by Eddie Rock
We arrange to meet later, and he goes back to support Belen. I watch as they walk off, arm in arm into the madhouse of a hostel. I can safely say they are, without a doubt, the oddest-looking couple I have ever seen in my life, even beating the other oddest couple I ever saw: Rastafarian gentleman and burka-clad Muslim lady I once spotted in a very dodgy part of Rotterdam one evening.
In his haste to console Belen, he has left his silly book on the stone step wrapped tightly in a large elastic band, so I pick it up and take it with me until I see him later.
On the way back to our pristine and erbert-free hostel, I spend fifty euros on different rash creams and painkillers, including white cotton gloves and a fifteen-euro lilac headscarf to protect my sun blistered neck and ears. I may look like a total pillock, but as long as I’m not itching, I’m not bothered. I report back to Swiss John and find my washing neatly folded on the bed as I take my time to apply the correct creams to the correct areas and manage yet another refreshing siesta.
That evening we meet up in the restaurant, and being hungry is an understatement, so I’ve cleverly managed to seat myself in between Cocker and Manuel in case there is any mix-up with vegetarian requirements or weight-loss issues. We are joined by the insanely jovial Swiss John, Theo, and Whilamena. Jan and Sarah sit across at another table, as does the kinky Dutch teacher and his student lover.
The donkey guy wanders in, looking a bit dusty, followed by Dagmar, Delacroix, Christophe, the nice Irish lady, and the rude Frenchman.
This being Cocker’s last night for a while, I intend to give him a good-old sending off, as we’ve been through a lot in our short time together. So we start the evening with a couple of double brandies to celebrate, and everyone is having a really good time, but poor-old Cocker gets a bout of melancholia because he’s missing Belen.
“Don’t worry. I bet you’ll see her again.”
“I won’t,” he cries. “She’s got back with her boyfriend.”
“Oh, never mind, have some more wine,” I tell him.
“Plenty more fish in the sea!” says Swiss John, laughing.
Poor Cocker, he makes up for it by drinking more and more, until halfway through our main course he slurs to a halt and almost slides off the table onto the floor. As I help him up, he gets all stroppy and argumentative, followed by happy, then sad, as emotion and alcohol take over. He laughs again about doing the Camino on a “pie.” Then his eyes begin to close a little, and he announces that he wants to go back to the hostel.
“I need to fucking kip!” he slurs loudly.
Whilamena and Theo look puzzled at our inebriated friend. A kip in Dutch means chicken, opposed to English slang for a kip, which means sleep. I shrug and order a strong coffee for my friend in an attempt at sobering him up a bit, and he takes one of my cigarettes and balks.
“Bleurgh!” he yaks as the nicotine spins his drunken mind.
“Oh yeah, you only smoke those silk whatchamacallits?” I say.
“Cut!” he shouts angrily.
“What?” I feign deafness.
“Cut!” he shouts again, even angrier.
“Silk what again?” I ask, hammering another nail in his coffin.
“Silk fucking Cut!” He bangs his fist down on the table, knocking over an empty wine bottle and sending a spoon and napkin flying.
Unfortunately for Cocker, kut in Dutch means cunt, and the kinky underpants-wearing Dutch teacher stands and turns to Theo and says in English, “Kindly tell your friend to mind his filthy language!”
Then Theo and Whilamena have a heated discussion in Dutch with the disgruntled teacher about a chicken, a kut, and a ball-sack apparently! As 10:00 p.m. approaches, we leave the restaurant and bid a final farewell to our drunken friend. We hope to see him again as he hobbles out of sight, but never out of mind.
“Do you think . . . err, he and the girl, did they . . . ?” asks Swiss John, dismissing the notion with a shake of his head.
“No, I don’t reckon so!” I tell him.
“And what was the matter with the Dutch people tonight?”
“I have no idea.”
BELORADO TO SAN JUAN DE ORTEGA
SIGHT OF 114 MIRACLES, NEARLY 115
IT’S A FRESH MORNING, with not too many people around, and I fantasize about tearing up these tracks on a motocross bike.
“The Camino del dirt bike.” That would be great, but considering the injuries I’ve sustained just on two feet, maybe not!
