Day 6: Deba to Markina

The Slovakian Flute as a Staff man is walking with us today. Before last night, we had not seen him since before San Sebastian, and he arrived at the Pilgrim Hostel in Deba, and seemed excited to see us. He told us then that he had continued walking with the German group – which contained Chain Smoking Drunk Pilgrim – but he had to leave them because they were drinking all day, and were slowing him down. “I couldn’t believe them!” he said with great exasperation, “we did not start walking until 10, and then at lunch they drank two bottles of wine, and then in the afternoon, they were still drinking, and we got lost and couldn’t find the arrows, and I just had to leave them because I thought, I will never get to Santiago!”

(The Drunkermans – as I am now calling them, arrived last night at about 9pm – Chain Smoking Drunk Man gave everyone a wave, lit up a smoke and babbled away drunkenly about the day they had had. It should also be noted that Germans on the Camino have quite a bad rep – and these sorts of pilgrims seem to be the cause. We often get mistaken for Alamein? and we quickly say, “No, no, we’re from Australia.”)

So today the Slovakian walks with us – we quickly realise that he is not the best arrow finder (we are lucky to have two sets of eyes), and we help lead him out of the city, and so continue on together. Our walking is always fast when we have someone to chat with, and find him an interesting acquaintance – well-travelled and well-read – he is a good change from us whinging to each other about blisters and pain.

We obtain a good Spanish guide book from the Gay Couple with the Dogs – they have left it on the path leaning against a rock – and I also find a great walking stick. (You need a good stick on the Camino, for all sorts of things.) When we pass the Korean girl and another pilgrim who have stopped for a rest, the Slovakian plays a short tune to pep them up and we continue up the gradually ascending path.

We glimpse B1 and B2 walking behind us – the Snoring Belgians – but keep up our pace as we know they are slower than us. However, later, I fall back to walk with B1 who is really struggling with his feet today. He approaches behind me as I am using my stick to try to impossibly pull some good looking berries within reaching distance, and easily grabs them for me. “I picked some for you – ” he says to Troy 50m up, who is waiting for me, “ – but I ate them all!” He says he was walking behind me, always keeping me in eyesight so he wouldn’t be left behind. B2 is well ahead of him.

Today is a hard day – because there is nothing for around 20km – so you have to make the distance, or have nowhere to sleep. All the pilgrims know this, and have left before sun up, and even though we pass or fall behind each other all through the day, we keep in mind who is behind and who is ahead, and at the albergue that evening, have a mental note of who is there, and who is yet to arrive. It is beautiful – arriving at the albergue and having a group of people, who don’t know your name, smile and applaud purely because you are there, safe and well.

The Slovakian Flute Player leaves us behind as I struggle up the hills, but we see him later on that evening, and he worries that we were upset that he left us. It’s just the way of the Way – always passing each other, but never forgetting, or stopping worrying about how everyone is travelling.

Day 5: Deba and Death

The crowd roars as the dog is let into the arena. A man runs near it, goading it to fight. The crowd claps and screams, calling for a good battle between the well-known man and the beast. The man captures the dog’s attention, while another runs at it, spearing it with two lances he holds in his hands, increasing its madness. The dog and the man skirt around each other, and the animal is taunted, tortured, and aggravated some more. It is confused and angry, and in pain, so it lashes out. The spearing and ‘dancing’ continues, until the fighter finally kills the animal with a final sword thrust through the neck. The bleeding dog lies in a heap, and the crowd is happy – it was a good fight. The carcass is dragged out of the arena across the sand, and thrown into the back of a waiting truck. The next fight is about to start, and to the delight of the fans, the next dog, and fighter, are let in.

Of course, the above did not happen. But if you substitute the word dog for bull, then yes, it did. Does that change anything? Is it still shocking?

There are only three things that frustrate me about Spain. 1) Every newborn girl has her ears pierced – I’m sorry, but to me, that’s child abuse. 2) Siesta time – yes, siestas are great, but sometimes I like to shop after lunch and eat dinner at 6. And 3) Bull-fighting.

Bull-fighting’s popularity in Spain is mostly diminishing with every generation. In some areas though, the older generation especially, and those greatly attached to it, are fighting fervently to keep it alive. It is not considered a ‘sport’ here, it is considered an ‘art’, as there is no competition between opponents (I beg to differ otherwise on the part of the bull).

Many Spanish regions, and most former Spanish colonies, have outlawed the ‘art’, but when we arrived into Deba today, into fiesta, there was a bull fight occurring, much to the delight of the entire town. Every man, woman and child wore a fiesta scarf tied around their neck, and hundreds were packed into a make-shift arena. Those outside did their best to view from windows or rooves, and children squinted through holes in the arena fencing for a glimpse.

When we went into a local bar for a drink – we realised that the fight was being relayed directly onto the big screen inside the bar. We watched, intrigued, until the first lances were stabbed into the bull’s neck, and feeling genuinely sick, we left.

I was so disgusted, and frightened, that children were watching this killing as part of a celebration. On the way back to the albergue, I peeked through the hole in the fence and could see the bull’s legs running rampantly around, and the colourful costume of the fighter. We stepped over the pool of blood in the alley way, and around the truck that already contained the body of one bull sacrificed for this town’s art display.