by Eddie Rock
I’m pleased I haven’t got a donkey. Cocker is a bit of a donkey, I guess, and the way things are panning out between him and Belen . . . I reckon he could be hung like one, ’cause they’re holding hands and staring madly into each other’s eyes, giggling and joking. It could be said that it is indeed a miracle of the road.
Another miracle happened on this road, but a very long time ago when a German couple and their son called Hugo stayed here for the night in a local tavern. The innkeeper’s beautiful daughter took a bit of a shine to the young German, but he gave her the el bow. So the naughty little minx slipped a silver cup into Hugo’s bag, and as the family were leaving town they were chased down by angry locals. Poor-old Hugo was proclaimed guilty of theft and hung from a tree at the edge of town.
His parents on their return journey from Santiago heard their son’s voice calling them and found him alive and well, still swinging from the tree with none other than Saint James himself holding him up.
Excitedly, they rushed to the local magistrate to inform him of the miracle. Looking up from his Sunday dinner, he said, “Your son is no more alive than these two roasted chickens on my plate.”
The next thing, his dinner has sprouted feathers and starts doing the funky rooster all around his dining room. Needless to say, everybody lived happily ever after, including the hanged boy and the two birds.
The cock and hen were built a special cage in the church, and descendants of these birds can be seen now in the very same cage.
The legend goes that if you throw in a piece of bread and they eat it, you will arrive safely in Santiago. But if they don’t eat it, you will die!
Cock and hen, more like cock and bull, if you ask me.
“Little donkey, little donkey on the dusty road, carry Mary, carry Mary safely on her way.” Oh, for heaven’s sake, now I’m stuck with that fecking song! Will I be driven insane by repetitive song syndrome? I’m beginning to wonder.
On arrival at Santo Domingo de la Calzada, I follow the arrows straight into the nunnery, to be greeted by none other than a nun in a glass booth. She checks my credentials and sends me upstairs to the pilgrims’ quarters. From another room I hear beautiful singing and the place has yet again that air of sanctity about it, with bad pilgrim behavior at an all time low. Theo tells me there’s a proper bath down the hall, so I wait hopefully by the door, listening to the splashing from within. After what seems an eternity, the door opens, followed by a waft of sweet-smelling steam and a lovely wet girl wrapped in a towel. She gives me a cheeky little smile as I watch her cute little arse go off in the direction of the pilgrim dormitory, and I recognize the cute little arse belonging to the girl near Puente la Reina. It seems that things are looking up at last, until I wipe the mirror and spot the big scabby sore on my lip.
“Bastards!” I swear, and a lightning bolt charges in the heavens. The powerful aura of female nakedness lingers in the steamy room, charging the atmosphere with passion and frustration. As sure as hell, all the hot water has gone, so I settle for a cold bath, extinguishing any ideas of a crafty trumpet polish, undoubtedly a top trump of religious misdemeanor.
Back in the room, Theo and Whilamena look like they are planning a robbery. They whisper me over and we go through the plan. Immaculate Angel Benny from ABBA has let them in on a bit of a celestial secret. The nuns’ canteen at the back of the building does cheap meals for worthy pilgrims—all for six euro and the flash of our pilgrim credentials. But woe betide we tell any of the rabble! A deal is a deal. With the coast clear, we sneak out the building and run straight into Manuel and Swiss John, both babbling on excitedly about some kind of mushroom festival in the town.
“Yeah, we’re off for a look at the chickens in the church,” I tell them.
“No, no, no, we’ve just been at the church,” shrieks Swiss John.
“It’s closed because of the fiesta,” says Manuel, almost gleeful.
“Oh well, we better go and have a look at this fiesta instead.”
We stride off quickly as he gets out his step machine and tells us his latest score.
* * * *
Like a trio of secret agents, we sneak around, watching out for sight and sound of rude, suspicious pilgrims. Unhindered, we get to the kitchens and part with six euro to a polite young nun. Thankfully we are the only pilgrims in this sea of black and white.
