Attack of the Satanic Satsuma

Trip Start Apr 17, 2006
Trip End Jun 14, 2006

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Flag of Argentina  ,
Monday, May 29, 2006

Although the title of this entry is envocative of 70s B-movie featuring a giant citric monster lumbering over distant hills juicing people with its deadly rind, the story actually begins several weeks ago, with small, cute and harmless caramelitos. These are small toffees and fruity chews displayed according to type in a tapestry of perspex racks in just about every kiosko in the country. I discovered them soon after leaving Mendoza, and came to rely on their sugary lift to get me from one milepost to the next. By the time I reached Cordoba three weeks later, daily consumption had far exceeded that of dulce de leche, and I started to become concerned about the effect on my pearly white dientos: as with the Savoy Truffle of the Lennon/MacCartney masterpiece, these little sweeties might leave me having to have them all pulled out. Around the same sort of time, I had discovered the wide availablity of mandarinas, which as you all know are sweet, juicy, and unlike their eponymous orange cousins, easy peasy lemon squeezy to peel, even with the handicap of gloves. At 10p a kilo, mandarinas become the next caramelitos, and my main motivator as I chewed on the miles was the promise of this juicy reward during my next rest stop. However, today something happened, and I'm not sure I can ever eat another mandarina again.

As usual, the fruit featured highly in my break, although this particular specimen appeared slightly damaged - likely biffed on the nose by some other item of luggage jealous of the profuse attention I bestowed upon its fruity neighbour. I started eating it nonetheless, deciding that it would probably taste much the same, if a little alcoholic. About halfway through, I looked down to decide which segment to scoff next, to notice that my mandarin appeared to be moving. Impossible, I thought, simply the narcotic effect of excessive exercise. But no, further investigation revealed that sure enough, some tiny, tubuloid lump of slime with a frantically probing proboscis was wriggling its way through my sacred snack. Now, at this juncture, many people would throw up, and I feel that as spontaneous reflexes go, this is probably quite a useful one - more so than yawning, say - as it gets any of the little things that have already helterskeltered into one's belly back out again just as quickly. However, I'm a big girl's blouse when it comes to vomiting, and I neither felt the urge to do so, nor could bring myself to induce such a reaction manually. Instead, I sent up a quick prayer that the little blighters were either scissored in twain during my brief mastication, or were ambushed by the melange of acid waiting for them in my stomach. I certainly hadn't read anywhere in any of the travel literature that intestinal worms live in fruit - more likely some maggot of some description. Perhaps I would even be able to digest them and gain some sort of dietary benefit from the rare and unusual proteins contained within. However, an acorn of doubt was lingering, in that way that doubts have an irritating habit of doing, and we all know what happens to acorns, don't we? Perhaps these slugettes from the land of satsuma were already up to something down there, plotting and scheming, poring over maps of my intestines to coordinate their assault while announcing a shrill call to arms for all the other parasites and nasties laying dormant in my belly, waiting for their hour of glory. I bet there's still a few of those old gas-producers around. I'm doomed - they're going to join forces and commit me to a lifetime on the toilet.
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srTP54 on

I am reading this 3.5 years later, and it is STILL hilarious!!!!

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