Part 33: Lugo Hospital

Yesterday I got down to some writing and what with one thing and another, it was four o’clock in the morning before I knew it. I had set my alarm for eight to go to the hospital first thing but I turned it off and set it for an hour’s time as I needed a bit more rest. I was again woken by the tune from my mobile at nine and sat up. I plugged in my phone and saw that I had a message from Zach on Facebook. I opened it anxiously, hoping that he would tell me that World War III had broken out right there in Lugo and that the hospital was already sealed off, with a giant mushroom cloud of smoke and incandescent material visible from hundreds of kilometres away, leaving a huge crater in Galicia that could be seen from a satellite, and some guys in protective suits had come into A&E in search of any sign of human life yet they’d had to leave, convulsing and with their nose hair singed. Nothing could have been further from the truth. There hadn’t even been any contractions during the night; the birth would have to wait. In his email Zach told me other things. I had to re-read it and make an effort to keep my composure and not shed a tear. My American friend, who I met only a week ago in the Elvis Bar in Reliegos, León, told me more or less the following:

My dear friend that I have just met,

I must beg you to return in your journey and complete your pilgrimage to Santiago.  I will forever be grateful for your genuine kindness and hospitality.  But you are also a pilgrim and you have your journey. I have really enjoyed getting to know you better and am very impressed by your strong character.  Your parents are undoubtedly proud of the man they produced.  I would feel regret forever if I cannot convince you to continue.  I am in very good care here. I may decide to fly home sooner as well as I will need to return in order to complete the trip.

Your grateful friend,

Zach

To which I replied:

“Good morning Zach,

Thank you for your heartfelt words. Despite the fact we only met a short time ago, I connected with you quickly and even though we grew up in very distant and culturally different places, I think we have a lot in common, apart from our age. Sometimes you never really get to know a person and sometimes a week is more than enough. I consider you a friend and a friend is someone you stick with through thick and thin. One of the reasons I’m doing the Camino is because of a good friend of mine who I lost a few years back, who was always there for me when I needed him. If I left without making sure you were ok, neither he, wherever he may be, nor I could ever forgive myself so I don’t want to hear any more about it. We walked into this hospital together and we’ll walk out of it together too. Let’s wait and see what the doctors say this morning and we’ll figure out our next steps from there. I’ll be with you in an hour.

Hug,

Javi”

   

I arrived at the hospital around ten. Zach wasn’t in the room so I sat down beside the bed to wait for him. A few minutes later he appeared, looking a little down in the mouth. He had come from the bathroom after the latest in a long line of defeats. Zilch. Each time Zach gets up to go to the toilet, those of us in A&E hold our breath, not because of the radioactivity that could emanate from in there, but because of how anxious we are to put an end to all of this. It reminds me of one of those American films where the aliens invade earth and the film shows clips of people from all over the planet glued to the television, be it at home, in a bar, at the office or at the hairdresser’s, watching how the invasion unfolds. I imagined a similar pattern; CNN opening the early evening news with the case of an American who was doing the Camino de Santiago and who is still quarantined in Spain after not being able to crap for a  month. I imagined people of all nationalities glued to the TV, in New York, London, Madrid, Rio de Janeiro, Tokyo, Nairobi, Sydney and Jerusalem, waiting for the latest news, all working together, the world putting its differences aside, uniting in a game of virtual tug-of-war and pulling in unison to dislodge that meddling creature of Satan lying in the American’s lower abdomen.

A short while later the doctors came by on their morning ward round. It was a different pair to those yesterday but still a surgeon and an internist. As soon as they came in, they asked me to step out into the corridor for a moment and I told them that was fine, but that I took it they spoke English. The two of them said no at the same time and told me to stay if Zach didn’t speak any Spanish. The truth is that if we don’t insist on our leaders speaking decent English so that they don’t make a fool of themselves when they go abroad to supposedly defend our interests, we can’t expect it from doctors in Lugo Hospital either, but I think that in Spain, in general, language teaching needs to be reviewed as how can it be possible with English being compulsory in high schools until 18 years of age, for us to leave without knowing a damn word of English after all the money our parents invested and the time that we ourselves put in.

Apart from not speaking English, it became apparent that these doctors hadn’t read Zach’s history and didn’t seem to know much about his case. They were a bit surprised when we told them how many days he had gone without dropping the log down the waterfall, but they told us not to worry as they were going to apply a miracle-cure solution that would have him sorted in half an hour. As I saw they were a little lost, I asked them if they were referring to the solution that is applied for colonoscopies and, again with a surprised look on their faces, they told me that it was indeed and asked why I would say that. “Because you’ve already given him two litre and a half jugs of the stuff we still haven’t flushed anything away” – I replied, as the two of them almost fell over in shock. “Sweet mother of God!” - exclaimed one of them. The other one asked me if Zach has any history of this illness-with-no-name in his family and I said I didn’t know and that I would feel a little uncomfortable asking. She said they need to know as it could be something unexpected and undesirable obstructing his bowel, so I put the question to the American. Looking pale, he told me that there was no family history of any serious problems with the digestive tract, not immediate family anyway. The doctors said they were going to do more X-rays and try again with another dose of the same medicine, only a little stronger this time. For our peace of mind, we were told that his abdomen is still soft and as there aren’t any other symptoms, such as intense pain or vomiting, it’s safe to say the situation is under control.

After the doctors on duty visited, it became more or less clear that we had another personal ordeal ahead of us today in Lugo Hospital’s A&E. Given the outlook and the recommendation from the medics that Zach get up and move about, we decided to take things in our stride and walk up and down the corridors and then the ground floor. As we were walking Zach asked me if I’d ever seen the episode of South Park where one of the characters breaks the world record for the biggest crap in history. He showed me the video on YouTube and we both fell about laughing. Zach said that that episode of South Park is a joke in comparison with what he has cooking and that they’d be better leaving him up out on the roof terrace of the building.

   

We continued our walk, stopping off in the newsagents to buy some Sudoku books, as Zach has never tried it and I thought it might entertain him, and a deck of cards to have a few games while we waited for something to happen that now seems impossible. After playing cards for a while, I went down to the visitors’ cafeteria for some lunch and then outside to get a bit of air. For someone who doesn’t like hospitals, I’m certainly getting my fair share with the American.

After lunch I decided to do a round-up of events with my sisters, the doctors, to let them know how things are going. They both agreed on the diagnosis: if there was something seriously obstructing the bowel, as the surgeon who visited us today suggested, the congestion would be accompanied by other symptoms which Zach doesn’t have. They said it’s very strange but that everything is pointing towards this being a very brutal case of traveller’s constipation caused by a certain predisposition of the patient, maybe to do with the apprehension of doing his business in pilgrim hostels where the Geneva convention wouldn’t even let a prisoner of war sit, dehydration from the long walks in the sun and everything that comes with a change of diet: Zach’s a vegetarian yet he’s been stuffing himself with all sorts of meat here.

One of my sisters, Doctor Zen, added another variant to the equation which, in my humble opinion, shouldn’t be overlooked: Zach is in a hospital in Spain where he doesn’t understand anything of what’s happening around him and is far from his loved ones and home, so he’s likely so overwhelmed that instead of literally shitting himself, as we vulgarly put it when fear relaxes our sphincter muscles, he’s holding it all inside and there’s no medicine for that other than shipping the American back off to the motherland and letting him listen to the stars and stripes hymn once every eight hours; “Javi, I’ll bet you that this guy won’t go until he’s sat on the plane and sees the Statue of Liberty from the window”, she very graphically illustrated.

   

As I made my way back into the hospital, I spotted a guy in the entrance hall selling tickets for the Red Cross ‘golden lottery’. I thought that if “mierda” is used as a synonym for good luck in certain contexts, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to tempt fate by buying a couple of tickets, one for Zach and the other for myself with the aim of splitting the prize money between us if either of us won. With the amount of luck the American has inside him, the chances of us winning are, in my opinion, quite high. Zach was delighted when I gave it to him and put an alarm on his mobile so that the 18th of July, the date of the draw, wouldn’t pass him by. Afterwards he told me that, in my absence, he had been doing some yoga exercises and he also showed me a video that he took of me dancing during that night out in The Wall in León, which he tells me inspired him to start a specific type of exercise that he thinks could stimulate his lethargic bowels. The dance in question was no big secret and was nothing more than the epileptic movements of someone who had has too much to drink and is convulsively moving in time with the music. Something similar to the Chunk’s “truffle-shuffle” in The Goonies.

   

Zach also told me that while I was down in the cafeteria having lunch, they took him down for more X-rays that we haven’t been told the results of yet. “What a year I’ve had”, he said all of a sudden, “it’s the second time in less than six months that I’ve ended up in hospital despite the supposedly healthy life I lead”. Zach had already told me briefly in León that he had a health scare in January which led him to seek urgent medical assistance. One Friday, as a stressful week at work was coming to an end, he started to feel very weak as if he was going to collapse at any moment. He used all his strength to make it home and spent most of the weekend in bed sleeping. He felt a bit better by Sunday and on Monday he was back at work in the IT company that provides solutions for financial institutions where he works. As he returned to the daily grind and stress, he again began to feel the same symptoms and as weak as before. At one particular moment, as he was speaking to a client in India who he had had it up to here with, he felt a pain in his chest and began gasping for air. He apologised to the client and told him that he was going to have to take himself up to hospital as he didn’t feel very well. Instead of saying of course and telling Zach he hoped it was nothing too serious, he continued speaking and asked him not to leave until they had resolved the problem at hand. “To hell with this”, Zach said to himself as he hung up with the guy still talking away.

