Kiwi on the Camino

by Vivianne Flintoff

  Both men are all conciliation and concern. Throughout the slow hobble back to the car, neither offers one word of reproach. I am so grateful. My inner critic does not need external support. Self-condemnation silently continues to beat me up.

  The focus of the day is no longer fun and exercise in the fresh air, rather it is one of getting me back to Wayne and Julia’s house, where my foot is given the I.C.E. treatment – Ice, Compress, Elevate. A foot strap is purchased along with relevant ointments and a conversation is begun. “Where to from here? What is now going to be possible in terms of our Camino de Santiago and Camino Finisterre?”

  What I have not told Bruce, Wayne, or Julia, is that I have been having sharp, needle-like pains in both knees since arriving in Pollensa. I am not able to walk up the stone staircase to the first floor where the bedroom and bathroom are located, without clinging to the wall. I now have an injured ankle as well.

  Self-recriminations continue to flow, but I now utter them aloud. I can sometimes be somewhat self-indulgent in this way. I recall when teaching an undergraduate counselling paper, a student informing me in front of the first-year class, “This is getting very boring,” as I once again apologized for a mistake. That young woman taught me a valuable lesson. Over the years, I have worked to lessen the presence of the inner critic. However, old habits have a manner of re-surfacing in moments of stress and my self-reproaches threaten to bore the three of us.

  Bruce and Wayne assure me that even if I had used my tramping poles to steady my landing, the chances were that I still may have turned my ankle. The spot upon which I had landed was a large wobbly stone hidden under a pile of autumn leaves. The end stage of our Camino will take us to Finisterre, in Galicia, the Celtic province of Spain where some people still hold to ancient beliefs. In these traditional beliefs, there are giant pedras de abalar (oscillating or rocking stones) that were used in pre-Christian Celtic rituals. I was not yet in Galicia, nor was my rocking stone that very large, but it was big enough to swing me off my feet. Perhaps if there had been more lyrca runners and fewer goats on the walk up the Puig de Maria, I might not have leapt from that wretched stile.

  As it turns out, my fears and anxiety about our proposed taking-it-easy pace of walking the Camino, and my worry about my willingness to give Bruce the support he may need, are groundless. My injured ankle saves me (us) from the outworking of these worries. Throughout our Camino, I am the dawdler and Bruce kindly, without frustration or anger, waits patiently for me to come up from behind and he stops when my injured ankle says, “Stop!”

  Barcelona, Spain to Saint-

  Jean-Pied-de-Port, France

  Who would true valour see

  Let him come hither;

  One here will constant be,

  Come wind, come weather;

  There’s no discouragement

  Shall make him once relent

  His first avow’d intent

  To be a Pilgrim.

  John Bunyan (1628 - 1688)

  THE DAY OF OUR FLIGHT to Barcelona arrives too quickly and instead of leaping out of bed with excitement in anticipation of the flight, I lie still, unsure as to whether I will be able to walk on ‘that ankle.’ I am not at all convinced I will be able to accomplish the walk out onto the tarmac and up to the plane. There will be no air bridge or handrail for me to cling to. Even with this dismal picture in mind, it does not occur to me to call a halt to our Camino. We have invested so much in this anticipated walk.

  In a great deal of ankle misery, I make it to the plane and up the flight of steps without the aid of my tramping poles. They are in my backpack in the hold of the plane in deference to airport security. I could have, of course, asked for a wheelchair to take me across the tarmac and for a chairlift to get me up the stairs into the plane. “Please ma’am I need a wheelchair to get to the plane. I start walking the Camino de Santiago the day after tomorrow and I am currently having trouble weight bearing on my left foot,” or something after that fashion.

  Our Barcelona accommodation is close to the bus terminal as we are to bus to Pamplona the following day, but taxi is our preferred option from the airport to the hostel. Taxis are cheaper in Barcelona compared to many other major cities in the western world and the taxi will take us and our luggage to the front door, which will minimize further damage to my ankle. I am feeling exhausted and nauseous with pain by the time we arrive. There is no elevator and reception is on the first (not ground) floor. With my pack on my back and with the aid of my tramping poles, I struggle up the narrow flight of stairs. I note with wry amusement that an elevator is in the process of being installed at the hostel. It will be completed after our departure.

