I think today’s comments may come across rather negatively but I am actually still having a great time.
As I write, a guy (I deliberately avoided ‘gentlemen’) is peeing into the bushes by the bus stop, just giving it the last shake for luck – in full view of public. He just had a beer in my gaff. Could he not have used the indoor facilities? Guess what he was wearing? Yup – some tribal football colours that I am clueless about. I expect no better from the grittier side of the soccer fraternity in Europe. Yes, I am a snob. Sue me!!
Saturday night was noisy, the noisiest yet. I was awake from 0330 but rose at 0500. Same observation as before: small towns with high youth unemployment leave little for the young to do at weekends except get drunk and fornicate with close relatives. The latter, generally following the former, as the beer goggles are found and donned.
I left at about 0545, and as I got into the elevator (sounds grand but this crib was a badly converted office space in a non-descript block so needed an elevator), I noticed something amiss in the mirror. The synapses don’t fire as quickly in the early hours but by the time I got downstairs, it clicked. My shorts were inside out and the mesh undergarments were making the unusual ruckles that caught my eye. Never done that before, and I was sober. While I was temped to do a quickie and drop them there and then, I opted for a quick visit back upstairs to straighten out the attire and move on.
The route of of town was anything but clear but I got on track and made decent time. There were 20 or 30 people with the same idea at that early hour, most of whom ended up following me because I had the head torch. Some were families with young kids. Seems pretty irresponsible to me, but… I’m not qualified to comment as I am not a parent. But that won’t stop me. It’s downright stupid, especially with unknown, rough terrain and seemingly no map.
It was foggy and the humidity quite close so I opted for a quick de-layer near the railroad tracks. There happened to be two way-markers, side-by-side. I inadvertently obscured the left marker with my pack, and the following hoards took the path indicated by the right. Alas this was the longer path. Oops! I only realised after the fact as I took the left path, but with a growing sense of resentment towards these pikers, I felt a modicum of (inappropriate) satisfaction. Mea culpa. Wasn’t deliberate… ’honest, Guv’
This photo shows the arrival into Portomarin, and I think captures the changing zeitgeist of the Camino.
Something that began ~600 hard kilometres ago, with roots in a cause/pilgrimage/mission, something with a sense of deeper and valuable purpose has metastasised into blatant, shabby, shallow commercialism. It now feels like a walking-Butlins. Very low-rent. No thought about or respect for the foundations or history of what they’re doing.
I’m no religious history-buff. I’m fundamentally anti-Catholic (abhor the control aspect). I’m not some funky, new-age Jesus-freak doing this for a Speedpass to personal redemption to get “my own personal Jesus” (thank you Johnny Cash). I do take some shortcuts (I don’t cook for myself and I do pay up for accommodation beyond the basic, albergue style to leave the less expensive stock available to others on a more constrained budget), but I get what it’s about and I do try to respect it – and, much to my surprise, that has been informative, eye-opening and uplifting for me. These pikers (parents and issue alike, don’t). They’ll come back with sore legs, sunburn and some vague recollection of lots of greenery. Period.
The kids are screaming/playing up while the parents are (willingly) oblivious – no awareness or respect for others. Tuned out. Some are checking FB as they walk or trying to Skype real time (4G is pervasive, so it’s very plausible). Some carry loudspeakers and blast out the rap-shit of the day. You can’t blame the kids; it’s the parents for allowing it in the first place. Fatties are using hiking poles, but instead of using them to bear weight and spread the load to their arms, they peck and tip-tap with them trying to look the part and shuffle and wobble along slowly and inefficiently. I’ve seen blancmange move with more grace and pace. All the gear, and no idea…
There’s a group of 5-6 gormless Italians in matching dayglo yellow tops and printed tee-shirts. Woohoo! Very kitsch. I wanted to ask about matching terry-towelling bathrobes but… Meandering mindlessly all over the place, they block passage to quicker traffic: if you might judge a nation’s driving competence by its ambulatory discipline, this lot have no hope. They’re Italian. QED. I christened them the “Headless Chickens”, and that’s probably too kind a compliment.
Headless chicken is also the best way to describe the wait staff here at “Pons Minea” (does that translate to “Pointless”?). Less than fucking useless. As useful as an ashtray on a motorbike, tits on a bull, a hand-knitted condom, forward gears in an Iraqi tank, a DustBuster on the moon, a chocolate teapot, a condom machine in the Vatican, and so forth. Fifteen year olds, young, dumb and full of cum, inexperienced and over-worked, and completely incapable of carrying out multiple tasks simultaneously (like the rest of Spain, it seems to me). They wouldn’t survive at Starbucks (which probably partially explains its local absence…). Again, ultimately whose fault? Employer or employee?
