The Camino

by Eddie Rock

  The Dutch harmonica appreciation society have reappeared loitering with intent around the showers, of which I’m third in line. When it’s finally my turn, one of the Dutch duo decides to wash her underwear in the sink. I curse and holler as I get blasts of freezing-cold water, then scalding-hot, sending my mind over the edge yet again.

  As I exit the shower, she’s standing there waiting with her towel. I smile nicely at her as I pass and wait till I can hear the angelic singing and splashing from within. Time for a bit of religious education!

  Fight fire with fire! I think to myself as I twiddle the taps.

  First one way, then the other, then back again.

  “Ooooh! Aaaaagh! Godverdommer!” she wails.

  Her screams and sobs are music to my burned, blistered ears, and I smile innocently as she emerges all red-faced, huffing and puffing.

  “Lovely shower, isn’t it?” I muse as she passes me by without even a look.

  The rat couple arrives on the scene, sniffing at everything and everyone with distrust as they search for beds. Thankfully the South African girls are full of life, and we strike up a bit of banter in Dutch Afrikaans. The excitable girl we met earlier is traveling with her mother and a few friends. She is louder than Theo and ten times more excitable than Swiss John, and completely off her head; her actions reminding me of a clockwork toy.

  * * * *

  Back down in the bar, Dave and Eva are getting harassed by a drunken farmer in blue overalls covered in cow shit. He looks remarkably like David Icke, the Premier League goalkeeper who turned conspiracy theorist, believing that members of the British monarchy are, in fact, lizards from outer space that feed on homeless children.

  Dave and Eva look worried as Icke stands before them, wobbling and swaying with pontoon eyes, making inappropriate remarks and gestures. The stout barman shouts and waves the yellow card at the drunken farmer, who then twists his double-glazed features, all serious and menacing for a moment, but with wobble and a shrug he sits down and lights a Ducados with his laughing cronies. Eva decides it’s time for a shower, and as she leaves, our eyes fall upon her peachy tight ass.

  “I think I love her,” says Dave with a longing sigh.

  I feel like telling him about the steamy shower I had with her and that I love her too, and then I’ll challenge him to a duel at dawn. But I can hardly walk, never mind fight. So we get drunk instead, and I give him a major inquisition about his ridiculous religious beliefs.

  In the middle of the night I hear screams and shouts in the darkness. The lights go on, and all the commotion is based around Dave sitting bolt upright in his bunk, screaming like a banshee with his hand on chest, setting in motion a chain of pandemonium. The clock work girl is screaming, her mother is screaming, the rat people are screaming, the Dutch women are screaming!

  “What the fucking hell is going on?”

  Dave is muttering, stuttering, and clutching his chest, and at first I wonder if he’s been stabbed, and by whom! I see blood between his fingers and a kind of slime. As he calms down, I pry his shaking hand away from his chest, where the flattened remains of a lizard slide down his stomach and settle in his crotch.

  I don’t know who I feel sorry for the most—the lizard or the slayer.

  EL ACEBO TO PONFERRADA

  JUDAS ROCK

  A VERY SEXY FRENCH GIRL has monopolized the bathroom, and her older companion states knowingly that she will be in there awhile. Eventually she comes out looking like some kind of model for the designer walking-clothes industry, and reptile killer Dave’s eyes pop out of his shrunken head, giving him the added incentive to stop moaning about lizards and hangovers and get ready for the road.

  It’s a lovely, fresh morning, but I can’t escape the pain both physical and mental as repetitive-song syndrome takes hold once again.

  “Every step I take, every move I make,” I mumble over and over again as the song by the Police keeps running through my troubled mind. I hobble past a memorial stone for yet another poor soul who never made it to Santiago, and I wonder if I’ll actually make it myself. Dave is totally doing my head in, fussing all over me like an old lady and offering to carry my pack. Thankfully, he gets the message and walks off in front of me with a nice Spanish lady. I keep my mind off the pain by listening in to their conversation, and from what I can gather, they are talking about the cities of Spain—Madrid, Barcelona, and Seville. Which ones are the biggest and have the biggest and best churches, the biggest swimming pools, the most people, and other highly boring statistics. Surely, if you go through all the trouble of learning a foreign language, the least you could do is find something interesting to talk about.

