The Camino

by Eddie Rock

  “Happy days; let’s dump these packs in the barn and lift the latch, as they say!”

  “Sounds like a plan,” says Cocker, with his glasses fogged up again.

  Ghoulish faces huddle by the doorway of the ancient building, making entry impossible yet again.

  “Excuse me, please. Sorry. Can we get through?” I ask politely.

  Nobody moves a muscle.

  “Hola, s’il vous plaît, sorry, pardon, excusez-moi!”

  “They must be deaf as well as stupid!” I say loudly to Cocker as we squeeze through, much to their annoyance.

  The whole place smells like a big wet sheepdog with bunk beds as far as the eye can see. Saggy pensioners in saggy underpants with saggy faces all shuffling around aimlessly while a topless granny has a flannel wash and an old man clips his toenails. So we make for some beds in the farthest corner of the barn far away as possible from this lunacy epidemic.

  “MASS 8:00 P.M.” I laugh at the large imposing signs on the walls, not that that makes any difference to us, as we shall be in the “BAR AT 8:00 P.M.”

  Cocker agrees. Beside our new beds we prepare for the evening and Cocker strips down to his boxer shorts, revealing pierced nipples and a Celtic dragon tattoo all down his arm! Could be a dark horse, this lad? There’s certainly more to him than meets the eye, that’s for sure.

  “I reckon I should have gone to Ibiza instead,” I say to my new friend as a loud grating voice punctures my left eardrum.

  “Jam njam, yakyakkay, mmnnignggg, babadabadabdab . . . yakyahyakyakyakyak.”

  “What the fuck? Who the fuck’s this now . . . ?”

  The Japanese tattoo face from the bus station has come back to get me! But now in an apron with different eyebrows, like some kind of ogress or something! How can this be? Cocker stands frozen with his trousers down in a state of shock. Whatever this disgruntled nursery rhyme character is barking on about, she is far from happy, that’s for sure.

  She snaps an order at Cocker as he shuffles around with his trousers still to his ankles, and we hand over our new passports for inspection. She studies them like a Gestapo officer for what seems like an eternity and then examines us with her beady eyes before sharply handing them back as we stand before her giggling nervously like naughty schoolboys.

  “Yak yak yak, mak, nak, kak.”

  Her high-pitched yakking starts to pull on my nerves like fingernails down a blackboard.

  “English please! ¡No comprendo! ¡No understando!” I protest.

  “No. No. No, yak, yak, yak,” she says, pointing to the numbers on the beds and waving two pieces of paper from out of her apron: 63 and 65.

  We are in beds 8 and 10. “What’s the big deal?” I ask her as she hands us the mandatory paper numbers and points harshly up the room while grunting at the sign on the wall. MASS 8:00 P.M.!

  Yeah right, I’m thinking to myself.

  We quickly leave the scene of the crime, with Cocker trying to pull up his jeans, pack his stuff, and walk at the same time as her shrill voice starts up again. We’re halfway up the room when she stops for breath and turns her attention to the old man clipping his toenails.

  He shrinks away in fear as her high-octave yakking cleanly removes a small piece of his sanity like a jackhammer on a steel plate.

  I quickly locate my most important piece of equipment, my orange earplugs, and show them to Cocker.

  “I hope you’ve got some of these, mate. There’s going to be some serious snoring tonight, I reckon!”

  “I don’t need them,” he says. “I can sleep anywhere.”

  He then begins a tedious tale about when he and his friends, Edgar and Justin, were at some pop festival and him waking up in the mosh pit as the Prodigy exit the stage. “That’s how well I can sleep,” he adds.

  I’m not really listening; I just want some beer.

  I arrange my kit on the bed; luckily I got the bottom bunk of the mechano bed, with Cocker on the top of another set of bunks.

  I dread to think about our new bunk buddies, but to be fair, I’m past caring now. I’m just wondering what the hell I’ve got myself into.

  An excitable silver-haired man makes his way around the barn, talking to everybody he meets. He’s also the first person I’ve seen actually smile today. His energy is infectious as he works the pensioner druids and wizards up into a frenzy. Could this be the infamous Pablo Coolio? I wonder.

  “Are you going to the Pilgrims’ Mass?” he’s asking everyone.

