El Camino - Atapuerca Friday, October 03, 2008

"Do you have a husband?" I asked the perky pilgrim who used an umbrella for a hiking stick as we walked.
"Yes, but he has a health problem that would make him uncomfortable to walk El Camino."
"My husband doesn't have the interest to walk El Camino."
"Well, it's not a thing done lightly, is it?" says Anne in a deep but sweet Scottish accent.
"You really must want to do it, to be able to do it."
The El Camino is challenging. Not only the walking and the carting of a heavy load, but also sometimes the monotony of step after step. But that monotony brings you an appreciation of the present moment. Of the little things that surround you. The proverbial "Stop and smell the roses." But it is fall and the roses are all but gone, but left behind are large and brilliant red rose hips springing like berries from human-sized bushes.
"Every once in a while I am hit with a moment of thankfulness. Like when I see the sun shining on that ancient bell tower in the village ahead of us there. You know what I mean, Stacey?" asks Anne. We have been walking since Villafranca, first up a very steep four km stretch. "I would not like to bicycle this," tsck-tscks Jacques.

The small things like not being hungry enough to eat the whole apple, but being able to share it with a fellow pilgrim. Jacques came in behind us to the small bar at San Juan de Ortega. He had stopped to layer up as we strode into the cold, fall wind. "I about froze out there," I said being thankful for the small wood stove smoking in the corner."Probably not good for the health,' said Anne, "But it smells good anyway" about the wood fire. We waved to our Camino friends Juliana and her parents from Maryland, as we wiggled up to the bar to order our café con leche.

I sat down next to a new pilgrim. "Where are you from?" I asked, breaking my El Camino rule of first asking for a name before anything else. I think I was just too tired, or maybe I am softening to my self-imposed Camino etiquette.
"Ottawa," he said.
"We have not met yet," I said sticking out my gloved hand, "I am Stacey from Arizona." "I am Andrew." I sat down and started to cut apart a huge orange with my small Swiss Army knife.
"That is the smallest knife I have ever seen," said Andrew. "They let you carry that on?" he asked meaning the Airport Security officials.
"Oh, no. This was in checked baggage," I said. "I have enough of these little ones taken from me by airport security. I forget I have them in a small backpack, but the X-ray machine always makes me remember." I gave Anne a quarter of the dripping orange and offered another to Andrew.
"No thank you," he passed, "I have already had two bananas this morning." I cut my banana into three pieces and laid one at Jacques' spot at the table.
"I have this map I printed off the Internet. It is not bad, but it is Spanish. It shows three routes from here; do you know which one is best for walking?"
I looked at his map. "I think you should ask Jacque. He did reconnaissance on this route last summer and he knows the way well. He can help you. He is a coronel in the French Army." Jacques came in with a hot chocolate.
"Café con leche is not the only thing that they make here," he stated.
"This is for you," I said pushing his quarter of orange to his banana. "Oh banana!" I have not had a banana in a long time. I used to have a banana tree in my garden in Africa."
"Garden in Africa? Where were you in Africa?" exclaimed the Canadian.
"I was in Zaire, the French Congo area for several years."
"Gabon?"
"Yes, Gabon, too. It was very beautiful there."
"I always wanted to go to Gabon but never got there. I was in Zimbabwe."
"What were you doing there?" I asked hoping for a missionary story.
"Teaching. I was teaching,"
"And what were you teaching?" I asked digging further.
"I was teaching teachers to teach." He paused, "I was teaching those who wanted to teach teach." I found it very interesting how he rephrased it into those who wanted to teach. In Africa it is better to explain exactly, and it sounded like that was what he was doing with me now. Then Anne asked me a question and the conversation about Africa spun on between the men.

Later as we walked, Jacques said, "The bad thing about having a banana tree in your garden is that there are huge snakes that look exactly like banana trees. They are very big, and very dangerous. They strike fast -- like an arrow. They are very poisonous. You are dead in one hour."
"Did you ever see one?"
"Oh, yes but they were very difficult to see because they look exacament like the tree."
"So what did you do? Did you get a big stick? Or did you send one of your servants out to get him?"
"One time there was a very loud noise on the roof. It was a mamba noire - black mamba - four meters long. They are very dangerous, too." He said. Jacque has an interesting way of avoiding the question and continuing his story from wherever it takes him. I think it is the language barrier. I think he can speak English better than he can hear it. But that could be true for his native tonung as well. Being a male creature and all.
"The very educated man, a doctor, from next door started calling, 'Coronel! Coronel! You must get your gun and come kill this snake.'
"I had a cache of weapons in my home, but it was only grenades and a machine gun. If I started shooting a machine gun, it would start all kinds of problems,
So we got many people to surround the house and make a noise to keep the snake where he was. I ran down to get a gun. I told the man, I need a rifle!" He said what for. . There was quite a ruckus.
”I came back with the rifle and climbed up the ladder to the roof. I took careful aim, like this," Jacques mimicked the gun with his hiking stick, "and killed the snake with one shot." Or maybe it was two with the way he mimed the hunting adventure.
"In the meantime the local army had been notified and they came in their riot gear. They saw the dead snake and started firing upon it for 10 minutes straight.
"The whole time my wife was inside taking pictures through the windows."

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Last night, trying to fall asleep under the huge Korean, I thought of the first line of my book. 'I slept under the huge Korean tonight.' It always seems like a much better idea when you are half asleep. But as I examined the bulging springs of the bunk overhead it seemed like a good idea. I was actually afraid that the bed was going to come crashing down across my neck. I would be screaming and trying to make one last great effort to heave the bunk and the Korean tonnage from my windpipe. The German men who skoff at me carrying my computer, "Such an American!" would come running to help and be impressed as I benchlift the weight above me. "Strong Woman" would be my final words and as I began to write the newspaper headline, Arizona Pilgrim Finds Peace in Tragic Alburgue Accident, I somehow fall asleep.