  With every step I take and every move I make comes more pain. My legs are unrecognizably swollen, but luckily the next hostel is close by, so I think I’ll find a quiet bar to chill, drink, and think about what on earth I’m going to do next. I tell Dave to go on ahead, but he won’t leave me—until the sexy French catwalk model and her older companion walk past. Dave’s eyes light up and the fussing stops.

  “¡Hola, Josephine! ¡Hola, Delacroix!” he says, delighted.

  “Is he her boyfriend?” I ask.

  “Oh no, that’s her father!” he says.

  “Not tonight, Josephine?” I laugh.

  “What?”

  The Napoleonic joke goes way over his head. He’s just too interested in following her spectacular tits and arse all the way to Santiago. Silver-tongued cavalier Dave wastes no time in small talk. In the space of ten minutes he’s told her his life story, and he knows her life story, her phone number, and email. Now he’s talking about visiting her in Paris and then afterward visiting the pope in Rome! I can’t believe what I’m hearing—his bullshit is almost comical. They split from Papa and head off into the distance, deep in captivating conversation. A gunshot shatters the peace, then another, then several, and I wonder if someone has pushed in one queue too many. As I struggle down the mountain track, more rapid gunshots comes from the valley below. Could it be a total pilgrim wipeout down there?

  In the distance I spot Dave, his fiancée, and his future father-in-law sitting and waiting for me beside an old bridge; after a quick photo shoot we sadly part company with Delacroix and Josephine.

  “We’ll meet again; don’t know where, don’t know when, but we will,” says Dave to Josephine as she walks away, smiling and blowing kisses like Audrey Hepburn. Dave waves like a fool with tears in his eyes.

  “Go and join them. Don’t let me spoil your fun,” I tell him.

  “No, I can’t leave you like this,” he says.

  So we stroll into town and take coffee. Soon after Eva arrives and immediately starts fussing all over me, wanting to give me a leg massage, which is exactly the last thing I need right now. I can hardly touch my legs, never mind massage them. The pair of them start twittering and flapping and offering to carry my pack and get a bus or a taxi or . . .

  “Will you just leave me alone!” I shout at them.

  “We’re only trying to help you,” says Dave.

  “We can wait for you in Ponferrada,” says Eva.

  “Please just go,” I plead. “I’ll be OK. Don’t worry.”

  They head off into the distance, obviously discussing my problems, and they keep looking back with worried looks on their faces as I limp off in search of a chemist.

  * * * *

  “Santa Maria,” says the chemist, looking skyward and saying five Hail Marias at the same time.

  “Tendonitis,” she adds, prodding at my tree-trunk legs. “Rest up for a week or two and the swelling will go.”

  Rest up for a couple of weeks? Where? I wonder.

  I follow the yellow arrows to the hostel with po-faced misérables loitering with intent around every exit and entry. They view me with fear, suspicion, and contempt as I approach, limping painfully.

  I take one look at them and one look at the big yellow arrow and decide it’s Ponferrada or bust.

  I walk steadily out of town
with my harmonica blasting away and propelling me slowly forward; even in terrible pain I manage to learn a new tune: Billy Joel’s “Piano Man.”

  I’m soon in Ponferrada and come to rest in a modern plaza.

  People stare and women steer their children away to safety while I laugh like a madman, because I know I look absolutely terrible. As per usual I lose sight of the arrows, ending up in a medieval plaza, and I spot Dave and Eva sitting and chatting at a café.

  “Shit.” I leap back out of sight. Did they see me?

  Fuck, the last thing I need is those two fussing me to death, but there’s no way I can get past without them seeing me and without them doing my head in again. Twenty painful minutes later I’ve circumnavigated the plaza and I peep around the corner. “Shit.” They are still there, and they’re so close I can hear them discussing average rainfalls in Tanzania or some bollocks.

  I dive back into the shadows and stand in awe at the large, imposing Knights Templar castle. Too busy staring at it, I fail to notice that I’m also leaning on the wall of Molly Malone’s Irish Bar.