  “Good, good, yes, yes, yes,” he says, pleased.

  “Ah, you are going to the Pilgrims’ Mass?” he asks as we attempt to flee.

  “No! We’re off to the bar for a—”

  “Nooooo!” he shrieks, and the barn falls deathly quiet.

  “No,” I say, feeling like Oliver Twist.

  “Nooooo! You are not going to the Pilgrims’ Mass?” he shrieks.

  Suddenly a pang of good-old Catholic guilt renders me speechless in the silent barn. The ogress looks up from her apron and grunts, pointing at yet another Mass sign on the wall.

  “I guess we’re going now,” sighs Cocker.

  We squeeze back out into the storm and run for our lives to Castle Vlad again, closely followed by the excitable man and an array of different-sized and shaped pilgrims, while most of the others are happy to stand around the door and stare at the rain.

  The church is dimly lit and we file in quietly, well almost. It’s been a long time since I was in a Catholic church—I’m always the one standing when I should be kneeling, kneeling when I should be standing, and talking when I should be listening. The priests file in and we sit down, then stand up, then kneel down. As per usual no one has a clue what we’re supposed to be doing, and a Mexican wave of uncertainty flows through the pews twice.

  At last the Mass begins, first in Latin, then in Spanish, then in French by different priests, and I’m getting very bored and my legs and ribs are aching like mad with all this sitting and standing malarkey. Eventually, the German priest finishes and an Irish priest steps forward and conducts the final Mass in English, asking the Lord to give us strength for our long days ahead on the Camino de Santiago, and finally, at last, it’s over.

  “Thank the Lord,” I say.

  I feel happy; everyone is smiling, shaking hands, and hugging each other. Cocker and the excited man seem to be having a competition of hugging the most people in the least amount of time and space, often hugging the same person thrice in the frenzy. Something compels me to leave the melee and follow the others up to the altar.

  For the first time in my life I take the flesh and blood of Christ, as I feel I may need every bit of help I can get on this journey, starting now. So, with the ceremony complete and the rain a disguise for our desperation, we, newly ordained pilgrims, run to the bar across the flooded tarmac like the charge of the Light Brigade.

  I’m quite surprised and somewhat miffed that the bar is full of people, none of whom were at the Mass. I quickly order three pints and scan the bar for pretty girls as Cocker and Mr. Excitement shout at me through to the restaurant to join them in the first sitting of dinner.

  “First come, first served!” shouts Mr. Excitement.

  “Free wine!” shouts Cocker.

  I’m in there like a shot as the tables fill quickly with windswept and wet post-Mass pilgrims. We fill our glasses with red wine and toast to our future success. Our new companion is called Jean Nicolai. He is a fifty-five-year-old Swiss man but lives in Brisbane, Australia, with his young wife and works as a physiotherapist. A cheeky glint appears in his eye. “I also organize rave parties out in the bush,” he says.

  Wow, there’s certainly more to this guy than meets the eye, that’s a fact. Never judge a book by its cover! Twice now in the space of an hour; first Cocker, now him—well it takes all sorts I guess.

  Cocker proudly announces that he works for Islington Borough Council as a cultural officer and graduated from Cambridge last year.

  I can almost see
him punting up and down the river in his blazer like a complete Gaylord, wearing a straw hat or answering stupid questions on “University Challenge” with the rest of those erberts. I’m pleased to leave all the talking to them, really; there’s no point telling them my recent stories of woe.

  Our first course begins with soup and concrete bread as Cocker tries in vain to catch the attention of the busy waiter without actually bringing attention to himself, the way a lot of posh people do. The English way of not wanting to cause a scene. The busy waiter sees his foolish bibbling but chooses to ignore him.

  “When I’ve finished the Camino,” says Jean Nicolai, “I’m going to Ibiza to meet my wife, dance like crazy, and take ecstasy!”

  Cocker splutters, almost having a seizure!

  “Ecstasy?” we both say.

  “Oh yes, yes, yes, and why not? I like it. Don’t you?” he says. “I’m a DJ too. Do you like dark psytrance?” he adds.

  Cocker is stunned. “Aren’t you a bit old for that?”

