I went down to the hostel café for breakfast to find that Yun still wasn’t up yet. He came down after a while, his eyes clearly still battling against all the sleep in them. I asked him how he was feeling and he told me better than yesterday but that he was still tired and his foot still a little sore. He’s going to shorten today’s route by taking the bus as far as Viana where he’s meeting a friend of his mother’s who is also doing the Camino de Santiago. I wished him all the best and hugged him goodbye.
After breakfast I kept myself entertained by chatting with Esteban, the nice guy who runs the hostel. He was telling me about all the famous people who have stayed, among which he mentioned the football manager Clemente: “he’s just the same as on the telly; direct but dead nice” – according to Esteban. I have to say that, in contrast to these pseudo-philosophical trainers who always say what people want to hear, Clemente seems like a nice guy to me too.
After that I told him some anecdotes from my trip and other trials and tribulations I encountered on my route to Los Arcos. Yesterday there was a cyclist who really pissed me off when he shouted at me to get out of the way and didn’t even say thanks as he passed. Esteban defended me by saying that the Camino is for those who are on foot with their rucksacks and that there are other more appropriate routes for those who are going to get themselves all worked up and be all competitive about it. He told me there are cyclists and then there are cyclists, and that he especially respects a couple of Navarran friends who challenged themselves to arrive in Santiago in a day. One of them, knackered, gave up in León and the other when he was 50 kilometres away from Santiago, not because he didn’t have the energy to go on but because there was a lot of traffic on the road and he was afraid that, after a sleepless night, the tiredness might cause a lapse of concentration with fatal consequences. Obviously cyclists like Esteban’s friends can shout at me all they want as they pass by; I take my hat off to them. Against my will, the mention of these cyclists reminded me of Koldo, a Navarran guy who a few years back was a contestant on the Basque television programme “El Conquistador del fin del mundo” (The Conqueror of the End of the World) who, after not having touched a bicycle for 20 years, bet his friends that he could climb the Tourmalet in one go…
As I was leaving Los Arcos the sky started to cloud over and I had to stop after 5 kilometres due to cramp in my neck and upper back. I’m finding it a bit difficult to get used to the weight of my rucksack. I’m carrying my laptop, video camera and all the relevant cables as my idea is to write as I’m travelling and this means carrying around three kilos more than I should be, which is killing me. After resting for 15 minutes, I started to walk again just as the rain started. The town of Sansol was only one kilometre away and so I stopped there for some shelter from the rain and to give my overworked back another rest.
In the town’s bar I was served by “el Moro*”, a very amusing waiter who is missing a few teeth for reasons that escape me. I don’t know if the fact he was drinking beer at 11 in the morning has anything to do with that. “El Moro” was telling me that he did military service in Barcelona and that he really enjoyed it. He has great memories of Sergeant Major Rivas and tells me that every guard duty with him was one big wild party. “As soon as Sergeant Rivas walked into the barracks he would phone the canteen and says “Bad Hair”, bring two crates of beer up to the watchtower”. “Bad Hair”, as he clarified, was a new recruit who had out of control alopecia and Sergeant Major Rivas didn’t take long to christen him with the nickname during training.
"El Moro” spent the best part of his military service in the watchtower of the Barcelona Command Headquarters monitoring the comings and goings. He told me that one time, an agent of the anti-terrorism division of the Guardia Civil tried to enter without showing identification and so he told him no way. The agent must have gotten a little shorty and Sergeant Major Rivas had to be called. He assured the agent that he could be the King for all he cared but there was no way he was getting in without showing them who he was. In the end the agent reluctantly showed them his ID and afterwards Rivas congratulated “El Moro” for his diligence, toasting it with another beer I imagine, although I didn’t ask. "Imagine if with six out of my eight surnames being Basque, I unintentionally let a member of ETA slip through into the Command Headquarters. Sergeant Major Rivas would’ve had my balls cut off” - “El Moro” told me with a serious face.
