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Mealhada, Portugal

Saying goodbye to Mathilda at Maria’s is really touching – she is so nice wishing me the best of journeys, as if we are old friends. It was her turn to cook for the first time last night, and it showed. But it was enough to just be there again, to soak up the atmosphere and store the memories forever in my brain. One day when I am sitting on the stoep of the Old Age Home I am going to remember the afternoon of spontaneous fado, the chickpea salad, the wine, the company. Of course I should go to bed, but thought I should just see if there is Fado again tonight. No luck. I decide to have a last glass of wine before going to bed. And after the last glass of wine I decide to take a walk up to the university to just soak in the atmosphere. Eventually I get to bed very late, very tired.
Far away from any church bells, thick walls, a pitch dark room – I wake up at 08h30. Bliss. HOWEVER – the One Sock Monster struck in the night! I now have three socks. ****! The two I have been wearing for a few (JUST a few) days could not be washed as it was cold and damp and when I last tried to wash them (well, on the first day) they did not dry. So now, they are like Frikkie and Frummel who come when I call! They are very happy to see me in the morning and jump on my feet. But now one is gone. How on earth does this happen? Where could he have gone? Well, it is very difficult to time everything. I don’t want to walk in the midday sun (only mad dogs and Englishmen), yet if I get to the Albergue too late it is not possible to do laundry as it will not dry. Another good reason to avoid the dormitories – just now my socks bark at another Perigrino!
A quick coffee at the station (my hotel was really a true station hotel – if you have ever travelled Europe you will understand). One get the 5* incredible old Savoy type hotels, or the really seedy Station Hotel. Mine was the latter – my bedroom window opened onto the laundry. And it was perfect, for 20 Euros.
The walk out of town is naturally through industrial parks and factories. Shortly after though there is beautiful, peaceful countryside. Just out of town I see another Pilgrim, give a friendly wave and move on swiftly. As my internal soundtrack is now one day behind, the day starts with “Strome van seen van bove, dit het die liefde beloof…” (“en wat daarop mag volg…” het my Oupa altyd gesê). Ek begin met ‘n Ivan Rebroff weergawe, want ek het ‘n effense padda in die keel vanoggend. It is a perfectly clear day, but it did rain yesterday and I did not walk, so hence I am one day behind.

It is really remarkable how one could be about ten kilometres (an hour’s walk) out of a city like Coimbra and find yourself back in rural Portugal. Small villages, houses with closed shutters, dogs and chains and no one to be seen on the streets. Houses falling apart, houses being built. Old and new living as neighbours. I get the idea that like in SA, many people are living out of town and working in town, judging by the renovations taking place in villages just outside of town.

In the first little town that I get to for my morning coffee, there are three other Pilgrims having a coffee at the cafe: American, blue eyes blond hair, wide eyed and bushy tailed. I take a serious, instant dislike in them. I do a friendly greeting and go inside to order my coffee. By the time I get back outside, they are ready to leave, which they do without a greeting. Inside the cafe it is dark, shutters down to keep the midday heat out. (And the flies, I think…). On a plastic chair next to the till, dressed in a black dress, stockings and shoes, grandmother sits, trying her best to chase away the flies. Thin grey hair tied back in a bolla, I think she is blind. I greet her and get no response. The daugther is behind the till, husband sitting on another white plastice chair guarding the coffee machine. I order a cofee, trying my best for the “negro” and “quente” (warm). I decide to let the Americans get a good headstart before I venture off. I really do not feel like company. While I drink my coffee, I hear one of those ridiculous hooters that sing a loony type tune. Next thing, a white van pulls up, honking away at this stupid tune. (You hear this on some Cape Town taxis….). Next thing, doors are flung open where I thought there was no life, housewives strut out with baskets. The van stops in front of the church, the driver jovially greets everyone, opens up a side door and voila! A wonderful display of breads, sold by the kilo, weighed on his scales. Suddenly there is life in the village, chatter and natter, laughs and shrieks. And then – back to deadly silence again. (But for the last lady who walks back to her house, takes a deep throat clearing and spits a gob that could only have been green). My stomach turns!

On the way I notice many small things. Amongst others, the hands of the old men sitting outside their homes or in the village square. Their hands remind me of the trunks of the olive trees – deeply knuckled with black crevices left from years of working, cutting and pruning. I wonder how these hands touched their women. In the next village, a deaf woman is sitting on the square with her friend. As I approach them, I see that she is using a mixture of sign language and sounds. She is telling her friend about her stockings for blood clots and how expensive they are. But more than that – and this time with much sound and gesture – what a PAIN they are to put on and how they hurt her. With cats and dogs, fruit and flowers, I continue on my way. In every small village a local would stop and ask “Santiago?”. When answering with “Si!’ they respond with the most endearing, thoughtful and genuine “boa viag!’. Every time I am touched by this.

