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Tomar, Portugal

I was told once that there are two types of people – doers and planners. All my life I have known that I am a doer, and a terrible planner. This was confirmed again today – I do not like reading instructions, I am not good at following instructions, and I usually don’t listen to instructions. And I am exceptionally good at rationalising this behaviour – saying that I am spontaneous, that people can plan things to death, that one should follow one’s instincts. Yea right, until you get lost in a forest. But more of that later, first we have to go back to last night….

So just when I thought I had gotten lost in Atalaia, the kind Ron from Canada was waving at me from the gate of the beautiful Casa do Patriarca where I stayed for the night. Ron and Blanco had arrived hours earlier (we left at the same time yesterday morning…) and directed me to the one an only “restaurant” in town, where not a word of English is spoken and sign language is frowned upon. (Which in my opinion is also part of sign language!). It is still hot – while the sun is up it is hot. I walk to the restaurant which is in a large park. Well, it is more of a makeshift shack with the by now very familiar red plastic chairs (courtesy of Super Bock). Lo and behold, the gentleman behind the counter is extremely friendly to me, speaks English and asks me what I wanted to eat, pointing at a display of meats and other things behind the glass counter. Ron told me that they had the ribs and that they were very good (although a bit fatty Blanco added – she is skinny….) I enthusiastically point at the ribs with a huge grin on my face, thumbs up in the air and generally looking like our dogs when I say “who wants to go for a walk?”. Short of jumping up and down and wagging my tail, I am pointed to one of the few open tables. The place is filled with men ( I assume who have done a hard day’s work) drinking copious Super Bock in small bottles. The television is on, soccer being played. The men are participating with loud cheers for the team in white.

I had scarcely soaked in the ambiance and the gentleman is back with “a little treat for you”. He now looks like me when the dogs have jumped all over me and kissed me and went generally ballistic because I was taking them for a walk and I feel so proud of myself – a smile from ear to ear. And I was muito obrigada’ing like a Chinese businessman who just received another business card. Looking down at the little treat that was put in front of me, with a few slices of Portuguese bread, my heart actually stops. Still ululating, I could not believe what I saw – an entire bowl of octopus legs, cut up, with oil and onion. Now I know everyone thinks I exaggerated with the mealies and tomatoes. I can tolerate tomatoes, if they are Italian, fresh and please God not grilled. Or sun dried. Mealies – shoot me. Octopus legs – I have often said if I was given a choice between eating octopus of calamari legs and feet and suckers or being shot by firing squad, I would gladly say “SHOOT ME”. Sadly for me, there was no firing squad around, neither any pot plant or dirt bin in which to deposit the “treat”. The pathetic little serviettes would not hold any of this, and there was no way that I was going to display my utter horror to the nice man who spoke English to me and not to the Canadians. The tiny little tentacles with the even tinier little suckers made me feel so sick I could hardly breath. This is the Caminho, I am trying to be kind and open of heart and mind. This is a test. I am going to fail this test. I am not not not not not going to eat this horrid, squidgy, disgusting stuff. Ten minutes later, the bowl is empty, and I am ready to die.

Anyway, there are ribs on their way, I have had to endure worse in my life (I told you I am good at rationalising) and I should sometimes just pull up my big boy boxers. A long time passes, long enough for me to actually get into the soccer game and all worked up about the team in white playing such a bad game. At halftime I decide to move away from beer and order red wine in anticipation of the ribs. The tiniest carafe arrives with a little sherry glass. Before half time is over, I am on my second little milk jug of red wine. An hour later, Mr. Nice Guy arrives with a few slices of prosciutto and some more bread. (By day three in Portugal, I have had more bread than I have had in the last year….). Huge apologies, this is on the house for free. Big smiles and kind gestures. I eat the bread and ham. Now exactly two hours since I walked in, the second course is done. I order the third little jug and gently ask “what happened to my food”? Well, all of a sudden the English disappears, some less friendly gestures ensue and he stomps off. I am at a complete loss, on my best behaviour and decide to just wait and see what happens. Five minutes later he is back – this time with a plate full of ham (really thickly sliced as if he was not impressed when he did it), some slices of cheese and MORE bread! Well, at this point I was actually not hungry anymore, the thickly sliced ham tasted vile and I could certainly not stomach one more crumb of bread. And then he actually disappeared all together. I paid my bill (which came to Euro 5,80) and left with the rest of the ham in a few serviettes. Laughing at my ordeal (and because I had too much wine and because my body felt as if a truck had gone over it, a few times) I walked home feeding the local dogs some ham.

And one would think that enough lessons were learned in one day – I get home, and the entire place is locked up, not a light in any window. The main gate where I came in is about three meters high, a solid, steel medieval contraption. I walk around the place – high walls on all sides. For days I was impressed with the fact that there is almost no security and everything is left open. Not Casa Patrica. I start making plans of how I am going to have to scale the wall, with images of being arrested for breaking in. I cannot believe my luck – I am totally locked out. Do I shout? Throw stones at the windows? The thought of waking up the kind Louisa (who looked terribly exhausted when I checked in) was too awful to contemplate. Now really annoyed with myself, I go back to the main gate, trying to see how solid it is. Pushing against it, it opened. It was never locked – just closed. I slept like a baby.