When I told “El Moro” that I was Aragonese, he told me how nice he thinks we maños are, highlighting Labordeta as an example out of us all, recalling how, in Parliament, he told some MPs from the People’s Party to go to hell as they wouldn’t let him speak. “That man definitely had some balls” – he remarked. The rain outside was getting worse but I had to continue walking. “El Moro” told me that the amount of rainfall this year isn’t normal: “It’s like Santander here, bucketing away" – he said, making it clear that it hasn’t rained this much here in years. I took out the waterproof cover for my rucksack and he suggested that I should indeed cover it because water destroys everything it touches: “That’s why I only drink beer” – “El Moro” concluded before bursting into fits of laughter, leaving his orphaned set of teeth on show for all to see.
I left Sansol and “El Moro” behind and soon arrived in the neighbouring town of Torres del Río. I whizzed past the streets and went deeper into the countryside on a path of steep ups and downs which finally led me to Viana. Those 12 kilometres weren’t one bit easy due to the rough terrain, the relentless rain that turned the paths into mud and my back which was driving me mad. I stopped to have something to eat in Viana and acted as translator for a couple of South Koreans who were curious to know what something on display on the counter was. I told them that what they were pointing at was pig’s ear, which they found really funny.
Soon after leaving Viana I ran into Eva, the Californian that I left limping yesterday. Her limp wasn’t letting up today and she again told me that her father had gone ahead with the excuse of finding room in the lodgings in the town. It was the middle of the afternoon and it was raining persistently, which was probably why there weren’t many people out walking. There were eight kilometres left to Logroño and I decided to walk them with the lovely Eva, who despite insisting that I shouldn’t slow down for her sake, was grateful for me staying.
I asked Eva why she was doing the Camino as she didn’t seem to be very enthusiastic about it and she told me that it was her father’s idea – he has some strange ideas apparently – and that she’s really only here to get fit and bikini-ready for the Californian beaches this summer. Her answer seemed like that of someone with nothing between her ears and, considering the size of the State of California and the number of kilometres there is to cover there, I thought that this couldn’t be the real reason. I continued chatting with her and found out that her parents don’t live together and that she adores her father who she hardly ever sees and who she gives me the impression that she doesn’t know very well. She also told me that she thinks it’s a good opportunity to spend an entire month with him to make up for some lost time and that if, one day, her father isn’t there anymore she would never forgive herself for saying no when he suggested that they do the Camino de Santiago together. After talking to a lot of pilgrims, I have a feeling that everyone has a reason for being here and that a person does not decide to walk more than 800 kilometres, as some do, for the simple reason of getting fit or because they like walking.
Walking at Eva’s pace meant that we arrived in Logroño two hours later than I should have. A few kilometres before, we passed the signpost that marks the beginning of the province of La Rioja, the third region I have crossed on foot on this pilgrimage. Dave, her father, was waiting for us as we entered the town. He thanked me for accompanying his daughter. I wanted to tell him that it was really his job to do that and that I couldn’t understand how he could leave her all alone, especially with her limp that was clearly on display, but the truth is I got on with him too well to have a go at him for anything. The only thing Dave’s missing is a cowboy hat. He has everything else: the walk, the talk and the ponytail. We talked for quite a while as Dave showed an interest in what I was doing and where I was from, meanwhile this time, the two of us both left his daughter lagging behind without realising. I said goodbye to them as they were staying in a hostel beside the river and I headed for a guesthouse in the town centre.
The guesthouse is very nice and is looked
after by a very nice Brazilian woman. The rooms are clean and comfortable. They
have mirrors everywhere and a massive flat screen TV that could be used to show
films for a type of summer cinema. There’s even a jacuzzi in the bathroom. I
wondered if this house was used for other purposes before it became a
guesthouse, and if so, if the sticker on the front door was still there at that
time: “Smile, Jesus loves you!”…
*In
Spanish ‘el Moro’ is generally a term given to a North African or
Arab person or, more often than not, a nickname for someone who resembles people
of that descent.
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