Everything but the Moo
The Linger Loco!
Chapter 1: Everything but the Moo
Hesitantly placing a piece of fried cow intestine into my
mouth, I chew the foul tasting grub a couple of times
before spitting it out onto my plate.
‘Table manners,’ Si grumbles, jabbing his fork into a
bull’s testicle. ‘You’re eating Chinchulines in a very sophisticated
restaurant in Argentina now, not sat at home in
front of the telly scoffing beans on toast, you pikey bastard.’
‘But this stuff tastes like rotten sprouts and unwashed
pants,’ I reply, smacking my lips together. ‘Eating these
cow entrails does nothing for your confidence. Where are
the mints?’
Si breathes into his hand to check his breath. He screws
up his face and retches. ‘Holy shit, you’re right! Is there
any part of the cow these people don’t eat?’
‘Everything but the Moo!’
I’m sitting in a restaurant with Simon, my twin brother,
in the San Telmo district of Buenos Aires. We’ve hardly
slept a wink since our packed jumbo hit the hot
Argentinean tarmac three days ago, and with a combination
of jetlag, excessive sightseeing, Salsa and fine wine, I
feel a little tired but I’ll fight it. There’s nothing more of a
buzz than arriving in a new city – sleep when you’re dead!
‘I feel sick, I need to lie down,’ Si coughs, his eyes red
and watery.
11
‘Oh, stop complaining and drink some wine. Hair of the
dog, that’s what you need.’
He shakes his head vigorously. ‘I can’t think of anything
worse. I’m going to splash my face.’
Si falls off his chair and staggers across the restaurant,
while I refill my glass from a delicious bottle of San Felipe.
It’s a full-bodied Argentinean red from the grape-growing
region of Mendoza, and I begin to feel excited by the
prospect of going there and losing myself in the vineyards.
Swilling the wine around my mouth, I study the antique
furniture scattered around the room. It’s a very traditional
Argentinean restaurant with solid wooden tables and
chairs and lace tablecloths that look like they date back to
the 1920′s. There’s a classic wooden bar and a handful of
mature waiters stand to attention around the room in their
crisp white aprons, white shirts and black bow ties. A picture
window looks out onto the busy cobbled streets of San
Telmo and faded black and white prints cover the walls in
old wooden frames, one of Eva Peron and another of the
slick Carlos Gardel, the father of Tango. I glance across the
restaurant and notice an attractive woman with jet-black
hair sat on a table nearby. She talks loudly in Spanish to a
clean cut guy wearing a navy blue suit, but pauses to suck
innocently on a piece of cow intestine that dangles from
her red glossy lips. I find this rather erotic in a perverse
way. As the food whips up into her mouth she peers over
at me, our eyes lock and I quickly look down at my plate.
Despite feeling a little uncomfortable and disturbed by the
thought that my breath smells of excrement, I wipe my
mouth on a napkin and continue to feast.
Si returns to the table looking a little less pale.
‘How do you feel?’ I ask, making a big effort to look
concerned.
He sits down and dabs his forehead. ‘Much better, I had
a whitey back there. My God, I’m getting too old for this.’
12
‘Come on, Si, we’ve only just touched down in South
America. We’re about to experience the greatest Carnival
on earth. This is not the time to confess that you’re too old
for a night on the tiles.’
‘I’ll be fine. It was those Fernet Branca cocktails we were
drinking last night in Palermo. That shit should be illegal.’
‘You worry me, brother. You’ve just been chilling in the
quiet little market town of Daventry for six months. It’s
time to put on your ‘kiss me quick’ hat and party, dude.’
‘Have no fear,’ Si smiles, flicking his long hair. ‘This old
dog isn’t going to curl up in his smelly basket just yet. I’m
a little out of practice, that’s all.’
‘Maybe it’s time you settled down and found a hobby.’
‘Fuck you, travelling and writing is my hobby.’
‘Well, pull yourself together because this ride is about to
begin. You can’t go in search of the ultimate Carnival without
drinking a few beers along the way.’
Sipping a glass of ice water Si gradually begins to return
to his normal, enthusiastic self.
‘So what’s the plan?’ he beams, rubbing his hands together.
‘I was hoping you were going to ask me that.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, I’ve been studying the map of South America
and…uh…I think we might be in the wrong place.’
Si frowns. ‘You what?’
‘The idea is to traverse the Trans-Oceanic Highway from
the Pacific to the Atlantic Coast of South America, isn’t it?
Where we’ll travel by bus from Chile into Peru, cross over
the Andes, fight our way through the Madre de Dios from
the Inca city of Cusco to the Amazon frontier town of
Puerto Maldonado, head north across the border into
Brazil and begin our search of the real Carnival!’
Si leans back in his chair and folds his arms. ‘Yeah
and…?’
‘Well, we’re not on the Pacific Coast – we’re on the
13
Atlantic!’
‘I know that, you retard. It was the cheapest flight we
could find, remember?’
‘Course I do, but how are we going to get to the Pacific
Coast? I’m not spending money on another plane ticket.
My money situation is already as tight as a gnat’s arse.’
‘Hey, no problem, we’re not flying.’
‘I’m not fucking walking!’
‘Chris, relax, let’s get the bus.’
‘The bus?’
‘Uh-huh, and I’m not talking about some smeggy Geoff
Amos coach from the nineteen eighties, either. I’m talking
about a luxury coach, a five star hotel on wheels.’
‘It’ll cost shit loads!’
‘That’s where you’re wrong my strange half-wit fiend.
Overnight buses in Argentina are reasonably priced and
they serve steak and fine wine, and if we’re really clever
each bus journey will save us a night’s accommodation.’
‘Si, you’re a friggin genius,’ I smile, refilling my glass. ‘I
knew there was a reason why I put up with your constant
whining and unpredictable mood swings.’
‘I’ll take that as a complement.’
‘Hey, in the guidebook it says you can get a boat from
Buenos Aires to Colonia in Uruguay. It’s supposed to be a
beautiful little town with wicked pavement cafes, cobbled
streets and nice beaches. We should definitely swing past
there. You never know we might even get a tan!’ I study
Si’s pale complexion. ‘Actually, maybe you won’t get a tan,
but it’ll be good fun all the same.’
Si looks slightly confused. ‘When do we go?’
‘Right now!’
‘This very minute?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Shouldn’t we pay for the food and check out of the hotel
first?’
14
‘Of course.’
‘And what about my washing, I haven’t done my washing?’
‘Si…’
‘Shit, yes, spontaneity. OK, let’s do it, Crissy boy. Let’s go
to Uruguay!’
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