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Published: February 8th 2007
Bahia Blanca; Brothels, Buses and The Box
Some of the scenery en route from Bariloche to Bahia Blanca.Saturday 3rd to Sunday 4th February, 2007.
Another day another bus journey, this time thirteen hours across Argentina to Bahia Blanca, a port town on the east coast approximately half way between Bariloche and Buenos Aires. I knew precious little about it other than that it would be an opportunity to break up the journey and guessed it'd be a small slice of 'real' Argentina, not a Gringo in sight. I was right.
The bus was again comfortable, the seats reclining to almost the horiziontal and for the first six hours I had two to myself. I slept, took in the views and got stuck into Roy Keane's autobiography, a gift from Southampton Dave, my memory such that I suspected I'd read it before but was half way through before my suspicions were confirmed.
The landscape changed dramatically for the second half of the journey, no more mountains, lakes and rivers, just flat yellow fields as far as the eye could see but I was beyond caring, hypothermia had almost set in due to an over zealous air conditioning system and survival was my one and only concern. I longed for the next stop which never came where
I pictured myself approaching the driver and announcing a la Captain Oakes "I may be some time" before staggering off into the wilderness. An hour before we hit Bahia Blanca we entered an incredible electric storm, I pulled back the curtains, gazed out at the fireworks and all thoughts of cold seemed to disappear.
Finally at 11.45pm we entered Bahia Blanca and the bus terminal reminded me of that hellish place in Malaysia near the Singapore border, run down, manic and no sight nor sound of English.
Fortunately taxi is a word know the world over and I was soon on my way having, with what I considered to be a stroke of genius, written the name of the budget hotel recommended by Dave's Lonely Planet and booked by my previous hostel's owner Graciela on a piece of paper. I am considering sueing Lonely Planet on my return to the UK as I write.
The old guy on reception who was sat out front when I arrived waffled on for a good five minutes even though my faces, shrugs of the shoulders and shakes of the head must have said to him "I ain't got a clue
what you're on about pal". I finally ascertained he was saying single en-suites were all gone and it was double or single with a shared bathroom. At four quid I opted for the latter, I'd got used to hiking for a pee in the middle of the night.
He wasn't up to showing me to my room so I went alone and entered. It was tiny with a high, high ceiling, almost as if it'd been turned on it's side. There were no windows and three doors, one I assumed adjoining to next door and the other to God knows what. It was very, very warm and also contained a small table and chair and a very narrow bed that I soon found consisted of a thin foam mattress and an even thinner foam pillow. It wouldn't have passed the Margy Roberts spring test and for some reason pictures of John McArthy and The Count of Monte Cristo entered my head. I considered sparing all expense and using my mobile to contact my solicitor and asking him to start proceedings against The Lonely Planet immediately.
After thirteen hours on the road I decided I needed a beer before
bed so left my bags and went downstairs. The old man was still sitting out front in the deserted street. All that was missing was a couple of tumbleweeds and the tune of 'The Good, The Bad and The Ugly' entered my head. After surveying the situation and realising that either way, left or right would be a gamble I turned to the old boy, raised my hand to my mouth and said the word "Cerveza".
He made an hour glass motion with his hands and a wicked smile crossed his face. "No, just Cerveza" I insisted.
It was obvious the only place within a country mile that could quench my thirst was right next door to the hotel although from the outside peering in it appeared to be a deserted restaurant. I went in, there was a nicely lit bar and two men sat nursing beers at either end as far away from each other as humanly possible. I glanced up at the wall and a huge screen was showing a spot of hardcore porn !
After five minutes a girl of similar proportions to Bella Emberg appeared from nowhere and headed straight for me. She
Bahia Blanca; Brothels, Buses and The Box.
It could have been this I suppose. Mercedes Benz my ass ! rattled off a couple of sentences of quick fire Spanish and the only word I came remotely near to recognising was companion, surely I didn't look that hard up. When I convinced her I was only there for the beer she walked to the other end of the room and on her way back ran her hand along my upper thigh as she passed. I drank my beer and went to my room. It was 1am.
