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Sunday, September 25, 2016

A Jumble

September 20, 2016: Najera, Rioja, Spain

The first few days on the trail are a blur of steep ups and downs, interactions with “peregrinos” (pilgrims) of all ages, types, and ethnicities…  the dislocations of adjusting to Spanish language and culture…and of course, physical exhaustion.

Our first clue we have entered some other reality happens in the little town of Viskarret. After our climb over the Pyrenees, we could only make 6 miles the next day. We ended up staying at a posada (inn) notable for a few things: shutting down the electricity at 10 PM (too bad for people who need to get up in the night), and intense conversations with the British, Canadian, American, and Austrian guests around this high-priced communal dinner table.

Earlier in the day, we discovered that the Brits who commented on my socks are in fact, Scottish and more than a little dotty.  They are here in their motorhome, driving to various locations on the trail to offer advice,  tell stories, hand out yellow and blue yarn flowers, and parade their fat little Jack Russell about.  This is their twelfth or fourteenth trip to the trail.

We also learn that many people walk a short distance, don’t carry their luggage and feel no compunction to get to Santiago de Compostela.      We also witness a rather heated political discussion with the London Sunday Times reporter, his sister from Canada,  and American from California, and the 2 dotty Scottish. 

When the conversation turns to Brexit and the Times reporter makes sure we know he has spoken to all the key players in the recent events. It wasn’t long before the topic was Donald Trump and his bigotry and shortly thereafter, Maggie Thatcher and her bigotry.

The Canadian sister makes a case about Maggie’s support of white supremacy. The dotty Scottish either do not hear or  understand her point,  and make a full throated statement of support of Margaret Thatcher.   To the Californian and Canadian sister’s ears, it sounds like they are in support of white supremacy.

Jim the Californian slams down his unfinished beer, stands up, and pronounces,  “I didn’t come all this way to hear this,” then leaves. The Canadian sister churns in her seat. When the Scots try to explain themselves, they only make it worse by saying,  “I’m not a racist. We have a black deacon in our church.” The wife thinks she is helping when she say, “We have a black friend and he’s a grand fellow.” It’s clear they don’t know the difference between white separatists, white supremacists, and racists.

After a bit more of this, the Canadian sister leaves, disgusted. The journalist then interrogates the poor, dotty Scots who haven’t the intellect, language, or skills not to be skewered time and again by the cynical Londoner. “Do you mean that you thought Maggie’s policies benefited the lower class people? How do you account for the increase in unemployment?” To which they reply, “We liked her, she brought back strength to our country when we needed it.” He asks, “How do you account for the Falklands War?” It was like watching a cat knock about a flustered and increasingly frightened mouse.

Later that night, the journalist entertains the whole table with a long story of his uncomfortable night sleeping in a bunk bed in the massive dormitories of Roncesvalles. He is witty and well spoken… and used to being the center of attention. But he is also plainly unnerved by the Camino experience. He is furious the next morning that the electricity was out. He is angry butter is not served with the bread and the scanty breakfast is so expensive. His sister will not walk that day, overdone by the trip over the summit. He sets out alone, a beginning hiker with almost no Spanish and little tolerance for difference and ambiguity. Wes and I bet he won’t make the full week he has set aside for this walk.

After our short day, we decide we better have a full day. Because we are not feeling so great, we decide to send our bags ahead to our next lodging. We pull out a few things from our packs and place them in small carry sacks.   It is a joy to make the steep ups and downs without the 20 extra pounds on our backs.

We are jaunting along.  I am moving somewhat faster than Wes, and waiting across the highway when a car pulls up.  A young Spaniard /Basque, his girlfriend, and his parents jump out of the car, and pull Wes over to ask him why he is walking the Camino.  Wes relays that he doesn't know, but that something spiritual is calling him.  The group ends up interviewing him on a small camera and by the time he re-joins me, he is crying.  I try to determine why, but all he can muster is that is made him think about the enormity of our undertaking.

The trail is full of pilgrims —on bikes and walking.  They range from 3 young Spaniards who make a sport of throwing rocks at trees to an elderly British woman with painfully swollen legs, hobbling up the steep hills, a small open umbrella attached to her pack and bobbing with each step.  Her companion is murmuring constant encouragement.  

When I pass two young American women, who have stopped to tend sore feet, I hear one say, “OMG, I can’t believe it.  This is only the 2nd day!”  Later, they pass me by, in intense conversation about a Danish fellow they had met in the dorms.

