Escape From Bahía Blanca : Wed 29th Jan

The prison cell does not make for comfortable sleeping. It is stuffy, and the mattress on the floor has a compression in the centre from the last-night writhings of the damned. We do our best to share a single bed but somewhere in the middle of the night Sarah jumps ship to the mattress and we wake at 10am, stiff and burnt-eyed. Downstairs our breakfast is orange juice and coffee with a couple of vanilla muffins thrown into the mix. Could be better, could be worse. All the mothers and babies have vanished, though my impression of this hostel as a women’s refuge remains. We shower and pack, and half past noon is not long in coming.

We should really have informed the hostel of our intention to check out today earlier. We leave on bad terms. No chance of keeping our rucksacks here til the evening then. Weighed down, we make our way to Plaza Rivadavia where we rest on a park bench til hungry overcomes me and we cross the street to the Boston Cafe, a pleasant and un-modern spot to have lunch and take advantage of wireless internet access. Not too many weirdos here. The Plaza itself is quite attractive, but does not really make up for coming here. Perhaps there are hidden secrets to this town. We are not here long enough to discover them, and they might not actually be worth it.

Lunch is chicken in blue cheese sauce with carrots and patatas españoles, which appear to be sliced fried potatoes. Not sure what made them Spanish-style. I enjoy more delicious Coca-Cola from a glass bottle, and we discover a Cafe Martinez three blocks west, Argentina’s equivalent to Starbucks (or something, there are so many coffee chains its futile trying to keep track). We head there, relax, and enjoy a couple of fine blends accompanied by little glasses of sparkling water and lemon shortbread. We flirt briefly with our future plans but Sarah is too exhausted for this and we put it off til tomorrow. No penguins or sea lions until Friday I think.

Concern mounts as we discover our preferred bus is already sold out, and we take a taxi to the bus terminal six hours ahead of time. Tickets are easily acquired with Don Otto, a humorously named bus company (though not as humorous as Tony Tur, ho ho ho) and we will be in Puerto Madryn at 8am Thursday morning. A small cafe provides us with Schneider beer and, eventually, a hefty burger, not to mention the Spurs v City game (Spurs were dire). It is now 21.20 and we will be boarding in twenty minutes or so. It is reassuring to be up to date for a bloody change. Now I must decide what to read on the bus. There was a lot more violence in the Wizard Of Oz than I expected.