The Hotel Reggiani has been in the same family since the fifties, and it shows. Although I slept like a log being dog tired anyway, I couldn’t help thinking that it was showing its age, with door handles and shower curtains falling off.
Being a weather watcher, which is a habit I inherited from my sailing days, I had been keeping an eye on the skies for several days and it became apparent that a big change was on its way.
We agreed that for the next few days we’d have a spot of R&R, so on Friday morning we bought freshly baked medialunas and checked the bikes over while enjoying breakfast. With that done, we took a leisurely ride along the Madryn seafront where we visited a monument to the Welsh colonists, another commemorating the fallen of the Falklands/Malvinas war and then continued along the coast to an old lighthouse overlooking Playa Paraná, where there is the wreck of the fishing trawler, Folías – we would return there later for further investigation.
On leaving the hostel that morning, I couldn’t help noticing the ladies’ ‘large size’ underwear display at reception which was a bit of a head-scratcher if I’m honest.
Following a pancho (hot dog) at one of the many food trucks that we found on the way back, we arrived at the Welsh Cultural Association and were welcomed by Ana María de Sousa Joao who gave us a tour and introduction to the association. I was particularly taken with the story of the legendary horse, El Malacara, which, with his diminutive rider, one John Daniel Evans, one of the original Welsh settlers, managed to escape an Indian massacre near Trevelin in 1884. His story is now the stuff of legend, with Malacara living to the grand old age of 31 and was buried in Trevelin by John Evans, who went on to live until 1943.
Eventually I managed to unwrap the slate and present it to Ana who promised to display it along with other artefacts related to Wales. I must admit that I always thought it was a crazy idea to mount a piece of slate on a wooden plaque with an inscription of where it came from, but in the end, it was the journey that counted. I think Ana was a little nonplussed by the whole idea, but she did recognise the effort we had gone to.
We had an interesting discussion about the Welsh colonists which also veered into global colonisation, after which Ana launched into a lively presentation on how the initial plan was conceived by one Captain T. Duncombe Love Jones-Parry (1832-91), baron of Madryn, how the settlers arrived in Argentina and a host of other facts, all beautifully illustrated by a timeline displayed on one entire wall, as can be seen in the above picture. We were later joined by Claudia Hume and we soon learned that neither had any Welsh heritage whatsoever – Ana has Portuguese heritage and Claudia, Scottish – which almost prompted me to ask “Where are the Welsh?”. But that doesn’t take anything away from the enthusiasm of these ladies because they were brimming with a genuine desire to conserve what’s left of Welsh culture in Patagonia. After a welcome cup of tea and a few slices of torta galesa, we were treated to a display of traditional Welsh dancing, following which both Eduardo and I were persuaded to join the ladies for another dance which involved me running from wall to wall and dragging the unfortunate ladies behind me.
As a bystander, it cannot have been a pretty sight and if video evidence surfaces, I shall flee the country.
This was not my first visit to Puerto Madryn because we drove down in 2006, went to Gaiman and found the tea house (casa de té) which was visited by Princess Diana in 1995, where we enjoyed an enormous afternoon tea with homemade cakes and sandwiches. It was an impressive experience because most of the rooms displayed photographs of Diana (referred to as Lady Di in Argentina), with display cabinets containing commemorative Diana chinaware. It was quite extraordinary and I felt as if the entire establishment was a kind of shrine to the late princess. After recalling that day, I wanted to see if the tea house was still running, in spite of the fact that we had been told that Covid had permanently closed it.
Here’s what it looked like in 2006.
The ‘Diana’ tea house was well off the beaten track and it was indeed closed, but in a beautiful setting, next to the river Chubut. We later learned that it’s owned by a Spanish family who have no intention of re-opening because they are now concentrating on property development. It was and still is much criticised for its commercialisation of the Diana visit, but surely nowadays that’s pretty much par for the course? The princess is still held in very fond regard by most Argentines and whilst it did appear a little tacky at the time, I certainly didn’t find it distasteful.
Further up the idyllic little gravel lane, we stopped for a breather and quite by chance came across a humble dwelling that just happened to be a barber shop. It never occurred to me that we would find one of these in the middle of nowhere and Eduardo wasted no time in getting his hair cut, which, by the way, was long overdue!
We then headed for Dolavon, a sleepy town of around 3000 inhabitants where we spotted dragons on every street corner and later returned to Gaiman hoping to sample afternoon tea at one of the famous casas de té.
