A Message to Las Presidentas. And Derricks.

Comodoro Rivadavia Travel Blog

 › entry 37 of 115 › view all entries

It took a 25 hour, 3 bus journey from Ushuaia to get to Comodoro (64) Rivadavia.  A 25 hour, 3 bus journey that included the crossing of no less than 4 border posts: Out of Argentina - Stamp! Into Chile - for all of about an hour - Stamp! Out of Chile - Stamp! Into Argentina again - Stamp! 

To Las Presidentas of Argentina and Chile I'd just like to say:

"Look - Christina, Michelle, you're both clearly intelligent women, please sort it out and spare us all the tedium. It's obvious that the locals, the tourists and the (clearly bored to tears) customs officers all think it's about as useful an exercise as James Blunt's musical career. So why can't we all just play nice, be big about it and simply wave buses through that are going from Argentinian territiory to Argentinian territory without stopping? Really, why not? I seriously doubt that Bin Laden has been hiding on Tierra del Fuego doing a bit of sealion or penguin spotting. Please, think about it - if not for me then for the sake of those poor customs blokes from both of your countries who are developing RSI problems in their wrists from all that needless stamping. You know it makes sense."      

Anyway, I digress, so onto an even less interesting subject: The jewel in the groaning crown of Comodoro (64) Rivadavian tourism is the Mighty Museum of Gasoline. I have a confession to make. Yes friends, I'm ashamed to admit that, although I arrived at 5.30am and was trapped in the city for upwards of 16 hours waiting for a bus connection, I just couldn't summon up the necessary enthusiasm to witness its doubtless fascinating photos of derricks.

Instead I sat doing nowt on the internet 'til my eyes bled, ate a big old slab of lemon meringue, dropped my CD player directly onto concrete, temporarily robbing it of the capacity to play CDs, sobbed a little until it started working again, mopped up my salty tears and then ate a burger and chips. Finally, at 10.15, after no less than 4 hours sat on a bench in the bleach-stinking bus station, I scuttled aboard my bus to Bariloche, fervently praying that I would never have to come here again.

And that's all I have to say about that.      

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Comodoro Rivadavia
photo by: bramwan