He asked a work colleague for help as he didn’t feel strong enough to drive to the hospital himself and when he got there, he was treated as an emergency as the ECG detected an irregular heart rhythm. While he waiting for them to come and do some tests, Zach lay on a bed in the middle of the corridor connected to a machine to monitor his heart rate, as the hospital already had a lot of patients waiting. He had such a load of work on those weeks that his blackberry was still firmly attached to his hand even in those trying circumstances, as he replied to emails from the hospital bed. I’d like to think that it was partly to distract him and also to forget about the state of shock that his body must have been in as he found himself in that situation. Just then his blackberry started to ring. It was the pain in the ass Indian client again, this time on his work mobile. The mere sight of that jerk’s name appearing on the screen of his phone got Zach so worked up that the machine he was connected to began to beep, meaning that his heart rate was out of control. It was only then that he understood that he was in there because of the stress associated with his job, so he turned his mobile off and tried to relax.

Zach was diagnosed with atrial fibrillation, the most common type of abnormal heart rhythm in clinical practice which can be caused by many different factors. In this particular case, the subsequent tests and analysis showed that the American was absolutely fine, and that maybe a virus had caused this anomaly. When doctors don’t have an explanation for something they usually blame a virus, the medical catch-all term which is given to everything that can’t really be explained. He wasn’t prescribed any medication and was simply told to rest up for a few days. Zach had his own theory and was convinced that this incident was linked to his lifestyle and the stress that comes with a job that he doesn’t even particularly enjoy. The fact that the machine he was connected to went crazy when the annoying Indian phoned only served to confirm his theory. Zach wanted to change his life but he could never find the right time and didn’t know what else to do job-wise as he’d spent so many years training in the same field. He decided to do the Camino to have some time to reflect and think about where he was in his life and what he wanted to do next. And look where he ended up, in the same place he said he never wanted to end up again; in a hospital, afflicted with an unknown ailment which isn’t looking good.

  

I listened attentively to the American’s story and again began to think about whether fate exists and if so, why it made Zach and I meet on our respective paths. He seemed so dejected as he told me his story that I decided to tell him a similar story about something that happened to me, even though it’s not something I usually talk about, as I thought it might make him feel better and help him understand that what’s happening to him is more common that what he thinks and, in my personal opinion, based on my own experience, his body is telling him to change his lifestyle and look for something that makes him feel good. There’s no job in the world that’s worth losing your health over and at such an early age at that. Life’s too short to live it in fear. He has to be brave and not resign himself to going into the office like a zombie or taking medicine, if it gets to that stage, in order to be able to do his job; you don’t necessarily have to accept things due to a false sense of duty or because “that’s just the way it is”.

A few years back, I also went through a stressful time. I had started to work for one of the best banks in the world as head of department, as young as I was, and the pressure was on. Obviously due to the results that are expected from someone who holds a certain position in an institution of this calibre, but also due to the pressure that you impose on yourself out of fear of disappointing those who believed in you, in order to uphold your professional reputation and also out of amour propre, which can sometimes be excessive. Why is it so hard for us to admit that very often our problems are caused by a lack of modesty. So after several fifteen-hour working days in the office due to a couple of deals that needed closing at the time, my vision began to go all blurry and I started seeing double. At first I put it down to the amount of hours I’d spent in front of the computer screen and closed my eyes for a few seconds. When I opened them, I was still seeing double and no matter how much I tried to focus on the screen, I couldn’t read what was on it. I decided to get up and go to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face, only to be left with the same negative results. It was no Lourdes and the water sure wasn’t holy.

I began to get worried as the minutes passed so I decided to go down and get some fresh air and walk about for a while. I did so for about ten minutes during which the situation didn’t improve. In certain types of jobs, such as the one I was doing, every now and again you hear about people who get a bit of a shock at an early age and, in these cases, fast acting can be crucial. As I’ve already made reference to on other occasions, I grew up amongst health professionals and perhaps being over-informed makes me pay closer attention to health issues than what others possibly would. I began to consider that maybe this double vision was related to something serious and that I should hop-skip it down to the hospital. I didn’t want to worry my sisters or my parents so I decided to phone Joserra, the brother of my friend Alberto. I’d already mentioned to Zach that this friend is one of the reasons I’m here doing the Camino de Santiago, and I clarified that a few years back I lost Alberto but gained his brother Joserra who, until then, I only knew briefly but those tragic circumstances brought us close in the same way I was close to his brother. Joserra got the highest marks in the MIR (resident doctor examination) in his year and is an internist in la Paz, one of the best hospitals in the country. I’m convinced that in a few years he’ll be recognised as one of the best in Spain in his specialisation, given his dedication and passion for medicine. I told Joserra what was wrong and he told me that the sensible thing to do would be to go straight to the hospital, even though it probably wouldn’t be anything too serious. He added that he was busy and couldn’t wait for me personally in A&E but that he would phone the doctor on duty to tell them to see me as quickly as possible.

I arrived at A&E fifteen minutes later and let those in admissions know what was wrong with me. Ten minutes later they called me into a room and a couple of male nurses asked me what my symptoms were and then took my blood pressure. They leapt up as they saw the reading on the instrument and told me to follow them. One of them asked the other if they should put me a wheelchair to move me and the other said no, we’d be quick. I started to think that this wasn’t real, this couldn’t be happening to me. I was only 34 years old and was hearing things that we all hope never to have to hear. They took me to a room where a couple of doctors were already waiting for me, surrounded by several nurses. They told me to take off my shirt and connected me to an ECG machine. They put a pill under my tongue and began to examine me and ask me questions to see if I knew where I was and if I was answering questions in a logical manner. I was relatively calm because I was convinced that all of this was excessive for what I thought was wrong with me, which was just that I was stressed and hospitals make me ill and make my blood pressure shoot up. “White coat syndrome” I think they call it. Afterwards they asked me to touch several points of my body with different fingers each time to see if I had coordination. There was a girl opposite me wearing the green hospital uniform who didn’t say a word. She was young and very pretty and seemed alarmed as she looked over at me. Her lips were lightly quivering and I thought she was going to burst out crying at any moment. I think she was a student on her first day of placement. The poor girl was scared stiffless. I smiled over at her to try and reassure her, convinced as I was that there was no way I was going to kick the bucket under these unfortunate circumstances due to the stress of a couple of loans and all the pain in the backsides who wouldn’t stop phoning me to tell me to do this and that as it was the most important thing in the world and it couldn’t wait. A bit like Zach and the asshole Indian client.

The diagnosis was a hypertensive crisis related to stress. The tests that they carried out in the subsequent weeks showed that everything was alright. The analyses showed normal levels of cholesterol and sugar. My resting blood pressure was absolutely fine but it went up a bit during working hours, nevertheless the average reading for the day was within the normal range for my age. I spoke to the doctor who took on my case and he told me there was nothing to be alarmed about but that the type of job I was doing was causing my blood pressure to increase and that this could, not now, but within ten years or so if I continued on the same path, place me amongst the population at risk of suffering from high blood pressure and I could need continuous medication. I was pretty sure that the problem was to do with me rather than my job as such. Of course, my job had its stressful moments but my blood pressure could have just as easily gone up while working on the till in a supermarket or in a bar where you don’t get a moment to come up for air, or in a mine. Not forgetting that those jobs pay a lot less than what I was getting so I’m not going to blame my misfortune on the type of job. I feel it would be disrespectful to all those other people who don’t have freedom of choice or who have to go on with what they have and what’s more, be thankful for it. No, my problem was something else, something I had been chewing over for some time. My problem was seriously analysing if what I had been doing for some years now was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life, however much satisfaction it may have brought me; whether or not I wanted to retire at 65 after working twelve hour days from Monday to Friday, then look back and realise I hadn’t given the other restless ideas I had in me a chance to flourish. Given that 100% of the time the answer was no, it was at that moment, while confined to a hospital bed in A&E, connected to a machine, I said to myself: “dammit Javi, what the hell are you doing here”. So from that moment on I knew I had to draw up a plan B. There were no excuses, it was time to be brave and break the dynamic. Take risks, like ten years ago, when I left for Stockholm empty-handed, then Belfast and after Belfast, London. At that moment, I decided that the first stage of that plan B would be to do the Camino de Santiago, something which I had promised myself for a long time.

Zach listened to my story just as attentively and thanked me for sharing it with him, telling me he found it very inspiring. He also admitted that this is the exact same problem he thinks he has but that he still hasn’t worked up enough courage to take that leap into the unknown, break away from a comfortable life and try other things. I think Zach now gets why I think we have so many things in common and why I connected with him so quickly. In some way or other, I can see myself in him and I feel the need to let him know that if the untimely loss of the friend I told him about these days taught me anything, it’s that we are here for a short time. We only have today and every tomorrow is a gift. Being as privileged as we are to be able to make decisions about our lives, we can’t afford to waste them by doing something that doesn’t fulfil us or that makes us unhappy. Manifestations of stress are, in my opinion, nothing more than signs of inner dissatisfaction, conflicts to be resolved, signs from your body that you should change certain things in your life; after all it is wiser than you, it has gathered genetic information from generations passed and it knows what is best for you.

