You say camino, I say tomato L
ESSON one on day one of my Portuguese Camino: read the instructions. Missing one sentence may cost you dearly. I wake up at 3.50am — wide awake. I try Schubert, to no avail, so I pack up and stumble out in the sleepy town of Azambuja, a guidebook and torch in hand, 8.5kg strapped to my back, my water bottle full and a song in my heart.
The book tells me that after I cross the bridge I should turn left — there I will see my first camino sign. Bridge, tick. Camino sign, no tick. I venture off anyway. It is still very dark but I follow the route as described along the canal.
According to the book, I should cross a subcanal, to “skirt the quinta”. Why did I not see this last night so I could Google it?
But I am still singing. I get to the subcanal but there is no bridge. Brambles, yes, and the smell of something rotten. 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.
I step on something very squidgy, which splatters up my leg. I gril. Is it a dead bird? Squeamishly, I look down — blood! I must be in a field full of dead animals. I take a deep breath, look closer and realise I stepped on a rotten tomato. In fact, I am in a field of rotten tomatoes. Millions of them. And I don’t even like tomatoes!
I walk all along the subcanal — still no bridge. No crossing by boat or ferry or foofieslide. Eventually I give up, walk all the way around to the main road again, stop to ask a man, who tells me in his best German that I must go “gerade gerade aus”. It sounds very far.
I stop, compose myself, the sun is now up, I read the book again. I missed the sentence that said “walk for 1.8km to the bridge, then turn left. I do, see my first camino sign, do a little jig and off I go.
To say that it is a walk in the park would be a lie. The most difficult stretch of 9km is in the blazing sun, with not a spot of shade or drop of water, a gazillion flies, dust and more dust.
There are beautiful moments, though, of little blue flowers turning their faces to the sun, fields with red and green peppers, the river Tejo flowing beside me, the quaintest little houses on the river, women working the fields, heat and dust. I try to hide in some shade when I discover a tree, only to be attacked by flies. Thank goodness I brought a light scarf I can hide under. I forget I have a backpack — my entire body has gone numb.
In Valada I stop for coffee and a ham roll. It tastes like the best Sunday roast. The last 3.7km of the 36km is now in 29°C and it is all uphill. A Swedish man catches up with me — damn. I do not feel like talking. Actually, my tongue is plastered to the top of my mouth — I ran out of saliva (and water) about 6km back, I am dripping with sweat and wondering what the hell I’m doing.
He is on a two-year programme of sport management sponsored by the Swedish government. I will not bore you the way he bored me. I am considering faking a heart attack when I hear running water! Three mikvahs coming out of a beautiful wall, fresh, clean, with running water and two small pools filled with water (and some slime). I now know what the Israelites felt like after 40 years in the desert.
Mr Swede decides he needs no water (halleluja). I gulp up about a litre, only to realise afterwards that it might not be drinkable. Oh well, if I die of dysentery tonight it was a good day. I soak my feet and almost burst into tears of joy. —© Rayne Stroebel
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