  “No, no, no, not at all. Don’t you like dancing? I love it.” He laughs, doing a little rave shuffle in his chair. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’d had some ecstasy a couple of hours ago and was buzzing his tits off with his yes, yes this and no, no that all the time, talking at a hundred miles an hour about how he met his wife and where they live and that she’s only thirty-three and he is fifty-five!

  “Well, you’re only as old as the woman you feel,” I tell him, and we high-five. I immediately like the guy; he’s happy and full of fun, unlike most of the others his age. I wonder if he’s brought any X or MDMA powder with him. I’ll ask him later, ’cause there are plenty of people around here who could use some, by the looks on their faces. Me included.

  “You can’t beat a good-old disco biscuit, can you?” I say.

  “Definitely not,” says Jean Nicolai.

  “But they don’t make them like they used to!” I tell them.

  “You never tried X then?” I ask Cocker.

  “Oh you should.” Jean Nicolai nods. “You must!”

  “No, I smoked cannabis once, though,” he says.

  The second course consists of a whole trout, with its glazed eye staring coldly from the bright-green plate, along with a small handful of thinly cut chips. The colour suddenly drains from Cocker’s face, looking like he could be sick any minute. He brims his wineglass, has a big gulp, and tries in vain yet again to attract the attention of the busy waiter.

  “Are you all right?” says Jean Nicolai.

  “You look a bit green,” I tell him.

  “Doesn’t he? He looks green!” shrieks Jean Nicolai, quite delighted.

  “I don’t eat fish,” sighs Cocker, picking at his chips.

  As the meal draws to a close, I liberate a bottle of wine from an empty table before the next sitting of wet pilgrims arrives. We hear more of Jean Nicolai’s tales of superstar DJ’ing in the desert and the joys of MDMA powder. I’ve decided to call our new friend “Swiss John.” It’s easier that way.

  I can’t be doing with difficult fancy double-barreled names.

  A group of Dutch teenagers swamp the bar with their volumes at full blast. All seem to be smoking big trumpets of shag tobacco, yet only quaffing light refreshments, thus requiring question to their ages and their being here. Thankfully, they drink up and leave noisily.

  “Ah, peace at last!” I stretch and grimace as my rib pops.

  “Three more San Miguels,” I say to Cocker. “Get the beers in!”

  “No. No. No!” shrieks Swiss John, pointing at the clock.

  “Whoa, keep your hair on, man; it’s not last orders yet!”

  “No. No. No. It’s nearly ten o’clock, the curfew!”

  “The curfew? What are you on about?”

  “The curfew. They lock the doors at ten o’clock!” he shrieks.

  “What?”

  Sure enough, the bar is empty and the horrible truth dawns. . . . It’s two minutes to ten, so we rush out into the storm once again.

  “I can’t believe we never sung that pilgrims’ hymn in the church: ‘He who would valiant be, ’gainst all disaster, let him in dee dee dee . . . follow thy master . . . la dad a dah dah dah . . . and care not what men say . . . ’” I sing.

  “‘We labor night and day to be a pilgrim,’” sings Cocker, finishing up.

  “Yes, ya bastard.” He knows the song.

  I punch him lightly on the shoulder and throw my arm around him as we sing out loudly, splashing forward into a pothole.

  “To be a pilgr—fucking hell!” he screams, much to my amusement.

  Cocker has finally sworn. It didn’t take long but that’s what you get for wearing sandals in the rain and drinking on an empty stomach.

  But then again, I can bring out the worst in some people.

  The ogress stands guarding the door, rattling a bunch of keys and ranting like a demonic jailer.

  “Hi, gorgeous, bed number 33, here he is,” I joke, pointing at Cocker, who looks like a drowned rat. The ogress growls and points at his sandals, words firing from her mouth like an antiaircraft gun, and if looks could kill, Cocker would be hung, drawn, and quartered.

  More people have arrived now, and the place is filled to the brim with half-naked pilgrims. No half-naked Suzies, Siobhans, or Clares in their Ann Summers lingerie—just Ethel, Mavis, and Nora in their floppy pants and bras.

  “No wanking tonight,” I joke as I climb into my loudly creaking toy bed. Cocker takes his glasses off and immediately falls asleep.

