The Eurolick
Once, when I was hiking through the Dzhugdzhur mountains after a bout with typhus in Hindu Kush forced my Sherpa to join the Sandanistas for want of coin, I happened upon a wizened old philosopher.
It was by accident, really. My morning harvesting juniper beetles for the silk dye trade in Ghana had gone poorly, and I’d stopped under a spreading chestnut tree for rest. And there he was.
“Beware the Eurolick!” he whispered to me, while softly knawing on fried plantains and sipping from a ubiquitous red cup of fermented snozzberry.
“What’s a Eurolick?” I responded.
But before he could finish, a hunting team of Samburu happened upon our yurt. We fled by way of Guadalcanal, until a six month turn mashing yeast on a freighter ship marked for Uttar Pradesh earned me enough to return to the Subcontinent to resume my job as a Turkish pimp for the Belgian mafia.