I was woken at seven by the gentle sound of a woman quietly moaning through the locked doors. It was as though she could have been lying right next to me on my foam and as the moaning increased in volume and regularity it was joined by a rougher, more masculine voice and, to complete the trio, like an orchestra reaching it's cresendo the sqeaking of a bed that had quite obviously seen better days !! I took a shower.
Bahia Blanca at 9:30 on a Sunday morning was a ghost town. I walked and walked, initially following my nose with the intention of heading for the port but some doubt appeared in my mind if one even existed. Maybe I'd imagined
it. I came across an internet place that was open with a really helpful long haired dude behind the counter. He was consuming something that looked like dried herbs floating on liquid in a small cup with a tube coming out. I enquired what it was and he offered it to me. I took a sip, you know me I'll try anything once, and it was the wierdest cup of char I've ever tasted. Mate, pronounced Matty he told me and two hours and a bottle of pop later I asked for the bill. It was less than a quid.
My time on the net made me realise I had to take steps to get the hell out of this town so after a brief lunch watching the first half of the Mancs win at Spurs I set off in search of the bus station. I knew it was a good way away, I'd got a cab the previous evening so I approached a friendly looking guy standing at a bus stop near the Plaza. Miraculously he understood my scouse tinged "Estacione Omnibus" and pointed me to the next stop along "cinco, uno, quattro". Even more miraculously I had
two peso coins on me and no idea of the fare and held them out to the driver when I boarded. It was the correct fare.
When I got to the station, being Sunday, most of the ticket offices were closed but somehow I managed to purchase a ticket on the 10am bus out of town. I was that pleased with myself that I thought I'd have a celebratory ice cream, an ordeal in itself being sent back and fro to order, then to pay, then to receive a receipt and finally to select my ices the first three choices of which were out of stock. I finally emerged with two huge dollops on a tiny cone which had completely melted before I got half way through.
I decided to walk back, it was now hellishly hot and the residencial streets deserted and despite taking a couple of wrong turns I finally returned to the hotel satisfied, had a small nap and a run then showered and returned to town.
On my way in I heard singing, gospel style with a band accompaniment. It appeared to be some kind of hall with people arriving at regular intervals
Bahia Blanca; Brothels, Buses and The Box.
And alone in the deserted streets, trying to find my way back from the bus station. from all directions and I went to investigate. All the side doors were open and I ciould see people inside facing the stage, some with their arms outstretched in the air throwing their heads to the sky like deranged satanists, some dancing, some just standing but almost all singing along.
I took a pamphlet off the suited guy at the door who gave me a luck as if to say "what do you want one for, you don't even speak Espanol" and entered. The hall was obviously otherwise used for basketball or something similar as there were two steep banks of benched seating so I climbed to the back to observe. The words to the songs were being flashed onto a large screen like some giant communal Karaoke and I got the impression that, although there was definitely a religious theme going on, that most were here for a good old knees up. Where else in this town on a hot Sunday evening would they get the chance to strut their stuff. The band looked bored and were obviously hired hands and the MC a master of whipping up a frenzy, encouraging and cajoling the audience to release their
Bahia Blanca; Brothels, Buses and The Box.
There were some nice things in Bahia Blanca. inhibitions.
I dined on chicken topped with cheese, peculiarily a slice of pre packed ham and a delicious salsa sauce accompanied with a bottle of vino tinto and two bottles of water. It cost just four quid and on the way back I stopped for a beer at a small bar. I got talking to two guys in there, Raul a big lad whose girlfriend was away studying in Austria and who quite obviously dealt with his sadness at her absence by attempting to eat himself to death and Bruno, the older guy who ran the bar. There were English speakers in this town after all. I eventually conceded to Raul's request for a game of pool and was three nil up before letting him win the final game and getting on my way.
He bid me farewell and told me to take care in Buenos Aires. "Is it dangerous here in Bahia Blanca?" I asked him.
"It can be" he replied shrugging his shoulders and lulling his head to one side "depends where you are but be careful around the railway station".
I gulped. My warm windowless box was right across the road from the
Bahia Blanca; Brothels, Buses and The Box.
The old guy from the hotel and a pal. He could have warned me. train station but I thankfully made it back unscathed, locked the door and flopped onto my thin piece of foam.
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non-member comment
For God's sake! You're writing a new blog everyday!You're spending more time on the internet than you are on buses ! Good story though...