Good-old Benny, the angel. His wisdom is obviously sent from above. We dine on salad starter, chicken, chips, and free wine: the full monty of good-old pilgrim indulgence. Unfortunately, halfway through dinner Theo’s loud and cheerful volume level peaks out at 130 decibels while he tries to describe in Dutch, with his arms flapping, what would happen if his meal suddenly grew feathers and flew off the table.
An elderly nun screws up her face and adjusts her hearing aid as a universal “Shush” echoes through the canteen.
Theo’s big hand goes to his mouth, his eyes as wide as saucers, and for a split second, total silence as priests, nuns, and cooks breathe a big sigh of relief as calm is restored just in time for dessert. I reckon it’s a good job we never brought Swiss John, with his high-pitched shrieking yes, yes, yesing, and Theo’s booming voice at full blast in the same room surely a recipe for decibel disaster.
Fed and watered, we venture back out into the sun toward the town center, marveling at the colorful red and yellow banners flying from the windows and balconies. An equally colorful procession of Santo Dominican musicians passes through the busy streets, with their rosy red cheeks blowing hard into their cornets and bugles while others theatrically pour wine down their throats from strange horned drinking vessels. They look a lot like merry swashbuckling pirates, and people clap and yell as they pass. Somehow I find myself separated from my companions, and a mysterious lady pulls me by the arm into a large gray building, immediately thrusting a glass of wine into one hand and a big hunk of bread and cheese in the other. Things are definitely looking up!
I stand around for a while in the company of the well-dressed dignitaries and professional people, some of whom are again pouring wine into their mouths through these odd-looking bottles.
I nod and laugh with various people, about god knows what, and as soon as my glass is empty, people are falling over themselves to fill it up again. I quaff my wine and start to make for the door, but a rush of bodies swarm all over me, and before I know it, I have yet another large glass of red wine and two big crusty cobs with cheese to a chorus of more nodding and laughing. This time I gradually edge my way toward the door, and with a hearty gulp of my wine, and the bread in my jacket pockets, I escape unnoticed into the noisy plaza.
* * * *
Romeo and Juliet walk hand in hand in a dreamlike state. They see me coming and both go red. Cocker pulls his hand away from Belen and pretends to cough, shuffling nervously while Belen bites her nails. We wander around for a while and find a quiet bar for a few afternoon transfusions, then make our way across to the old pilgrims’ hospital, which is now an expensive Parador. A plaque on the wall says that Saint Francis of Assisi once stayed here, and I turn to find Lord Cocker lounging around on the expensive furnishings like he owns the place.
A polite little man in a blue suit appears and asks us if we are guests.
“No,” we reply.
He then politely asks us to leave. So we go to the church to see the magic chickens as I explain to them the legend of Santo Domingo.
“Right, this is how it goes: If the chicken eats your bread, you will arrive in Santiago, but if he doesn’t, you will die! OK? I’ll go first!”
I flick my bread through the bars of the coop, and it’s gone in a flash.
Next at death-by-chicken knockout is Cocker, who stands back from the bars and throws like a drunken darts player. The cockerel gets it in his beak and shakes it straight back through the bars of the cage, and it ends up on the floor at our feet.
“That’s you, fucked!” I laugh at Cocker’s aghast expression.
Belen looks very worried. She cro
sses herself at the altar and begins to pray before it’s her turn. Good idea, Belen!
“Dear God, sorry for just swearing in church and swearing in the nunnery earlier. Amen. Oh, and please help Cocker and Belen get to Santiago in one piece, please, if it’s not too much to ask. Amen again.”
Belen drops her bread into the cage. It lies there for almost an age until the hen bird grabs it and flicks it back out through the bars, and Belen begins to cry. Cocker to the rescue!
* * * *
Back out in the streets, the Santo Domingans feast from big cauldrons of mushrooms, and more blood of the pilgrim is spilled. I tell Cocker a great story about the last time I dined from a huge pot of strange mushrooms at a Dutch hippie festival.