Walking away from the village, I wonder why I took such an instant dislike to the three American youths. I know why. At that age, I was all angst and depression, trying to get over my paralyzing existential crisis of not being “normal” and not fitting in. At 30, I had spent my life being bullied, humiliated, trying everything in my power to understand what was going on in my life, and knowing that I will never have what these boys have. That hero life where girls swoon at your feet, where you are the first team rugby captain, dreaming of your house with a picket fence and 2.2 children, the dream job in the dream firm. Instead, I was dragging myself between weekly therapy sessions, haunted by my secret life of shame. Their “unbearable lightness of being” triggered all those feelings of not being good enough, not fitting in. Now, at 50, I have peace, I love my life. And yet, deep down emotions are still triggered from time to time. I decide to take a break on a little bridge crossing a stream, just to soothe the soul.

Lying there, I hear a Woodpecker pecking away at a tree. I know that I have come a long way on in this life. And I am grateful. Eternally grateful.

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Coimbra, Portugal

With Ronaldo gone, a bottle of wine and the scrumptious chickpea salad done and dusted, I do the siesta thing. The very fancy looking hotel, right next to the church, have walls of paper. And shared bathrooms. I did not even ask if I have a private bathroom – just assumed. My room is on the third floor, bathroom on the first! Luckily there is a toilet on the same floor (I have had a lot of wine…). The place is full to capacity, and noisy! Groups of cyclists, pilgrims and tourists. Incredible how some people seem to have no regard for others – I wake up and make my way down the square to where I saw that fado was going to happen this evening. A tiny little tapas bar, no more than 5 small tables along the steps going down from the church. Literally right on the street.

I order a cheese platter, which arrives just as I like it! Ripe cheese that was not kept in the fridge, runny, smelly, sensually soft on the tongue. A few slices of hard cheese and some really sharp little squares. All served with – yes, more bread. And some grapes. Big fat juicy grapes. The vino tinto della casa (I made that up – think it is Italian) is smooth, and the cheese brings out the best in both of us. The place is buzzing, and I am very glad I got there early. People are now crowding on the pavement, but the soft rain chases them away to the more touristy fado place across the way. I savour the cool evening air, the soft rain and the buzz of excited people.

The three musicians arrive (the typical mandolin and two guitars) playfully tuning. Lights dimming let the audience get the message. A truly beautiful young woman steps into the restaurant, the sensual shawl around her shoulders. She has a soft smile, luscious mouth, beautiful almond eyes, the perfect figure in tight black trousers with black high heeled boots. Elegant. Her fado is so melancholy, I am sure there is not a dry eye in the audience. She delves into the soul of Coimbra, bringing memories of Lisboa, lamenting the explorers who lost their lives. When she closes her eyes it seems that she is floating away with Vasco da Gama to foreign shores. I fall in love all over again with fado and Portugal.

After a short break the musicians are back, a short tuning session, and in walks the next Fadista. Short curly black hair, solid builld, dark eyebrows. I know what is coming, I can sense her smokey mezzo raspy voice. I am not disappointed. The way she makes eye contact with me leaves me grasping for gulps of red wine. Looking deep into my eyes, she is singing just for me. She knows me, she knows my soul, she knows everything about me. I am transported to foreign shores, to places I did not know exist. Frangrances of heady spices and strange instruments playing in far away lands. Fado nurtures the soul. It delves deep into your being, stirrs emotions that you did not know you posessed, it turns you inside out, leaves you without any defences. The way this woman looks into my soul….. The break is just in time before I make a total fool of myself. I go outside to get some fresh air (and order more wine).

The band tunes again, and a strange looking older man stands around looking at them. Just as I am about to wave him away and give him a dirty look, he starts singing. A surprise indeed – bringing a seriousness to the fado, of politics and rebels and gunshots. Long after twelve I stumble into my hotel, my soul restored and filled. If I die in this night I would be dying a happy man. But I don’t die – I wake up at 03h00 with the loud screaming of drunk (what I would assume) students. Endless screeching and whistling and horsing about. I am sure the entire Coimbra is now awake. At 06h00 someone starts a hairdrier. I give up. I really, truly give up. The breakfast is a sorry state of affairs, but I sit near the window overlooking the steep steps going up to the university. I watch as a local opens her window in her pajamas, checking to see what the weather will hold today. Portugal does not do early mornings.

On my way to the station I chage my mind and decide to go back to Tomar to see the Convento del Cristo, a UNESCO heritage site that was recommended by Roland. I know my back needs to have a break, so a good excuse. On the way I notice the crane nests on the pylons, reminding me of Turkey. These nests are huge, a family house for a couple committed for life. I so clearly remember their clattering beaks….