  I spend most of the next day, the day we are due to bus to Pamplona, on a bed reading a book with a reusable ice pack wrapped around my ankle. Bruce remains in our room to keep me company. There is little possibility of sightseeing so Gaudí’s Cathedral must wait for a return visit to Barcelona. We are both disappointed. While I do not enjoy cities - they are full of traffic, noise and smart busy people going about important business - I am initially excited as there is so much to see and do. There is much history and architecture to learn about and view. The excitement of a city palls on me rather quickly, however, and I yearn for solitude and the mystery of fecund silence and stillness.

  The evening of our rest day Bruce walks, and I hobble out, to locate the bus station to book our bus to Pamplona. Thankfully, the bus terminal is very close to the hostel and, after a slow painful walk to the station, Bruce and I agree that a 7.30 a.m. departure to Pamplona the following day will be our best choice. It will be a six hour and forty-five-minute bus ride. Once in Pamplona I intend to book a bus to Roncesvalles. On arriving at Roncesvalles, we would then need a bus connection to St-Jean-Pied-de-Port. It feels altogether too drawn out. I had searched the internet hoping to find a bus direct from Pamplona to St-Jean-Pied-de-Port, but with so few pilgrims this early in the season, buses are not plentiful up to St-Jean-Pied-de-Port and we need to get going. About-to-be pilgrims nursing painful ankles just take what they can find.

  Our booking completed, we decide to venture a little further. Close to our hostel the narrower streets quickly open to wide boulevards. We walk past the Plaza de Toros de las Arenas up to the shopping mall where we ride the lift to the viewing balcony to better admire the magnificent Plaza de España and the centrepiece roundabout. What a charming piece of architecture with its fountain, mini waterfalls, pools, and the marble sculptures facing out to all compass points. Once down at street level again, we make our way to the famed Font Māgica de Montjuīc and that tremendous wide staircase either side of the cascading waterfalls. I make it up that staircase to the Catalina Museum only to find that the museum will close in thirty minutes. Nevertheless, the short visit is rewarding. The domed ceiling alone, in the room whose name I have forgotten, draws my awe. What a shame we can’t get past the waiter standing in the doorway of this inspiring room. They are preparing for a reception.

  We are impressed with centuries old grandeur and buildings built on a scale unknown to us. In New Zealand, our oldest stone building, the Stone Store at KeriKeri in Northland, is a mere 184 years old and that is a tourist attraction. Here in Spain, the centuries old architecture and attention to detail thrill us.

  Outside the museum, we wait for a group of musicians. I enjoy buskers and the interaction that is possible for those of us who gather around. When it is time to start walking back to the hostel, it doesn’t occur to us to catch a taxi. The word taxi just doesn’t usually appear in our vocabulary. However, we are rewarded for our oversight. Our walk is interrupted by a television crew who ask Bruce about his thoughts on Catalonia’s upcoming referendum for independence. We have been in Catalonia a mere thirty-six hours. Bruce and I enjoy the ludicrousness of the situation.

  We take a short stop at the mall where we hope to buy an ice-cream, but the price decides us against that de
light. We do buy bread rolls, cheese and ham, plus luscious fresh dates for our dinner. Overall an evening worth the pain and agony of venturing off the bed.

  The next morning, we wait in the very cold, dark, bus terminal for our departure to Pamplona. As the bus pulls out a pale dawn is pushing through morning smog. It takes several hours of travelling before we leave the smog behind, but then are rewarded with the glorious spring landscape. Barcelona and its vicinities, being further north than Mallorca, are a little behind in the spring calendar. Outside the bus window, fruit trees are coming into blossom and I see, with delight, the flowering of almond trees. As on Mallorca, the trees and crops are growing in arid looking conditions. I marvel at Spanish skill and husbandry of this land utilising practices handed down through many generations.