The morning started with the most wonderful sunrise walk through a crisp green eucalyptus forest. Thousands and thousands (literally) of new eucalyptus trees are sprouting, silver green leaves with the most heady scent. I rub some on my hands and breath the refreshing aroma deep into my head and lungs. For the first time I hear birds singing, and I am transported back to my 19th birthday, 18 September 1984. The day I stumbled into the Student Health Services at Stellenbosch University, looking for help. I am referred to Mrs. Claassens, Clinical Psychologist. Little did I know how radically my life would change from that day on. A first year Theology student, I was suicidally confused. The most acute sense of alienation drove me to a point in my life where I saw no reason to carry on for another day. The relationship with Retseh Claassens started on that momentous day. I will never forget her immaculate hairdo, teased and done up to perfection. A diamond the size of which I have never seen before or since, a spectacular pair of spectacles highly fashionable at the time, and the most disgustingly plush fur coat draped over the chaise lounge where I thought I should have reclined…. Her manner was brisk and to the point. A few months later I went to see her in her apartment in London Road, Sea Point. There was a dried flower arrangement next to the chair where I sat, with dried eucalyptus leaves. The scent I will never forget, to this day it reminds me of a sense of relief, of a deeper connection and understanding. Thanks to Mrs. Claassens I left Stellenbosch in my second year to travel to Europe for the first time ever, finding a great job in Salzburg. Her words to me when I left were “never loose your sense of wonderment”. Tod
ay, 32 years later, the scent of eucalyptus trees brought back the most incredible memories of Retseh, and the promise that I made that I will never lose my sense of wonderment. Thanks to Retseh I discovered Lieder, art, literature, haiku, nature and life. We enjoyed the most glorious years of wonderful correspondence while I lived in Europe.

And then I was lost. Again. Hopelessly, completely, totally bloody lost! There was not a yellow arrow in sight, I did not know where I had gone wrong or where I should go. I could not for the life of me remember when last I even saw a bloody yellow arrow. I traced back my steps, up and down a few hills and valleys. Eventually I came across a huge arrow packed out in stone on the path – I completely walked over this cross in my bloody sense of “wonderment”. Thank you Retseh.

Lesson – pay attention. I realise that getting carried away is great, but it will cost you! In the meantime I photographed colourful berries and beautiful scenes. Yea yea, it was worth getting lost. Later in the day my shins would remind me of my own sense of “wonderment”! Needless to say it is not the last bit of getting lost – every now and then my mind wonders off, thinking of wonderful or funny or sad moments, and the next thing I have no clue where I am!

In Asseiceira, a poor little village with tiny little houses, I stop at the second cafe. (I decided that most desperate peregrinos will stop at the first shop, I should carry on to the second shop to support them. Of course, chances are that there is no second shop, then I am screwed. This happened today, but never mind.) At the second shop, the locals greet me like a celebrity. I order a coffee and the kind man behind the counter asks if he could stamp my Caminho passport. Two coffees later, I am ready for the road again. Across the road is a cafe, I pop in. Amazing how all my stereotypes kick in – the cafe is covered in flies hovering above over ripe bananas. I have to laugh at myself and my own stereotyping!

The walk to Tomar starts in an industrial park with a battery chicken plant. I can hardly get myself to look at the place knowing what must be going on inside. An industrial area with trucks and trains and factories, not pretty. I stop to consult the guidebook, which still hardly makes any sense to me. I pray for yellow arrows. I walk. The sun is now beating down, my shins are aching, I am sweating like a pig, have run out of water, and my undies are chaffing. (I will save you the detail here.) I cross train tracks, go under highways, trek up past factories and swear at the flies. Out of the blue, without warning, and totally by the grace of the universe, there is a yellow arrow on the pavement. Can this be real? I consult my guide (hahahaha) – realising that I was completely on the wrong page of the guide, not anywhere near where I actually was. (I will not bore you with the app I downloaded to avoid all this ****…). I follow the arrow down a single track along the railway line for what feels like miles and miles. Then tar road through suburbs where the dogs are tied to chains. Then more tar road – a very steep downhill tar road where I am convinced I am going to be without big toenails when I reach the bottom. Not a tree in sight. Tar road. Cars going at the speed of light. Closed up houses. Tied up dogs.

Then – a subway under the railway that I have by now been following for what feels like hours. As I come out of the subway, a little cafe. My backpack peels off my sweaty back – I think it took the skin of my back with it. I am wet, tired and in pain. Inside the locals smoke up a storm, it is closed up against the midday heat. I order a Super Bock and my eye catches the Pasteis de Nata. Yes please. Obrigato. Por favor. I fall into a chair (the red ones) under an umbrella outside. The pastry is sent from the gods – it is the most delicious, sensual, soft filling in the crispiest of puff pastry, sensually scented with the secrets of all Portuguese grandmothers who have ever walked the earth. Their angels start singing. I can cry. I stumble inside without my shoes to ask for another one. Custard filling messing all over my hands and shirt and face, I devour it like a man who has not been fed in years. And I wash it all down with the coldest of Super Bocks ever. I am restored, I will live, I am reborn, I am alive.

In Tomar my intuition leads to me to Alberque Cavaleiros de Cristo, a “hotel” with single rooms the size of a cell. A pleasant place in the middle of the old town, it has single rooms with bathrooms for 20 euro. Bargain. I am still not yet ready to communicate with fellow pilgrims. I drop my bag and fall into a cold shower. Heaven. Absolute bliss as the heat and dust and sweat of the day fall of my broken body. I switch on the air-con, grab a Coke from the minibar (can you believer THAT luxury?) and fall asleep for a bit. The bead spread is embroidered and wakes me up. At this point the day would have cooled off, so I go for a walk through the Knight Templar town of Tomar. Five minutes into my walk I bump into Helen (the zipper from my first dormitory evening in Santarem. She has so many blisters on her feet she cannot continue the Caminho…

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