by Eddie Rock
The German woman stands with her hands on her hips, outraged, as a kindly old English pilgrim turns to me and quietly says that the Poles have their packs taken by minibus each day. They are phony pilgrims. “Bogus,” he whispers with a wink.
* * * *
I limp down to the telephone booth to phone Steve in San Fran. I need a bit of cheering up, but his wife answers and says that Steve is in Alameda County jail again . . . and won’t be out for quite some time.
“What!”
“They took him away wrapped in a Velcro blanket,” she says.
“What the fuck!”
“Yep, he never learns.” She laughs
I can’t believe it. No more land of the free! My hopes cruelly dashed yet again. I hang up in total disbelief and hobble back in a state of mental, physical, and spiritual pain.
REST, RECUPERATION, AND STEVE IRWIN
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.
VILLAFRANCA DEL BIERZO TO RUITELÁN
LAST LEGS
SO MUCH FOR THAT REIKI HEALING BULLSHIT. A lot of good that did! I knew it wouldn’t work. I stumble painfully out of town, and on the outskirts of Villafranca the yellow arrows disappear into thin air, and a new repetitive song plays on and on in my tired brain.
Where’s your arrow gone?”
Where’s your arrow gone? (Where’s the arrows gone?)
Where’s the arrows gone? (Where’s the arrows gone?)
Far, far away (Far, far, away)
Last night I heard my mama singing a song.
Ooh-we, chirpy, chirpy, cheep, cheep
Woke up this morning and the arrows were gone.
Thoughts of despair and hopelessness hit me like a
freight train. How much farther can I go on like this? Is it mind over matter or am I just being stupid? I don’t know.
I plod painfully onward and hopefully in the right direction.
* * * *
The village reminds me a bit of where my grandparents used to live back in Ireland. The people look quite poor and obviously make the most out of what they’ve got. On an old stone bench a gang of old people are having some heated conversations. An ancient lady shouts at a laughing old man, and she hits him in the chest and wails in his ear as his mates laugh raucously. I pass them by, and they stop squabbling for a moment to wish me a “¡Buen camino!” Great characters altogether.
* * * *
Deep in a valley at the base of the mountain stands the tranquil village of Ruitelán, and I sit under the trees, soaking my legs in the cold stream, hoping yet again for some kind of anti-inflammatory miracle. My thoughts turn to despair as hard drops of rain splash through the leaves into the stream. Suddenly the sky turns black and lightning cracks nearby.
I arrive at the pilgrims’ hostel soaked to the bone.
I check in and explain that I have acute tendonitis to the hostelero. He runs his thumbs down my legs and I almost hit the roof!
Now he fully agrees. He tells me to relax and not to worry, as he delves into an interesting old tea chest, producing a handful of what looks like homeopathic remedies. Before I know what’s going on, he put one of the remedies in his left hand, then he takes my right hand and tells me to put my index finger and thumb together. He loops his finger through mine and tells me to squeeze hard. He pulls apart my finger and thumb easily, and then shakes his head. He tries another remedy and the same thing happens, but third time’s a charm! He can’t separate my fingers and states confidently, “Anacardium orientale,” then places the vial in my hand.
“Two to be taken on the hour every hour, and within half an hour of coffee and food. By tomorrow you will be cured,” he says with an aura of certainty.
I feel like telling him to “Pull the other one.”
What I really need is some kind of strong morphine-based drug injection and nurses fussing all over me instead of all this finger pulling.
“Come and find me after dinner, and I’ll fix your problem,” he says.
“Thank you, I will,” I tell him as I shake his hand and he introduces himself as Luis.
Another man appears, very much reminding me of the actor Anthony Quinn. He tells me his name is Carlos. He pats me on my back, shakes my hand, and laughs all at the same time. He is full of life, with an infectious laugh, and finally I’m laughing again too.
The hostel here is very beautiful and well maintained with not one misérable in sight. All exit and entry points are clear, with noise to a minimum. I like the way Carlos keeps telling me that I’m going to be cured, like he’s mending a puncture on my bicycle or something.
My watch tells me it’s time for my new medicine, and seconds later a couple of the little tablets dissolve on my tongue.
* * * *
Back at the stream a cat chases a barking dog and a chicken chases a screeching cat. I think the Chinese tablets are kicking in now as my stress has gone, my fear and loathing a distant memory. It starts to rain heavily again, so I retreat back to the dormitory for a lie-down. In the foyer I find Carlos pulling a laughing woman by the fingers.
* * * *
At mealtime our splendid hosts provide us with a wonderful salad starter of tuna, olives, fresh bread, and potatoes, with bottles of wine and mineral water to wash it all down. Carlos comes in and out of the room with more food and laugher while joking in his broken English, with hints of French and Spanish. I keep expecting him at any moment to grab the guitar from the corner and serenade us all with a happy song. More pilgrims squeeze onto the cramped table and everyone is polite and respectful. The homemade wine is passed freely around the table, but I stick with the water. Lead us not into temptation.
After the meal Luis shows me into his quarters and closes the door behind us.
“OK, lie down please,” says Luis.
“Aurrrgggfff.” I position myself onto the mattress on the floor.
“OK, now relax,” he says, rubbing massage oil into my stricken legs.
“Relax,” he says, but my legs feel like they are made of stone and I can’t stop myself tensing them up.
