After the madness of Mar Del Plata, I wanted to find a smaller beach town to relax in, so I took a short bus ride south to Necochea. The bus station was tiny in comparison to the stations in Buenos Aires and Mar del Plata, so this was a good sign that the town would be more quaint. It was so quaint, unfortunately, that I had a hard time finding a ride into the city center, some 10km away (about 6 miles). After waiting under the shade of a small, dusty bus stop for thirty minutes or so, a dilapidated old city bus came screaming down the dirt road and slammed to a stop in front of myself and an elderly woman. We got on board and made it to town in no time.
Necochea is still far enough north to be very hot during the day, so I stopped into the first hotel I saw to save myself some trouble. The sign read
Hotel Firenze, and had an Italian flag on it. It was an adobe-colored, one-story complex of rooms and outdoor hallways and I imagined I was somewhere outside of Palm Springs. The woman at the desk was very nice when she told me they didn´t have any rooms available, except for one single way in the back. I decided to take my chances and followed her through the labyrinth of hallways to my room. Maybe I should have brought some breadcrumbs along, but it was too late by this point. The room was small, but had it´s own bathroom and was the type of place that would go for quite a bit in Manhattan. I dropped my bags on the bed and found my way to the front office to pay for my stay. It was cheap, so I had enough money to go get some food without going to the ATM first.
I downed a couple of
Panchos, which are basically hot dogs with all the fixins´ and french fry shavings on top. It is a nice mixture of crunchy and chewy and costs less than a dollar for each one. Then I got my daily helado for just as cheap and walked around town to see what I could see. Although it was getting late, the sun was still up so I went down to the beach to kick my sandals off. The sand itself was an almost chocolate color and there were far less people than Mar Del Plata, so I walked around in the water with much space to myself. There were some fishermen dragging huge nets across the shallows, but their first few attempts turned out to be fruitless. The seagulls in Necochea have black striping on their heads, but are otherwise very similar to the ones back home although they seem to be less intrusive. People were eating sandwiches without getting attacked and so forth. By this time the sun was beginning to set so I hung around to watch before the wind picked up and I made my way back to my cozy room.
The shower situation was the exact same in this place as in Mar Del Plata, namely a phone booth without a phone. I would certainly keep my sandals on for this one. I was tired from the day of traveling so I stopped by a Kiosko to get a water and then returned for the night to turn in. I planned to get up early and take a walk through some sand dunes I´d seen down the beach before the sun got too high in the sky.
When I awoke the next morning, a storm was moving in very quickly and I briefly reconsidered my plans until the hotel owner, a bald old man with birkenstocks on (it seems that all hotel owners are bald, but this guy didn´t appear to have any bandages), told me that the storms were normal and would be gone in no time. The clouds were beautiful and the sun shining through them was radiant, so I walked to the nearby beach to take photos while I waited for the storm to pass. A few groups of people were heading home from a night at the discotheque and clung to eachother as they walked head-first into the piercing winds. I took cover under an awning and was joined moments later by a guy on a beach cruiser. His name was Roberto, and he was out so early looking for a job. At the age of 24, he had five children and a sometimes girlfriend. I snapped a few pictures of him, as this was really the first local I´d come to have more than just a simple conversation with. He even offered to show me around the town once the winds died down a bit.
So off we went, he pushing his bike, me shielding my eyes from the sand flying around, to a nearby casino. It was the heart of the Necochea nightlife and where everyone who was everyone spent their time and money. It was closed now and there were a few dogs huddled in the entryway of the main doors. One of them got up, stretched, and came to greet us before we walked off. We made our way across the street down to the sand, where he left his bike before we walked out to the water. The sand was flowing rapidly and in the wind it looked very much like a river. Roberto offered to take a photo of me against the ocean backdrop, and I was naturally reluctant to hand my camera over to a stranger (I have a hard time handing expensive things over to my friends, but I´m working on that). So I gave him the camera and stayed very close in case he decided to run. He didn´t run, though, and the photo actually turned out quite well. He gave me the camera back and we walked back towards the road.
Along the way he picked up some trash and a glass Coca-Cola bottle, and even found 50 centavos in the sand. I figured this to be a good source of income, and I assumed he´d want me to pay for his makeshift tour of Necochea. He didn´t ask for any money from me, but instead asked if I would like one more picture against the small cabanas that dotted the beach. I said that would be nice and handed him my camera ready to shoot. Then he asked for my backpack.
Time stopped as I watched the smile disappear from his pockmarked face. He wanted to rob me.
A thousand thoughts ran through my head in an instant and I could feel my adrenaline levels rising, a feeling I have rarely felt to such an extreme as in this moment. How could I get my camera back? Did he have a weapon? Should I just give him my bag and let him go? What would be the safest option?
I lunged for his left hand, which held my camera and a thousand memories on the 2gb chip inside. He dropped back and, in the corner of my eye I saw the glint of a shiny, cylindrical object raised high above his head.
