May 9: 20 km
Last night I could only force myself into Zubiri. The path was steep, slippery and dangerous. It was mentally challenging, as I had to think very wisely where to place my next step. But it wasn’t just brainwork either. My body hurt all over – again. My right knee was killing me and this time – my shoulders too.
Zubiri offers three albergues and a few pensions. The Albergues de Peregrinos are very often municipals or religious. Most of them are very simple, but also quite cheap. In an albergue municipal you can get a bed and a shower for 5 – 8 euros. Sometimes all they want is a donation. Many of those albergues are managed and taken care of by volunteers, people from all over the world, who have been pilgrims on this path before and want to give something back to the camino. They usually work in an albergue for two weeks as some sort of holiday. It isn’t holiday at all, because as a hospitalero you have to get up at 6 a.m. to open the doors, clean from 8 a.m. to 12 p. m. and then give out beds and help pilgrims until 10 p.m. Some hospitaleros even cook meals! Quite a hard job for a holiday.
There are private albergues too. These often have a better standard, rooms with less people in it, more showers and the furniture might be a bit more modern as well. But it doesn’t have to. Sometimes, private albergues also offer dinner and breakfast as well. These are often a bit more expensive, from 8 to 12 euros, or 15 euros if there is breakfast included.
Most of the time I tried to stay in municipals, because I loved the kindness of the volunteers, whereas the private albergues sometimes failed to send out this warmth and love. That day however, the municipal was too far away – even though it just was around the corner. But after 20km, even around the corner is too far.
So, entering Zubiri, I went to the first private albergue. But since it was after 4 p.m., all beds had already been taken. Great. I have walked 20km through woods, nearly broke my neck and now I can’t even get a bed. The next private albergue however had one place left. My bed was just waiting for me! I got a bed in a room with seven other people and all eight of us had two showers just for ourselves.
After I limped in and eventually out of the shower, I finally came to my senses. I realized that I will never be able to make it to Santiago with my 12kg backpack. I did what I every pilgrim does – I unpacked my whole backpack and decided what to hold on to and what to let go.
For those interested, here is what I had in my backpack: A camping mat, a sleeping bag, a pair of normal shoes (the famous red ones!), a pair of beach slippers for the very hygienic showers along the way, my pyjama, one pair of leggings, a T-shirt, two pairs of socks, two pairs of underwear, a dress to wear when it was laundry time, a jumper, a rain-proof jacket, a hat for sun protection, sun cream, a towel, toothbrush, toothpaste, shower gel, soap, shampoo, washing soap for my laundry, hairspray (all of these in very tiny 50ml tubes or cans), a few pills, creams and plasters for blisters for medical emergencies, a little handbag for freetime activities, money and ID card, a lovely greeting card from three of my students wishing me luck, my pilgrim’s passport, some cookies, water, my camera and my diary. All of that and the clothes I was wearing (underwear, socks, T-shirt and trousers). That was all I had for two months. How could I possibly let go of any of these?
So I had to be creative. I left the camping mat behind. I was still scared that I wouldn’t be able to find a bed one day, so I could sleep on that. But I just had to let go of that fear and TRUST that there will always be a bed waiting for me upon my arrival (like in Zubiri!) I also left some pills and creams and just hoped that I wouldn’t get ill. Otherwise, I had already seen hundreds of pharmacies along the way. I also left my shampoo and washing soap and decided to wash body, hair and clothes only with my shower gel. I also pressed half of the suncream out of the bottle, so that I would only have to carry a portion of it with me. When you carry your belongings on your back the whole day, every gram counts.
I thought about also leaving my leather-bound diary behind, which looked beautiful but was very heavy too. I had just written in it for two days, so I could have just torn out the full pages and kept them. Eventually I put the diary back into my bag again. I just couldn’t let go of it – I couldn’t let go of my passion to write. I also placed my beloved pyjama and my favourite handbag on my bed before leaving – things I wanted, I had, to let go of. I was out of the door already, but had to run back for my handbag. I just couldn’t let go of it. This whole episode showed me how much I still struggle with letting go. These were materialistic things, but might this be a metaphor for letting go of old memories and people as well?
With two kilograms less, I started out on my own again, this time heading to Pamplona. The walking day started with an uphill climb, only to be alternated by many steps going down. Well, thank you very much. I was limping away again – and as fast as a turtle. Even though many people passed by, there was a man always behind me. I got a bit paranoid at first, but when I had a closer look, I saw that he was struggling more than I ever did. His face, put in a frown, and his gaze only gave me an idea of the pain he must have been in. The way he walked looked very painful. I tried talking to him, but he could hardly react. He was concentrating on each step, literally fighting his way to Pamplona.
After 3 kilometers, me and the limping man arrived in a little town called Illaratz. At a resting spot with fountain, he sat down, while I refilled my water bottle. I was in pain, but in a good mood and determined to walk until the end of the world – with or without pain. As I was ready to go again, Marathon Man Mark came round the corner. This time it was me grinning from ear to ear and he looked at me with surprise: “Hello you! You are shining today!” he commented. “I am, and ready to go – are you coming?” I asked, inviting him to walk with me. “You go ahead, I will check how my friend Stefano is doing,” he said and went over to the man, who was limping behind me since Zubiri. Either Mark knows everyone on this camino, or I seem to run into the same peopl as Mark. Very strange.
me on my third day – shining!
