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Alvaiázere, Portugal

Toe die son teen agtuur vanoggend uiteindelik haar verskyning maak (nie veel gebeur vroeg in Portugal nie) het ek reeds twee espressos en ‘n pastel nata (sien dis hoe dit beskryf word) agter die blad. Daarmee saam twee keer se verdwaal en ‘n hond wat my amper opvreet. (Die eienaar van die hond staan en kyk hoe die besete ding my bestorm – gelukkig ken ek genoeg vieslike woorde wat selfs ‘n Portuguese hond laat skrik. Die eienaar self het nie te lekker gelyk nie – dink die einste hond het haar dalk lank terug gebyt…).

Elke oggend word ek met ‘n ander lied in my kop wakker – en soos dit ‘n goed gekondisioneerde Afrikaans Nederduits Gereformeerde betaam, is meeste daarvan Halleluja liedere uit my jeug. Vanoggend is ek dit gespaar – met Psalm 42: “Soos ‘n hert in dorre streke, skreeuend dors na die genot van die helder water beke, skreeu my siel na u o God, ja my siel dors na die Heer, na die lewensbron wanneer sal ek na swerftog en benouing, God weer sien in klaar aanskouing”. Ja ek ken elke woord, ons het dit in ons skoolkoor in 1983 gesing met Tannie Bettie. So ken ook feitlik die hele Halleluja, van “moet ek gaan met leë hande” na “werk want die nag kom nader” en “ek sien ‘n poort wyd ope staan” en “as Hy weer kom”. Dan nog “op berge en in dale”. Wonderlik hoe hierdie liedere vir ewig in ‘n mens se brein geprogrammeer is. Sou ek eendag dementia kry is die kanse goed dat ek hierdie liedere tot vervelens toe gaan sing…

Mr. Brierly (the author of the Caminho guide) and I don’t see eye to eye. Early morning leaving Atalaia and within ten minutes I am lost. Like a lost goat I ask help as far as I go – and thankfully get a few helpful people busy opening their restaurants pointing the way to Santiago. Mostly with a heavy shake of the head, as to imply: “you are seriously screwed in your head! Santiago?” But congenially they shout “boa viage” as you stumble away under the strain of your backpack. I know I am not good at taking/following instructions, but seriously? With guidance like “skirting the quinta” any normal person will get lost. (I subsequently found out that it means “walk around the farm”. Why the hell could he not just say “walk around the bloody farm”?). Anyway – I find the instructions extremely difficult to follow. Once out of Atalaia, I actually find “die helder waterbeke” – the most beautiful streams in more eucalyptus forests. A wonderful start to the day – yet I am completely amazed at how there seems to be no living human being in the tiny villages that I walk through. The shutters are pulled down, and judging by washing on the line and dogs tied up with chains (which I find really disturbing) there must be people living in the houses, but they are surely not outside.

The walk continues through farmland orchards of walnuts, avocado pears, persimmons and quince. And again the most heady scent of figs. Oh how I love this exotic frangrance that lingers in the morning sun… Walking along the farmlands and on the cobbled tracks is such a joy. In Soianda I stop for (yet another) espresso – done in a little cup, piping hot, extra strong and magically fragrant. This little shot of espresso satisfies all the senses like a gourmet three course meal. I add a little bit of suger and it keeps me going for hours (or until the next stop). Well, sadly that is it about where it ends for today, as for the next almost 15 kilometres there is no sign of human life. In Calvinhos I am forced to buy a Kitkat, Twinx and a Mars Bar, as seriously there is nothing else that one could possibly snack on for the road. And a coke.

Today is one of those days where you have very little choice but to do the full 30 km’s, as there is no other places to stay before Alvaiazere. At Ponte de Ceras the 14 km of tar road starts, eating away at your shins, burning your feet as if you are walking on hot coals. With no skirting on the side of the road, you constantly have to jump off the road to avoid oncoming lunatics who refuse to swerve away from you. Every time I have to hang on to my hat or run after it as it gets blown of by the tailwind of a truck. (Running with 9 kg’s on your back is not easy, trust me.) I get lost again and again. I promise myself that I am going to concentrate, ten minutes later I am in cuckoo land again, singing another hymn and the next thing I have no clue where I am. I decide to start thanking every yellow arrow I see, maybe they will kind to me and show themselves more readily. Nope. The little buggers hide away as best they can. Some very kind pilgrims have arranged twigs in some places to point the way. I am eternally grateful to them. For the rest, I battle to stay on the track and find myself having to constantly backtrack to the last arrow.

At Cortica my sense of humour is about to fail. My back is now killing me, sweat running off my entire body, everything hurts. The last 5.6km ahead feels impossible, but I have no choice. I decide to take a break when the next uphill looks totally impossible to conquer. Flat on my back under an ancient olive tree, crisp green baby olives dangling above my head, I take a good half an hour rest. Refreshed, I turn to Maria Callas to help me do the last stretch. With Casta Diva at full volume I push into Alvaiazere, possibly the dullest village that God could have created. Zero character, another bloody angle grinder sawing away at rooftiles, I find the Alberque above the laundromat as advertised by Brierly. (At least these are clearly signposted in a desperate bid for business). It is a bed, creaking like mad, with a PressLess bedspread. Right next to the church where the bell tolls every 15 minutes. I try to sleep after a cold shower, but my body will not let me forget that it had done 34.96 kilometers.

I walk down the road to find a restaurant – there is a very clinical looking place with the usual neon light on full brightness, no character. At least I find a nice bottle of wine and get some roast chicken with spinach! YES – green veg! Wow, I am blown away. My scurvy will stay away another day.

The day goes from moment to moment. It is important to concentrate on every step, not the distance ahead or behind. When your body feels as if it is about to break, the thought of another ten kilometers ahead will kill you. And the moments – the beautiful berries and baby green olives and voluptuous roses, trees laden with fruit and flowers in their last fantastic blooms of summer. One step at a time. And the feeling of satisfaction when you fall down on your bed knowing that it is done.

Carlos at the Alberque comes to collect his money – another Portuguese born in South Africa. He is very proud of his place and that it saved him after being out of work for two years. His golden stamp (made with real gold wax) is his pride and joy with which he hopes to set another standard. (I personally think he should rather focus on his bedsheets). But tonight I will sleep well. Pain and all.

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