Trying to describe the convent would simply do it an injustice. Not even the photographs will be able to give the viewer the slightest idea of the magic of this place. The Templar Knights started the building, later transformed. A strong Moorish influence brings memories of The Alhambra, those quiet spaces and shadows and shapes.

Back in Coimbra I come back to Maria’s – Mathilda is on duty. It is the quaintest little place in Coimbra. Tonight the town is quiet, no fado at my little restaurant. Just as well, or I would have stayed up again until the early hours of the morning and drank too much wine. Tomorrow the journey continues. A good night’s rest is essential. Just as well there is no fado tonight!

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Coimbra, Portugal

Sitting on the town square in the late afternoon, a welcome breeze comes up from the river, cooling down the cobbled streets. The locals are doing their customary strolling through the streets. Students with long black cloaks swaying in the breeze make their way up to the university. What a gentle city, edges softened by centuries of sophistication. A student just draped his cloak on the grass for his girlfriend to sit on.

Escaping the Portuguese palace this morning (it felt like being trapped in a bad, glitzy, Bollywood movie) we quickly found our yellow arrows again. The guesthouse could not have been closer to the highway – every truck made the entire house rattle. I feared for the safety of the espresso cups. We had a good laugh about the absurdity of being dropped off in the mall last night, and both agree that our dinner of chicken, sausage, coleslaw and roast potatoes was the best meal so far. I do believe that good Portuguese traditional food is – like in South Africa – hard to find in restaurants. Roland asked me about South African food, and before I knew it I am waxing lyrical about frikadelle and sweet potatoes with preserved ginger, oxtail and skenkelpot with dried fruit, and of course chicken pie… I trust that further north I will find some good home cooking in one of the Alberques.

Our morning walk is crisp – the woods are washed clean and showing off fresh green after the rains of last night. The soil smells fresh and again we are mesmerized by the smell of the fig trees. The luscious purple figs of yesterday are now only a dream… Our first stop in Santa Clara, on the pavement in a busy street opposite a bus stop, brings cafe negro (extra hot after endless sign language) and fresh pastel nata. The custard filling inside the nata is just the perfect texture, soft enough to ooze into your mouth, the most sensual, comforting texture in a crispy casing, baked to perfection! I would love to get hold of this recipe…

We realise that we were actually in one of the suburbs of Coimbra last night. When you are walking, places feel very far apart. Yet, looking at the map we were literally about as far away from Coimbra as Kenilworth is from Cape Town. Walking through the suburbs it is interesting to see the remarkable difference between city and country life. These are literally worlds apart, yet only kilometers apart. School children catching busses, businessmen going to work, housewifes sweeping yards (one of them seriously killing the snails that dared up her front gate during the night).

Roland is wonderful company – he is gentle and makes good conversation. I am intrigued by what he tells me about life in Sweden and how people are determined to maintain the status quo and not rock the boat. The result of course is that no one ever makes any decisions, as they are too scared to offend or to be taken up on their decision. Also interesting what a premium is put on family life, and the expectations that come with that. We walk together in long silences, yet have a good laugh every now and then, which does make the time pass much quicker that both of us would want. He is going back to Lisbon tonight, and then back to Sweden tomorrow morning, having done an eight day walk as an appetizer for a longer walk later. Admittedly he says that he thinks it was a mistake, as he is also only now getting into the rythm of the caminho. Walking with someone is a totally different experience. Actually voicing thoughts and expressing opinions make for a more cerebral experience, whilst walking alone one ponders and simply let things come and go through your mind. When there is no one to moan to about the steep hill or the heat or the flies, it someone just happens and passes, non judgmentally. (Difficult with the flies I would admit – I do prefer to swear very loudly and crudely at them. As if they pay any attention…. I should really consider the corks on my hat – have certainly drunk enough red wine to cover my brim!).

As we come over the hill, Coimbra unfolds across the horizon in all her splendour. (I remember from our last visit the steep roads up to the old part of town, where Victor and I got stuck in a pedestrian area (my navigating), me trying to find directions whilst he bought condoms in aid of AIDS research, to my absolute irritation…). As we start the descent to the river, tour busses draw our attention to what must be a place of interest. We decide to investigate – and enter the breathtaking splendour of the Moistera de Santa Clara. From outside the convent looks like a huge warehouse. Inside my breath is literally taken away. The high vaulted ceilings and intricate, guilded woodcarvings are truly breath taking. Built in honour of Saint Elizabeth (born in 1271) who was married to King Diniz of Spain. A social consciousness, Queen Elizabeth smuggled bread to the poor, to the irritation of her husband. One day he folllowed her to catch her taking bread to the poor, when opening her basket the bread had turned into roses. The unfaithful husband could not understand this. Later, Isabelle was known to be a peacemaker and had no qualms riding her horse into a war zone to calm both sides. In 1625 she was canonized. This cloister built in her honour and bearing her remains is spectacularly renovated, the cloister courtyard a haven of peace and tranquility. As we walk through, the rain falls softly colouring the sandstone to a deep ochre. The wear and tear of centuries on the stone makes for the most intriguing patterns on the colomns. A most charming guide shows us the original coffin of Queen Elizabeth in a less ornate part of the cloister. It is impossible not to be moved by the mixture of serenity, beauty, splendour and architectural wizardry. How did they get all these stones carved and assembled and put together without cranes and mechanical engineering?