“If you don’t relax, I can’t help you,” he states sternly.
Eventually, I let go and put my trust into his healing hands. I’ve got a feeling this procedure could be painful, so I shut my eyes and try to calm down. It feels like he’s breathing hot air onto my legs!
I open my eyes and look down, and thankfully he isn’t.
“OK, does it hurt here?” he says, pressing down my shins.
“Yes!”
“And here?”
“Yes!”
It might just be easier to tell him where it doesn’t hurt.
I answer yes to all his proddings and yes to all his poking, as his oily hands go back down to my feet, massaging my soles, ankles, and toes. Then in a flash, whip!
“Fucking hell.” He’s just nearly pulled my toe off and now he’s at it again! Rubbing away and then . . . yank!
“Jesus!” It’s like a violent game of this little piggy as Luis tries to pull each one of my toes quite literally off my foot!
This little piggy goes to market; this little piggy goes to— “Aarrrggggh”—a fucking torture dungeon and gets his head pulled off!
“Does this hurt? Does that hurt?”
“Yes!” I keep saying. “Yes!”
Then “NO!” I shout for the first time. At last! He’s found a part of my body that doesn’t hurt! He keeps on whipping my toes violently, and each time he does it, my body goes into spasm. His hands press hard in my groin, releasing the pressure, and then he’s back down my leg again for more painful toe pulling.
I don’t know much about this kind of thing, but it’s as if he’s finding the source of the pain, then rubbing it all the way to my feet and pulling it literally out of my toes.
“OK, that’s it,” he says, standing, “we’re finished.”
“Take your medicine and tomorrow you will be cured!”
I slowly stand up on my jelly legs, thank him, and take a double dose of medication for good measure. Then I crawl up to my bed on my hands and knees, and I immediately fall asleep, exhausted.
THE ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH GUIDE TO MIRACULOUS HEALINGS
1: The disability or malady should be serious.
2: The patient should not have been improving at the time of the healing or suffering from a condition that normally might be expected to improve.
3: The patient should not have been under any orthodox treatment at the time.
4: The healing should be sudden and instantaneous.
5: The cure must be perfect and complete.
6: The cure should not occur at a time when a crisis due to natural causes has affected the patient or illness.
7: The cure must be permanent.
RUITELÁN TO TRIACASTELA
A MODERN MIRACLE
I OPEN MY EYES and a smile forms on my lips. I somehow feel refreshed, rejuvenated, and alive, but I daren’t tempt fate.
I swing my legs out of bed and stand to attention. So far so good, and I can’t feel any pain. I begin with a slow march on the spot, followed by a short stroll around the bedroom and a hop, skip, and jump.
“The pain has totally gone. I can’t believe it! It’s a miracle. Phone the pope. I’m cured!” I shout and break into a jolly song. I must find Luis and shake his healing hand.
Downstairs, Carlos is up early, laughing and joking with everyone, even at this unearthly hour. He points to my legs with a whisper. “All gone?”
“All gone, man.” I laugh.
“Good, good,” he laughs. “Nada, nada.”
“Where’s Luis?” I ask Carlos. “I’ve got to thank him. I still can’t believe it!”
“He’s still in bed,�
�� he says.
“Well, can you please thank him for me?”
“Nada, nada,” he says, waving me off down the road.
* * * *
So I leave the miraculous village of Ruitelán behind me with a spring in my step. I’m buzzing on life as free as a bird. There just no stopping Eddie Rock! “Yeeeehaaaaaaaar!” I’m upbeat for the first time in a long time. Maybe I should have spent a few more days in Ruitelán to see if the guys can fix the many flaws in my character.
Oh, baby, there ain’t no mountain high enough...
Even my repetitive-song syndrome is improving.
Old farmers bid me good tidings through a shroud of Ducados smoke, and cow shit paves the way through each ancient village I traverse. Eventually, the hot sun breaks through as I finally reach my objective: O Cebreiro, ancient and sacred place. It’s known as the gateway to the kingdom of Galicia, home to the city of Santiago de Compostela and the shrine of Saint James.
With miracles abounding, I sit and read about a medieval miracle that happened right here in O Cebreiro.
Legend has it that in the 14th century a peasant from the local village of Barxamaior struggled up the mountain during a terrible snowstorm to receive communion from a less than happy priest. Once inside the freezing church he scolded the peasant for his foolishness.
All of a sudden the heavy door blew open and time stood still as a warm fragrant breeze blew in around the altar. The priest and peasant stepped back in amazement as the sacramental bread and wine turned literally into the flesh and blood of Jesus Christ and thus the Miracle of O Cebreiro.
Both priest and peasant are buried in the graveyard and the Chalice is kept inside the church, encased in bulletproof glass.
I go straight to investigate the legend and leave my pack outside the door as young children play happily with an excitable little dog running around in circles. The kids tease him madly and squeal with delight each time he jumps up to lick their faces.
Inside the church I light a candle and sit for a while in the peace and quiet, renewing my vow of sobriety. I thank Saint James, Luis, and Carlos for my miraculous healing, and I feel like the luckiest man on earth, until a group of Bosch-faced pilgrims arrive to bring my miracle moment of inner peace to an end. I leave the church, and as soon as I’m outside, the little dog cocks his leg and sprays all over my pack, much to the delight of the children.