   

It was getting late so I told Zach I was going to look for the doctor on duty to see if there was any news. She told me that the last few X-rays were better and that some gaseous activity and bowel movement could be seen, so they hope that the volcano will start to erupt over the next few hours. Despite this, the American can’t leave until some magma has been expelled. I explained the situation to Zach and told him that we would have to make a decision tomorrow as if there is no “Big Bang”, he’ll have to consider signing the self-discharge form and going back to the United States off his own accord to get a thorough check-up done once there. For obvious reasons, I didn’t want to tell him that it was likely that they didn’t want to do this check-up in Lugo due to fear of what they might find. He turned to me seriously and said that whatever happens, he intends on leaving the hospital tomorrow and will look at flights to see if he can go back home a day earlier than planned.

I travelled back down into Lugo again and spent the night in the same hotel where the owner can’t quite believe his eyes every day he sees me coming back with my pilgrim rucksack, meaning that the D-day landing in Normandy has again been postponed. After the customary hot shower to relax, I went out for some dinner and while in the tapas area, I ended up running into the attractive internist who dealt with us on the second day. She was having something to eat with her boyfriend and offered me a pintxo and a beer, which I gladly accepted. She was surprised to hear that we were still at the hospital, as she was off today, and told me that this is all very strange and that they’ve never seen anything like it before. She added that it’s a pity that the American is going to leave and have the problem solved elsewhere as this story is worthy of publication in a medical journal. After spending a while with them, I decided it was time to leave and politely said goodbye, as even though her boyfriend was perfectly nice and friendly the whole time, I got the impression that he didn’t exactly want to spend the first evening of his long-anticipated weekend, apart from with his girlfriend, with a third wheel who’s there because his American friend hasn’t been to the toilet in a month. Perfectly understandable, of course.

As I arrived at the hotel I sent Zach a message to tell him that I had some good news and some bad news for him. The good news is that I had met the doctor who visited us yesterday out having tapas and we chatted for a while. The bad news is that her boyfriend was there too. Zach made me smile with his typical American reply: “shit man, I was getting really excited until you threw that part in about her boyfriend! Oh well...”

Part 32: Lugo Hospital

In the end I spent the night in Hotel España, just in front of the wall. A very well-located place and a great price too. I had a craving for pizza last night so I went to an Italian restaurant. After dinner I went for a walk around the old town of Lugo. It was just what I needed to get a feel for the city, which pleasantly surprised me, and to wind down a bit after the stress of the day. I soon headed for bed and slept like a king.

I was at the hospital for half eight in the morning without fail. Zach was still sleeping so I decided to go down to the cafeteria for breakfast. When I came back, the American was awake and I asked him how last night was. He told me if I was referring to whether he had slept well, then yes he had, but it seems there’s no news with regards to anything else and I didn’t really want to push it any further.  At around ten, the surgeon on duty drew back the curtains around his bed as if she were a magician coming to give us a surprise. I’m sure I don’t need to clarify that rather than seeing it as a pleasant surprise, Zach was scared shitless, if you’ll excuse the unfortunate pun. A rather attractive female internist came in behind the surgeon. Much to Zach’s disappointment, it was the surgeon and not her who dealt with the required examination. I had to stay, even during the more scatological scenes, so as to translate the doctors’ questions and the American’s answers. If I hadn’t already earned it, I think the Compostela is definitely mine now, even if I do what’s left of the journey carried on the shoulders of half a dozen bearers.

The surgeon said that his abdomen is soft which means that, for the moment, there’s nothing to be too worried about but that he’ll continue to observe him throughout the day in case there are any complications. He also said that we’re going to forget about any tubes because by all indications, the turtle’s head is quite high up so we’re going to try ammunition of a higher calibre: an oral solution that is normally used in patients who are about to undergo a colonoscopy and whose bowels should, in theory, be ready to make some soup in about half an hour or so. The doctor also said that this treatment has to be administered very carefully so as not to perforate the bowel and cause peritonitis, a problem which you don’t have to be a doctor to realise is very serious and can summons you to another world.

I translated for Zach and told him that everything is fine and that it seems that the meteorite is still a long way from earth so they’re going to try and disintegrate it with some oral kryptonite so that when it comes to the surface he’s not left with a sieve-like crater. I think it reassures him every time I explain things to him, that’s what it should do anyway in my point of view, but he’s no idiot and even though he doesn’t speak Spanish, he can sense certain things. “The guy who examined me is a surgeon, right?” asked Zach. I told him that was right but that it was simply a protocol that he came to see him and not because they might be making hamburgers with what’s left of him after slicing him open to get rid of the depleted uranium that must be lodged in his gut by now. He told me it wasn’t a problem and that he’s only asking as it’s just his luck that the female doctor isn’t in charge of the touching part. The poor guy takes things in good humour but it’s clear that he’s freaked out. I get the impression that deep down he thinks he’s going to be made a scapegoat for all the mistakes made by American foreign policy in the world and that he won’t leave this hospital in one piece.

After the doctors on duty came round, they began to give Zach the medicine they promised but with very little results. At around three o’clock in the afternoon the surgeon said he’d give him another drip of the same medicine and stop any food, which wasn’t advisable anyway, until further notice. During this visit Zach wanted to let the doctor know that he’s been taking some anti-inflammatory painkillers for a few days now due to a bad pain in the arch of his left foot and he wanted to know if they would have any side effects when coupled with the new medication. As soon as the doctor saw him pointing to his instep, he took hold of Zach’s foot and began to examine it: “let’s see, where did you say it hurts, here? It seems like nothing but don’t worry, we’ll call the nurse and she’ll massage it, apply some cream and bandage it up for you. We’ll get you out of here looking your best, don’t you worry”. When the surgeon left, Zach asked me what he said and I told him it was nothing important but that he should focus on the matter at hand and stop distracting the doctors with new pains as he might end up leaving here not only without crapping, but without his left foot as well.

   

Five minutes later, I could hear the nurse from Gijón, the one we met yesterday, who had just started her shift. She started by coming to see the guy beside us, a man of around 45 dosed with some unspecified fever on whom they’re doing tests to try and find out exactly what it is he has. I couldn’t really hear what the patient said as he’s in a bad way and speaks very quietly, but the nurse, who has a higher tone of voice, said “well, God bless you because we don’t earn much in here” which brought a smile to my face. She then drew back our curtain. “Are you still here, son? she said as she saw Zach again. “What the hell are we going to have to do to get rid of whatever it is you have inside you? Just you sit tight, as before I go on holiday to the Norwegian Fjords, and I’m leaving tomorrow by the way, I’m going to leave you in perfect condition for going home to Kentucky. Yes, don’t give me that look; I’m taking charge of this case from now on. It’ll be a professional challenge. We can’t have you being the first constipated person to leave here without your bowels moving at the end of my career”, she added without so much as coming up for air.

I crack up every time the nurse from Gijón opens her mouth. Zach also laughs but only because he sees me laughing and suspects it’s something funny. Then he asks me to translate and we piss ourselves together. She massaged his ankle, applied an anti-inflammatory cream and bandaged it up for him. This nurse in particular, and all the staff in general who are looking after the American, are doing a fantastic job and he doesn’t know how to show his appreciation, which he asks me to pass on every time someone comes over to have a look at him or bring him something.

A little while later I heard the nurse from Gijón say to someone: “please put out the cigarette”, which left me a little bewildered as you don’t expect to hear that in A&E. A few minutes later there was a bit of commotion coming from the area where the nurse from Gijón had asked for the cigarette butt to be put out. The patient there had completely removed his drip which caused an almighty ruckus. One of the nurses that went in to calm him down left looking like she’d just been in a scene from Nightmare on Elm Street, with blood splashed all over her uniform. In the end, they called all available staff to come and help to tie him to the bed, which didn’t go as planned, so they called security. Three big idlers with no neck and shaved heads arrived straight away and, at the mere sight of them, the patient started to calm down as if they had injected an overdose of valium straight into his veins. I gathered that they were dealing with an alcoholic who, after 24 hours without a drink, was starting to get the first symptoms of delirium tremens, even though he was more punch-drunk than a groggy boxer.

Zach was a little alarmed by the commotion because he doesn’t understand anything about what’s going on, so he sat up and peered out into the corridor at where the action was taking place. It was a funny scene because, with the curtain closed, you could only see the legs of nine people around a bed: six with the trousers of a white nurse’s uniform and another three with trousers of a security guard’s uniform. Zach asked me if I knew what was going on and I couldn’t resist telling him that it was nothing, only a patient who was a little constipated who they were using an alternative therapy on as the conventional treatment had failed…

   

Given that there was no progress to Zach’s situation by late afternoon, the surgeon asked for him to be taken down for more X-rays on his abdomen. Every time he has to be moved, they put him in a wheelchair as he has the drips and everything else, and a porter pushes him. As we were waiting to be called to go to the X-ray room, a young gypsy appeared who was also in a wheelchair with a neck brace on and his arm in a plaster cast. Unlike Zach, who is wearing the hospital’s pyjamas as he is already admitted, the boy was still wearing his own street clothes which meant that the accident must have only happened a short time ago. Another porter was pushing his wheelchair and beside him was the boy’s father, who looked sullen and was cursing under his breath. The young gypsy was sad and a little freaked out. I don’t know if it’s because of the thrashing he’d already received or because of the one his father was going to give him for what he’d done when they got home. They took Zach in to do the X-rays and brought him back out within five minutes. We had to wait another five minutes as there were no porters free to take us back to A&E and, in theory, due to hospital protocol, I couldn’t push him along the corridors myself.

