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Santarém, Portugal

Or in this case, the tomato field war. Lesson One, Day One: Read the flippen instructions. Yes – do NOT scan over them, because missing one sentence will cost you dearly.

So I wake up at ten to four this morning – KACHING! Wide awake. I try Schubert, opening the door for fresh air (I have had some serious mosquito issues of late), but to no avail. Like when I was a child and I knew we were going to visit Ouma Bettie for the holiday – that kind of awake. And low and behold – there is the beautiful blood moon, in all its glory!

Waiting for the sun to rise is not going to work, thank goodness I have a torchlight (thanks to friend Corinne, with batteries) so I pack and stumble out in the sleepy town of Azambuja. Well, it was sleeping yesterday as well. I think it is a sleepy town, point. Guidebook and torch in hand, 8,5 kg’s strapped to my back, water bottle full (another gift from my friend Adele) and a song in my heart. Literally – for some reason Mimi Coertse is in my head with “My hart verlang na die stilte, van die wye wuiwende veld, ver van die stad se geluide, en die klinkende klank van geld”. Not a nice ear worm to have because I am not a soprano.

So the guidebook (thanks to my torchlight I can read the instructions in the dark) tells me that the minute I cross the bridge, I should immediately turn left where I will see my first caminho sign. Bridge = tick. Caminho sign = not tick. Torchlight again – nope. No sign. I decide to trust my instincts (last time every I try that one) and venture off as I was told by the guidebook. By now the full moon hangs above in beautiful gold, thank goodness it stopped bleeding. It is still very dark. I follow the route as described along the canal. I smell something rotten. But hey, it is Portugal after all….

According to the book I should cross a sub-canal, to “skirt the quinta”. Nou vra ek jou. “SKIRT THE QUINTA” WHY did I not see this last night so that I could google what a bloody QUINTA is. Is see nothing that could possibly look like a quinta. But I am brave, Mimi and I. I now even reach some of the high notes – thank God I am all alone, they might think a lunatic escaped from the asylum. I get to the sub-canal where I should cross to “skirt the quinta”. (About thirty years ago I knew a woman called Quinta – I would skirt her if she was ever in my way. She was scary). So the canal I should now cross has no bridge. I trek up – no bridge. I trek back – no bridge. Brambles yes, and still the horrible stench. By now it is getting a little bit lighter. There is no way I could wade through what they call a “sub canal”. It is a river. Covered in brambles. There are some logs every now and then across the canal/river, but I can just imagine falling into the canal/river and being soaked for the rest of my first day, or drowning, or eaten by crocodiles. Or like Audrey Hepburn when she fell into the canal in Venice develop a septic eye (that she never recovered from I’ll have you know!). So no crossing no canal to do no skirting of no quinta. In the process I step on something very squidgy, that gives way under my Sketcher and splatters up my other leg. I gril myself into a cold sweat – a dead bird whose inners are no splattered against my leg? The smell is definitely that of something that has been very dead for a long time. I cannot get myself to look at my leg – this might call for an amputation. I look down – OMG: BLOOD. I must be in a field full of dead animals, and have just stepped on a rotten one whose insides are now halfway up my leg. I take a deep breath, look closer in the now brighter morning light, and realise that I stepped on a rotten tomato. Not only did I step on one, I am standing in a field of rotten tomatoes. Millions of them. AND I DON’T EVEN LIKE TOMATOES!!! No I will never in my life be able to look a tomato in the face again!

And now I understand why Portugal is in for some serious austerity measures – this field has been harvested! The heaps of tomatoes that are left to rot could feed Zimbabwe for six months. It is a crying shame (that is for people who like tomatoes, for all I care all tomatoes should rot on the field). But hey – how could they waste “food” like that? Anyway. Mimi is nou des moers, I am more than awake and lost. Freakin hell – half an hour into my journey and I am lost. I walk all along the sub-canal, no bridge. No crossing by boat or ferry or foofieslide. Eventually I give up, walk all the way around to the main road again where I started hours ago and stop to ask a man who tells me in his best German (believe it or not) that I must just go “gerade gerade aus”. It sounds very far. I need to get to the aerodrome. I stop, compose myself, the sun is now up, I am not an idiot, and read the guidebook again for the 700th time. I missed the sentence that said “walk for 1,8km to the bridge, THEN turn immediately left bla bla bla. Which I do, only to see my first caminho sign, do a little Highland jig, return to Mimi Coertse and off I go.