  “The luck of the Irish!” I feel that a pint of Guinness may just save the day. Several pints later I’m feeling fantastic with my Franklin W7 Euro Translator smoking in overdrive as I try to chat up the pretty barmaid. I tell her I’m going to America to buy a motorbike.

  Eng: motorbike

  Esp: moto

  She’s very impressed, and I impress her some more by playing my new song on the harmonica.

  “Can you sing?” I ask her.

  She blushes. “Loco peregrino.”

  Esp: loco

  Eng: crazy

  “Me, crazy?”

  “Yes, crazy. You sing!” She laughs.

  “OK, loca chica, maybe you know this song?”

  “We’ll be going loco down in Acapulco if you stay too long.

  Yes we’ll be going loco down on the Camino.

  The magic down here is so strong.”

  In walk Dave and Eva. Both look totally unimpressed.

  “We saw you in the square, you know,” says Dave in a gay voice.

  “What are you doing here? Where are you staying?” asks Eva sharply.

  “I’m staying here and getting pissed! Why? Where are you staying?”

  “Oh, we don’t know yet. We, err, are . . . err?” Dave starts mumbling.

  I signal to the barmaid to line the drinks up, and fear appears in their eyes.

  “No, no, no. Thank you!”

  “You won’t drink with me?” I act outraged.

  “We’re going to the castle,” they say, hurrying out the door.

  Oh well, at least I’m not sitting and minding their packs like a complete fool again

  “Nobody wants to drink with me; do you want to drink with me?” I ask the gorgeous barmaid.

  “Why not?” She smiles and pours herself a brandy.

  Rosa is her name, and she plays me a Spanish version of the Pogues on the music system as my Franklin W7 Euro Translator starts smoking.

  Eng: beautiful

  Esp: bonita

  Rosa blushes. “What is the word in English?” she asks.

  “Beautiful.”

  She repeats the word over and over. “Beautiful.”

  I begin to wonder if Mr. Franklin should invent an upgraded version of this handy tool. Including added sections:

  Drinking and smoking

  Chatting up girls

  Sexual liaisons

  Scoring drugs

  Useful swear words

  Law and order

  A black and red bottle on the shelf catches my eye, and Rosa brings it over for my inspection. It’s a Belgian beer called Judas.

  “Yep, line ’em up!” I tell her.

  As I drink the last drops from the bottle, failure, fear, and uncertainty come flooding back in a tidal wave of depression. Now I feel like Judas—Judas, the anti-pilgrim—betraying my friends and betraying myself for that matter, so I buy an extra bottle of Judas, one for the road, as they say. My bar bill is best part of sixty pieces of silver. I bid farewell to bonita Rosa, and she wishes me “Buen camino, loco peregrino.” She laughs as I hobble off in search of the pilgrims’ hostel.

  After an agonizing stroll in the baking-hot sun, I eventually find the hostel. In the grounds, a group of men are working on an impressive totem pole, with pilgrims instead of eagle spirits and scallop shells for coyotes. The hostelero appears and tells me to wait for Chico, and through the kitchen window I see the Three Amigos laughing and joking while having their daily bread. I don’t want them to see me like this, and I wish I’d never bought the Judas now. It’s not so funny anymore. I don’t think Ricardo would see the humorous side of it, as he’s wearing that Jesus T-shirt again.

  Toothless Chico appears and immediately bums a cigarette off me. It looks to me that he may have had a few drinks himself, and after our smoke he gestures for me to follow him into the hostel.

  Halfway up the stairs he stops to talk to someone, so I give him the slip and wander off on my own as worried, fearful faces peep out of the crowded dorms.

  Beware, the Anti-Pilgrim is among you. Be afraid! I sneak unnoticed into an empty room at the end of the corridor and quietly shut the door.

  Judassssssssssssssss. I hear the whispers coming from the corridor. Fearing the return of Chico and the painful thought of the crowded dorms in the stifling heat send me well and truly loco, loco, loco! It’s only four o’clock in the afternoon, and I’m going out of my mind soaked in a feverish red-hot sweat.

  Judasssssssssssssssssssssssss hisses through my mind.

