It's Saturday. I'm giving myself a day off from riding. Staying in a decrepit fleapit. Fed up with pacing my room. Bored.

The one good museum in town, which records the history of oil exploration, is closed at weekends.

As for downtown -- or the Patagonian equivalent thereof -- well, I try doing what everybody else does, walking up XXXX and down XXXX. That's two city blocks where what passes for everything that's everything is. That isn't much.

I buy a pair of tights ('Yes... for my wife... she is... tall... hmmm... about my size... so... do you have anything in stock?') which will come in very handy as I head south.

I walk up XXX and down XXXX some more. I buy the local papers. There is no cinema.

Or in other words, doing nothing with no-one to talk to in a town you don't know or love when the wind beats down on you from first thing in the morning until you finally retire with a beer and a huge bar of milk chocolate to read by the light of a single bare electric bulb on a threadbare sheet covering a lumpy mattress in a damp room at the back of the middle of nowhere is no fun.