Wendy Downes
The only movement in the village was the heat haze that danced between tightly shuttered stone façades and the pavement. Maya hugged the left side of the street, finding shade but still feeling the heat of the asphalt ooze through the worn soles of her walking shoes. The heat of the day had softened her trail-hardened feet and allowed a couple of blisters to grow, one on the big toe of her right foot and another on the ball of her left foot.
As the narrow street turned and widened to meet Rue Marina, Maya expected to feel a breeze from the Atlantic Ocean. No such luck. Even the small modern fishing harbour was silent. Maya wilted. Sweat dripped down her back, her pack weighed on her shoulders and her feet were sore. The physical discomfort made worse by a niggling fear. Tomorrow she would arrive at Finisterre, the end of the known world up to the Middle Ages and the end of her Camino. Then what? What would she do with the couple of weeks before her flight home? What would she do when she got home?
One of the unexpected gifts of the Camino is that she caters for the daily needs of pilgrims. Spread along her windy limbs, at relatively close intervals, are albergues, restaurants, cafés, medical care and of course churches, providing somewhere to sleep, to wash, to eat, to drink, patch the body up and tend to your spirit. Not having to tend to the basic necessities gave Maya freedom. Once her body had got used to walking she was able to give her undivided attention to the landscape, the buildings, the local history or the conversations that she had with people along the way. It also gave her the time and space to wander the pathways of her mind. But soon that would end. Tomorrow would the last day that Maya could live in the protected embrace of the Camino.
A wavering mirage of a lone man bending over a barbecue and the smell of grilled fish distracted Maya from her spiral towards panic. ‘The inhabitants of Muxia have not been abducted by aliens after all,’ mused Maya.
‘Fresh caught,’ he said waving his tongs over plump sardines lined up on the coals. ‘Order a drink and you have some.’
It seemed like a good offer. Besides it would be an hour and a half before the albergue would lock its doors and Maya had no other plans.
Walking into the darkened bar Maya was engulfed by the chatter of many conversations. It took a few moments before she could see that the noise came from a long table surrounded by a group of people representing many generations. Platters in the centre of the table held piles of charred sardines, heads all pointing to the end of the table. The stained tablecloth, plates filled with fish skeletons, half filled glasses, discarded serviettes and almost empty wine bottles signalled the end of a feast.
Maya’s presence did not interrupt the conversation. A matronly woman still arguing walked behind the bar. ‘Buenos tardes.’
‘Buenos tardes. Un vaso ribeiro por favor,’ Maya said in a soft tentative voice, emphases in all the wrong places.
‘Perdon?’ spat the woman.
Losing her confidence to speak Spanish, Maya pointed to the ribeiro on the menu.
Observing what happened behind closed shutters during siesta made Maya feel uncomfortable and out of place. Not wanting to interrupt an intimate, by Spanish standards, gathering, Maya took her glass and pushed back though the curtain of plastic strips into the intense summer light. She sat at a table tucked into a sliver of shade, choosing a seat that enabled her have her back to the wall and a view of the harbour.
As Maya’s body relaxed she recalled that walking the Camino de Santiago had been Kylie’s idea. In their friendship, Kylie, Maya’s friend since high school, was the ideas person, energetic and impulsive. At first Maya thought walking the Camino was just another idea of Kylie’s. The type that would flare up quickly, burn fiercely and then be snuffed out with no warning. Not this time. A month of badgering coincided with Maya being made redundant, leaving her with time, a bit of extra cash, and no excuses. Besides, the history and buildings that lined the Camino had captured Maya’s interest, as did the prospect of losing some weight.
Three weeks before their departure Kylie met a bloke, and in true Kylie style she tumbled into love with passion and commitment. She was miserable from the moment she left Simon’s arms. After a week of moping, it was no surprise when Kylie decided to call it quits. Maya could have returned to Brisbane with her, but she had become familiar with Camino life and felt comfortable about walking alone.
Maya remembered the exhilaration of her first day without Kylie. It was liberating to leave Pamplona at her own pace. Her confidence began to build with each step, as she climbed to meet a platoon of large The War of the Worlds windmills marching over the hill.
Picnicking on a wedge of gamey idiazabal cheese and crust of bread at Alto del Perdon, Maya felt like a bona fide pilgrim. At least she could find local food and enjoy it without worrying about Kylie’s unadventurous palate. Moved by a view of hills blanked by small paddocks behind a wrought iron silhouette of medieval pilgrims heading toward Santiago, Maya found it easy to respect Kylie’s decision to go home. She did not feel deserted.
Any understanding and forgiveness Maya felt on the path that first day dissolved the moment she walked into the busy restaurant. Most of the tables were surrounded by groups of pilgrims. All were engaged in lively conversations. German, Italian and bits of English bounced around the room. The bar, off to the left, was the domain of the Spaniards. Instead of finding it welcoming, Maya was confronted by her aloneness.
Maya was used to eating alone at home, but eating solo in a restaurant was different, especially when you have been stood up by a friend. Sitting by herself in that convivial restaurant was one of the loneliest moments in Maya’s life. All she could remember of the meal was the spice of anger and the bitterness of fear.
Maya’s thoughts were interrupted by a heaped plate of grilled sardines. ‘You will never taste sardines so good, so fresh. Caught today by my son-in-law,’ mirage man said before returning to his place by the barbecue.
Picking the firm flesh from the fish bones and licking the salty, fishy oils from her fingers before washing the flavours away with a sip of cool crisp wine, Maya acknowledged that her luck in finding tasty local food had not deserted her. Maya knew that it was unlikely that the Virgin Mary would appear to tell her that it was OK to go home, as she had done to St James during his unsuccessful Spanish mission. Even so, her fear of finishing the Camino subsided.