My return to sanity and saving grace was John, Luke and Esther, AKA, Rasputin, Yasser/Barney and Angel. I saw them ascending the slope as my annoyance was formenting, and managed to attract their attention. A quick beer turned into … a longer beer. A blessing and a curse, as Yasser told me: nice to chat, longer to walk. They plan to hit Santiago a day before me, on Wednesday, and then bus it over to Finisterre the next day for a quick mosey and return. The tentative plan is a collective dinner on Thursday as they all leave at 0500 on Friday. I’ve got a room booked that night and they don’t, so may be a squeeze. I decamp to Finisterre on Friday, all being well.
Speaking to others who are in the same place on the Camino, the (growing) collective resentment stems from a feeling of having informally/karmically earned something, and being (somewhat) respectful of history. This faux lot are using the Camino as a cheap vacation, and in the process, devaluing it. Hold that thought: use it as a cheap vacation. Fine. I get that. Just try to respect others on the trail and some of the values. I’m not saying wrap it in linens and bless with sacred water, but try not to reduce it to Butlins on the hoof…
By way of reinforcement, here is a picture of the luggage room at my albergue.
Do those look like backpacks to you?
By contrast (not that I am a paragon of principle and propriety), my laundry and bed linens, good for the next 3+ days. I am wearing the other set. No peeky…
Oh, and for the record and for those more sensitive, defensive readers (you know who you are Rikky…), I’m not arbitrarily picking on Italians and Spanish for this behaviour or criticism. I’m not xenophobic. It’s just no coincidence that the consistently-observed perpetrators seemingly speak exclusively in those two tongues – and all wear Quechua gear. Just sayin’…
A couple of the thoughts on evidence, facts, cause and effect….
“The data shall set you free” – Alan Mullaly. (responsible for the Boeing 777 program and then went onto turn Ford around as CEO).
“Statistics are like bikinis. What they reveal is suggestive, but what they conceal is vital” – Aaron Levenstein.
“When the facts change, I change my mind. What do you do, sir?” – J M Keynes (attrib).
If the “facts change”, due, say, to an uncannily high incidence of Warsaw, Amsterdam, Essex, Brooklyn, Parisian or Glaswegian accents, I’ll review and amend. Until then, “res ipsa loquitur” and I remain quite happy with my interim conclusions. Don’t like it? Don’t read it.
I’ve decamped to the other end of town to a delightful café called Pazo de Berbetoros, away from the throngs. I wandered around and found this oasis at the end of town. It’s not in any books that I could see. Looks more up-market than most. Note to self: stay here next time. Note to Robin Garlic: worth exploring.
I’m having a local vino blanco instead of the “industrial” version. It’s light with some subtle lime and flinty notes and goes down very easily. A surprise. The host is probably my age, well-dressed, carries himself with presence and confidence and is attentive without being intrusive… and here I am, dressed in my Tevas, running shorts/matching wife-beater, yet still treated with consummate courtesy. Maybe the iPad gave something away…
My mood is moderating. Perhaps being out of the relentless sun, and not seeing the stream of faux pilgrims decamping like Somali refugees is good for the headspace.
Therein endeth the Sunday rant.
Sundays are a good day for a rant.
I remember the Reverend Charles B. Eadie (RIP) at the Church of the Holy Rude giving great/incomprehensible fire and brimstone sermons on a Sunday at 1100. Alas, he was already three sheets to the wind by the time it “show time”. I think it only enhanced his delivery though. RIP Chucky.
There was always something deliciously contradictory in “Holy” and “Rude” in the context of a church, and having been baptised there. Probably accounts for a lot of my errant behaviour. Go figure…
Now that all is said and done, I need buy two items. A shotgun and a Taser…and a lot of ammunition. Suggestions, anyone…?
Kaboom!
Stop press (but not the arms race). It’s 1845, and as I was walking back to take care of my laundry) ’cos I’m not faux and don’t have ‘people’ to do that for me), I heard… the wail of bagpipes. Well, in truth, castrated, tubally-ligated bagpipes, to remain politically correct. It dawned on me. I have an album by a Spanish bagpipe player, Hevia (Tierra de Nadie, 1999). This is (electronic) Galician bagpipe muzak. It’s Sunday and they’re out doing their castrated, traditional, bagpipe thing here. Wonderful. Here are some photos, but note that the under-arm scrotum is nothing like the Scots’…