During that time, I watched as the father of the young gypsy couldn’t take his eyes off Zach, as he continued muttering things that I couldn’t make out. When the porter arrived to take us back, we passed by the father who couldn’t help but compose the very sorrowful expression of someone who is about to break into flamenco song, giving Zach a pat on the shoulder as he said: “chin up boy, it’ll get better”. He could have called him a son of a bitch and Zach would have still replied in the same way: gracias, one of the only words he knows in Spanish. I had to hold back the laughter as it’s naturally not a smart idea to laugh in front of a gypsy, and certainly not in that situation. The American asked me to translate what the good man had said and I explained that he must have thought that he’d severed his spinal cord and that he’d never walk again as he told him to keep his chin up and that he’d get through it. Zach laughed with gusto and asked me if this meant that he would indeed go to the bathroom again before departing this world. I assured him that he would, as gypsies can see the future and he would only have said that if he’d seen Zach sitting there on the throne, hard at work, through his crystal ball.

   

On our way back to Zach’s bed, he said he wanted to buy a little gift for the nurses, especially for the one from Gijón as she’s been treating him with extra care, so we grabbed the drip and went down to the ground floor where there’s a few newsagent type shops selling souvenirs. Zach suggested that we buy them a soft toy chicken so that they’ll remember the “Kentucky fried chicken” they had here with his extra-terrestrial bowels, owing to all the fried chicken he’s eaten in his life. I, of course gave my seal of approval to this excellent idea. One of the shops didn’t have much on offer; a small chicken that looked like it had polio and another feathered animal but I couldn’t even tell what it was. We found what we were looking for in the shop beside it. A battery-operated chicken that sings, dances and jumps around. There was no need to look any further and so we asked for it to be gift-wrapped.

We went back to A&E as Zach wanted to give it to the nurse from Gijón, along with some heartfelt words which he asked me to translate in order to express his gratitude to her, all her colleagues and to the group of doctors who were looking after him and treating him so well. Clearly not expecting all of this, she went bright red and didn’t really know what to say. She turned the chicken on and it started to cause an almighty racket right there in the middle of A&E. “Shit, how the hell do I stop it!” she exclaimed before disappearing off into the nurses’ room.

   

Given the lack of progress, I asked to speak to the doctors on duty around early evening time. They told me that the latest X-rays showed little bowel movement and a significant blockage in the ascending colon which isn’t budging one little bit, not even with all the dynamite they’ve already administered. They’ve diagnosed it as partial occlusion of the intestine so it seems he’ll have to be kept in, under surveillance and without food until it starts to budge.

I didn’t really know how to break the news to Zach. So I told him that everything is going to plan and that it’s just a question of waiting a little longer for the medicine to take effect, which is why he’ll be kept in for another night. I added that he should bear in mind that now that he’s here, the doctors want to ensure that he only leaves when the problem is resolved and that I’m sure it’s all just a matter of a few more hours. He told me that it was okay and that he’d pretty much resigned himself to having to stay in another night. Not only is he worried about what’s happening to his body, he’s also having to deal with the disappointment that with every day he spends in hospital, his chances of completing the Camino are reduced. I said goodbye to Zach and told him that I’d see him first thing tomorrow. “May the force be with you tonight” I said, even though we both knew that if force was the issue, the problem would be long gone.

I travelled back down to Lugo and stayed in the same hotel as yesterday. After a hot shower, I went for a walk around the wall and afterwards had some dinner in a restaurant in the Old Town. I went for another stroll after to walk off my dinner and to relax. It’s strange, I haven’t been walking the last two days and yet I feel more tired than on any of the days when I’ve put in an obscene amount of kilometres. I’m sure the stress of waiting and not knowing what’s wrong with Zach or how things are going to go is playing a big part. I went back up to my room where, by the light of my reading lamp, I started to jot down everything that had happened today in my notebook and how I’m finding it.

 

Part 31: Triascastela - Sarria (19 kilometres)

As I had promised Zach, I got up early this morning to leave early and get to Sarria as soon as possible, in anticipation that he would be sent to the hospital in Lugo. The American doesn’t speak a word of Spanish, he’s not in his own country and, moreover, he’s freaked out at the fact he hasn’t been to the loo for a month now. He’s not a doctor but he can sense, as anyone would, that something isn’t working as it should. I left Triacastela after having breakfast with a Korean and an Irishman, hoping that everything would be resolved by the time I got to Sarria and we wouldn’t have to go to Lugo.

The Camino offers a couple of alternative routes to Sarria; one, a little longer, takes you past the historical Monastery of Samos and the other passes through the town of San Xil as well as oak and chestnut forests. I chose the second route and the first part of the path was spectacular it has to be said, the fog covered everything and you couldn’t see more than ten metres ahead of you. On one of the steep uphill slopes towards one of the villages I came across on the way, I ran into Santa Claus, the German. I hadn’t seen him for a while and the first thing he did was check that I had my rucksack on me. He told me he had been struck down with a bad cold and that he was finding the walking tough so he didn’t think his feet would carry him much further than Sarria today, about fifteen kilometres from where we were. I’m amazed by this endearing old man and the outrageous number of kilometres he puts in despite his age. I excused myself and told him I was in a hurry to get to Sarria, wishing him all the best as well as a speedy recovery from his cold.

   

In Furela, ten kilometres after I left, I stopped off to have a hot Cola Cao and a bite to eat. The fog had given way to persistent rain which left me drenched to the bone so it was almost a mandatory stop-off. The place was tiny and there was hardly any room at the bar, but there was just enough space at one of the ends which I squeezed into to the annoyance of the guy to my left, as I apparently ruined his little moment of morning bliss given the look he threw my way. What can you do. Far from asking what the fuck was wrong with him, which would have been quite apt in my opinion, I smiled and said good morning. I’m in such a good mood that it’s sickening, I know. The pieces of the puzzle all fit together nicely after a conversation I overheard between our main man and the bartender. He’s a veteran. A Camino professional. “Yea, I’ve been here every year around this time for five years now. Don’t you remember me?” - he asked the bartender, who unconvincingly replied that now that he says it, his face does ring a bell. A classic…

Each and every person who does the Camino is themselves and their circumstances, but inevitably there are many that can be grouped into very specific types of personalities, easy to recognise in our everyday lives without the need to throw your rucksack on your back and come all the way out here. On other occasions I may have mentioned the competitive pilgrim or the professional comedian, you know the one who feels obliged to say something funny every time he opens his mouth, but the veteran pilgrim is also quite identifiable and no less boring.  And when I say veteran pilgrim, I’m not meaning to get at the countless number of people who do the Camino over and over, even every year, as a way of life or because they like it, it makes them feel good or because of a promise or for whatever reason. I’ve met a few of these people and the majority of them are still very curious on the first day every time they start a new Camino and have the same desire to meet new people to share the experience with and to learn from. I’m not talking about them.

I’m talking about the pain in the backside who comes here as if he were a veteran of the Vietnam war to boast about his achievements and show off his supposed decorations. “I’ve done the Camino five times now. Let me tell you…” No no, it’s best you don’t tell me, I’ve heard this one before and I think I fell asleep after five minutes. I’m referring to those who look down on the newbie, those who are annoyed by everything everyone else does because you have to do things their way. Those who tell you what’s right and what’s not acceptable. Those who assume the moral authority to tell others what they have to do and where they have to go. Those who remind you that experience is a plus, when they’ve likely spent all their life doing the same thing in the same way without taking any risks that could plunge them deep into anxiety, only moving a centimetre along the straight line that is their peaceful existence. There may be those reading these lines who think I’m some sort of manic sociopath who must be walking the Camino alone, but in my defence I’d say not at all; I’ve had some great company up to now and I think I’m making life-long friends. It’s definitely clear that a lot of the people I’m meeting here have things in common with me, even if it doesn’t seem like it!

   

After leaving Furela and our beloved veteran, I ran into Tim from Kentucky and Michael from Boston. I walked and chatted with them but I soon had to excuse myself as I sped up my pace to reach Sarria as quickly as possible. Before reaching the town I tried phoning Zach a few times but with no success. I wrote him a message but didn’t get a reply either, which made me think that maybe they were taking him to Lugo or he was already being seen at the hospital.

When I arrived in Sarria, I went straight to the health centre and asked for Zach, giving the details of his ailment. They mustn’t have had a lot of Americans come in with the same issue lately as they knew who I was talking about straight away and said they would call the doctor who dealt with the case to explain what had happened. She confirmed that the enema from last night hadn’t worked and that even if there weren’t any other symptoms to make her think it was something very serious, given the number of days without any progress, the best thing for him would be to go to the hospital and have some X-rays done to look at the area in more detail. So she told him to go to Lugo first thing in the morning and, as she understood it, that’s where he would be.

I took a taxi outside the health centre after negotiating the price of the journey and we set off for Lugo. Just as we were leaving Sarria, I got a message from Zach telling me that he was in the town, along with his exact  coordinates, and that he didn’t want to go to Lugo until I arrived. I asked Suso, the taxi driver, to turn back and off we went to pick up Zach. As we arrived at the hotel where he was staying, he looked a little scared. He asked me if I think it’s a good idea to go to the hospital or if it would be better to continue the Camino and gave his lazy guts some more time to work. I told him that it would be best to go to the hospital if that’s what they had recommended in the health centre and that I was sure it would all be for nothing but they were best-placed to tell us that in Lugo.