  Lucky bastard! I’m still wide awake. I begin to think back to my younger days in the backpacker hostels of Australia and some of the crazy things we used to get up to. Our favorite pastime at one point was to go into the dormitories when everyone was asleep and shave off our fellow backpackers’ eyebrows for “the craic,” as we called it. Thirty-three people we did in one night after a massive party.

  One unfortunate girl woke up minus her eyebrows and half of her 70s muff. Really, we should have received medals, but the hostel owners and most of the browless didn’t share our enthusiasm and we all got kicked out!

  My friend Phil Charles came off the worst; he woke up to find he had been tattooed from head to toe in black permanent marker with a great big black cock on his forehead and his eyebrows missing, but most alarmingly the mystery artist (Steve Powell) spent extra time completely coloring in his cock and balls—and what made it worse was poor-old Phil got chucked out too, guilt by association!

  I must give Powelly a ring at some point!

  I look across at sleeping beauty and wonder, but my mischievous ideas are cut short by the arrival of our new bedmates. I shut my eyes and try to remain calm as the bed shakes, rattles, and rolls with its new occupant.

  As the foreign tongues of naked pensioners vibrate around my tired brain, the lights suddenly go out to a loud chorus of screams and shouts from all four corners of the room, followed by a long comedy trumpet fart, a young person’s laughter, and loud snoring.

  I spot the ogress lurking in the shadows, waiting and watching, on patrol.

  The bed sways backward and forward like a sailor’s hammock. Whenever I move a muscle, I wake the old man above and vice versa. In the middle of the night the whole bed shudders and shakes as the old man has a coughing fit, and once again I’m wide awake and desperately need a slash. Fearful of the ogress, I venture into the cold cavernous underground toilets, expecting her to jump out and bollock me at any minute. As the snoring reaches epidemic levels, I return to find both my earplugs missing.

  RONCESVALLES TO LARRASOAÑA

  DAY OF DAYS

  “I laugh when I hear that the fish in the water are thirsty. I laugh when I hear that men go on pilgrimage to find God”

  —KABIR (1440-1518)

  THE UNDERGROUND TOILETS AND SHOWERS are full to bursting, as is my bladder. I walk in and immediately walk back out again as the sight and sound of a naked German with a big stupid face and a tiny acorn for a cock, who
happily engages the shuffling masses in morning conversation. I meet Cocker on the stairs looking like a misplaced holidaymaker, with his wash bag and towel slung casually over his arm.

  “Watch out for the sausage smuggler,” I warn him.

  “What?” he says all bleary-eyed.

  “Don’t drop your soap!” I say, warning him seriously.

  It’s six o’clock in the morning and pilgrims including fat safari, the wizard, and a strange wailing/shrieking woman gather by the door, surveying the rain. As I walk past, cross-legged back to my bed trying not to wet my pants a gust of wet wind blows in and chills me to the bone.

  Luckily our two bedmates are nowhere to be seen, and I manage to clean my teeth in peace. I sit on the edge of the bed and rapid exhaustion finally sets in; I could sleep for an eternity as I spot the ogress sweeping the floor and yakking like a madwoman.

  I find my missing earplugs under the bed covered in gray pubic hairs and grit as Cocker comes back from the bathroom shaking his head.

  “Why is there a naked German man down there?” he asks.

  “Fuck knows! Pilgrims’ Hospital, they call this!”

  “It’s more like A FUCKING MENTAL HOSPITAL!” I curse. “Look at it.”

  Cocker looks around the room and then at the crowd gathered by the door.

  “Doesn’t look like anybody’s going anywhere this morning.” He sighs.

  “Fuck that,” I say. “I need to be on. I can’t stay here a moment longer or I’ll go completely mad!”

  Cocker thinks for a brief moment, jumps down off the bed, and quickly begins to pack.

  “Right, I’m ready!” he says, pulling on his pack and smiling.

  “You’re ready? Are you kidding me?”

  “No, why?” he says, looking down at his green woolly socks and sandals. “I prefer to wear these. I’ve had them three years. They’ve done the Pennine Way, the Inca Trail, Croagh Patrick, and Ayers Rock, I’ll have you know!”

  “Where are your walking boots?”

  I’m in no mood to stand and debate his idiotic situation.