As we leave the cloister and start walking across the river, there is a torrential downpour with nowhere to hide! Soaked to the bone, we run into the smallest little pub trying to hide from the rain, another excuse to drink more beer. Eventually (two beers later) the rain subsides and we find a hotel for me for the night, right next to the Se Velha Cathedral. (I cannot yet bare the thought of a dormitory, so get a room high up in the rafters. Shared bathrooms – but a double bed and my own space). We decide that as we are right next to the cathedral, we might as well go in and see it. (I know I know – another cathedral…). Well, behind the massive red curtain that hangs across the entrance we are welcomed by very well spoken students who inform us that it will cost 2 euro to see the cloisters. We decide it is worth it and venture forth. I am not sure if Roland or I were more astounded. I wish I had a better vocabulary to describe this cathedral. Suffice to say – when I walked into the cloister I was in tears. It was so unbelievably beautiful that I simply cried. We spent a long time just soaking up the peaceful atmosphere, I took loads of photographs, especially of the Moorish tiles.

Our souls enriched by the quietude of the cathedral, we venture out into the real world again. Of course it is pouring with rain, and we have to run to the next cafe to grab (another) beer. As soon as the rain subsides, we decide to find a place to have a meal before Roland takes off. Walking around in circles, every restaurant looks like the next tourist trap. We walk right around the old town, and just as I thought we should just hug and say goodbye, a tiny little cafe Maria jumps out at us. Five tiny tables, display shelves covered in sardine tins, fado blaring and the voluptuous lady in the kitchen singing along at the top of her voice, we know that this is our lunch date. We both order the spicy chickpea salad with chorico and crispy ham, I wine and Rolando beer. There is a table of seven girls and one man, who I would assume to be students. It is so obvious that all seven girls are madly in love with him – charming, witty, sexy. (They laugh just that little bit too loud at his jokes, taking turns to engage with him on what looks
like silly questions). The two waitresses are totally charming, with little rituals of slowly pouring the dressing over salads and making sensual gestures over their food. Daniella (I did not get the name of the voluptuous one) is a clown, serving her tables with such passion that she just steals my heart. Our salad – well, voted best meal in Portugal to date! It is zesty, spicy, chick peas fresh and crunchy, chorizo zingy and the crispy ham just rounds it off with balls. On our third round, the student picks up the guitar….and as they would say in the classics, the rest is history. Hours and many songs later, we stumble out of Maria’s, hug each other and I fall into my bed in a drunken stupor.

Now it is 21h37, I am sitting in a small restaurant a stone’s throw from my hotel, having just had a soulful cheese platter and (more more more) wine, waiting for the fado performance to start. I am in heaven….

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Conimbriga, Portugal

So Roland and I end up being the only two guests in the 29 bedroom hotel that reminds us of the movie “The Shining” – it is totally deserted, not another human being in sight. The electronic church bell counts the hours by the 15 minutes. Thank God again only until 21h00…. The hot water takes about ten minutes to appear – but eventually I sleep a sleep of the dead. Until – YES you have guessed it, the bells toll at 06h00!!! I suppose for a Sunday they make a special effort. In spite of double glazing, thick curtains and the sleep of the dead, I am wide awake at 06h00. It is the strangest, most mechanical sound.

Yesterday Roland told me about meeting this very very strange man from South Africa. (There I thought I was the only one…). This man eaves dropped on their conversation in a restaurant and then went on the attack about people (like them) who take taxis on the Caminho. Well, as we ventured across the road this morning to see if there is any chance of finding coffee in Shineville, there he was! By the looks of it he slept under a bridge, as there is only the one (forlorn) hotel in the village. He looked as if he was dragged backwards through a bramble bush. And as fate would have it, he walked straight up to us asking “are you walking the Caminho?” On answering “yes” his next question shoots at us “are you taking a taxi?”. How strange. He has obviously made it out to himself that it is the ultimate sin to take a taxi. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to answer him in my best German accent, avoiding any chance of SA fellowship. He just looked like a grumpy, miserable, rude old man!