As I arrive in the medieval pilgrims’ complex of San Juan de Ortega, I’m getting some very funny looks from fellow pilgrims, including the two old crones from yesterday. If it’s not the alfresco wanking, it’s definitely my latest fashion trend of looking like some kind of cross-dressing bedouin snooker referee, in my new lilac headscarf and white cotton gloves. Now that Cocker has gone, I’m definitely the worst-dressed pilgrim of all.
* * * *
San Juan de Ortega is a neat little place, starting with an old stone church as you enter the hamlet, followed by a small monastery in need of repair, then the pilgrims’ hostel and a bar.
Salvation, sin, and siesta, all under the same roof.
Impatient pilgrims crowd around the entrance, looking at their watches, with their brain cells melting under the midday sun. Good-old Swiss John arrives and has a violent Mexican standoff with a huge safari-suited German. With his fat sausage-munching face wobbling like a jelly at poor-old Swiss John, who, yet again, is innocently trying to read the noticeboards at the hostel entrance. Due to the display of rudeness, Yannick wonders if he should go farther down the road, but he quickly thinks again because to the stifling heat and goes to fetch us some wine instead. I peel off my already-filthy gloves and scratch all my blisters until they bleed. Thankfully Yannick returns with wine, which I drink down in one.
* * * *
Inside the old stone bar, the Spanish workmen drink brandy and cackle away in a cloud of smoke as a group of American pilgrims dine on lovely-smelling pork chops and new potatoes. One of the Yanks sounds a lot like Ned Flanders from The Simpsons, and I listen in as he tells his equally monotone cronies about his exhausting bus and taxi journeys, due to twisting his ankle and getting a blister on his big toe.
“Dos vino tinto, por favor,” I say to the barman.
“Grand day,” he replies as I point at the wine.
“Very warm out there, though,” I tell him, and the day gets grander as he fills two big glasses to the brim.
I’ve run out of cigarettes and the bar only sells the local brand called Ducados. They can’t be too bad; everyone’s smoking them.
Back outside in the picnic area we discuss our theories of whether or not Cocker and Belen committed the original sin. Although his back and stomach were covered in scratches, I’m still inclined to believe he fell down a riverbank, because I can’t imagine him in throes of passion with the gorgeous Belen.
“I don’t think we will see him again,” says Swiss John sadly.
“The omens were not looking good, especially when the chicken threw his bread out of the cage. That’s when I knew he was in trouble,” I tell them.
Swiss John and Yannick look equally puzzled.
“The chickens at Santo Domingo—they threw his bread out the cage. That’s when I knew he was fucked! He left me his book, though.”
“What are you talking about?” says Swiss John.
“Oh, never mind. I need a cigarette.”
At the first draw on the Ducados, I’m getting subtle aromas of horse shit, which burns my throat, making me reach for a large gulp of wine. The second hit has my palate experiencing the vague sensation of CS gas mixed with pepper spray, and the third and final hit—hints of burnt plastic and car tire as my head spins wildly.
“Ooh, Duca-fucking-dos,” I cough and screw up my face.
Today might be a good day to quit smoking.
A stout Spanish lady arrives, rattling a bunch of keys, and it all kicks off around the entrance of the old building as more
pilgrims arrive, including Theo, Wilhamena, Jan, and Sarah. Then the Italian yoga girl with a head injury, the rude Frenchmen, and, last but not least, the Dutch youths arrive to add to the chaos and volume.
A trio of bare-chested Dutch boys run screaming out of the church, followed by a loud piercing wail from within.
“Get out!” screams the demonic voice as the stout lady charges through the door. “And stay out, ye fecking orange heathens!” she shouts, violently waving a stiff brush. We all let out a cheer as the boys throw on their football shirts and skulk off into the dormitories with their tails between their legs.
“About time someone got topside of those noisy fuckers,” I say.
Swiss John and Yannick agree.
After a few more glasses of wine I haul my weary body and heavy pack inside the building and have a cold but refreshing shower. It’s too hot outside, so I venture back into the cool bar and try to write.