To say that it was a walk in the park would be a lie. The most difficult stretch of 9 km’s is in the blazing sun, with not a spot of shade or a drop of water. A gazillion flies are ready and fighting to lay their eggs in the corners of your eyes. Dust and more dust is no walk in no park that I know of. I see four fellow caminhodrados, quickly put in my earphones and make a beeline past them. Beautiful moments of little blue flowers turning their faces to the sun, fields of MORE tomatoes (also rotten, left after the “harvest” my backside”), more fields with red and green and yellow peppers, the gentle river Tejo slowing flowing beside me (with HUGE signs that screams NO SWIMMING!), the quaintest little houses on the river, women working the fields like in a Pizarro painting. Heat and dust. I try to hide in some shade when I discover a tree, only to be attacked by the hungry flies. Thank goodness I brought a scarf that I can hide under. I forget I have a backpack – I think my entire body has gone numb. My right calf threatens to spasm, I stretch and pull and decide it is mind over matter. I am alone in the world – and have to check regularly for more signs to know that I am not again completely lost.

In Valada I stop for coffee (luke warm because I cannot explain HOT with any confidence) and a soft Portuguese bread roll with ham and cheese. Sadly the butter is left out as another result of my Portuguese language insecurity. But it tastes like the best Sunday Roast. As my Ouma always said “honger het nie houdings nie”.

The last 3,7km of the 36km is now in 29 degrees, and it is uphill, because all European old cities should be on a steep hill. A Swedish man catches up with me – damn. I do not feel like talking. Well, more to the point my tongue is plastered to the top of my mouth, I ran our of saliva (and water) about 6km back, I am dripping with sweat, fighting with my calf and wondering WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING? He is not anything to cheer one up – on a two year program of sport management sponsored by the Swedish government. I will not bore you in the same way that he bored me.

We turn a corner where I consider faking a heart attack, when I hear running water! Three mikwha’s coming out of a beautiful wall, fresh, clean, running water filling two small stone pools. I now know what the Israelites felt like after fourty years in the dessert, trust me. Mr Swede decides he needs no water (halleluja). I gulp up about a liter through my little cute filter bottle, only to realise afterward that it might not be drinkable. O well – if I die of dysentery tonight it was a good day. Or I might just **** through my ribs for a few days which would also not be a bad thing considering all the carbs I have eaten lately. I soak my feet and almost burst into tears from pure joy.

I reach Santarem in 29 degrees, make for the first Alberque and realise that my angels are working overtime. My friend Lydia Corbett being one of those angels – using her old shoulder pads to protect her knees for all the praying that she is doing for me!. Thanks Lydia, this is str
aight from heaven. Weird art (in my humble opinion) but I am not here for the art. A shower, a dormitory with eight others, I really don’t care. I am in heaven. It is beautiful. I quickly zip into town to buy a T-shirt (for some very odd reason I brought two black T-shirts only. I felt like a furnace the entire day! I now have a sexy little white number for tomorrow. And the rest of the next month). In the mall (yes folks, it has aircon, so shut up!) I see a burger place. I have been craving a burger for weeks. Well, it did not stop my craving – a tough patty with crisps on the side. They forgot the “burger” part – no bread or ANYTHING else! I decided not to take a photo, it was that bad.)

Now I am sitting on the cool terrace, feeling every muscle in my body, wondering if I deserve a beer…..

The Swede and I have a beer in the lounge and chat for a bit before we retire to the dormitory.

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