The next thing I remember is ditching my sandals as blood filled my vision and running fervently towards a blurry blue object heading for the road. And I remember hearing nothing but my heart beating and breath panting heavily. I was losing lots of blood from the wound on my head and could feel my legs growing weaker with every step. Where was he? I could only see where he had run to, so I kept running even though I might have passed out at any moment. My pace slowed against my will and I knew it would be impossible to catch him in my semi-drained state. Then, as if by fate, or by God, or by luck, I turned to my left and saw my only chance for retrieving my camera.
The idiot had left his bike sitting in the sand.
I picked up the rickety beach cruiser and hobbled up the flight of steps to the road where I could see the thief running away. I hopped on the bike and pedalled with all my might. A woman was running in front of the casino so I yelled ¨Ayudame! Me Robó!¨ as loud as I could. It must have been the blood because she picked up her speed toward the center of town. I didn´t have time to explain so I kept riding after the thief who was rounding the corner ahead. In my weakness, I tried to bunnyhop the center divide and fell flat on my back, damaging the front rim severely in the process. The bike still rode, but now at about half the speed which was far slower than the thief was running. As I watched the thief disappear into a nearby forest, I stopped pedalling and gave up.
While sitting there at the corner, a poorly-dressed man appeared a ways away. He looked dirty and maybe even crazy, and he was coming towards me quickly. It was one of the most surreal moments of my life, being barely able to see straight, legs exhausted, losing blood, this strange man approaching. But when he got directly in front of me the man looked me square in the eye and, with the most serious tone I have ever heard, told me to keep riding.
For whatever reason, I took his advice and with whatever strength I had began to pedal. One foot after the other, I rode along the perimeter of the forest trying to spot the thief between the tall pine trees. He was nowhere in sight, but I kept riding for another block before I knew it was time to stop. I dropped the bike and sat on the sidewalk, expecting to have seconds left to find help before going unconscious.
I´m not sure how long it was, but what seemed like hours later, the thief appeared in front of me and dropped my camera and case in the street next to me. He was frantic, apologizing for what he´d done and begging me not to call the police. He had five kids, after all. Then he tried to take his bike back, but there was someone holding the back tire and telling him to sit down. It was the jogging woman. The thief gave up the bike and started walking away a bit, but it was too late because the police truck was already arriving.
The officers put the bike in the truckbed and us in the cab and we all went to the station to figure it out. The jogging woman gave me her water bottle, and I dazily made my way into a small room to explain, or try to explain, in Spanish what had happened. After many confused looks and skeptical nods, I had told my story to the police and went to sit in the waiting area. They told me the thief was in handcuffs somewhere in the building and to wait until an officer arrived to take me to the hospital.
Officers Sergio and Claudio drove me to the hospital, and I barefootedly made my way through the dirty hallways to the emergency room where I laid down on a bed and got half a dozen stitches put into my head. I remember thinking it a bit inappropriate that the surgeon was laughing with the other four people of unknown origin hovering over me, and they were even passing around a
mate gourd (Mate is the national Argentine drink, and it´s basically an herbal tea drunk from a gourd that all locals drink, all day, in small social groups. It happens in public but only among locals.) In any event, mate nor jokes belong in an emergency room. But the stitches turned out fine, along with the x-rays and catscan, and eight hours later I went back to the Hotel Firenze to explain why I hadn´t checked out that morning. They said I would still have to pay an additional fee, and I was really too tired to care so I paid and went to a pharmacy to buy some medication I´d been prescribed. Then I ate as much food as I could afford because I still felt weak and so forth.
When I came back to the hotel, the bald man appeared with a few other people I´d seen walking around the hotel during the past day and a half. It turns out the place was run by a family and that they´d been talking about what happened to me while I was gone. They gave me some Coca-Cola in a bottle, ironically enough, and let me use their phone to call home. They were very generous and even gave me back the small deposit I´d given them for the late checkout. The son, 27 year old Gabriel, asked me where my shoes were and when I explained, he drove me to a clothing store where his brother worked to buy new sandals. Everyone in the store was very nice and told me what to watch out for in the future. Then, Gabriel was kind enough to drive me to the bus station and wait with me until my bus to Puerto Madryn arrived that night. He told me that whenever I was in Necochea I could stay at the hotel for half-price and that, if I had time on my way back north, I should stop into town and he, his brother, and myself could take their 4x4 out on those dunes I had originally intended on visiting before all this happened.
I am thoroughly convinced that Argentines are inherently good people, and like with any society there are people who live to instigate violence and hatred. But it is the people like the family at Hotel Firenze and the jogging woman, and the unknown man who told me to keep riding when I would have otherwise laid down, who make this such an awesome place to visit. Maybe sometime soon I´ll even be invited to try mate, who knows.
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Map of Argentina