I can’t believe I’m covered in these strange itchy blisters with a great big sore on my lip. My poor-old body is itching inside out, and my feet feel like I’ve done time in one of Saddam Hussein’s torture clinics—the one’s run by his two sons: Queer Say or Hear Say or whatever their names are. I read somewhere that they would skin a man’s feet, then have a goat lick the wounds, pretty similar really to how my feet feel today! So to take my mind off things, I read a story from my guidebook.
San Juan de Ortega, whom this little village is named after, was a local man who founded a community of Augustinian monks who went on a massive building spree consisting of churches, hospitals, and paths for pilgrims. He was also good friends with funky roosting Saint Dominic, who built the church in Santo Domingo de la Calzada back down the road. San Juan is buried here in the church that he helped build.
I bet he even built this bar I’m in now. The best bit of the story is about a special carving showing the annunciation and the visitation of the Holy Ghost in Joseph’s dream and Christ’s nativity. That on each equinox, March 21 and September 22 at precisely 5:00 p.m. solar time, a single shaft of sunlight pervades the darkness of the church, creating the almost heavenly illusion that the Holy Ghost is illuminating the pregnant bump of the Virgin Mary. Wow!
I thought this place was special. So, I drink some more wine to celebrate and have a little look at this Pablo Coolio book Cocker left behind. As I flick the well-worn pages, I come to the seed exercise and read what those two plonkers were up to in Puente la Reina.
The seed exercise is like something we used to do in infant school, with our arms extending and our little fingertips reaching for the sun as we pretended pretending to be a tree, or was it a teapot or whatever the fuck it was anyway? All a bit silly, if you ask me.
A bit too much gangster tripping by the sounds of things, Mr. Coolio!
So I wrap it back up, hoping I do bump into Cocker again because he can gladly have it back. I’ve had enough of drinking wine, so I order a nice cool bottle of San Miguel and join the friendly faces back in the picnic area. In the space of half an hour we have a good little party in flow, with Theo bellowing out laughter, Jan and Sarah still laughing about Scunthorpe, and Swiss John lying in the grass, making strange noises and pulling equally strange faces, and I wonder yet again if he has X with him. Also joining the party are a cool German girl called Sonja and yoga girl Alyssa. Late in the afternoon the bar runs out of normal San Miguel, so we hit the export stuff, as well as loads more red wine. Add the old Ducados to that equation and we’re all well on our way to oblivion.
I really wish we had a guitar, but after a fruitless search for the Brazilian Afro man, we make do with my harmonica and “Dirty Old Town” and then the traditional Irish song “The Wild Rover.”
“No, nay, never,” booms Theo. “No, nay, never no more,” he sings, banging his massive fist down on the table and sending a minor tremor through our bodies.
Jan drunkenly manages an almost word-perfect “Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport” to great applause from the happy faces gathered around the table. But behind them I see authentic inquisition-faced pilgrims casting us the evil eye, no doubt fantasizing about an array of exotic genital torture devices and which one of us to pick first to try them out on. The equally medieval sight of man and donkey comes wandering into view, and the church bells toll for mass. We all fall silent for a moment to gather our drunken thoughts.
Aussie Jan has one eye open—she is proper pissed up, staggering around and slurring her words as we file quietly into the church and take a pew. I can’t take my eyes off poor-old Jesus hung up there on the cross, and I feel like I want to make him a cup of tea for some reason. The service finally gets under way, and as per usual, most of us can’t understand a word of the ceremony, just mumbling in the wrong places in a state of confusion. I look up at poor-old Jesus again and say sorry for being drunk in his presence, and when we kneel to pray I ask him if he can get me to Santiago in one piece. One of the carvings shows the sinners in hell, and the way things are going, it feels like I’ve got a one-way ticket. But saying that, where will all these so-called pilgrims like Dagmar, Christophe, and the fat German end up when they die? As I shut my eyes to pray, a vision of them all pushing, shoving, and quarreling at the pearly gates invades my drunken mind, and I figure that I’ll stick with hell. Well, once I’ve done my purgatory first, of course.