We arrived at the hospital in Lugo at around three in the afternoon. Suso left us his business card in case everything was over quickly and we wanted to go back to Sarria to continue the stage or to spend the night there and start the Camino again tomorrow. We went straight to A&E and I explained the problem to the receptionists, as apart from Galician and Spanish, they naturally didn’t speak any other language there. They asked for Zach’s passport and American health card and told us to take a seat until we were called over the tannoy. It crossed my mind that we’d need to pay close attention if we wanted to understand when they were requesting our presence. Thank God the American’s name isn’t too long or complicated to pronounce because if we were meant to take the hint by how they pronounced Berkshire, Zach would be left dying in the waiting room without any medical assistance.

A very nice nurse took us into a small room where she asked us what the problem was. I repeated everything again and translated some of the questions that the nurse asked Zach. After that she asked us again to wait for the doctor on duty to call us. There were people with all types of ailments in the new waiting room, some of them pretty bad. I don’t like hospitals at all. Pretty much like everyone I suppose. As soon as I see a doctor in uniform, I get all worked up and feel ill. Almost everyone in my family works in a hospital and I think the fact that, for years, all sorts of disasters have been discussed over meals as if it were the most natural thing, might have had something to do with it. Zach wasn’t exactly beaming either so we started to chat and joke around to try to lighten the situation. At one point they called Mr. Nicasio Díaz and Zach asked me if they’d said ‘quesadilla’ on the tannoy or if it was just him. The poor guy has survived on fruit juices the last four days and hasn’t eaten anything solid so as not to exacerbate the situation but now he’s seeing and hearing things. I told him that if he’s a good boy and keeps his part of the deal then they’ll give him quesadillas for dinner.

After waiting for half an hour they called Zach over the tannoy, or that’s what we understood anyway, and we went into a consultation room where the doctor on duty examined the American and asked him a series of questions that I translated. The doctor filled out his medical record after but for now she prescribed a new enema with a longer tube than the one before. Turning to me, in the capacity of translator, she added that it didn’t seem like anything serious but that it’s obviously been a while since anything happened and they’d need to keep an eye on him.

From then on a couple of very nice nurses, one from Gijon and the other of Aragonese origin, were in charge of the operation. The Aragonese nurse discreetly asked him how it was possible that he’d overlooked the problem for so many days. The Asturian nurse, more direct, asked how he could go so many days without crapping. “But don’t worry, you’re in good hands. There isn’t a patient who can resist my enemas. I’ll be finished with you in fifteen minutes” – she said as she handled the solution that would supposedly put an end to the Kentucky guy’s worries. I couldn’t stop laughing, partly because of what the nurse said and partly because of Zach’s terrified look, as he didn’t understand a word of what was being said and all he could see was a nurse talking a foreign language with a higher tone of voice than normal who was preparing a Satanic liquid in a bag with a tube of a certain length hanging from it, which was inevitably going to end up inside him.

The nurses asked me to leave the bathroom where we were, unless I wanted to witness the show. I gladly went for a walk around A&E, hoping that it would all be over as soon as possible. I returned to the bathroom where we were just as the nurse from Gijón came out and shouted to the rest of her colleagues: “Panic’s over girls, we’ve unclogged the United States!”. I couldn’t help but smile and go up to the nurse to ask her to verify the good news. She confirmed her words, saying that we had indeed got the best of him and that from now on it would be plain sailing. She asked me to give good old Zach ten minutes and then put my foot under the door to see if he was still breathing. I hesitated for a few seconds because if the miracle-cure had indeed worked, as the nurse said, I sensed that going inside would be like going into a sewer with no breathing apparatus. After giving him a few minutes, I half-opened the door and rather than seeing Zach sitting up with a beaming smile on his face, I went in to find him still in the operating theatre, looking annoyed. The Asturian nurse had declared victory too soon and it was actually nothing more than the solution itself that had been expelled.

At that moment, as I stood before that scene of helplessness where one is caught hiding his crown jewels, I knew that the friendship between myself and the American would be long-lasting, whether we liked it or not. Having lost all dignity and admitted defeat, my comrade-in-arms was, in that instant, pledging fraternal loyalty and if Zach had have been a Navajo Indian, he would have slit his wrists with a machete to seal the deal. The scene inevitably transported me to a time in the past when I walked in on one of my best friends in the bathroom in combat position. Stunned as I was, I asked a patently obvious question: “aren’t you taking a crap?” To which my friend replied matter-of-factly: “yea, what’s wrong?” I went to a fee-paying school and that didn’t seem one bit normal to me so, a little irate, I replied: “what do you mean what’s wrong, close the door for fuck sake!” To which my friend retorted, with the same calmness: “no, sure I’ll leave it open and then we can talk”. Despite the years of loyalty declared, it wasn’t until that moment that I realised that this was a real friendship. By opening those bathroom doors, the last stronghold of his privacy, my friend was opening the doors to his soul, letting it be known that we were equals and that with me there was no need to pretend or hide as we were cut from the same cloth and it was no use pretending we weren’t: our strength left us through the same hole after all…

Nothing more happened for the rest of the afternoon so the on-duty doctor decided to arrange some X-rays to try and see what’s going on in Zach’s lower belly, which isn’t looking good. Given the fact that it was early evening and that there had been no response to the shock treatment, the doctor told me that her idea is to keep the American in for at least tonight to see if there’s any progress. This latest news left the guy from Kentucky a bit downbeat. He’s aware that something isn’t right and even if this isn’t a new problem for him, especially not when travelling, the amount of time it’s taking on this occasion is exaggerated and not one bit normal. His plans can also be added to the list. We are around one hundred and twenty kilometres away from Santiago and if he has to spend tonight in hospital, tomorrow’s stage is in danger. He’s taking a flight back to the United States from Vigo early on Monday morning as he has to work in Lexington, Kentucky, on Tuesday which means that Sunday is the last possible day to reach the Galician capital. Assuming all goes well, he gets out tomorrow and we can start walking again first thing on Friday morning, we would have to average forty kilometres a day to reach the Plaza de Obradoiro on time. I tried to cheer Zach up by telling him it was very doable and that with the amount of kilometres we already had behind us, there was no need to worry. He knew the only thing he had to worry about and I told him that I wanted him to give me a surprise tomorrow morning when I came through the door of A&E.

Zach thanked me and insinuated that I’d already done enough, he’s well-looked after here, and that I shouldn’t worry about him and go on with my Camino, as he’s sure everything will be ok. I answered that whether he likes it or not, he’s my friend and I don’t go leaving friends behind. We walked into this hospital together and we’ll walk out of it together too. He’s in my country and I’ll do everything within my means to make sure nothing bad happens to him. And if he doesn’t like what I’m saying, he shouldn’t blame me, rather his Hollywood counterparts and their strange interpretation of what constitutes friendship which I’ve been force-fed since I was a kid, and even today, with the likes of The Goonies, The Lost Boys and things like that…

     

After saying goodbye to Zach, I left the hospital and took a taxi to the hotel in Lugo where I’d be spending the night. Asides from the twenty kilometres that I walked today, soaking wet in the rain, I was left worn out by the afternoon and the stress in the hospital. I needed to go out and get some air. On the way into the city, a good few kilometres’ journey, I thought about destiny and if things just happen or if they have some sort of explanation even if it’s difficult to understand. One of the reasons why I’m doing the Camino is a good friend who sadly left us some time ago and who I wasn’t able to help in those tragic circumstances, even though I wanted to. Now the Camino has brought me to Lugo hospital with an American guy I met a week ago but with whom I have a lot of things in common, despite the fact we grew up thousands of kilometres apart. I thought about my friend and I felt good; for doing the right thing, for being at another friend’s side, this time a new one, when he needed it most. As he always did with me. And even though he’s not with me in person anymore, I felt that he was very near, like on so many other occasions…

Part 30: O Cebreiro - Triacastela (22 kilometres)

Yesterday I went to bed thinking about Günther’s optimistic weather forecast, “bright and sunny”, so as soon as I opened my eyes I wanted to go running over to the window to check that it was indeed bucketing down from the high heavens. I was wrong, it wasn’t raining… it was snowing! A heavy snowfall at the end of May in a town that’s not even at an altitude of one thousand five hundred metres. And they say that the planet’s getting warmer…

After a shower and freshening up, I went out to a café opposite our lodgings to have some breakfast. Günther and Szilvia were already there gulping down hot coffee to stave off the cold and some toasted bread to do the same with the hunger. Dinner last night was good but given the time we arrived, there wasn’t a lot of choice and we had to make do with soup, salad and one helping of octopus between the three of us. A rather light meal. Over dinner, Günther and Szilvia again brought up the recurring theme of the “energy” that we had experienced on the ascent to O'Cebreiro. With all due respect to both of them, I told them that I wouldn’t be talking about any specific energy that had taken hold of me, rather just a sense of wellbeing that I hadn’t felt for a while, and in Spain we call this feeling de puta madre or, in other words, feeling fucking wonderful. Nothing more, nothing less.

It’s clear that Günther and Szilvia are not alone on their crusade for energy or in their pursuit of personal balance through places on earth which supposedly emanate more positivity. These types of people are in abundance on the Camino, especially amongst foreigners. Some of them give a supernatural feel to this journey, but with more of a nod towards the esoteric than towards the religious or existential side of things. And that’s fine by me, as long as they don’t try to convince me that black is actually white. Over dinner last night, Günther insinuated that there is something inside me that I don’t let people see. Apparently it’s very difficult to get to my heart because there are a lot of barriers around it and that maybe that’s why I wasn’t able to feel the energies which, according to him, are flowing all around us. Well how about that. The Tyrolese version of Mystic Meg. I wasn’t sure how to reply so as not to offend him to tell you the truth, as I think this is a delicate subject and I get the feeling that he’s a bit sensitive about it. So I simply told him that it was one thing that I’m a little introverted when it comes to sharing certain stories with others, and quite another that I’m generally sceptical about this supernatural forces in the universe business.

