I’M UP AT THE CRACK OF DAWN to say goodbye to all my friends, as I doubt I will ever see any of them again.
The amigos and Alyssa, Dr. Andreas and Greta, and many others who I kept up with since the beginning. I wish them all a “Buen camino” for the final time. Then I go back to my bedroom and to sleep, and hope for a miracle
I dream that I’m running with bulls, but back in Scunthorpe High Street, swerving through the busy streets on a cronky old red Honda C50 moped on benefit day. But suddenly the machine coughs and chugs to a halt.
“Oh fuckety-fuck, fuck, shit!” I scream in frustration as I frantically try to kick-start the piece of shit moped back to life and the snorting monsters come charging down upon me. In my desperation I shinny up the nearest lamppost, but Polish gangster rappers in loud tracksuits try to throw me off, prying my fingers from the post as the raging bulls pass below me, and one of them tries to steal my watch as I fall.
And for the second day running I wake up screaming in a cold sweat.
I feel afraid so I try praying to God, but I get the same old answer.
“The Lord helps those who help themselves.” I cry to myself yet again.
But how do I help myself? In a desperate measure to heal my legs, I fill a washing tub full of icy water and stand in it, hoping that the swelling goes down, while getting an array of astonished looks and comments from a variety of pilgrims. I’m soon bored to tears, and I limp off to the nearby church of Saint James. I nod to the lady attendant reading her book and sit for a while in silence. Suddenly the peace is shattered by the sight and sound of loud foreign voices as the taxi-loving Poles swarm all over the place like noisy ants. The lady looks up from her book and frowns, and we catch each other’s eye, then shake our heads, both looking upward at the same time to the same God.
I limp out of the church and head to the other pilgrims’ hostel for a nose around. It’s much older and nicer than the modern one, with big chestnut beams running through the building and the heavenly smell of fresh coffee coming from within. The Polish taxi is here, waiting in the street with the engine running, and a party of German children gets ready for their day. A fat, spotty, sleepy boy emerges from an old burger van, triggering a return to repetitive-song syndrome.
“Isn’t it ironic? Don’t ya think?” By Alanis Morissette.
The man in charge of the group reminds me of Steve Irwin, the crocodile hunter, complete with enthusiasm, safari outfit, and handsome girlfriend, whom he can’t seem to take his hands off. I go inside and get another coffee as the heavy petting reaches another level.
“Hello, Eddie!”
At the table is the big black French girl Chantel carefully bandaging her right leg. Her big face lights up and she gives me a bone-crunching hug.
“Jesus, what happened to you?” I ask her.
“I got bitten by a dog,” she says sadly.
At this point, the strangest of things happens. I clearly hear my late father’s voice right in my ear, saying, “I’d say the dog was more frightened than she was!”
I almost piss myself laughing on the spot and have to turn away and bite my lip, pretending I’ve suddenly got something in my eye.
Chantel is waiting with a group of bandaged pilgrims for the bus to come and spirit them away to the next hostel somewhere up the mountain, so I bid her a good taxi trip and whistle my way outside.
“Is dat a sea shanty you are whistling?” asks the Steve Irwin guy. “I love sea shanties!” he says excitedly.
“No, it’s Alanis Morissette.”
“Listen, do you know this tune?” he asks, and off he goes, whistling and conducting himself with cymbals, drums, and fireworks like Last Night of the Proms.
“No, no,” I keep saying, wishing he would go away.
“OK! Now this bit you will know for sure,” he says, blowing an imaginary trumpet.
“No, I don’t know any sea shanties.”
“This is a sea shanty,” he says.
“I know it’s a sea shanty; you just told me.”
“Oh, so you do know a sea shanty. Are you a sailor?”
“No, I’m a carpenter.”
“Just like our Lord Jesus,” he beams.
“Yeah, if you say so.”
“In my country our carpenters wear old-fashioned black-and-white clothes, travel around Germany learning many skills. Do you have this in your country?”
“Yes!” I lie. “Morris dancers.”
“They dance?” he wonders.
“Yes, dancing carpenters.”
“I will tell zat to my friends in Germany,” he says as his Fräulein comes within groping distance. I wander back up the road to the church, leaving them locked in a passionate embrace.
I’ve never really prayed before and meant it, apart from the time when I got washed out to sea on a surfboard (twice) or while sitting around a roulette table. I kneel and get ready. Right, here goes.
“Dear Saint James, hear my pra—”
“Ya, ya, dit is good, dat is good, dit, dat, dit, dat,” shouts Irwin with his Fräulein, kissing and canoodling all over the place with his groping octopus hands sliding over her body. Why all of a sudden they choose to sit directly in front of me in this great big empty church is beyond comprehension, and after an eternity of their noise and flirtatious behavior, they thankfully leave, wishing me good luck and a happy Camino. I smile weakly, thinking completely the opposite, and I make a pact with Saint James that I will not touch a drop of alcohol until I get to Santiago de Compostela. On the condition that he gets me there in one piece. “Amen!”
* * * *
Back at the empty hostel the lady in charge arrives in her car, and I show her my swollen legs. She takes pity on me and says I can stay as long as I want for no charge. She also brings my attention to a poster on the wall. It says that a nearby hostel in Ruitelán specializes in Reiki healing for tendonitis. At last a glimmer of hope fills me with joy.
But a Hungarian pilgrim overhears my plight and says he too can help me, as he is a Reiki healer. So why wait till tomorrow? The Hungarian healer gets to work on my concrete legs, and the hostelera keeps flashing me puzzled looks. I shrug and wonder what good it’s actually doing me. Even the Hungarian has a worried look on his face. He finishes up and I thank him all the same and then retire to the heart of darkness with all hope shattered.