Today I thought, if nothing else, I must get my coffee order right. One gets either a small espresso (of which I need about four to get going) or a very weak latte type tepid concoction. So, as the lady behind the counter was very friendly, I decided to explain in my best charades moves to show her that I want a STRONG (flexing my pathetic muscles) coffee with a little (crouching behind the counter to make myself look small) milk in a big (spreading my arms in a YMCA look) cup. “AAHHHH” she shouted – “Cafe NEGRO!!!! Negro negro negro” – she was so chuffed with herself. Now how could I not have thought of that? A cafe negro. Simple!

Of course – as I prayed for rain in the sweltering heat – it was raining on the Sabbath. I was very excited to try my Australian rain gear chosen with great care and concern by my friend Sally in Melbourne. After breakfast (just two negros for me) I slipped into my rain jacket with my little Japanese black number underneath and I was ready for the storms to hit. Poor Ronald had a poncho – thank goodness I did not go the ponco route, as his was blowing more over his head than it was keeping the rain out! He had all his time trying to keep the thing down, and then all the water ended up streaming into his boots. He really looked as if he had escaped from a Barber shop with their black cover still over him. (I also decided not to wear boots – very wise decision!). So according to the very knowledgeable man in the shop in Melbourne, my jacket was “breathable” as a result of some fabric, the name of which I cannot remember thanks to the copious amounts of red wine I consumed tonight. Well, after 15 minutes of walking in driving rain, I was more wet on the inside from gushing perspiration than I was on the outside from pouring rain. We had to stop so that I could remove the little Japanese number, but it was like walking in a little sauna! Fortunately the rain did not last long, but the extreme humidity continued.

We arrived in Zambujal just in time for the church service to start – the entire community was congregated in the main town square in front of the church, watching the poor Peregrinos struggling past. As we turned the corner leaving the square around a side ally, a squad of bloody mountain bikers came hurtling around the corner – straight into us! I (with the full village audience of Catholic church goers looking on) “screamed like a girl” (Oscar Pistorius could not have screamed like this if he tried to). The idiotic biker in front got the fright of his life, applied brakes with the result that the rest of his gang bundled up on his backside, and by only divine grace did we avert the mother of all pile-ups. With me scream still echoing through the town square, I composed myself with the necessary “bon dia” and “obbrigados” and walked on as if nothing had happened. Needless to say I had broken out in a hot flush that just about had me on fire, and first had to stop to drink some water and to compose myself again. I cannot imaging what the villagers thought of my holler.

The road we traveled was as beautiful as yesterday. The only difference was that I was now walking with someone else for the first time, which did change a few things. For one, I could not sing my favourite “Halleluja” and “FAK” songs at the top of my voice. (I had developed a little entertainment for myself, where I would sing these songs impersonating some famous people from my childhood. So I would sing “Voorwaarts Christen stryders (Onward Christian soldiers..) in the voice of people like Leonara Veenemans, Vicky Leandros, Ivan Rebroff, Nana Mouskourri, Lena Zavaroni and Heintjie. And then I would scream with laughter at my own brilliant renderings. Or I would do “Ek sien ‘n poort wyd ope staan” in the style of the later Bee Gees and I think I am the funniest person alive.

Second thing with walking with someone is that you do not stop every five seconds to take a picture. Even though you might see the beautiful moments, you think it not appropriate to stop all the time and take pictures of leaves and berries and things inane. (I missed that). Also, you would talk and miss out on moments, seeing and hearing small things that will only come to your attention when you are alone with your own footsteps. You would not stop as often or just go and lie on your back as you would when you are alone, as you inevitably are now in competition with the pace of the other person. Having said that, Ronald is a very nice person, we have great talks about life as a doctor in Sweden, his kids and life in general. The most noticeable difference however for me (considering the gallons of gas forming beers and coca-cola that one inevitably drinks) is that liberating feeling of letting rip with an earth shattering **** – no holds barred. It is just so inhibiting to have to hold it in, waiting for some noise or creating an artificial cough to let out tiny little *****, crushing some lose stones underfoot to hide the crackling little ***** that just need to escape. Then also – you have to make sure that he is walking in front, and that he is down wind for just in case. So, all in all, I do really prefer walking alone, all things considered.

At about 15 kms from our starting point, in the soft driving rain, the fragrance of the fig trees become a reality. Right in our path, we find a fig tree heaving with purple figs, ripe to bursting. I pick the first one and stuff the whole thing in my mouth – it is total bliss, a combination of such incredible taste and texture that explodes with each little seed in my mouth. I squash one after the other in my mouth, my lips sticky with the white milk, but the insatiable sensation in my mouth with each bite is unforgettable, forever tattooed on my senses.

We made it to Conimbriga, a national heritage site with the most incredible Roman ruins. Some exquisite mosaic work the likes of which I have never seen before, dating back to 1 AD. The funny thing was – we trekked down in the rain with our backpacks to the entrance, where the attendant told us that we cannot enter without tickets. The tickets are given for free at the ticket office, which is way on the other side of the excavations, but we need to go and get one before we can enter. So we had to trek back to this MASSIVE ticket office, where we got a free ticket to enter the site. (In their defense, we did get a stamp for our Compastella).