Maybe the problem lies in the fact that as a good guy and, to make matters worse, Aragonese, I tend to oversimplify things. In any case, this whole energy thing that seems to be so important to Günther and Szilvia is really quite simple and can basically be summed up in the following way: there’s one energy that we’ll call “very good” which is what I experience when I’m feeling bloody brilliant, and another “very bad” which is what I experience when I’m fucked. Once we have identified the two fundamental types of energy, the equilibrium consists of doing everything possible to ensure there are more “good” moments than bad ones. And if in my pursuit of this equilibrium, which is practically every day, I had to go to Machu Picchu or to an underground volcano in Iceland, then I’d be done with it. If you want to call all this Ying and Yang, then bully for you. If believing these things helps some people endure the troubles of their own existence and find meaning in things, then that’s great too. But don’t go telling me that the rest of us don’t feel anything because we’re not on the same wavelength and, if possible, don’t take advantage of people who are having a really hard time by telling them porkies to make a quick buck or two.

  

After breakfast we went up to the room to gather our things. The woman that runs the inn asked me where I got the txapela I’m wearing and I told her it was my grandfather’s, as he was born in Legazpia. The landlady’s face lit up as she told me that her husband is from Idiazabal, very near there, and that she herself lived in San Sebastian and in Guipúzcoa for over forty years. She told me that when she was 14 years old and hardly able to speak any Castilian Spanish, a family from the town who had prospered after moving to the Basque Country offered her the chance to go and live with them in San Sebastian to work as a nanny and help with the housework. She said yes but only because she thought San Sebastian was “just a little further past Ponferrada”. She doesn’t remember ever being so scared in her entire life as on that trip, especially as she saw that they were leaving Bierzo and then all of Castile, and they took forever to get to San Sebastian. She thought that there were actually kidnapping her to sell her to someone. Once she overcame her initial fears, as is always the case after a big change, this brave Galician girl made it through, got married, started a family and then, at retirement age, came back to her parents’ town to refurbish the family house and use it as pilgrim lodgings. Her husband was watching the television that was on in the living room but he was also listening in to our conversation as, every so often, he would nod at something his wife said. I found it quite amusing how the landlady kept referring to her husband as “that one”, and not his first name: “I married that one; that one retired; I came here with that one”… all the while that one just nodded at her words without uttering a dicky bird.

After saying goodbye to them and thanking them for everything, I went with Günther and Szilvia to visit the pre-Romanesque church of Santa María la Real and the memorial tribute to one of the old parish priests of the town, Don Elías Valiña, a tireless advocate of the Camino and creator of the famous yellow arrows that guide us to Santiago and to whom those of us who don’t need a map, GPS or anything similar to get to Galicia, owe a lot. As we left the church, we ran into the American guy Michael and so we started our descent together through thick fog and snow that just kept on falling.

Soon after we left the town, we came across a donkey that started to bray and, with a serious look on my face, I asked Günther if he wanted anything. He didn’t get it at first and asked me what I meant so I told him that I thought I heard someone speaking German. We all laughed, but I think Günther did so half-heartedly as became clear a little further on when, as we passed by some cows, I made the same joke and the Austrian very seriously told me that that was enough. What can I say; I thought it was fantastic that he said that. Despite the fact it was only a joke, it was good that the Austrian put me in my place if the joke wasn’t funny to him. I know that my sense of humour can be a bit draining sometimes so there’s no harm in reminding me of it from time to time. Just another of the many things I’ll take note of that I like about Günther.

In Liñares, after four kilometres of walking downhill in the midst of a never-ending downpour, we stopped to have a hot Cola-Cao. Our next stop was in Padornelo, in the church of San Juan, where we sat down to escape the rain and rest with Gregorian chants in the background. As we reached Fonfría, ten kilometres from Triacastela, we stopped for lunch and had hot Galician broth, a bit of empanada and a good glass of locally-produced red wine which managed to warm us up. We had a well-deserved rest and took a few videos of us horsing around, in which Günther was again the star of the show. After this we set off for Triacastela, where it still wasn’t clear if we would finish the stage, at least if I would, as I was waiting to hear from Zach about his bowel movements or lack of them.

As we arrived in Triacastela, I met Tim, the American guy from Kansas, who was already having a drink with John, a Canadian man who he had met early on in the Camino. I still didn’t have any news from Zach, I was soaked to the gills after being out in the rain all day and well, I fancied a whiskey to warm me up so I decided to stay in Triascastela, if not for the night, at least for a while until I was sure Zach was still alive and that he hadn’t been gobbled up by that monster he must be carrying around inside him. Michael said he was staying too and Günther and Szilvia decided to go on for another ten kilometres to finish the stage. Two hours after arriving, still without any news from Zach, I decided I would stay in the town for the night. I had dinner with Tim, Michael and the Canadian John and we had a good time. John showed me his travel journal where he paints postcards of the Camino and writes some comments to go with them. He does it really well and he’s contemplating whether it’ll get him some publicity once he gets back to Canada.

   

After dinner I received a message from Zach. He told me that as he was walking down from O Cebreiro, he met an Irish girl in a bar having a coffee and that, given how worried he is about the situation, it didn’t take him long to open his heart and tell her that it’d been a month since the turtle had poked its head out. The Irish girl must have entered into a state of shock as she told him that he had to get to a hospital as soon as possible or he was at risk of death. Needless to say, it didn’t take Zach long to order a taxi and go to Sarria, which is where the nearest health centre is. Those there recommended that he applied another enema and that if that didn’t work, he’d have to go to the hospital in Lugo. He reserved a room in a hostel for the night, hopeful that everything would be sorted in a few hours. I told him that it’s a bit late for me to walk to Sarria now but that I’ll get up early tomorrow to get there as soon as possible and that if he has to go to hospital, I’ll go with him. I once again insisted that I would leave my mobile phone on all night and that if anything happens, he shouldn’t hesitate to contact me no matter what time it is. Zach thanked me deeply and so we left it that we would see each other the next day.

   

After our exchange of messages, I settled down at the bar to have a drink. I’m not a doctor and I don’t know what could be happening to the American but you can’t help but worry a little about something that is just not one bit normal. In my case, I don’t leave home without sitting down in my office first thing to review the most important matters of the day, so it seems like something from science fiction to me that the guy from Kentucky hasn’t been to the office for nearly a month.

At the bar there was a group of locals trying to fix the country speaking in the Galician language. They were talking about the good old crisis, as it would seem there’s no other topic of conversation in Spain at the moment. One of the things I’ve enjoyed most about the Camino is not reading the newspaper or watching the news. For a whole month I haven’t heard a pick about the crisis. The barman said to one of the punters, who was as drunk as a skunk, that the problem is that Europe doesn’t work: “you go and tell a German that he’s like a Spaniard and he’ll tell you to fuck off”. In his thick Galician accent, the punter replied: “what the hell, I don’t want to be German either, no fucking way”. He then went on to remark: “what we need to do is join forces with Italy, Greece and Portugal, and leave the Germans to do their own thing”. After nodding my head and toasting the local man, I told him he was exactly right and that he could count on me for the Mediterranean team. I’m not sure if we’ll win anything, but we’ll sure as hell have a damn good time…

Part 29: Cacabelos - O Cebreiro (37 kilometres)

Last night after dinner, another two bottles of El Bierzo wine were consumed along with some herb liqueur shots that I wanted the foreigners to try. Günther was as sharp as a tack, joking away as always, and letting out that Conan the Barbarian hearty laughter that would even bring joy to a funeral cortège. At one point in the evening when it was just me and him talking, I asked him if he was making the most of the temporary separation from his wife to let his hair down or if the show would continue when he meets up with her in Melide. He told me that I’d have time to find that out because his wife and him would both treat us all to champagne in the Parador when we arrive in Santiago, but he gave me a heads up that yes, for my peace of mind, he is the same when his wife is present, if not even worse.

I think the list of alcohol consumed last night serves to show that no one got up excessively early this morning. Today’s stage promises to be not only long, but hard as well. Harder for some than for others depending on the chosen route. The Camino offers three alternative routes after Villafranca del Bierzo. The traditional one, which is flat and relatively easy until the 10 kilometre uphill hike to Galicia, and then two different paths, one of which is known as the “Camino duro” (hard way), which has been gaining popularity the last few years but  which doesn’t really have much to do with the historical route, if anything at all. Feeling energetic, Günther chose the hard way and didn’t take long to leave Cacabelos. I think it’s really funny how the Austrian pronounces the word ‘duro’. He says it in two goes, changing the ‘r’ into a ‘g’ and lengthening the ‘o’ at the end: “du-goooo”. I went down for breakfast in my own time and ran into Ruta and Szilvia who were finishing theirs off.