An hour after eating them I still couldn’t feel anything trippy in the head department, so I went back and complained, so the guy gave me a free second helping to make sure. Ten minutes later my world very suddenly became like the inside on a kaleidoscope, and then for some reason I believed myself to be Robin Hood of Sherwood Forest and gave away all my belongings, including my passport and wallet to a total stranger to look after for me. Then I took off all my clothes, folded them neatly, and climbed a large oak tree, where I remained for quite some time, deep in conversation with the leaf spirits, tree pixies, and bark monsters until the branch I was sitting on suddenly snapped, and I fell back to earth, badly grazing my bollocks on another branch that broke my fall. Luckily, I landed on top of a plastic table full of food and drink, which smashed into pieces, causing an abrupt end to a family picnic.
“They’ve never been the same since!” I tell him.
“Who, the picnickers?” asks Cocker.
“No my balls, man,” I tell him, giving them a quick adjustment.
“Oh my goodness!” says Cocker, looking gravely concerned for my mental health. The story doesn’t translate well for Belen, probably for the best, really. So I shut my big mouth and we take a steady walk back to our quarters.
SANTO DOMINGO DE LA CALZADA TO BELORADO
THE LAST SUPPER
THEO, SNORING LIKE A WOUNDED BUFFALO, has dislodged a couple of tiles from the roof of the nunnery, also dislodging a few more of my brain cells in the process. We leave Santo Domingo behind and continue down the strange road to Saint James. Our conversation this morning is one of Camino walking songs.
“Walk like an Egyptian!” shouts Cocker rather appropriately.
“Walking back to happiness—who ha oh yeah,” I sing.
“This ain’t no technological breakdown oh no, this is the road to hell.”
“Chris Rea. I know that one,” says Cocker.
“I’m on a highway to hell. AC/DC!” I love that song.
“Come on, Belen, sing us a song,” we plead.
She acts all shy and coy and her pretty face goes crimson.
“Yeah, come on, sing us a song,” Cocker pleads.
“Please, Belen.”
She starts a little cautiously but then breaks into the most beautiful Spanish ballad I’ve ever heard and we clap our hands, delighted. It was worth all this pain just to hear her sing. Unfortunately, the game starts to take a turn for the worse with Cocker’s version of “Walk This Way” by Aerosmith when farm dogs in a nearby yard begin to howl like wolves, thus signaling the end of our morning’s entertainment.
Yet again our pace gets slower and slower, with Cocker staring at his antique watch, tying his laces every two minutes, and our jolly conversations having ceased. I get the message, though—two’s company, three’s a crowd!
I bid them a good day and hightail it down the hillside, coming to rest beside a deserted farmhouse. I roll down my knee support bandage and apply some deep heat relief cream to my ailing knee before rejoining the road.
I’m alone again, with no one in sight, and I’m busting for a leak.
A minute later I’m happy again, but alas only briefly, as a strange burning sensation in my shorts begins to gain momentum. At first I give it a rub and hope it goes away, but instead it gets worse and worse and worse. My penis feels like it’s on fire, so I throw off my pack and whip down my shorts to investigate the unpleasant sensations. Now, in addition to administering deep heat relief cream to my injured knee, I have also managed to administer a smear of the phosphorus-like fire lotion directly on to my own bellend.
“AAAAGGGGHHHH!”
It burns like napalm, and no amount of water will wash it off. So I take my towel from my pack and rub the wet corner on the affected area while doing a war dance. With my shorts around my ankles, I’m rubbing frantically just as two gargoyle-faced crones come past.
“Hola, buen . . .” They stop midsentence with their mouths wide open. Caught red-handed! Or red-helmeted, as the case may be.
As more people come up behind me, I pull up my shorts and press on in agony, bringing back a painful childhood memory. My friend James Lewis told me that if you put aftershave on your willy it would make it bigger, and being twelve years old, I believed him.
I remember the pain and the smell of Hai Karate aftershave as I relive the moment on this Spanish hillside.
To take my mind off the pain, my repetitive song syndrome kicks in, and today’s song is the ever-popular Trevor and Simon classic:
“Old woman, old woman, are you fond of dancing?”
“Yes sir, yes sir, I am fond of dancing!”
Over and over again the lines of that loopy song play like a broken record, and as the pain subsides in my shorts, I begin a series of violent sadistic fantasies about what I would do to someone I caught stealing my motorcycle. I arrive at the hostel in Belorado in a bad mood with a scuffed helmet.