The second part of the day was humid, no rain, but tiring.
Ronaldo was really good company in that we hardly spoke at all, but had nice talks when we did. He was also as tired as I was, so we walked t a gentle pace. We stopped for a bite in a very small village, and was offered another stamp with our ice cold Super Bock beers. We decided to not go all the way to Coimbra, but to stop off at Palheira where there was a guest house. And just as you thought I did not get lost the whole day – well hell yes. We got completely lost between the two of us. After numerous attempts we found the guest House, the most ostentatious, outrageously over the top palace like place that I have ever seen. The owner collects espresso cups and literally has hundreds and hundreds of them. It is not cheap, and not a pilgrim-like place at all. Do I care – no sir! At this point I need a bed and a bath, which they offer at 35 euro. There is nothing for miles around, and the house is on the edge of Coimbra, directly on top of the busiest highway. We ask the owner if we could get food anywhere, and he offers to take us to the nearest supermarket. (There was some voting happening in Portugal today, so everything was closed). At 19h00 we leave – and he drops us off at a massive shopping center! We are completely stunned, and he says he will pick us up in an hour again. So we find a supermarket, buy some chicken, salad, potatoes and wine, have a quick beer and at 20h15 we are back at the guest house to enjoy our meal (sadly possibly the best I have had in Portugal thus far…).

Tomorrow is a short walk (10 km’s) to Coimbra, and I hope to have a rest day. I have walked almost 210 km’s in seven days. It has been an incredible experience, some of it really really tough. Some of it so beautiful, some terrible. I go to bed with a contented heart.

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Alvaiazere, Portugal

By the grace of God someone in Alvaiazere had the common sense to arrange that the church bell should stop chiming at 20h00. I die into the most peaceful sleep imaginable, not even waking up for the usual early morning stumble to the loo. Not the slightest hint of a dream. Then at 07h00, deep in REM mode, the bell wakes me up with such a start that I actually jump out of bed and is ready to start running the caminho in 100 meter sprints. WTF? Not only is it a Saturday morning, but no one, I promise you no one in Portugal moves before 09h00 or 10h00 even on a Monday morning. I don’t think I have ever in my entire life been this awake.

I have to giggle as I walk thinking of the poor Carlos, owner of the Alberque in Alvaiazere. He is so impressed with his new found fortune (he was unemployed for two years, saw a Pilgrim stumbling through the village and got the brainwave to rent out his mother’s house. Mother has a laundromat below – wonder if she now sleeps in one of the tumble driers…). His gimmick that he believes will sell his Alberque to others via the Internet, is his gold wax stamp. It is a ritual like high mass at the Vatican – very old (he stresses not sold in any shop) Port is poured into tiny glasses, the participant is warned to sip, not swallow like a shooter, while he lights the wax candle to pour onto the Credencial del Peregrino (the passport in which Pilgrims collect stamps from all the places that they visit. No stamp, no Caminho and no blessing from the guys In Santiago). I sense a moment that will never be forgotten, grab my iphone and video the ritual. And this is where I crack up – in his enthusiasm to put a fair amount of expensive wax (I was told 2 euro for each candle) for the South African pilgrim (Carlos lived in South Africa until 1975), he actually burns a whole right through my Credential! It takes all my good Virgo manners, more than it took to actually eat octopus, to not fall off my chair laughing. The poor man – 10 out of 10 for trying.

At 10 euros a night this stay is a bargain. For an extra 2,50 euro, Carlos sells breakfast from a laminated photograph showing what one can expect to receive in the morning. All self-help, so you can get going at your own time. Well, you can get going straight after the church bell kicked your sleepy ass out of bed so rudely you will not want to stay longer. (I think it is all part of a conspiracy). I decide to take Carlos up on his promise of the best breakfast ever. At this point, a fellow pilgrim, Ronaldo, from Germany has joined us. I watch the ritual again, warning Ronaldo that his credential might go up in smoke. However, trust the Germans to have their credentials made of better paper than the South African version. Ronaldo worked in Baragwanath in Gauteng (then still Transvaal) in 1993. Thought he looked as if he was suffering from post traumatic stress disorder, but decided not to say anything…

Three minutes past seven we are both in the kitchen for the breakfast of our lives. Cheese slices (the little individually wrapped numbers) and ham slices (in an opened packet) in the fridge, with a box of milk and some liquid substance that one could only assume would be juice. The selection of jams would make any Vroue Landbou Vereniging woman older than 40 die on the spot. What is it with the Europeans that they do not understand jam? Jam means “pound for pound”, nothing more, nothing less. Is does not mean boil the holy **** out of fruit and add a tiny bit of jam or pectin or some other chemical substance like asptertame to it, put it in a bottle and call it jam. No no no! Jam can spread, it does not stick to the spoon so that you need a knife to scrape it off. Jam usually maintains the colour of the fruit – it is does not turn into a boiled tar colour. Jam tastes of the fruit that it is made from, it does not taste like – well it tastes like fruit.