A short while later Zach appeared and I immediately looked for his knowing nod to confirm that the miracle had taken place. He pursed his lips to make it clear that not even the enema had been enough to solve the problem. A little later, as we were on our own, he confirmed the bad news and told me that he was going to stay in Cacabelos a little while longer as, even though his Spanish is limited, he thinks he understands what the name of the place means and he’s convinced that he can’t leave a place with such an inspiring name without fulfilling his duty. There’s no denying that the American takes things on the chin in good humour. I left him in the fruit shop buying plums and a couple of kiwis but before I said goodbye, I told him I’d have my mobile on, even at night, and that he shouldn’t hesitate to phone me if the situation gets worse or if he experiences any of the symptoms my sister said that he should look out for in particular (vomiting or abdominal pain or rigidity) and, if this is the case, to haul his ass, literally,
to the hospital as fast as he could.

   

Before leaving Cacabelos, I ran into Michael, the young guy from Boston, and together we walked the eight kilometre path through vineyards to Villafranca del Bierzo. Michael was telling me that he was accepted into one of the best universities in America a couple of years ago but that he’s decided to leave it and Washington altogether, which is where the university is. He’s sick of the insanely competitive environment around him and the fact that, no matter how good his faculty is, you can’t disagree. They rob you of individual thought while you’re meant to just like or lump whatever the teacher tells you. He wants something else for his life. Despite being young, Michael seems to know what he wants and I couldn’t do anything but encourage him, from first-hand experience, to do what he feels is right for him and not what others tell him to.

In Villafranca del Bierzo, we met Ruta and Szilvia by the church of Santiago. Afterwards we went down into the historical old part of the town to have our first bite to eat of the day. In the café where we stopped, there was a forty-something year old man being helped to walk by a child of about ten. I think other people I’ve met on the Camino have spoken to me about this pair. If they are the same ones, and I think they are by the scars on the father’s scalp, he’s an Australian who’s suffering from an incurable brain tumour, according to doctors, and the boy is his son. I don’t know if they’re travelling with the faith that the Apostle will cure him or simply because he doesn’t want to leave the world without having taken this trip with his firstborn. It’s really difficult to appear indifferent to some of the things you see here. You simply have to put all your own problems into perspective, especially those that have a solution, when people like the Australian guy are walking alongside you. Not to mention the huge role the boy’s taking on, walking this path on what would surely be, and I hope I’m wrong, his father’s last days on this earth.

After our quick snack, I said goodbye to Michael as he also wanted to give the “Camino duro” a go, and I had a quick walk around the streets of this beautiful town in El Bierzo where I’m already starting to hear some Galician voices. I set off again shortly after. I’m walking in a very good mood today. If things don’t go pear-shaped and my feet hold up, I’ll finally arrive in Galicia today. It feels like only yesterday when I started from that apartment building at Canfranc station that I helped to build twelve years ago, and already a month has passed. A month in which so many things have happened. A month that seemed like forever when I began my pilgrimage and now I get the feeling that it’s not going to be long enough and I’m not going to want this all to end when I get to Santiago…

   

For more or less the next fifteen kilometres I walked some stretches alone and some with Ruta or with Szilvia, having lively conversation. In La Portela de Valcarce, Ruta wanted to stop off to ask if there was any room in the pilgrim hostel. The pain in the arch of her foot is killing her and she’s decided to finish today’s stage here. Unfortunately, she was told there was no room and that she’d have to try her luck in the next town which is more or less one kilometre away. Ruta said that she could do one more kilometre but then she’s definitely staying in that town to rest. Szilvia stayed with her and I decided to go on as I’d received a message from Günther, who is as nice as ninepence, telling me that he wanted to enter Galicia with his first ‘Camino friend’ and that he’d wait for me in Vega de Valcarce, three kilometres away from where we were right now. As I arrived in Ambasmestas, a beautiful little town that lies in a valley where the rivers Valcarce and Balboa converge, I sent Ruta a message to tell her to make the effort and spend the night in this peaceful backwater.

Günther was waiting for me in Vega and greeted me with one of his usual big hugs that leave your vertebrae quivering. I arrived, just about, with a slight twinge in my calf and so I asked him if he’d let me rest before the hike we had in front of us to which the Austrian showed no objection, despite the fact we were running the risk of the evening closing in on us. Shortly after arriving in Vega the Hungarian girl Szilvia appeared and also expressed her desire to hike to O'Cebreiro with us. The climb was spectacular. Hard but more due to the amount of kilometres we’d already covered today than due to the route itself. But the reward was worth it. The views were spectacular and I hadn’t felt that serenity that we felt along the way for a long time. We definitely picked the right time to go up as there was no one else on the road and the sun was already down hiding between the mountains that surrounded us. The emotional element of the climb, knowing that we were about to cross into the land where the Apostle’s remains lie, was very much present and it was a very special moment, one of those that I’ll treasure.

The climb was not only special, but fun. Günther and yours truly have a great understanding and we spent the whole journey cracking jokes. I had already experienced the fact that when we are on higher ground, he feels the need to make it known that he’s Austrian and the mountains are his natural environment. On the way up to O'Cebreiro he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to reassert himself as the Abominable Snowman. At one point he stopped to very intently scan the horizon and then told us to hurry as those clouds we could see to our left were coming straight for us, and it wasn’t looking good. I stood there looking at him with a face that said “you’re making this up, right?” and he looked back at me and a few seconds later said, very seriously: “I smell the humidity; it’s going to rain”. I nodded unconvinced but knowing for sure that there was no way in hell this was the weather forecast. I don’t know a bloody thing about meteorology but there was no wind and no water appeared to be falling from those clouds in the region there were over now. And anyway, we weren’t that far from the summit so with any luck we would arrive without getting wet.

As we were only a couple of kilometres away from O'Cebreiro, we reached the boundary stone that marks the fact that we’re now in Galicia, and we hugged each other full of jubilation. We also made the most of the photo opportunity to illustrate the moment. A little before reaching this boundary stone and passing into the first Galician town, it seemed as though a few clouds, darker than the ones before, were closing in on us but Günther told us not to worry and that it wasn’t very likely that they would open up on us. Without thinking twice, I put my rucksack on the ground, got out my rain jacket and put it on, which the two of them found very funny. Well, it was funnier for Szilvia than it was for Günther, who am I kidding. At not even three hundred metres from the town, the Austrian stopped for a moment and asked us if we heard something. We said we didn’t but he asked us if we were sure. “Yes, don’t you hear it? It’s a bottle of wine calling us!” - which was followed by one of his usual outbursts of laughter. The truth is Günther’s sense of humour is much appreciated as, of course, is his generosity, which he showcases as much as he can.

It was almost nine at night when we set foot in the streets of the town. A group of pilgrims who were out for a walk after dinner were surprised to see us arrive so late and gave us a round of applause. The pilgrim hostels were full so we had to look for accommodation in one of the renovated stone houses which are used as lodgings for pilgrims. In one of them, I asked if they had any beds and a very serious man told me yes they did, but that they were taken. I quickly found out what Galician wit is and to tell you the truth, I didn’t find it all that amusing. I’m sure walking for nearly twelve hours only for someone to say such a stupid wisecrack didn’t help. In the end a nice woman told us she had room in her house and so we got settled in. We had the customary hot shower and as we went out to go for dinner, we were surprised to see those clouds, which our Austrian weatherman had said were only passing by, bucketing down over our heads. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to ask Günther what had happened to his forecast and he told me, while giving me a pat on the back, as if I had twigged, not to get all smug as it’s only a passing cloud and tomorrow the sun will be out again…

 

Part 28: Molinaseca - Cacabelos (23 kilometres)

This morning I woke up wrecked. On the descent into Molinaseca I had to constantly keep braking so as not to go flying, which left me knackered. Even so, I wasn’t able to stay in bed much longer. Most days I wake up before my alarm clock goes off. My body is so tense that it’s hard to get to sleep and in the mornings, I lie there awake long before I should be. I don’t know if the tension is just physical or also emotional given everything I’ve experienced so far and because I’m spending a lot of time walking alone and churning things over.

I ran into Tim, the American guy from Kansas City who I had briefly met in León, in one of the cafés near the hotel. He was having a slice of tortilla and a milky coffee and I asked if I could join him. Tim told me that he used to work for IBM and that he was a bit tired of his job, which is why at the beginning of last year when the company decided to get rid of people, he put his hand up and told his boss, who he got on with very well, that if they needed volunteers to go to the wall, they could count on him. He packed up his things and headed off around Southeast Asia and now, before going back to the States, he has decided to round off his sabbatical year by doing the Camino de Santiago. The same path I’m aiming to take myself, one of life’s little coincidences, but the other way around, starting with the Camino de Santiago and then continuing on to Asia. As he listened to my future plans, Tim seemed a bit envious of the adventure that I’m beginning and that he’s about to finish.

I said goodbye to Tim and as I went to get my things from my room, I bumped into Zach, Ruta and Szilvia who were walking through the town at a gentle pace. Zach told me that Michael finished in el Acebo yesterday, like them, but that they’ve lost Hilly who is becoming more and more affected by the dehydration caused by her gastroenteritis and needs to rest. I arranged to try and catch up with the three of them in Ponferrada. After packing up my things, I headed off towards the capital of el Bierzo. Before leaving Molinaseca, I stopped off in a fruit shop to buy something for the walk. The shopkeeper was outside and his wife was inside serving. He told me that when he gets the chance he escapes from the counter and goes out onto the street to see the female pilgrims and give them an admiring comment or two. Apparently, every once in a while his wife shouts out at him and he goes back in, and that’s how he spends his days, as otherwise they’d be really boring.