* * * *
Today some bright spark has formulated an anti-stampede queuing system, and I’m told that I’m twenty-second in line by a highly obnoxious pilgrim. So I either stand in the queue and wait or I can leave my pack with a yellow Post-it note with number twenty-two stuck on it. “Fuck that!”
So I light a cigarette in the shade and drift into a murderous fantasy.
* * * *
An army truck pulls slowly into the square, reverses, and kills the engine. The pilgrims look across, getting excited while pushing, shoving, and cursing each other in the frenzy.
“Ya, at last, ze ostel owner comes to let us in and I am first!” shouts Dagmar, elbowing Christophe hard in the ribs.
“Last one inside is a nincompoop!” laughs Pierre.
“Women and children first!” shouts the round Irish lady.
“Fuck the women and children!” shouts the rude Frenchman.
“Have we got time for that?” says the fat Belgian, gleaming.
Two evil-looking soldiers climb out of the truck and walk casually around to the back. One of them smirks as the other flicks the butt of his cigarette and spits in the direction of the pilgrims as they drop the tailgate and throw back the heavy flaps.
Suddenly the pilgrims break rank, and the Irish lady is trampled in the pandemonium.
Clunk! Click!
Five long bursts of automatic fire spit venomously from the back of the truck, scything down the unruly rabble. For a second the plaza falls silent as the two soldiers pull out their luger pistols and stroll across to finish off the dying and wounded.
As fantasy returns back to reality, Dagmar is screaming, clutching her pack, frantic and fearful.
“I am not pushing in your silly queue; I am only reading what it says on the noticeboard, you stupid woman,” says Swiss John, laughing in frustration. He sees me and walks across in amazement.
“I was only reading what it said on the noticeboard,” he whines.
Across from the main hostel is an open door to one of the dormitories, and we decide to have a quick look in the room.
“I’m not staying here,” says Swiss John, turning on his heel.
For the first time in my life, I see bunk beds three stories high, and I would put my life savings (if I had any!) on the fact that I would be allocated a top bunk, with bunkmates the
fat Belgian and Dagmar.
“Let’s get out of here!”
We hit the road expecting another few hours of painful walking, but just a block away we arrive at a quiet hostel with hardly a soul in sight. It’s too good to be true. Our host is a very jovial chap called Javier, who proudly shows us around the spotless kitchen, washroom, and laundry room. Inside, the spacious dormitory has brand-new, modestly spaced two-story bunk beds made from solid pine. I have a lovely hot shower, and I even manage a nice little siesta without the need for earplugs.
We can’t believe our luck. With all my clothes in the washing machine and Swiss John asleep, I venture back up the road. In a side street I even stumble across not one but two very dingy and dilapidated Irish theme bars, within spitting distance of each other and both . . . unfortunately closed. In the plaza I see Cocker wandering around like a pinball trying to read his Pablo Coolio and Belen wandering about with a cell phone stuck in her ear—probably the elderly boyfriend balancing on a barrel with a noose around his neck by the look on her face. Cocker sees me and strolls over. He’s wearing a great big plant-pot-shaped hat with a seashell sewn on the front.
“What the fuck do you look like?” I ask him.
He sits down beside me and takes it off.
“Belen bought it for me, to say goodbye,” he says sadly.
I’d totally forgotten he was leaving; tomorrow he’s taking a bus down to Madrid to meet the Fockers. I mean Cockers.
I notice he has a lot of scratches all over his chest, and he lifts his T-shirt and shows me his stomach. Some of them are quite severe.
“I fell down a riverbank when we were having a picnic,” he says.
“Rolling around with Belen more like,” I jest. “What’s wrong with her, anyway?” I ask him.
Cocker tells me that poor-old Belen is not actually on the phone to her elderly suicidal boyfriend as I suspected, but to her father back in Salamanca. Her brother who suffers from a learning disability had gone missing and has resurfaced in Magaluf. Belen has been given the task of bringing him home again safely, leaving me quietly disappointed, as I was secretly hoping to introduce one Bellend to the other at some point after Cocker’s departure.