Ronaldo (and this I heard from the zippy English lady and the Canadians) takes a taxi to get him halfway to the next stop. I am shocked and horrified! A taxi?? Really? Never thought of it. I am invited to join him and two people from NZ “so as to have an easier start to the day”. Hell, after the start I got to this day, I need to be admitted to a clinic for sleep therapy, I don’t think I will ever fall asleep in my life again after my rude awakening of this morning….

I walk. Thanks to decent signage (about the only good thing about this horrid little village) I do not get lost. Considering the mood I am in thanks to the church bells, it is just as well. Two minutes out of town and I am in paradise. Country lanes with loosely packed stone walls draped in the most sensually lush green moss, more fruit trees and flowers and fields and fields of olive trees. The olive trees are ancient – what must be fourth generation growth out of massive old stumps. With intricately shaped bent branches covered in the same lush moss, their branches weighed down by thousands of tiny green olives, each tree a painting. Oak trees that must be hundreds and hundreds of years old hosting green ivy that grows right to their tops, from where they cascade in yet more shades of green. Mushrooms share the barks of the old trees to create a magic forest – in which I gently tread my pilgrimage.

Hamlets with no more than ten houses at the ends of these country lanes deserted, all but for the barking dogs and scraggly cats. While I do feel terribly sorry for the dogs on their short chains, I am eternally grateful that some of them actually are on chains. They look scary and vicious, and I pray that their chains would not snap as the bark hysterically, all but foaming at the mouth. The shutters and windows of all the houses are tightly locked – I am not sure if it is to keep out the heat or the flies. As for the latter, they are the pest of Portugal! I walk around waving my arms and hands like a total madmen, fearing that if I don’t a swarm will actually crawl into my nostrils and lay their eggs in my brain. (Someone I know recently grew a worm in her brain – took doctors forever to find out what was wrong with her…). And then there is the strange thing of keeping birds in cages – in one village a house has a cage at the back with hundreds of birds, amongst others crows and cockatoos, screeching and squawking and making such a racket that you could hear them a mile away. Why?

In Ansiao I stop for my daily fix of coffee and pastel nata. (I am now officially addicted).

Today has been the highest climb so far – 470 meters. At the highest point above Alvaiazere it is wonderful to look back at how far I have actually walked, but seeing the road stretching up and up in front of you can be very daunting. My body tells me that 20 kms a day are enough, the guidebook (my friend the honourable Mr. Brierly) says 30 kms a day is good. I have no idea what he basis this on, and can see why people end up taking taxis and buses when they base their trip on his expectations. Both Ron and Ronaldo have mentioned that they feel subtly bullied by Brierly, who creates expectations by his description of what one should expect on the walk. I agree. I also realise that my biggest gift this far has been the fact that I do not have to walk with other people – since I left Daniel on the third day, I have not walked with anyone. It is my own pace, my own observations and my own expectations. One of the main reasons I chose this route was because it is quiet, and that it is. After 20 kms I am tired, my back aching. I decide to have a nap under the pine trees – the perfect spot with almost no flies. (These have been the thorn in my flesh!). I spread out my kikoi, take a few deep swigs of the bottle of red wine I saved from last night, and within seconds I am fast asleep transported to another planet. About an hour later I wake up, feeling like a new person. The last ten kilometers are as beautiful as the first ten, yet my back is really sore now. I take a slow pace, stopping often and eternally grateful that Rabacal is not on a hill like most of the other villages.

Arriving at Rabacal I meet Ronaldo
sitting outside the cafe across from the hotel where I am going to stay. The hotel is totally locked up, with an apology and a telephone number. Ronaldo tells me that he got in thanks to the lady at the museum, but seeing that it was now 18h00 (the bells where chiming for me as I walked into the village, the strangest tune amplified over loudspeakers!) everything was closed. As I do not have a telephone, I signlanguaged the lady in the cafe and she phoned someone. In the meantime, I joined Ronaldo in the meal of the day – a greasy cheese and ham omelet with greasier chips and green salad. Very wet green salad. And of course several beers to counteract the dehydration of the day. A man arrives (his name sounded like “Saint” – anything is possible here) and unlocked the hotel. It is a real hotel, with a real bar and dining room, without any human beings in it. It felt like a movie set – real but totally unreal. He scratched in a cupboard to find towels and little soaps, and took me to a room on the first floor. Perfect – just totally deserted. Ronaldo is in the room next to me. Weird!