In Gaiman we visited the fiesta del citron (a lemon-like fruit brought to Patagonia by the Welsh) and then went in search of a nice cup of tea, only to find that of the three tea houses that were open, one was packed out with queues outside, the other two were deserted and each of them were charging exactly the same exorbitant price for tea and cakes, raising the possibility that some kind of Welsh tea cartel was in operation. Either way, I wasn’t prepared to pay the price, so on our way back to Madryn we stopped at a service station, found our meagre supply of tea bags, hot water from a thermos flask and enjoyed a refreshing cup of tea without the tourist price.
During the day Ana had been searching for alternative accommodation for us because the hostel had just taken a large group booking and by chance she had found a moto posada, a private house specialising in biker accommodation. I had never stayed in such a place before and on arrival we were welcomed by Fernanda and Alberto into their huge garage/workshop which doubled as a kitchen/dining room and general meeting room.
‘Oh and by the way, we’re throwing some meat on the barbeque (parrilla) tonight because a few members of the Coyote Biker Club are dropping in and the fun may go on until three tomorrow morning.’
After deciding that we wouldn’t share a room – a wise decision on my part, because Eduardo was heard snoring like a freight train the following morning – I chose the attic room and the festivities commenced. I’ve been to hundreds of Argentine asados and this one was no exception when it came to the sheer quantity of meat being grilled. There was even room for half a lamb! We met bikers from all walks of life and not only enjoyed the food, cooked to perfection by Alberto, but also the special camaraderie which is unique to the biking fraternity. By eleven pm however, I felt my eyes closing, bid farewell and turned in for the night. I must have been dog tired because I didn’t hear a thing during the night which is surprising, bearing in mind that below me were about twenty five lively Argentines in party mode.
Eduardo was determined to ride to Peninsula Valdes because at high water, there was a chance of glimpsing Orcas. However, the whole journey would be about 400kms there and back, so I decided to stay in Madryn and look around because the following day would be a long ride to Patagones, near Viedma. As luck would have it, when Eduardo was moving his bike out of the hangar, Alberto noticed that the backplate and nuts for adjusting the chain were missing off his bike and presumably had fallen off somewhere on the road. Fortunately, Alberto had all the right tools, so he made a new backplate, found a couple of nuts and Eduardo went on his way to Valdes. It takes a keen eye to spot something like that.
During that day Alberto and I had a relaxing tour around Madryn, returned to the wreck of the fishing trawler Folías in Playa Paraná, which caught fire and sank off the coast in December 1980. It’s now a popular diving destination and one of many wrecks that can be found along the South Atlantic coast of Argentina.
While my mind was now focused on our return journey to Buenos Aires, Alberto and I rode around Puerto Madryn, taking in the refreshing sea air and passed by Aluar, the largest aluminium plant in the country which sits at the northern entrance to the town. It’s an ugly sight, has caused a great deal of controversy, yet is one of the largest employers in the area and I couldn’t wait to get away from it, to be honest.
When we returned to the posada, a sandstorm came out of nowhere and we began to get concerned for Eduardo who was on his way back from Valdes. In the meantime I returned to the Welsh Association to meet the president (of the association), one Silvina Garzonio Jones who actually had some Welsh heritage of forth or fifth generation and spoke fluent Welsh!
By the time I got back with beer and food, Eduardo had returned exhausted from the challenging return journey and I turned in early, knowing that the exciting business of 1400kms lay before us, with new routes I had never travelled and hoping that the weather would be kind to us all the way to Buenos Aires. The bikes were ready and so were we.
It was time to go home.
Not being able to sleep through the Rio Colorado thunderstorm, which I was thoroughly enjoying by the way, I slid off my bunk to find there was no power. Fortunately I had scrounged steaming hot water for my thermos flask before retiring and I was able to make a coffee. So, mug in hand, I shambled over to hotel reception using my phone as a torch, to find the owner’s wife wandering around in the dark with a candle in her hand. Later, her husband joined us and informed me that due to a wiring fault, only the hotel goes down during a storm and since it was three-phase, some parts of the hotel were still functioning, including the coffee makers, fortunately. By this time, the storm was raging just like the above picture (not my photo by the way) and by seven am, other guests trickled in searching for coffee. Our host meanwhile, was rigging up a tangle of electrical wires from a junction box outside to a plug socket behind reception, so I decided to stay well clear, just in case.
The owner of the Honda Gold Wing pictured above quite sensibly parked his bike in the open garage – now, why didn’t I think of that? Oh and when I asked him what his average cruising speed was, he nonchalantly replied ‘Oh, about 150kmh.’ Anyway, back to the plot, where we began to contemplate a non-existent plan B because, although we had rain gear, it would have been madness to venture out in a thunderstorm, so we loaded up the bikes in what little shelter was available, hoping for a break in the weather. By nine o’clock we spotted clear blue sky to the south west and on checking Rain Alarm we could see the storm moving north east, which was our cue to get moving since we were already ninety minutes late. I should point out that while chatting with the other guests over breakfast, some of whom were travelling to Rio Gallegos 1700km to the south, we were advised to fill up at every opportunity because petrol stations would now be far and few between.
