Thursday, January 21, 2010

big oil. big business. big bankaccounts. big ford pickups. big waistlines.


I arrived yesterday to Comodoro Rivadavia, to which I've given the title, the Argentine Texas, an oil rich city with high materialistic values. The city itself is not beautiful, but rather dusty like the surrounding flat desert countryside. I, however, have never really been to Texas, so take this insensitive-stereotype-derived analogy with a grain or two of salt.


I left Puerto Madryn yesterday. I saw nothing of seals, orcas, whales or penguins for which the city is famous during my stay. I didn't go to Puerto Pirámide. I didn't go on any excursion. And I left quite happy. I did, however, meet some rather fantastic people. Andrea, the bubbly sarcastic CouchSurfer and her cynical dry friend whose name I have forgotten. They helped me endlessly to find my awesome thermos, the best thermos in the whole world. Edu, the porteño-turned-barilochense. Irene, the catalana, with whom I shared a long stroll down the coast. Miriam, the porteña-turned-madryleña, and her awesome tartas.

After a terribly stressful morning, about which I'd rather not share details, mate relaxed me and allowed an opportunity to meet a nice young French couple.

On the main road into town I flagged down a YPF pickup that claimed to take me to Route 3. After some super outoftheway errands, we sped under the sizzling sun to the main coastal highway. The driver, whose name and story I didn't get, hooked me a ride with a camionero headed to Comodoro.

Roberto, a scarcely 5 foot truck driver, and I shared mate, sandwiches and stories over the 6+ hour ride south through nothingland. We got along for the most part, but disagreed on some pretty fundamental issues.

Then he asked if I could drive. I laughed it off. I just learned stickshift a few months ago and barely feel comfortable driving a tiny clown car. But he was serious. He told me to grab the wheel, but laughing (a bit more nervously this time) I told him that I thought it would be in both of our best interests for me to stay in the passenger seat serving mates. I don't think he liked my answer, but I didn't let it bother me. The idea of me being in charge of a vehicle carrying 38,000 liters of highly flamable material on a windy narrow Patagonian road. Now that bothers me.

Six hours of driving is tiring. Especially when trying to engage in conversations meant purely to distract from the excrutiatingly dreary unchanging flat desert landscape.

Suddenly!! Oil rigs popping up in the sand!! Oil rigs everywhere!! Horray!!

We passed a sign: "Help us protect our wildlife." I laughed outloud.

We passed depressingly dull city outskirts. Roberto hastily left me at an estación de servicio after making me promise to send him a text message saying I'd arrived in Ushuaia. I found it wildly funny that I arrived to Comodoro in YPF-owned vehicles.

My backpack and I began the several km walk into the centro. The sky was bitterly grey and a strong wind surrounded everything. A wind that threatened to use my backpack as a sail and carry me away. I braced my feet against the slashing wind, closed my eyes against the flying dirt and debris, and cursed the city and my decision to ever pass through it in the first place.

The ugly city enveloped me. I arrived into the centro stumbling, unhappy, dirty, and sweaty. Sitting on the steps outside the Anonima, Emilio and his aquarious friend whose name I don't remember picked me up. They proceeded to ignore me for the entire ride, a ride that retraced my laboring journey into the center, surrendering to much more interesting topics of cars and electronics. I felt destroyed. We turned off into a neighborhood of identical green houses, owned by the university.


In the house, the only one who paid attention to me was the skiddish neurotic dog, Mechi, the size of a middle-aged cat. But I was glad I could drift off into the background to relax.

An asado took form as the family members accumulated. We were 9 in total. This was my first CouchSurfing experience staying in someones house. It was a little overwhelming. Conversation fired around me. I tried to take part, but the topics were out of my reach and my eyes threatened to close, so I chose to sink back into my chair. The futon was super comfy.

The morning was calm. I had my mate and made conversation with the toothless grandfather. We ate vainilla biscuits and he told me of a time when he was a cigarrette-toting, mate-sucking truck driver. At least the sun was out and the wind had calmed.

I walked. A lot. I thought. A lot.

Many people look for beautiful places to take pictures. I've decided that I don't want to take specifically beautiful photos. I want to take pictures of the things that catch my eye. Like the blue bench on the costanera.


Or a red truck in front of the projects.


Or a fallen down street sign.


These things make me pause. And smile.

Another thing that makes me smile are the parks here in Comodoro. I walked down a paseo turistico and was greatly and pleasantly surprised. Amist the trees and paths are old oil extraction equipment. They are the sculptures and the centerpieces to the parks. One might think that this is dreary and depressing. But I find it highly amusing, especially when they are painted in bright colors.




I found myself in a museum. I'm not sure what the museum was about, but it did answer a nagging question I had, "Who in the world is Comodoro Rivadavia...?" Here is your answer.


Tomorrow I head south.

2 comments:

Peaceful Road Warrior said...

Oh, dear! Hope things are going better. Write again soon please.

ali sa said...

i hope my posts aren´t giving the impression that i´m having a bad time! because in fact i´m having an awesome time!!! there are some cities that are more attractive than others, but the ugly ones have their charm too. once you accept a place for what it is (a dirty ugly oil city, for example) and don´t harbor any expectations for it to be anything else, you start to enjoy it :)