And so this day draws to a close. It was perfect, the quiet forest lanes weaving through the countryside, the four puppies all curled up together, the magnificent moonflowers and the packed stone walls overgrown with ivy, the tapping of gum from the trees, the cobblestone lanes, the two blue eyed kittens. The quiet. And just my own peaceful company.

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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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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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Azinhaga, Portugal

Vandag het Portugal haar teen my kom aan vly. Slinks, verleidelik, met die intense geur van vye wat soos ‘n eksotiese wolk wierook om haar walm. Want sien, ek is mal oor vye. Vroegdag hang daar ‘n mis oor die varsgeploegde velde, wellustig na die aand se donderstorm. Spinnekoppe het oornag hul webbe gespin – seker dié dat daar minder vlieë vanoggend is.

En toe die oggendson begin kwestend raak sweef daar ‘n meesleurende geur van vye intens in die lug. Mielies en tamaties en vlieë word vervang deur vye en granate en bye. Wollerige kwepers hang gul oor mosbegroeide mure. Suurlemoenbome is geil in hulle groen, en kneukelrige olyfbome hang dragtig met die nuwe seisoen se oes. Vandag is daar baie groot miere op die grondpad, geitjies wat teen mure bak en lawwe honde wat baie bly is om hulle ore gevryf te kry. ‘n Vaal katjie soek tevergeefs aandag agter ‘n gaasvenster. Ou tannies met bak bene en swart rokke stap mark toe, die ooms drink klein koffietjies teug-teug. Die posman is op sy fiets, die broodman hang weer sakkies vars brood aan hekke. Die keistene klink hol onder die karre se wiele.

I am not sure if it is the red wine or the good nigh’s rest that did it, but I am awake at 05h00, rested. After breakfast the lovely Helena shows me the way out of town via a back road. After that, the next almost ten kikometers are along a treacherous tarred road, with just about no edge. I have to decide which I would prefer – to be hit from the front or from the back. I think with a backpack it would help a bit if I am hit from the back. Cars and trucks whizz past at an unbelievable speed – I literally have to hold on to my hat. My coffee stop is at Golega, also known as the “horse capital of Portugal”. Obviously a more affluent town, it is a quaint place with lots of little shops. I settle for two coffees, and listen to the ladies nattering away inside the shop while I sit on the stoep. Their Portuguese does sound as if they all have badly fitting dentures as they all chat at the same time, laughing at their own jokes. (Well, it sounded like jokes). People are friendly – a wave gets a wave. I still get the Italian, Spanish en Portuguese mixed up… After my coffee I head of out town via another back road, the morning sun now chasing away the mist.

About three kilometers further, I stumble across the most magnificent castle, Casa Caetano, dating back to the times of the Knights Templar. The most romantic place, hugged by ivy and roses, all closed up and seemingly forgotten (albeit that someone is still feeding the cats). It is hard to believe that a building like this can simply be closed up and left to decay. I try to get into the gardens but it is all closed up – a truly mysterious place…

In Vila Nova de Barquinha I decide to take the extra kilometer or so to go and see the park. By now the sun is high, and doing all of its promised 30 degree thing. Of course I get it wrong first and turn left instead of right, have to ask for directions to the river, and walk all the way back again. Now under usual circumstances it is not an issue – with 9ish kilos on your back, blazing sun and dog tired body, every step is an issue. You do not want to go in the wrong direction for two steps! But hey – a sense of direction was never one of my strong points. The park is a welcome oasis of rolling green lawns and sweeping willow trees. I buy a beer and a breadroll. Heaven knows the Porutguese are not strong on fillings in a bread roll. This one comes with a sliced Vienna sausage and some of those small, thin little crisps that look line baby skinny fries. At least there is tomato sauce, mayo and mustard, I settle for all three to make life bareable.

I stroll down to the river, open my kikoi and decide to take a nap under the willow trees. No sooner had I settled in, or a bloody lawnmover appears over the horizon. Oh well – I tried. So I pack up again and make my way to Atalaia (2km further) where Ron and Blanca said they will reserve a place for me as well in the Alberque that they are going to – apparently highly recommended. Not paying attention where I am going, I go wrong again. No sign of no yellow arrow, I walk around in circles… Eventually a friendly man (who sells cheese from the back of a little van) shows me the way. Ron just happens to be in the road when I trek into town, and welcomes me to the most beautiful, cool Casa do Patriarca. Luisa – the owner – lived in Mozambique for some time and her second son was born in Harrismith! I even got a “goeie more” from her! AND – there is a swimming pool. Within seconds I am in the pool – words cannot describe the sensation of cold water on an overheated, tired, aching body. Life is good. Now for some more beer and another attempt at finding food. No home cooking from Louisa tonight sadly.

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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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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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