  Scattered about are crumbling stone houses and out buildings guarding crops. Great chalky cliffs rise perpendicularly at the edge of the valley. Wind turbines, high on the distant chalky ridge, keep their watch over all below. Where the wind turbines end, solar panel farms begin. These sun-harvesting farms line the hillsides and flow down into the valley. Lush grass fields exist where clever irrigation systems are utilized close to rivers. Unusual, to my eyes, is the absence of stock grazing these grassed fields. Most farm animals are grass fed and graze outside in temperate New Zealand and I strain looking for stock. Occasionally, there are a few sheep in a field or sometimes calves outside in pens, all getting their ration of vitamin D.

  Intermittently, there are patches of trees in the distance with a church spire barely visible, evidence of the existence of a village. The bus trip advertisement had stated there were, “no real top sights on the way from Barcelona to Pamplona.” That may be so, but all is new and exciting to me. Unbeknownst to me, some of the route we are travelling, we will later traverse on foot.

  After a while, my attention shifts from the views outside the window to a more urgent need within the bus, within my body in fact. I cannot see a restroom on the bus. How awkward. The bus is travelling at those speeds allowed on wide roads when little other traffic is in sight. It does not stop. It just keeps going and going and going. Bruce has been sleeping, but he now too, is feeling the urge. We discuss our hope that the bus will soon stop and that the stop will have the needed facilities. I am very surprised to be on an inter-city bus confronting such a problem. In more familiar circumstances, without a swollen ankle to hinder me, I would have risen from my seat, clambered over Bruce into the central aisle and investigated the bus. I am not in familiar surroundings and my ankle, with no room to be raised, is a pain, literally. We sit and wait.

  Four hours into our journey the bus stops somewhere. It may be Zaragoza. I forget to take note. What I notice are the two rooms with the words ‘señoras’ and ‘caballeros’ on the doors. Business dealt with we purchase a few refreshments, including drinks, and climb back on board the bus, this time through the rear door. On the first step into the bus, there is a door on the right with the boldly emblazoned word ‘Aseo.’ I use that room on the remaining two-hour plus bus ride just because it is there. If we had sat further back in the bus I may have noticed passengers getting up from their seats and moving to the rear exit. To get the best view, we had chosen front seats.

  We arrive at the large Pamplona underground bus terminal around 2 p.m. Bruce watches the packs and I queue to buy our tickets to Roncesvalles. (Despite my injured ankle, we both know it is better that I keep doing the organizing.) The bus won’t leave until 6 p.m. What a nuisance. We will probably now need to stay the night in Roncesvalles. This means searching in the dark for food and a bed. My ankle is throbbing.

  Above ground there is a large grassy area so we sit on the grass and eat our bread and cheese rolls. We are close to the remains of an ancient fort: La Ciudadela (The Citadel). The Citadel is a national monument and is reputed to be one of the best examples of military architecture to come out of the Spanish Renaissance. It was also one of the most important defensive structures in Europe. Its construction was begun in 1571 by Phillip II and became a small city of military buildings. In 1888, in the name of progress, construction work on a new suburb meant the demolition of two of the Citadel’s bastions.

  The remains of La Ciudadela are impressive. We walk through some of the enduring buildings. The doorways of the buildings are low; Bruce needs to bend almost nose to knees to enter. The guard rooms which are small, dark and dank amaze us. We wonder about the lives of the military personnel of some five hundred years earlier. The large (now empty) moats have refashioned themselves into dog exercise arenas and dogs, with their humans, share the space. There are other people, without dogs, enjoying the sunshine and grassy banks of the Citadel remains. We sit (so much more ankle friendly) and watch groups of friends and families enjoy each other’s company. Even with ankle woes, the joys of sitting can diminish, so we load our packs onto our backs to walk around a few neighbouring streets. We do not go far and I keep an eye on our direction to ensure I can find our way back. I need to use my tramping poles and feel conspicuous doing so. After all, these are flat paved streets we are walking. My ankle demands the extra support and who is looking anyway?

  We have filled in enough time so head underground again; down those steep escalators. In the coffee shop, we see a group of people, obviously about-to-be-pilgrims, at a table. Their clothes, boots and backpacks give away their destination. On striking up a conversation with two Austrians, Bruce learns they are about to board a bus to St-Jean-Pied-de-Port. There is a bus leaving soon and it is the only one departing for that town today.