So I kept walking on my own, but it wasn’t until long that Mark caught up with me. “Where is your friend Stefano?” I asked, trying to be polite. “He couldn’t walk anymore. He had to take the bus.” This came as a shock to me. We suffered together for the first three kilometers and now he had become a cheater. On the one hand, I felt so strong for not giving into the temptation of taking a bus, on the other hand doubts came up if I would ever be able to get to Santiago without any aids.
For the first time I had a real conversation with Mark, who I hated so much the first time I saw him. It turned out that he was actually a really cool guy. Born in Louisiana, he was doing the camino for the third time at the age of 26. The first time he walked the camino he did the first 4 stages (around 90km) in two days. This time, he wanted to allow himself a bit more time, walking less distance, but spending some time of the day jogging. He wanted to prepare for a race in Andorra in mid June – 177km in three days. I’m not sure he survived that thing. Last time I spoke to him, he wasn’t sure if he would either.
After a few kilometers my energy dropped and I asked if we could have a break. Enjoying a picknick in the forest, we shared life stories and cookies. We heard footsteps and turned around. There she was, my lovely friend Pamela, who I met on the first walking day. She smiled at me and that told me that she wasn’t angry at me at all. Sometimes I tend to take things very personal, when people’s behaviour has actually nothing to do with me. Lesson learnt.
Pamela resting her sore feet – but she is shining too. It’s all about how to deal with the pain.
We talked for a bit and heard more footsteps. And voices. Actually it was just one voice, talking non-stop. Of course it was Chris and his friend Dan – apparently the most impatient man on the planet – and I guess also a great listener. I jumped up and hugged Chris for giving me his stick the day before and reunited, Pam, Dan, Chris, Mark and I walked on. I was hoping I’d see Dani again, the man who tried to help me the day before – walking up and down that steep hill for me. But I hadn’t seen him around the whole day. Maybe he had a late start and would catch up soon. Or an early start and I was hoping to see him in Pamplona at the latest.
Chris and Mark goofing around
After a while I realized that all the talking was affecting my energy. It dropped and I got really tired. But I didn’t want to leave Mark and be on my own again. I started to really like him and as we were talking about music, I asked him if we could sing instead.
What followed then was a 15km long singing session that lasted for hours. We sang everything from Abba to Beatles, Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, Michael Jackson and a lot more. When one would think of a song, the other would join in and we switched between songs everytime we stopped remembering the lyrics (which was mostly after the first chorus). We were loud, annoying and horribly out of tune – but we couldn’t care less. Once again, music gave me so much power that I was in some sort of trance and I can’t remember anything from that walk except the singing. We must have gained a lot of speed and left Dan, Chris and Pam and a few others, who had joined later on, behind. Before I knew it, I was in Pamplona. People said it was raining that day. I didn’t even notice. I didn’t notice my knee pain either. Once again the camino showed me how music can affect my body and soul, so much that the impossible is possible. Never underestimate the power of music.
The group stopped – at a stop sign of course – and rest, but Mark and I were unstoppable!
Since we were pushed by the music, we had so much speed (for a turtle like me that is) that Mark and I got to the albergue shortly after lunch time. Thank god, because we were running out of songs and entered Pamplona singing “Old Mac Donald had a farm” – making pig and cow noises in between. They gave us beds nonetheless.
We seemed to have lost Dan, Chris and Pam along the way. They must have stayed in another albergue. I went looking for Dani, checked every bed, but couldn’t find him. We did however find Stefano, the limping man from earlier that day. He had safely arrived with the bus. It turned out he was Italian and very keen to cook dinner for the three of us. Off we went to find a supermarket and buy some risotto. With Pamplona being quite a big city (for Spanish standards) I am sure it had more than one supermarket, but since the camino is the walk of encounters, we ran into our friends Neda and PJ somewhere between the pasta and the chocolate shelf. They too insisted to cook dinner for us, so Mark and I had three cooks that evening. Excellent.
Mark and PJ
Meanwhile, back from the supermarket, I decided to go to my bed and have a little nap. Who did I find just a few beds next to mine? Dani! Of course. He told me that his feet very killing him this morning, so he went to see a doctor. He had advised him not to walk, so he too had to take the bus to Pamplona, but wasn’t sure if he would be able to walk tomorrow. I could see his disappointment in his eyes. I felt so guilty, because he had walked up and down that hill yesterday to help me getting down to Zubiri and now it was him not being able to walk. I wished there was anything I could do, but I was too weak to carry the man with the world’s most masculine arms and broad shoulders to Santiago.
Mark, Neda, PJ, Stefano and I enjoyed a delicious meal consisting of risotto, rice and meat. Jürg, a man from Switzerland, joined in later and we talked and laughed until late at night.
Stefano cooking risotto for the camino gang in Pamplona
When I got ready to go to bed, Dani came and gave me a piece of folded paper. I opened it and read his name and e-mail-address. “I don’t know if I see you again, sweet Anika,” he said in his broken English. “My feet hurt. I can’t walk. Please write, when you home.” I was touched and told him that I am sure that I will see him again. I wasn’t sure at all, but prayed to god that I would.
The Yellow Arrow 