  It’s time to rid myself of the evidence of Judas once and for all; so I down him in three gulps and hide the empty bottle in the wardrobe to create a bit of pilgrim intrigue and evidence that the anti-pilgrim is more than just a myth. I sneak out of the empty room and hobble back into town and find a quiet Spanish bar in the old plaza . . . and stupefy myself with whiskey.

  PONFERRADA TO VILLAFRANCA DEL BIERZO

  FEAR AND LOATHING IN PONFERRADA

  THE RABID DOG SINKS HIS RANCID FANGS into my face as I stare into its bright yellow eyes, and I find myself screaming, sitting bolt upright in a cold sweat, and there before me stands yet another empty bottle of Belgian premium lager. “Oh Jesus.” My fecking head is wrecking. I wish I’d have saved it till now! Hair of the rabid dog would be just the ticket out of here!

  My legs feel like concrete poles—with each thudding step a new agony.

  Judas, Judas, Judassssss. I hear the whispers again, hissing loud and clear. On the way out of town I stop for a much-needed coffee in a crowded bar, and an odd-looking girl in the corner keeps staring at me and giving me the eye. She looks strangely familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it. As the song Bette Davis eyes by Kim Cairns plays on the radio, the girl looks over again.

  That’s it. I’ve got it. She’s got Johnny Vegas eyes!

  Eyes, face, the full fucking monty. It cheers me up for a millisecond as I laugh to myself. Then I cry as I wonder how much longer I can keep going. I’ll crawl on my hands and knees or roll like the Indian yogi, but no taxis like Günter or Flanders—no fucking way.

  If I could get my hands on some quality marching powder, that might help. But where will I get some? Maybe I can ask Johnny Vegas eyes over there, but she looks more like a cake-head than a cokehead!

  * * * *

  The only thing I can do is carry on painfully until I can finally go no farther. It’s boiling hot and I’m out of water and delusional. If I can just make it to the bus shelter up ahead so I can get out of this heat. But with every painful step it seems to get farther and farther away, like a desert mirage, and Judas laughs in my ear once again. I finally make it to the glass shelter and find the body of Dr. Andreas and his wife, Greta, lying motionless in the buzzing heat.

  “Hola, doctor! Are you OK?” I ask him.

  He gradually opens one eye, then another.

  “Buen camino, Eddie Rock!” He laughs and, barely
alive, Greta just nods. “It is her circulation,” says the doctor, “and this heat.”

  I explain everything to the good Dr. Andreas, who then gives my legs a quick going over with a worried look on his face.

  His diagnosis is acute tendonitis, a condition where the muscles swell up around the ligaments and stop them from working properly. The only known cure for it is good-old R and R.

  To help me get to the next hostel, the good doctor gives me two of his special painkillers. I don’t even ask what they are and neck them down with a gulp of water from the fountain. I rest in the scorching heat, drifting in and out of consciousness.

  A magpie settles in the tree close by.

  “One for sorrow,” I murmur dreamily.

  “What is that?” asks Greta, opening her eyes.

  “Oh, it’s just a saying. When you see a magpie, it’s one for sorrow, two for joy.”

  “And for three?” she asks.

  “Three for a girl and four for a boy,” I tell her.

  Greta is in hysterics. It seems laughter is the best medicine after all, and we seize this moment of joviality and hit the road.

  Up ahead is the familiar sight of Eric smoking a roll-up by the side of the trail. I pat him on the back and sit down beside him, and then we both jump back in amazement as I stare into the face of a complete stranger! The man looks bewildered. I’m bewildered, so I wish him a “Buen camino” and hit the road. I put the case of mistaken identity down to the heat and the miraculous painkilling tablets, or maybe it was the devil tricking me once again? Before long, Greta has to rest, so I bid them a farewell for now and hope to see them later in the medieval town of Villafranca del Bierzo. Luckily the hostel is the first building I come to, and an overly aggressive German woman with a mustache and a man’s voice tells me I’m number twelve in her queue.

  “Do I look like I give a fuck?” I snarl in true anti-pilgrim style.

  Her frog-like eyes almost pop out of her stupid face as I limp away before she can inflict anymore psychological damage on me.

  The hostelera returns from her lunch, and all hell breaks loose as a new hard-core group of Polish pilgrims swarm the check-in, intent on total hostel monopolization without mercy!