By the time we get to the little town of Zubiri, it is full of pilgrims on this hot fall day.  It is also clear, we have made two significant mistakes.  When putting together the light pack, I have brought neither my Camelback water bladder, nor any way to deal with pain. 

I grow increasingly thirsty after a big climb.   I am happy to join the throng of pilgrims visiting a food truck strategically placed at the top of the hill.  I order a juice and get some fruit, and am trying to recover my equilibrium, when I am enthusiastically greeted by none other than the dotty Scottish.  They mournfully tell me they won’t see me any more because they are now going over to the other big mountains on the trail…to offer their brand of comfort and encouragement, I suppose.

The walk into Zubiri includes a drop of 300 meters in just few kilometers.   I try to “walk slalom” down the hills, but my injured toe is banging against my boot, and every step is a searing throb.  My “medicine chest” is back with the backpacks, so there's no way to arrest or mediate the pain.

When I get to Zubiri, I have to walk to the far side of town to the town’s one “farmacia”— the only place one can buy ordinary drugs like ibuprofen.
When we sit down to lunch after my pain pill detour, we realize we have made another, even worse mistake. 

Our lodging is still more than 8 miles away!  I had had a great deal of trouble finding lodging the previous night.  I finally found one in a town called Uharte, which was far, but seemingly not too far, if we aren’t carrying our packs.

However…

I had misread the map and miscalculated the distance by 5 miles… creating a walk with a total distance of 16 miles.  With my throbbing toe, we would have happily called a stop at Zubiri, but we couldn’t.  Our bags are on their way to Uharte.  We have to get there….somehow.

When most sensible Spaniards and pilgrims are taking their siesta in the hot afternoon sun,  Wes and I are walking down a treeless trail, next to a massive manganese mine, going through his one bottle of water at an alarming rate.  We are about to clear the mine tailings when we hear a voice from behind call out, “Are you from Michigan?” This was startling until I remember that I am walking advertisement for UM School of Social Work.  I am wearing a maize and blue string pack emblazoned with a big block M, a remnant of hosting social work interns at Matrix.

Diane is an American now living in South Carolina, but whose husband is from Gaylord, Michigan.  She is traveling alone, on the 2nd day of her hike.  We are on the 4th day of ours, even though we had all started at St. Jean Pied-de-Port.  She is walking fast and light, but getting tired, and glad for some English conversation.  We walk together for a while, but she soon finds our pace too slow and is soon out of sight.  In the meantime, we cross and are crossed by a small group of young looking Asian woman, traveling with an slightly older Asian man.

At the town of Larrasoaña, it is already starting to
be late afternoon and we still have 4-5 miles to our lodging.  We are beat and will never make it.  Perhaps we can find public transportation or take a cab.

Once in town, there are distressed pilgrims walking up and down the streets.  Most  of the bars and cafes are closed and all of the lodging, albergues, and hostels are full.  Before long, we spot the reason.  The town is hosting its annual fiesta.  Hundreds are seated at long tables under a big white tent. 

Larrasoaña is a quaint medieval town in a cool mountain glen.  Many of its stone cottages are 2nd home for people living in nearby Pamplona.  Cars line the 12 foot streets, and more villagers, relatives, and part timers are arriving by the second.

After wandering the town and realizing there is no option but a taxi, we start trying to figure out how and where to get a cab in this country town. We are hot, tired, and worried. As I sit there, messing with my phone, a small car with 3 young people finds a place to park just in front of us. 

Wes jumps up, runs over to them and says “Taxi?” Then signals making a call.  Without any more  interchange, the driver pulls out his phone, calls a cab, and tells us in broken English a cab will pick us here by the church in about 15 minutes.  We are stunned and grateful.  Our benefactors are gone in a moment.

While we wait for the taxi, we see Diane again, moving with a group of 10-15 pilgrims, none of whom has any place to stay.  We tell her about our choice to take a cab, but she says no.  She clearly thinks we’re cheating.

Well, maybe we are, but we are glad to.  We never could have made it to our hotel, which as it turns out, is a wonderfully put-together and run old-world hotel on the outskirts of Pamplona, right beside the cool lush banks of the Arga River.

In our room, we collapse on the bed, take cool cloths to our faces, take long, cool showers, change into our “evening clothes,” and happily drink the complementary juices.  An hour ago, we were in a mess.  But once again, guardian angels/kind people/Wes’ impetuosity /dumb luck has seen us through. 

With the sunrise tomorrow, we will walk into Pamplona and leave the Pyrenees' part of our journey.  As per usual, the trip is taking us.



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