  While Bruce once again looks after the packs, I try to return the tickets to Roncesvalles, but am directed to a different office and go to the wrong one. I finally get to the correct window, but the window closes just as I arrive. I go over to the automated bus ticket machine and one of the Austrians comes to help me, but we are both beaten by our ignorance of Spanish. A young Spanish woman attempts to help me and then they both leave when they think I am sorted. I am not. I begin the process again and this time the machine gives me instructions in Portuguese. Bruce comes over and tells me the ticket office is open again, but there is now a queue. I wait in the queue and buy two tickets and climb aboard the bus only to be turned away as I have purchased just one ticket. Bruce and both packs are on board the bus. I try to buy a ticket from the driver, but he refuses to sell me one. Time is running out. The bus is about to depart. I go back to the queue to buy the remaining ticket and stand in the now long line. Tears of frustration and panic, with a hint of self-pity, threaten. I get so annoyed with myself for this emotional response even though I know tears are a way of releasing endorphins; my brain wants me to feel better. The knowledge does not diminish my annoyance. I would rather drink a cup of tea than cry.

  My ankle is screaming at me and I desperately want this other ticket. I move slowly forward then hear, “Lady, Lady.” The bus driver beckons to me for it is time for the bus to leave. I board the bus and he sells me a ticket. I love this man. We are on our way to St-Jean-Pied-de-Port. Wonderful. I begin to think we should stay an extra day at St-Jean-Pied-de-Port, as advised by the Austrians, to rest my ankle. Bruce is looking exhausted after the bus trip from Barcelona.

  This bus trip is as different to the earlier one as a tortoise is to a racing car. We reach the Pyrenees’ foothills and begin our climb through a winter landscape. Rugged grey rocks support bare deciduous trees. As we climb higher, closely growing evergreens create a gloomy side curtain. There is a little light relief in the gloom when sludges of snow appear. I realise we have reached the high point when my absorption with the scenery is broken - this time by the speed with which we are travelling. I think my friend the bus driver must need to be home in time for a daughter’s birthday party. Or perhaps he fancies himself on the seat of a bicycle in the Tour de France. Either way, he is driving that large inter-country bus around those hair-pin bends as if they are in his way. It is an exhilarating descent. I am finding i
t a little challenging as he is driving on the wrong side of the road. That is, in New Zealand we drive on the left-hand side of the road and not the right, and my body is not used to leaning in the directions required.

  “Bruce, that’s the second time our speed has been checked by the front of the bus biting into the tarmac.” “It’s happened more than twice,” he growls in response. Two of Julia’s phrases come to mind, the first, “he’s crazy” and the second, “I’ll kill him,” which are sometimes directed at my brother. In this case, it is the bus driver giving the imitation of being crazy and, secondly, that he intends to kill us all rather than bothering to deliver us to St-Jean-Pied-de-Port as living, breathing pilgrims. To be fair, perhaps the only motivation for speed was to rid himself, as fast as possible, of the sounds and smell emanating from many of the passengers as they succumb to motion sickness. Thankfully, I am sitting next to Bruce who, although very white faced and decidedly unhappy, does not require the use of one of those bags so thoughtfully tucked by the bus company into the pocket of the seat in front of us.

  At dusk, we arrive at St-Jean-Pied-de-Port, all in one piece apart from the bus which upon close inspection, if I had bothered, would have had pieces of its front bumper and grill missing. Where to next? A useful a rule as any would be to follow those who seem to know where they are going. We walk up the narrow, cobbled street and under the pilgrims’ Porte de Jacques with the river Nive murmuring off to our right. The old buildings are constructed of pink and grey schist. In the evening light, they are slightly sombre and impressive. Some of the Basque-design houses which line the road have decorative wooden overhangs from their second storey which reduce the light available from the darkening sky and contribute to my sense of awe. Some of the houses, as in Pollensa, have window boxes in lieu of a garden. I am enthralled.