As the ceremony ends, the priest leads us out a different set of doors into a beautiful old courtyard with ivy climbing through the cracks in the walls. I’m pleasantly surprised that all this was behind here, and Father Alonso explains that every penny from the hostel goes into restoring this place to its former glory. There’s certainly a magical energy here, and even in my drunken state I can feel it’s a very special place. Suddenly a moment of clarity hits me! This is what I should do at the end of the pilgrimage! I’ll return here and help restore this building!
I see myself pottering around in the air of sanctity, repairing old doors and window frames and drinking wine in the bar with the Spanish workmen every dinnertime, giving foot massages to nice lady pilgrims every evening. This could be it.
“Saint Eduardo de Ortega. I like the sound of that.” As soon as we finish this tour and I sober up a bit more, I’ll find Father Alonso and tell him my vision. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear of my plans. I just know it!
The holy father leads us upstairs into a large room, and we sit at a long row of tables with Yannick at the end, silhouetted against the backdrop of a large window, through which the evening sun illuminates the trees. I feel calm, serene, and at peace with Yannick as a Scandinavian biker Jesus and we his disciples with our enamel mugs at the ready for the famous Father Alonso’s garlic soup. This is what the pilgrimage is all about, and I’m feeling the vibe loud and clear. After the soup I shall go forth on my mission to find the holy father, but I only get as far as the bar, and then later as far as the donkey, tethered to the tree.
ST. JUAN DE ORTEGA TO BURGOS
BUTCH CASSIDY AND THE SPONGEPANTS KID
MY BED SHAKES VIOLENTLY as my bunkmate leaps down to the floor. Morning has broken, and I’m still heavy with wine. My tongue has stuck firmly to the roof of my mouth, and my soul is barren, laid waste, devoid of enthusiasm. I just want to curl up and die. As I loosen my tongue I taste red wine and garlic. The light comes on and with it more brain pain as the Euro babble reaches unprecedented levels. So I bury myself in my ripped sleeping bag the best way I can and wake a few hours later to total peace and quiet . . . and fear . . . Jesus! What was I up to last night? Pangs of Roman Catholic guilt rack my brain. What did I say to the priest?
Oh no! I hope I didn’t volunteer for anything I shouldn’t have!
It takes me an age to get going as the stout Spanish lady comes into the room with her mop and bucket. I frighten her as much as she does me and her look says it all . . . I need to leave!
It’s 7:30 a.m and my head is still pounding. I know I did or said something to someone but I can’t remember what.
Why do I
drink so much? I curse myself.
I say goodbye to San Juan de Ortega and get back on track.
The gorgeous German girl is now walking toward me. I remember seeing her last night but avoided her due to my shabby appearance and even shabbier behavior, and now she is heading my way.
She smiles as she approaches, and I don’t know where to look.
“Forgotten something?” I stupidly ask.
To which she replies telepathically, “No shit, Sherlock!”
I feel immediately foolish but manage to catch another glimpse of her tidy arse as my hands and whole body begin to itch like crazy.
Dark clouds gather across the stony mountainside and I catch up with Sonja and Alyssa.
Sonja laughs. “Hey, you were very drunk last night!”
“I know,” I say, hoping for her to expand a little.
“Can you even remember?” laughs Alyssa.
“I remember talking to that donkey,” I tell them.
“Do you remember pretending to be a seed with Swiss John?” Sonja laughs. “Oh, and wrestling with Hedrick?”
“Hedrick? Oh yes, good-old Hedrick!” I laugh, while wondering who on earth Hedrick might be!
I do hope it’s not the name of the donkey.
* * * *
I leave them behind to their girl talk as great big dirty blobs of rain hit my face and I begin the ascent into the hills of the Sierra de Atapuerca. In the thick black fog I first overtake one and then another horse-faced Dutch girl, who both look surprisingly like the Manchester United and Dutch international Ruud van Nistelrooy.
I feel an air of animosity between them, and I think they are not talking to each other for some reason. They look like they could do with some serious cheering up, but luckily for them I’m in no mood to take out my harmonica and entertain or rub some deep heat on my bobby’s helmet and do a rain dance for them. As I deem by their faces that they are totally and hopelessly miserable, I decide to get away from them as quickly as possible, as they are putting my karma totally out of kilter with their sour and brooding energies.