So, fully kitted out in rain gear and resembling a couple of bomb disposal experts, we ventured out into the light rain, filled the tanks and headed west, then south towards General Conesa with ample stocks of bananas, chocolate chip biscuits, alfajores and hot and cold water.
The hot water was for Eduardo’s mate (pronounced mah-tey) kit by the way, which is a green, caffeine-rich herb placed into a gourd, infused with hot water and sucked through a silver pipe called a bombilla. It all sounds a bit elaborate, but most Argentines wouldn’t leave the house without their mate kit. It’s certainly healthier than coffee and every time I drink it, it gives a very pleasant buzz.
No sooner had we left Rio Colorado, we were back in the vast wilderness where the vegetation became even more stunted, with no trees at all and only the Patagonian wind for company.
Talking of which, we had been warned about the wind, which can be ferocious and being a sailor myself, I had read about the Roaring Forties, being between 40 and 50 degrees south, which is roughly where we were riding. As luck would have it, we were blessed with light winds from the north and north west, making our ride considerably easier. As for the riding itself, my bike was holding up much better than I was with hardly any vibration from the handlebars and the suspension and stability were rock solid, which is how I would describe my rear end. I needed to stop at least every hour to stretch my legs and loosen up, but at least that gave me a chance to snap a few photos and chat with Eduardo. On the other hand, the closer we got to Puerto Madryn, the ride became more comfortable, so there were definitely some mind games going on in my frazzled mind. As for the riding itself, we were averaging around 110kmh (68mph) with a following wind, on arrow-straight, perfect roads, with the right hand permanently squeezed on the accelerator grip. At least we could move our feet and left hands and visors were closed at all times, not only for the rushing air, but also any objects or insects that may have been in our paths. It’s also very noisy, but after a while I hardly noticed and spent much of the time keeping an eye on the distance counter, even though actual road signs on these deserted roads were very far and few between.
General Conesa, San Antonio Oeste and Sierra Grande appeared like desert oasis where we could stop for a stretch, café con leche, medialunas (croissants) and of course the plat du jour, bananas.
When we finally spotted the sign for Puerto Madryn being only 44kms, it was time to open the throttle and get there before sunset. For me, the moment I most enjoyed was seeing the South Atlantic to our left as we glided down the hill to Madryn. It’s not the most beautiful sight in the world because a massive aluminium smelting plant (Aluar) greeted us first, but once past that, we continued along the coast road (costanera) and stopped to take our bearings. No sooner had we done that, a biker named José pulled up on a lovely Kawasaki 454 LTD, complete with leather bomber jacket, shades and cowboy boots and asked us if we needed any help which was a very kind and most welcome surprise.
We didn’t really need much help, but since he was such a helpful fellow, we asked if he could guide us to the hostel, Atalaya Tierra De Mis Sueños (The Watchtower In The Land Of My Dreams), which actually sounds much posher than it really was. With that, we set off in convoy with José pointing out landmarks along the coastal road and bid our farewells on arrival at the well-hidden hostel on the street with two names – Domecq Garcia Norte or Kenneth Woodley – it was a toss-up. It gets even more confusing when you find a house number with another number beneath it that says ‘Used to be number xxxx.’ but I digress.
There’s quite a big difference in price between a hotel and a hostel which is why I chose hostels whenever I could, often being a quarter of the price, but they are basic. On the other hand, hostels usually offer a kitchen/dining room equipped with a fridge/freezer, microwave, cutlery and other useful bits of kit. However, the rooms are very basic, as ours were, but frankly, it’s a place to lay your head and keep your kit safe.
By seven-thirty we needed sustenance, so after a couple of cans of Quilmes Stout in the enormous kitchen/diner, we walked a few blocks to the Madryn seafront, found a remarkably British looking pub and ordered lomito (thinly sliced grilled beef) in huge bread rolls with lashings of chips and fried eggs.
Well, it didn’t take us long to polish that lot off, so after a stroll along the seafront promenade to take in the sea air and watch the waves break on the pebbles, we made our way back to the hostel, satisfied that we’d made it to Madryn without incident or breakdowns. The Welsh slate had survived the trip and we were looking forward to finally meeting the ladies of La Asociación Cultural Galesa de Puerto Madryn the following afternoon, so I fell asleep wondering what they would make of it all.
