constanttrek

The meseta

January 7th, 2005

Bavaria is a separate, independent nation from Germany. Did you know that? Neither did I. Due to the fact that our current travelling cotillion consists of two Germans (sorry, one BAVARIAN and one German), one Japanese, and four Spanish (sorry, four BASQUE people who happen to live in the nation of Spain) I am undergoing something of a crash course in international politics. So far I have discovered many interesting, if utterly useless, facts; for example, that apparently the Bavarian accent is rated the "most erotic" of all German accents. One could argue that this is hardly a distinction of note – but one would do so at the severe risk of sparking the ire of both Andreas and Johannes. I may do it anyway.

We acquired Johannes in Burgos.

Despite the fact that he has managed to walk all the way here from Munich, doing well over thirty kilometres most days, he has suddenly slackened his pace to keep time with us "lazy pilgrims" and our twenty to twenty five. On a daily basis he threatens to abandon us and charge ahead with his tiny little 8kilo pack, but every evening finds him waiting, one could say a little pathetically, at the door of whichever refuge the rest of us are pitching up to.

Meanwhile, Ato the wandering guy from Japan finds it utterly impossible to pass any of the (numerous) bars en-route. "BAR??" he says, eyes lighting up under his woollen hat, "LEALLY??" Then he gets a kind of fixed, determined look about him, and the next words which come out of his mouth are accompanied by a plethora of drool: "Ahhhh, CAFÉ CON LECHE…." Occasionally he comes out with an absolute gem of a comment, in a very subtle, understated kind of a way. Playing chess with Gary the other night, he was asked where he learned to play. "In India, with my master," he replied solemnly. Master of philosophy, or chess, we asked. Still nodding seriously, "master of life," he said. But a second later, and still with a completely straight face, he continued: "…and of hash hish." He looks so completely innocent you can’t help but howl with laughter.

Ato has also fully embraced that most versatile of English verbs, the "F" word, with insistent enthusiasm, using it at every available opportunity.

On waking: "F***ing FLEEZING."

On cooking: "F***ing Lice."

On walking: "F******ck."

Meanwhile, our new Spanish cohorts are dedicated pilgrims, and actually get out of bed while it is still dark and leave by eight o’clock. Like all their countrymen, they don’t actually eat their evening meal until after 9.00 pm, so it beats me how they leap out of bed with such mad enthusiasm, particularly in the consistently subzero temperatures. But then they have only been walking since Burgos.

(where’s the BAR?)

Andreas is our "jailhouse coffee" man; he simply doesn’t function until after the first cup of thick brew in the morning. If there is no facilities to boil water – frequently the case – Andreas is undeterred from his sacred coffee making mission, and instead uses the technique perfected by the inmates of the mental hospital where he is a nurse. He simply shakes a good four dessert spoons of coffee into his mug, free pours a generous mountain of sugar, sloshes in some milk, puts the mug under the hot water tap – regardless of how hot the water actually is – screws the lid on, and shakes vigorously. When I ask, somewhat incredulously, if this vile concoction is actually drinkable, he shrugs and gives his standard Andreas response: "Ja, sure, it’s ok, why not?" For those of you who know Gary, Andreas is equally laid back, so between them they are almost in reverse.

The refuges along the way run the full gamut from the sublime to the truly ridiculous. Some have kitchens, many don’t; some consist of a few beds upstairs in a nunnery or town hall. Some have showers with hot water; many don’t. Some have utterly barmy "hospitalieros", or hosts, which is often an interesting experience, to say the least. (Yesterday’s was run by a mad Spanish woman – we are rapidly coming to the conclusion that madness is endemic amongst Spaniards – who had the somewhat unsettling ability to insult every one of us in our own language. Including Japanese. In depth.) They are universally FREEZING, although occasionally we find one that has an open fire, which then leads to the most un-pilgrim like behaviour of scouring every back yard in the immediate vicinity for stray bits of wood.

(boys staring hopefully at where a fire should be)

(mad Bavarian axeman waiting for wood to chop.  We hope.)

On the subject of weather, it is worth noting that the region we have been walking through for the last couple of weeks is experiencing it’s most severe winter for over twenty years (or fifty, depending on who you talk to). What this means for us is day after day of walking through a white, frozen world much like the imaginary realm of Narnia, across the wide, flat landscape of the meseta.

Occasionally the mist lifts to afford us a glimpse of seemingly endless plains, framed in the distance by snowy mountains. Some days we trudge through snow – after Burgos it was actually over our knees for much of the next two days’ walk – some days it is mud, and every day it is cold and icy. But when the sun comes out, we are rewarded with a striking, brilliant world, and the self-gratifying knowledge that few people are mad enough to walk the Way in such conditions.

For Gary and I, it is a bit like a holiday from our Big Walk. No matter how cold or primitive, after the arctic weeks in the tent in France, it is sheer luxury for us to have a roof over our heads every night and a bed to sleep on – with extra blankets that we don’t have to carry. Most days we get a shower, even if not always a hot one, and the route is clearly marked so that even idiots like us can’t get lost. The break has given us time to reassess our packs and what we are carrying, and to think about how we can streamline our operation to make it easier. Most importantly we have had the energy to walk every day instead of needing long breaks to recover from our heavy packs.

Since crossing the Pyrenees from St Jean Pied de Port we have walked more than half of the 770km to Santiago; from here in Leon we have about 300km to go, and are hoping to be there by the 23^{rd of January.}

It is strange to think that if we had walked South through Spain instead of west to follow the Camino, we would almost have traversed the country by the time we reach Santiago. Not that we would have missed this experience. How else would I have learned that the people of Bavaria are culturally inferior in every way to their German counterparts? (JOKE, Johannes, that is what we call a JOKE.)

Thankyou to all who sent such lovely Christmas and New Year messages to us. You will be pleased to know that as I am the sole drinker in our little crew, this New Year’s was the most sober I have ever spent. So much for Germans and beer drinking. Andreas and Johannes are strictly coffee men, and as for Ato, one beer and he’s "F***ing DLUNK."

We are leaving the meseta soon and crossing some more mountains, so there should be an interesting diary entry after that little excursion.

Cheers, and thanks to the Nutter and the Donkey for their edifying comments on the last entry.

Entry Filed under: trekking