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Azinhaga, Portugal

Day two, Lesson Two.

Refer to day one, lesson one. READ THE INSTRUCTIONS!

So I made friend with the Swede who slept on top of me last night – Danielle. Danielle is doing some weird “studying” where he can do as much of what he likes to do and someone pays for it. In the (wonderful) Alberque last night I asked him – so what do the Swedes lie awake about at night. He proceeds to tell me the story (which he told me earlier that morning as well – no variance) of how he met this girl and how they are meeting up in Porto. I think the guy has fallen in love, and that this is his wife. For better or for worse…

Anyway – the last time I slept in a dormitory was in the navy in 1986. Five of us in bunk beds – the Swede on top of me. And his tekkies next to me on the floor. The only woman in the dorm (bless her soul) from the UK decided, just as we all went to bed, to start repacking her backpack. She unzipped every single zippable bag twenty times. Then she started typing on her cellphone – every type a tick, and then she started getting messages back from people, each with their own unique sound. The Swede on top of me slept quickly, the Slovenian gentleman as well, the Spaniard was whatssapping till the early hours, and the zipper was zipping.

I decided that it was time for earplugs. No, I have no idea how this works, since I have never in my life had the need for earplugs. But how about a poker in your brain? Every time I turned around, there was this thing poking into my brain. So I had to take them out and contend with the zipper lady. Bad bladders abound – I was the only one who did not have to get up twice during the night, most probably because I was dehydrated! I did not sleep for much longer that 15 minutes at time…..

So at 6h00 Slovenia wakes up – starts fidgeting and taking all his stuff outside the room to pack. Then Sweden wakes up, and when Spain rears his head I decide to give up. After an entire night of trying my utmost not to snore or ****, I might as well give up. I get up, and make for the breakfast room where the most beautiful bread, cheese, ham and coffee is set out. AND fig and pear jam!!!! Danielle is also up, and Ms. Fidgeting-Zipping UK. Halfway through her breakfast she gets up, never to be seen again! Back in the room, she left the most unbelievable mess around her bed – and just left!!

The day starts with Danielle and I walking together. My thighs are killing me one step at a time. Really killing me. Like stabbing pain killing. We chat about Syrian immigrants in Sweden, the social benefits and the fact that the Swedes apparently are very good at complaining… TEN kilometers later in Vale de Figuera I am ready to die. My calves are so bad that I can hardly move. We find a cafe where Danielle has a red wine with sprite at about 10h00 in the morning. Yes, red wine with sprite, apparently a Portuguese favourite. I have coke, in fact I have three cokes. Just as we decide to take a little nap on the square, a man starts cutting roof tiles with an angle grinder. Jip. I decide that chocolate might help, so I opt for a Kitkat. And then another one. It does not help. At this point, Danielle decides to go ahead of me, most probably wisely decided that he is not going to deal with a corpse. Having followed him around the whole day, I duly get lost the minute I venture out on my own! Only to stumble across a Police contingent who confiscated a whole arsenal of weapons from a local house! All in a day’s walk….

And then, o yes good folks, my second biggest food hate comes to haunt me. Miles and miles and miles of trekking through mealie lands. Dried out, looking very dead mealie plantations. And by now it must be about 40 degrees, the sun beating down, no shade, brambles everywhere, the river a green mass of waterlilies, and dust roads for miles ahead.

WHY, oh why I am doing this? Every muscle in my body is rebelling, I am sweating like a pig, the dust is everywhere, when cars go past it is impossible to see a thing for about five minutes afterwards. And it is not giving. I trek through heat and sand. Verdi’s Requiem – nope. Bee Gees – nope. It is just me, trekking, every step more painful than the previous one. I sweat. Badly. At one point I decide to retreat to a poplar tree, take off all my clothes (which by this time is SO wet) and just lie there. Of course if anyone had found me they would have thought I had gone totally mad – they would not have been wrong. I don’t like heat. I really, really don’t like heat. This was unbearable. In Pombalinho I stumble (literally) upon a cafe, where I gulp down two ice cold beers. The lady behind the counter laughs at my gulping the beer down – if only she knew…. Taking off my tekkies I feel as if I am taking the skin off with them – it is painful beyond words. I wash my face, but can hardly walk to the toilet. A dry (bloody hell no butter – another pet hate) bread roll with ham and cheese, a coffee….I really honestly think I might die. Then I see the Spaniard – he is half my age, half my size, thin as a rake – and he can hardly walk! Suddenly I feel SO much better – it is not just me.

Putting my backpack on my back again feels like someone is stabbing me with a blunt knife in my back. It is hot. There is not a person outside – “only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun…” keeps going through my head. Out of town, I hit the mealie fields. Miles and miles and miles of mealie fields. Nothing but mealies, flies. Heat. Dust. I run out of water. I cannot listen to any music. My muscles are aching as if burnt by blowtorches. Two Myprodol and two TransAct patches on my thighs. I obviously overdid it yesterday – well, too late now. More mealies. More dust. Thunder clouds are gathering – I pray for rain. This is hell.

In Azinhaga I decide to give up for the day. The Spaniard is sitting at a pub – he is carrying on, looking more haggard than me. The thunderclouds are still thick, but moving in the opposite direction. The heat is still unbearable – beating down on me. I see freckles popping out on my skin as walk along. A woman who helped me along the way when I was (once again) taking the wrong turning gave me a pamphlet of her Alberque in Azinhaga. I draw money and decide that enough is enough. I walk to her house – about a kilometer out of town bloody hell – and is accepted in this haven of cool tiled floors, a gentle hospitality, ice cold water to drink, and just peace and serenity. Ron and Blanca (he from Canada and she from Philippines) are the only two other guests. Helena (hostess) offers dinner – I embrace her and the thought. Ron and Blanca are as tired and broken as I am. AND they have walked from Lisbon – not very impressed with the industrial areas that they had to trek through. We compare pains and aches, the weight of packs, the dust, mealie fields, the agony of the unbearable heat. And suddenly – I feel so much better. A shower – God knows that a shower can drive you to tears, the cold water washing away the dust of 29 kilometers, soothing the aches and pains. Dinner is cabbage soup (which I would never have ordered, but even cabbage is now a relief), the most tasty Bachalau dish with fresh, crispy green leaves and sweet onion with olive oil, and a mango slush that was suppose to be a mousse but tasted like heaven. Pure, unadulterated heaven. And TWO bottles of red wine, local, shared between Ron and I, with stories of life and immigrants and Canada and South Africa. The day is washed away with wine and companionship. There is not a trace of the pain in my body (myprodol and red wine are a winning combination). We decide to take it easier – they suffered as much as I did today. That is so good to know.

When all you can do is put one foot in front of another, when your whole body is screaming at you, every muscle crying out….there is nothing magic that happens. You just suffer. And wonder WTF? Only to look forward to doing the same tomorrow. Hell, purgatory, Wanger Ring Cycle, root canal treatment.

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