After sleeping for nearly ten hours, which for me is a new record, I took advantage of the electric kettle (a rarity in Argentine hostelries) and made a coffee using my coffee pack – a Tupperware container with sachets of sugar, powdered milk, and Nescafe Gold, complete with spoon and mug, which I had brought along for exactly that purpose. I’m usually a very early riser and get a bit grouchy if I have to wait for the hotel to crank up the coffee.
After loading up the bikes with our gear we filled up at the nearby YPF station and pointed ourselves towards the next destination, Rio Colorado in the state of Rio Negro.
When travelling through Argentina we are frequently reminded about how far (or close to) we are from the Falkland Islands, referred to here as Las Malvinas and the further south one goes, those messages become more frequent. It’s a deep-seated and very emotional sentiment for most Argentines and whilst I may not agree with the overtly nationalistic and populist propaganda, I respect the right to express a point of view. Most of the other sings say ‘Las Malvinas son Argentinas.’ Fair enough.
Before setting off on this leg of the trip we made sure we packed plenty of food and water, not to mention carrying out essential bike checks, because we had just crossed from fertile farming country into wilderness conditions with nothing to see but an endless expanse of scrub, dusty farm tracks and a road that disappeared over the horizon. I was struck by the transformation from the verdant fertility we had just passed through, as if an invisible hand had drawn a line across the country and declared ‘You are now in the wilderness.’
When motorcycling long distances, especially in out of the way places, those what-ifs start to creep in – what if I have a puncture? What if my chain comes off? What if a massive hole appears in the road and I fall into it? Yes, things can go wrong, but I put those thoughts to one side and enjoy the ride without fixating on what could happen. Lord knows, it’s noisy enough anyway!
In fact, during the ride to Rio Colorado we stopped several times in the empty expanse, switched the engines off and simply listened to the silence, punctuated only by a balmy light breeze, distant birdsong and insects doing what they do. The crossover from the hustle and bustle of Buenos Aires couldn’t have been more marked and I felt privileged to breath the air and feel the road beneath me. After passing through Santa Rosa – which by the way is the name given to a notorious late-August thunderstorm, La tormenta de Santa Rosa – and then filling up with fuel, we were faced with a 277km stretch of road, straight as an arrow for the most part with a small kink to the left which would lead us the Homi Hotel in Rio Colorado.
Looking at the above map from the comfort of my den a few weeks before setting off, I rubbed my chin and mumbled ‘Those roads cannot be that straight, surely.’ But they are and with a very long stretch ahead of us, the horizon was never-ending, punctuated only by the odd undulation, very slight curves in the road and a massive expanse of scrubland surrounding us. Upon cresting the low hillocks I kept wondering if anything mildly interesting might manifest itself, but no, it was more of the same, yet never boring. The one aspect that did stand out was the strange smell which enveloped us for 200kms, which I can only describe as garlic-skunk, for it was pervasive, but I spotted neither a skunk or a garlic plant so it will probably remain a mystery to us.
On reaching Padre Buodo at lunchtime, which I couldn’t help but refer to as Father Boludo, the bikes were performing brilliantly, my rear end wasn’t and I estimated that we would arrive at Rio Colorado at around four-thirty. But I was wrong because although the run was as straight as an arrow, time flies very quickly, especially when you want to arrive before dark. Neither of us wanted to ride in what is referred to as the desert at night for numerous safety reasons and when we pulled into the hotel at six pm, dark thunderclouds began rolling in from the south west and I knew we had made it just in time. I should point out that there’s no mobile phone service on most of the desert roads, but I’ll go into more detail about that later on.
After checking in with the delightful and charming owners, it was clear that we were in for a stormy night, so we moved our bikes to the back of the hotel for as much shelter as we could find. I then found a corner shop where I stocked up with more bananas (it’s a meal in itself) and beer for the evening. Since the hotel didn’t serve dinner and was not graced with a bar, the owners encouraged us to to drink our beer in the lounge and to order a takeaway pizza, which I thought was incredibly civilised. Many other places would have charged us corkage or asked us to eat outside. But this is one of the many things I like about Argentina – its innate flexibility and willingness to oblige, especially in difficult circumstances.
After devouring the pizza, for we were famished, we turned in early because the following day would be the final leg to Puerto Madryn and even more desolate roads. As I switched off the lights I could hear the rain lashing against the windows, the wind picking up, thunder rumbling and I had that nice snug feeling that we and the bikes were tucked up nice and safe for the night.
That is, until four-thirty the next morning which is when the serious stuff arrived, waking me up with a bang…
When my sister gave me a slice of slate from her house near Llandeilo in West Wales some years ago, I made vague plans to take the stone to Patagonia and donate it to the Welsh community.
