Walk It Off. Erns Grundling
it’s an inborn irritability, or a fear of boredom, or an existential realisation of just how ridiculous and futile our attempts at control are … I don’t know, queueing just gets to me. So much so that sometimes, I shamelessly squeeze in – or, let’s be honest, push in – when my frustration gets the upper hand. And feel guilty about it for a long time. A vicious cycle, then.
An example: in December 2007, a group of friends and I arrived at the Noordoewer border post in Namibia for a four-day rafting expedition on the Orange River. It was about eight in the evening, and the snaking queue that met us reminded me of a voting station in the 1994 elections. It would take us at least four hours to get to customs. And we’d only get to the rafting camp long after midnight.
After half an hour I reached breaking point and began to worm my way into the queue fairly close to the front. I also managed to persuade – force, even – my mates to join me. They were, naturally, reluctant. Especially when a group of Americans right behind us began a loud protest.
It may have been the arrogance of my youth, which has hopefully been tempered a bit since then, but I didn’t let the collateral damage bother me. I focused purely on the goal, which was only about two counters away.
But it’s always possible to be too clever by half. I’ve found that selfishness or hubris of any kind catches up with you sooner or later, and not in a good way. Call it karma, or your just deserts, or life calibrating things in inexplicable ways … whatever you like.
It happened that very same night. There are many rafting camps along the Orange River. Over New Year, there are easily up to 2 000 rafters on the water. When you go on a guided rafting trip, you are generally divided into groups of twenty.
Lo and behold, when we arrived at the camp we found we’d been put in exactly the same group as the Americans. Things were really uncomfortable at first, but a day later we could at least make peace on the river over some beers – once I’d paid for my indiscretion.
* * *
Luckily there’s not much of a queue at the Pilgrim Office in Saint Jean: four people, to be precise. The last thing I want to do is cause an international incident so soon after getting to the start of the Camino. The office is a tiny room. Three old guys are dutifully handing out and stamping booklets. There’s a large map of the Day One route on the wall, from here over the Pyrenees to Roncesvalles.
Most walkers receive their Pilgrim Record or Credencial here, the most important document for the Camino. This booklet is your proof that you are a pilgrim. It gives you access to the albergues along the route, and discounts at restaurants – most eateries offer pilgrim menus so that you can enjoy dinner at a bargain price. You also need this passport if you want to get the official “Compostela” at the end of the Camino – the certificate showing that you have completed the pilgrimage.
You qualify for a Compostela if you have completed at least 100 kilometres on foot or on horseback up to Santiago de Compostela, or 200 kilometres on a bicycle. You also need to collect stamps (called “sellos”) that you paste into your Camino passport from the albergues and restaurants you visit. If you start the Camino here in Saint Jean, for example, you need to collect one stamp per day and, if you walk only the last 100 kilometres, you need two stamps per day (for one restaurant and one hostel along the way, for example).
I had already received my Pilgrim Record from the Confraternity of Saint James of South Africa, so I needed only my first stamp in Saint Jean.
There is also a basket full of shells in the office. For a small donation (I put two euros in the little collection tin) you can choose a shell to take with you on your Camino. Most walkers tie the shell onto the back of their rucksacks with a piece of string. I pick a nice scallop shell – it looks a bit like the Shell logo. This shell, like the little yellow arrows indicating the route, is one of the symbols of the Camino.
There are several stories and legends about the symbolism of the shell. The lines on the shell apparently refer to the various routes that all converge at one place: Santiago de Compostela. In the Middle Ages the pilgrims used to tie the shells to their coats, hats or staffs. In fact, on my pilgrim’s passport there is a sketch of a medieval pilgrim with two shells neatly tied to his coat, almost like lapels. It is also believed that in the old days the pilgrims used the shells as a small bowl for scooping water or soup. They obviously did not have the luxury of a range of outdoor products and stainless-steel mugs. And at that time, when the pilgrims reached Santiago de Compostela from wherever they’d started, they’d often walk another 100 kilometres to Finisterre. They’d collect scallop shells from the beach and take them back home as further evidence of the distance they’d travelled.
This is something we modern walkers easily forget: when the pilgrims of old had walked the 2 000 kilometres from Paris, or the 820 kilometres from Saint Jean, to Santiago de Compostela or Finisterre, they would walk all the way back home again. Unlike us, who get on a convenient bus or train or plane.
Legend has it that, at the very same Finisterre, the apostle James rescued a knight from the sea. Rising up from the waves, like a mythical sea creature, James was covered in shells. Before the arrival of Christianity, the shell was a pagan symbol of fertility and birth.
Outside the office, with my passport stamped and my scallop shell tied to my red rucksack, I run into Robert from Port Elizabeth again, who’s standing in the queue. I have a sudden urge to let my father know I’m okay and ready to start the Camino. Robert takes a photo of me and texts it to my father with the words: “In Saint Jean and ready for the Camino! Lots of love, Erns.”
I also see Claire again. She tells me she is heading for the Orisson hostel, about nine kilometres from here, already quite a way into the Pyrenees. I advise her to phone ahead and book a room: I had originally planned to spend the following night there, but it was already fully booked.
Maybe it’s wishful thinking, maybe intuition, but I sense that my path and Claire’s will cross again as she heads off towards the high green mountains on the horizon.
* * *
“Do you have wifey?” a man with a thick German accent and a wildish look in his eyes asks as we stand in the lobby of the Beilari albergue. For a moment I think the man is looking for a wife, or a female companion, maybe.
The host, Josele, answers firmly but with Zen-like calm. “Yes we do have wi-fi, but we don’t switch it on for guests. The whole idea of the Camino is to be more present. If you really need wi-fi, there are coffee shops outside.”
The German introduces himself as Karl-Heinz. He looks a bit unsettled to hear that there’s no wi-fi. It doesn’t bother me in the least; I don’t even have a phone.
I try to remember the last thing I googled. It was most probably something about Slagtersnek. The last video I watched on my phone was a short clip leaked from the Kgosi Mampuru II jail showing Oscar Pistorius playing soccer with fellow inmate Radovan Krejčíř.
Josele is a neat middle-aged Frenchman, quiet and friendly. The pilgrims arrive one by one and introduce themselves. Reiner from Germany. Michelle from Ireland. Moss from the Netherlands. Chris and Ann, an elderly couple from Australia. George from Belgium. Bill from Canada, and Jim, an American who looks a bit like the old NP minister Piet Koornhof.
Karl-Heinz has calmed down a bit about the wi-fi. He mentions he’s booked into the Orisson, so his first day won’t be too bad at all. I feel a bit jealous that I left it too late to make a booking there.
The Beilari albergue is spacious, clean and tidy. Much cleaner than I imagined. I walk up the stairs to leave my bag in my room. There’s an aerial photo of the lighthouse at Finisterre on the wall, with only the word FINISTERRE on it. End of the Earth. It looks a bit like Cape Point, but more beautiful.
When I arrive at Santiago de Compostela, the plan is to walk the additional 100 kilometres to Finisterre. To the point where you can literally walk no further. I like the symbolism, here at the very beginning of the Camino, of this glimpse of the final destination, about 920 kilometres away.
Next to the poster of Finisterre there is a quote by the Buddha (or rather le Buddha – it’s