Walk It Off. Erns Grundling
The longest I’ve ever been separated from my phone was five days in June 2014 when I went hiking in the Fish River Canyon.
Back at the station, and a bit unsteady on my feet – must be the lack of sleep – I go to a small café and order a baguette and coffee for four euros. There are many more walkers here now – you need to tread carefully between all the rucksacks and trekking poles and hats. I sit and look at the people. People watching remains my favourite spectator sport. I hear many languages: snatches of French, English, Spanish, German and something that sounds like Korean. A kind of United Nations of pilgrims. What brings all these people here? What brings me here … ? I have my reasons. But I hope to find even more reasons along the Camino itself.
Two large buses – France’s answer to Greyhounds – stop in the parking lot. Time to leave for Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, where my Camino begins tomorrow. It looks like these buses will carry only walkers.
“You must be from South Africa?” somebody asks next to me, while I’m getting ready to load my rucksack into the belly of the bus. I’ve attached a piece of fabric with a few small South African flags to my rucksack.
I immediately recognise the accent. It sounds so familiar that I intuitively want to place it somewhere in the Eastern Cape. And would you believe it, Robert, the second pilgrim I meet, is from Port Elizabeth, where I was born! What are the chances?
Robert, a tall man in his early fifties, is really excited about meeting someone else from the Eastern Cape here in Bayonne. “I actually have no clue why I’m here, but here I am. I read about the Camino and thought why not, it’s time for a new challenge,” he says, laughing, and offers to help a young woman next to him with her big rucksack.
The bus driver is a lanky Frenchman with sunken cheeks who stood around grimly before our departure smoking Gauloises. A caricature. All he needs is a beret and a well-thumbed copy of Albert Camus’s The Outsider. And a baguette under his arm. Local cartoonist Fred Mouton would have captured the likeness nicely.
I sit at the window and watch the scenes that flash by as the bus leaves Bayonne: a few suburban neighbourhoods with billboards, then the landscape turns into pure French countryside. It’s spring in Europe and all the fields look cheerful and green. We travel through valleys, farmlands and forests, and approach the foothills of the Pyrenees; according to my guidebook, the Pied-de-Port in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port means “foot of the pass”.
The bus is packed, but the seat next to me is open. The average age of the people on the bus is probably about 30. Almost everyone is busy on their phones or listening to music with earphones. I keep reaching towards my empty pocket.
Robert sits diagonally opposite me, Claire a few rows ahead of him. Between them is a young woman – probably in her twenties – with an alert sheepdog at her feet. The dog is clearly going to walk with her, and even has its own little rucksack with zips. A purple rucksack.
God, no. I could never lug a dog with me on a pilgrimage – the thought of the admin alone tires me out. Coping with my rucksack and two trekking poles is already enough of a challenge for me.
I can see, though, how a faithful dog could be a wonderful travelling companion. Jock meant a great deal to Percy FitzPatrick. And John Steinbeck’s poodle Charley accompanied him on his road trip throughout the States. Maybe it’s because I’ve never really experienced the dog-as-man’s-best-friend thing.
When I was about five, my first dog, a Jack Russell called Bobby, tore my orange blow-up octopus lilo to shreds. Things were never the same between us again.
My next dog, Guido, was the most asocial spaniel in the Eastern Cape in the eighties. In the garden, he would run around me in ever-diminishing circles and bark at all sorts of non-existent threats. Paranoia on four legs.
“So tell me, Erns,” Robert says, turning to me, “what made you decide to do the Camino?”
The bus feels silent, as if I have an audience. Robert looks like a kindly soul who just wants to chat, but I am hesitant. “I’m hoping to find out along the way, Robert,” I say and smile.
This is true, but it’s only one of the reasons that made me decide to undertake this pilgrimage on my own.
* * *
I’m sitting on a small stone bench at La Porte Notre Dame, the gateway to the old part of the Basque town of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. The old part of town lies along a steep and narrow cobbled street that stretches into the distance, the Rue de la Citadelle. On both sides of the street are white buildings with red-tiled roofs, some dating from the fifteenth century. It feels deeply Middle Ages here.
An information plaque on the wall states that dirt-poor pilgrims have been using this very bench for centuries, waiting for food and shelter.
Right next to me is a little church, the Church of our Lady at the End of the Bridge. In the Middle Ages there was a hospital here, too, that was linked to the church by an archway – in a way the hospital and the church were one and the same. Early tomorrow morning I’ll walk through this archway again, in the general direction of the Pyrenees and Spain.
The Nive River, which has its source in the Pyrenees, flows close by. Some of the locals, and tourists, are strolling along the bank.
The Rue de la Citadelle is already part of the Camino. If I were to turn around and walk 1 000 kilometres north, I’d eventually end up back in Paris – where pilgrims have been starting from for centuries. You can start walking the Camino from many places all across Europe, such as Lisbon, Amsterdam or Geneva. In Spain alone there are six or so different Caminos that all end at Santiago de Compostela.
But Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port is the most popular and practical starting point for modern-day pilgrims who want to walk the full 820 kilometres of the Camino Francés, or “The French Way”, to Santiago de Compostela.
I feel a cold coming on, a scratchiness in my throat. Probably inevitable after all the flights, airports and train rides. All that breath. I’ve been wearing the same clothes for almost three days and last had a decent night’s rest an impossibly long time ago. The French answer to Grand-Pa powders will have to work its magic. I mix the powder with water in my coffee mug and gulp it down. I don’t know how I manage it, but the mug falls off the stone bench and cracks.
The clock tower shows it’s half past one. I usually check the time on my cell phone, but from now on the churches and pilgrims along the route will be my time-keepers.
Our bus arrived in Saint Jean about ninety minutes ago and stopped about two kilometres from here, near the train station in the more modern (or less medieval) part of the town. It was a stiff walk up quite a steep hill to the Rue de la Citadelle. A warm-up for the mountain that lies ahead tomorrow, I reckoned.
I also realised, again, that I was by no means comfortable yet with the heavy rucksack and the two trekking poles that tick-tock-tick-tocked like a metronome on the cobbles. Well, sometime during the next forty days I’ll hopefully find my rhythm.
Generally, you don’t book accommodation in advance on the Camino. You walk every day at your own pace and decide which little town along the way you’re going to find a hostel (or albergue) in. But for my first night, after the long journey from Cape Town to the south of France, I booked a place at an albergue: Beilari, a typical Basque house in the Rue de la Citadelle that sleeps eighteen.
According to the website, Beilari is the Basque word for “pilgrim”, but the literal meaning is “one who awakes”. The hostel only opens at two every afternoon, so when I arrived in Saint Jean I first went to the Pilgrim Office, which happened to be just across the street from Beilari.
* * *
I don’t know how the Brits do it, but I detest queueing. My idea of hell (hang on, I have many ideas about this … ) is to take the escalator into the bowels of the Absa building in Cape Town only to see a queue of twenty souls at the bank’s Enquiries counter. Especially if all I need is some or other form or stamp.
I prefer the chaos of an Indian train station, where you vie in a desperate ruck for a chance to beg