Argentina Rocks Socks!
The Linger Loco!
Chapter 4: Argentina Rocks Socks!
The sun slowly sinks below the horizon as we arrive at the
impressive Salto Grande dam. Climbing off the bus with
the other passengers, we spend a few entertaining minutes
crowded around a fat toad sitting lawlessly on the borderline,
half in Uruguay half in Argentina, before entering the
customs building and whipping out our passports. We
show them to the young female official sat behind the desk
and without fuss she whacks a nice red stamp on an empty
page.
Back on the bus we pass through the centre of Concordia,
a city in Argentina located across the Rio Uruguay and
pull up at a larger bus terminal where there are a number
of companies lined up touting for business. We proceed to
walk past each one and study the photographs of the luxury
coaches pinned to the walls. Opting for a bus company
called Fletcher we purchase two tickets bound for
Cordoba, a city 10 hours east. It doesn’t leave for over an
hour, so we find a café and sip a beer and happily watch
the pretty girl’s catwalk by.
Time flies. On board the bus it smells really clean and
there’s a telly positioned above our large semi-cama armchair
style seats. As the engine roars into life the movie
2 Fast 2 Furious appears on the small screen and the codriver
serves a hot meal on a tray, which includes an
39
Argentinean steak and a glass of red wine just as Si promised.
‘Argentina rocks socks!’ I laugh, positioning my tray on
the flip down table. ‘It’s a steak, for Christ sake – on a bus!
You’re lucky to get a soggy sandwich on a National Express
coach back home.’
Tucking into the meal, we watch Brian O’Conner race
through the city streets of Miami in a sports car loaded
with body kit.
Si chews merrily on a slice of prime beef. ‘Have you got
a need for speed, fat boy?’
‘Yeah, I love this shit. It reminds me of the airfield.’
The past six-months at home in England had been a
strange time for us both; it had been a strange few years.
After driving across Russia in an old Ford Sierra we had
returned to our temporary jobs in the -30°C freezer-packing
warehouse close to where we lived. We had saved hard
and spent the winter in Southeast Asia writing a book
about our adventures in Siberia, and somehow managed to
print up a shit load of copies in Thailand and ship them
home. We had been fairly unsuccessful so far at distributing
our art to the nation, and we found ourselves quite literally
with a shed load of books at the bottom of the garden.
Undeterred, it was within 24 hours of touching down on
British soil, that we found ourselves standing on a windy
airfield surrounded by thousands of really nice cars. Our
new boss was a pleasant chap called Ted. He’d fallen into
the work on the airfield after being made redundant from
his previous job, and his relaxed manner made us both feel
instantly at ease. Starting the day with a large mug of tea,
we’d head out in the van and spend our days cruising
around the airfield collecting brand new cars and driving
them to huge transporters. It was in many ways the dream
job, a boy racer’s paradise, and as neither of us had ever
40
experienced the joys of fast, high performance motoring
before it made the work seem all that more appealing.
Mitsubishi Shoguns, top of the range Land Rovers and
Range Rovers, convertible Jags, Mercedes sports, Scoobies
(boy-racer name for Subaru) and MG Rover 75′s with V8
Mustang engines, lined the airfield ready for us to test out
their capabilities. It had never really occurred to me that I
might have a need for speed, but when presented with the
opportunity to get behind the wheel of a brand new convertible
Jag with a 4.2 litre engine, I discovered there was
an animal inside of me. Jeremy Clarkson would have been
proud.
I wake early and peer over at Si through half-closed eyes.
He’s sat quietly reading his book ‘Heart of Darkness’ by
Joseph Conrad and sipping a cup of coffee. Whipping the
curtains open, I watch the cars below nudge through the
morning rush hour traffic and wonder if the city outside
my window is Cordoba.
Si slips his bookmark in place. ‘Sleep well?’
‘Yeah, kind of,’ I reply, sniffing my armpit, ‘fucked up
dreams, though.’
‘Me too, did you dream about little oranges with legs and
arms that can talk and have sex?’
I frown. ‘Uh, no…’
‘Oh, right…so, Cordoba!’ Si smiles, flicking the guidebook
open. ‘I reckon we should only spend the day here.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we need to get our asses to Chile, that’s why. We
haven’t got enough cash to be fucking around, and I
wouldn’t mind spending some time in Salta in the north of
Argentina. It sounds amazing and it’s close to San Pedro de
Atacama. Well, not close, but it’s in the right direction.’