Before arriving in Ponferrada there is a small air field for remote-control aeroplanes and helicopters. I’m not making it up either. Like good old remote-control cars, only here it’s gadgets that fly. There were about a dozen geeks spending their Sunday morning with their crazy flying machines. In Ponferrada I met up with Zach and Ruta, the Lithuanian girl, and Szilvia, the Hungarian girl. We briefly visited the castle and one of the more important churches in the city and, after stopping at a pharmacy so that Ruta could buy something to relieve the pain in her battered feet, we continued on our way. A very nice local man, Rogelio, ‘here all his life’, who we almost couldn’t get away from as he wouldn’t stop talking, pointed us in the right direction out of the city. I thought of Günther as I passed by the Energy Museum on the outskirts of Ponferrada. Even though I don’t think this is the same type of energy he’s looking for, I wondered if the Austrian would have dutifully visited the place.

We alternated for the rest of the stage; sometimes the four of us walked together and other times everyone at their own pace, which was obviously different. There are groups that form on the Camino where it would seem that people even have to go to the bathroom hand in hand. There are groups where tensions later form as it’s naturally quite complicated for several adults of both sexes to all agree, especially bearing in mind that they’ve only just met. This is more the case among Spaniards to tell you the truth. The foreigner who comes here is more independent, they do their own thing and won’t get offended if you suddenly tell them you are going ahead or you’re stopping because you feel like it or because you want to be alone. It seems we don’t like sheep that stray from the rest of the flock here in Spain as, God forbid, they might actually do better than us, and then we’re left here in a right state. The little sheep have to all go together and guiding them is a shepherd who they must bow down to when he pokes them with his crook. That’s how flocks work, although fortunately there are more and more sheep who dare to think for themselves and go wherever they please without adhering to the norms, the perceived next step or the politically correct.

We arrived in Cacabelos around mid-afternoon. Günther sent me a message to tell me which hostel he’s staying in with the Germans Bruno and Alexandra and so we headed straight there. We booked a room and agreed to meet at the hostel’s pulpería (restaurant specialising in octopus) in an hour. As I arrived on time, I saw Zach was already there having a glass of orange juice. He seemed serious and I asked him if everything was ok. He told me not really, apparently it’s been a few days since he’s been to the toilet and he’s beginning to get a little worried. Despite the fact I don’t suffer from this problem, even when I’m travelling, I tried to put the American from Kentucky at ease by telling him that it’s normal and I gave him the extreme example of a friend of mine who usually only goes to the rubbish dump once a week. I didn’t catch sight of any sign of relaxation on Zach’s face so I asked him to specify exactly what he meant by “a few days without going”. He shuffled a little uncomfortably in his chair and told me in a roundabout way that he’s only been once, in Burgos, since he left the States almost a month ago and that it wasn’t exactly anything to write home about. He also told me that he’s decided to stop eating and he’s only been drinking fruit juice for the last 24 hours. Thinking of all the things I’ve seen him eat since I met him a week ago now, I replied telling him that I thought it was the right thing to do. I also asked him to give me a minute to ring one of my two sisters who are doctors.

Like my father, two of my sisters are, besides beautiful, excellent doctors. But they see things differently and have different approaches to medicine. One of them comes from the conservative school of thought in the sense of not amputating at the first given chance or prescribing medicine just because. She sways more towards natural medicine and thinks that many ailments are related to the psyche and the fact that not a lot of time is spent with patients, and that we should talk more with them as many of these ailments are somatic manifestations of unresolved internal conflict. In this case in particular, she would say that if there were no other symptoms to make us think we were up against something more serious here, we’d just have to let the American get on with it, not talk about it much and he’d do what he needed to do in his own time. My other sister comes from the fast-acting school of thought and thinks that you have to quit the nonsense and solve the problem you have before you. And if the problem here is that the American guy is not shitting, then we have to find a way of making him or else slice him open and scoop out the shit ourselves. I’m exaggerating of course, but I think this example proves my point that they are two very different personalities.

I could see Zach was a bit alarmed by the situation so I thought that a kind of "zen" medical advice would be better so I decided to call the naturist doctor. As luck would have it, she didn’t pick up her phone so I decided to call my other sister. I gave her all the details and, as predicted, her answer was that we’d have to use the heavy artillery: “enema casen” were her exact words. So as not to freak the American out after my first call, I asked my sister would it not be better to continue with the laxatives, which Zach had told me he had started taking yesterday, along with the juices and plums, and then after that go down the road of the dreaded enema if nothing happened in a reasonable period of time. Her answer was quite blunt: “if he’s gone that long already, laxatives will have the same effect as a pineapple-flavoured sweet; enema casen Javier, listen to me”. After hanging up I went back to the bar and Zach asked me with a bit of a forced smile if he was going to die. I told him he wasn’t and that, in any case, it’d be the cleaning lady who’d be dying after we manage to remove everything that’s lying inside him. Following my sister’s instructions, we went to the pharmacy and got the product, convinced that it would all just be a little fright. As we went back to the pulpería where we had arranged to meet the rest, Zach told me that he was going up to his room and asked me to make up an excuse and some sort of pain but not to give away too many details about the issue, which is a little embarrassing for the American. Totally understandable. I told him not to worry and that I would momentarily keep his secret but that I’m writing a journal on my trip and that it would all come out there. “Well, let’s hope that the story has a happy ending and that we can laugh about it by the time we read your journal”, he replied.

Dinner was quite good. It basically consisted of delicious helpings of octopus, shoulder of pork and mixed salad, all washed down with Bierzo wine, the perfect accompaniment to forget about the severity of the last few stages and to enjoy good company. Besides Günther, the Germans Bruno and Alex, the Lithuanian girl Ruta and the Hungarian girl Szilvia, another German called Matthias, who his compatriots had met on today’s stage, joined us. He’s tall, thin and blonde. Even if they hadn’t told us he was German, I think we would have guessed alright. Whenever the wine takes effect and makes us all a little braver, confession time arrives as people are curious to find out what has brought each of us here. I always repeat the same old story without going into too much detail, as I consider it very personal.  And I always put the question back at people and ask what brought them here as I feel that people who ask this question are willing to share their own reasons. Bruno was holding back tears as he told us that his wife left him for another man ten years ago and soon after he had a massive heart attack which almost finished him off. He looks great and it’s incredible that he’s enduring all these kilometres that we’ve racked up despite that serious health problem. When it was Matthias’ turn, he told me that if I came outside to smoke a cigarette with him, he would tell me his reasons. I answered that I don’t smoke but that I’ll gladly accompany him.

   

Outside, surrounded by a bit of mystery, Matthias confessed that he’s addicted to drugs and that he came to do the Camino de Santiago as a type of therapy and also to find the strength he needed to quit. He apologised for taking me away from the dinner. He told me he doesn’t want to go telling everyone but at the same time he needed to tell someone and, for some strange reason, he thought I’d be the best person to listen to him. I like the German guy, he’s someone who is fighting to overcome something and, what’s more, he’s smoking Ducados. I always have big respect for smokers of this strong Spanish cigarettes. He also told me that within a period of two years he lost both his parents to cancer and that he’s alone. He’s an only child and he can’t even say he has great friends who aren’t party pals or ones from shady dealings who just suit themselves. Another reason he decided to do the Camino de Santiago is because he thought that here he would find the faith to believe that one day he would see his parents again, as he’s finding it hard to go on thinking the opposite. A few days back when Matthias arrived in León, he got so fed up that he upped and caught a train to Madrid. All he wanted to do was jack it all in, go back to Germany and smoke weed until he was so high that he didn’t even know his own name. When he arrived in Madrid, he started to feel bad about having left the Camino. Something inside told him that he couldn’t give up. He thought that if he quit and didn’t reach Santiago, he’d never be capable of quitting drugs or of finishing anything really worthwhile in his entire life.        
                                               
I don’t know why I then told Matthias the following, maybe the conversation was getting existential and that pushed me to do it but I asked the German guy if he had considered the possibility that his parents are sending him the strength he needs to continue from wherever they are. I carried on by saying that the unease he felt inside after throwing in the towel was nothing more than the words of his parents who are no longer here but if they were, they’d be encouraging him to continue, to reach Santiago and to quit the drugs. Matthias stood there staring at me and asked me very seriously if I really think that’s possible. I told him no, I don’t know for sure if that’s possible just as I don’t know for sure if he’ll see his parents again. But I think it’s all about creating moments and if thinking this makes him feel better and able to deal with the fact his parents are no longer physically with him and means he can soldier on, then why not convince ourselves of it, why not believe now without waiting to fall off a horse or for a blinding beam of light to show us the truth. Why not believe that his parents are sending him the strength he needs to get to Santiago from some place where he’ll be one day too. Matthias was silent for a few seconds and then said yes, with a hint of a smile, why not believe it. I was a bit surprised at my words to Matthias to tell you the truth and I couldn’t help but think that it might also be the case for me that someone close who I lost suddenly, precisely as they were on their way to Santiago, is guiding me there. Yes, why not think that if it makes me feel good. Even if it isn’t very rational, even if there’s no way of proving it’s true…

   

As we went back into the dining room, Günther made the typical joke of mimicking the tune to the Full Monty striptease as if the German and I had been out holding hands in the street. It’s clear that the Bierzo wine is doing a good job. Without a moment’s hesitation, I made out like I was going to take my t-shirt off, showing those present a glimpse of my paunch. Matthias told me not to be shy and to continue with the show, so I whispered “Room 315” in his ear which was met with a huge roar of laughter from the German. As I said yesterday, the humour in Germany must be something else if these guys are having such a good time with me…