldn’t always be my normal friendly and polite self as it doesn’t always get the job done. Being frank and somewhat unpleasant is required at times.