‘What will we do tonight?’
‘Catch another bus.’
41
‘Where to?’
‘You’re going to like this,’ Si beams, rubbing his hands
together.
I sigh. ‘Am I?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, surprise me.’
‘We’re heading for the sunny vineyards of Mendoza -
wine country!’
‘You beauty!’
Stashing our rucksacks inside a locker at Cordoba bus station,
we immediately set off on foot towards the city centre.
The sky is bright blue and the flowers in the trees are so
colourful they look like they’ve been sprayed florescent
pink with an aerosol can. The streets are packed with local
people scurrying to work, and the odd confused tourist
standing in the middle of the pavement peering down at a
map. We walk along Bv. JD Peron for about fifteen minutes
before turning left and heading along San Jeronimo
towards Plaza San Martin.
After a pleasant wander around the main Cathedral and
a spot of charity work, by reluctantly handing over money
to the homeless people begging outside, we grab some
breakfast from a pavement cafe. Life doesn’t get much better
than this, I think to myself, as I sip my coffee and watch
the life of the city pass by. We pay the smart waiter and
head towards the Museo Provincial de Bellas Artes and
the Parque Sarmiento, where we plan to spend the afternoon
chilling before we catch our bus to Mendoza. It’s a
long walk down Avenue H.Yrigoyen, but it’s worth the
sweat and tears. The museum is beautiful, a huge stone
building with impressive Greek pillars along the front. I
see a P.O (photo opportunity) and make Si run up to the
top of the steps and stand in front of the tall doorway. I
take a funny photograph of him playing the air guitar like
42
a true amateur rock god…what a loser. Next it’s the park,
where we find a patch of grass next to a water fountain that
hasn’t been turned on. A maintenance man uses a pump
machine and slowly feeds a pipe into the stagnant water.
He looks half-asleep or stoned. Close by, a guy with dreadlocks
jumps on a tricycle and proceeds to juggle a variety
of coloured balls in the air while weaving around a couple
of trees. He’s actually pretty good, but suddenly three dogs
appear on the scene and circle around him. Unable to
concentrate on his juggling, he drops his colourful balls to
the ground and the mean looking strays grab them and
sprint off across the park. I smile at his misfortune and
close my eyes for a few minutes; the sound of the birds
singing in the treetops above me is so relaxing. I flick open
my eyes and nearly shit my pants when I see a wet black
dog staring down at me.
‘Si, wake up, we’ve got company!’
Si jumps to his feet and clutches his rucksack in front of
his crotch. The dog drops the ball in its mouth to the
ground and begins to bark ferociously.
‘What shall we do?’ Si cries, his bottom lip quivering and
his skin whiter than ever before.
‘Stay still and don’t show any fear.’
‘That’s physically impossible, you twat!’
The dog continues to stare at us and then starts to growl.
‘Whatever you do, don’t fucking run! A dog like that will
bite your skinny legs off.’
Si looks at me, and frowns. ‘Thanks for the advice.’
At lightening speed, a skinny mousy coloured mongrel
runs out from behind a bush and rocks up beside its
buddy. Both dogs lower their heads and bare their fangs.
‘Oh shit, game over!’ Si cries. ‘So this is how it ends…’
I nod vigorously. ‘Yep, it certainly looks like it, mate. I’ll
see you at the curly gates.’
‘It’s the pearly gates, you idiot.’
43
Unsure what to do, I consider attempting the ‘Crocodile
Dundee trance technique’, when all of a sudden the dreadlock
dude with the tricycle storms over and grabs his balls
off the ground. The dogs turn their attention to the smelly
hippie and begin to bark viciously. He too turns white, and
from the look on his frightened face I would say he kind of
regrets coming over and claiming his colourful little balls.
The guy glances in our direction. I signal for him to drop
the balls to the ground, but he knows it’s too late. I shrug
my shoulders and throw him a ‘sorry dude, you’re fucked’
smile. Seeing his knees turn to jelly, he does what any
coward would do in this situation and runs for it. The dogs
set chase and bite around the hippie’s ankles as he disappears
screaming into the distance. If I ever see that guy
again I’m going to buy him a beer.
Buy on Amazon: Only £7.19!
UK Amazon.co.uk: The Linger Loco!: In Search of the Real Carnival
USA Amazon.com: The Linger Loco! In Search of the Real Carnival
