Party in Yo Pants

An old piano with indented ivory sits like a dunce in the corner. It partially covers a painted mural adorning the wall next to framed pictures of Papa Gianni and Mama, enmeshed in an artillery of smoky scenes and noir snapshots from years whittled by. There are wrinkly bespectable heads; accordian players, opera tenors and actors. A grand mural on the back wall depicts a rustic scene, Italian men smoothing sailboats by the beach of Positano as matriarchs gasbag by the bay. Smooth bassy swing and soft, dust-vinyl Gershwin mellows out from vintage brown speakers eliciting vibe, smoothing the air with sonorous texture and the flavour of romance. I look up and view stolen snaps of Coppola penning The Godfather in the very same red chair I sit in. My palette sups the history. I inhale roasting espresso.

Café Trieste of historic North Beach is my kind of place - one of many reasons why San Francisco and I were always going to get along…

The grand allure of San Francisco for me centered largely around the romantic legacy left behind by Jack Kerouac and beat vibe that he sprouted from his live for the moment adventures throughout America in the 1950’s. One sultry Autumn night when I lived back in Fitzroy, my housemate Rusty dished over a beaten up copy of Kerouac’s ‘On the Road’. Familiar with the name but not to the content, I instantly fell into Kerouac’s hedonistic mysticism, ‘live in the now’ world, his lush prose and spirit of life, love and mystic consciousness. His adventures along the pacific coast, across San Fran and Big Sur, and the trails from coast to coast across postwar America were intoxicating; a way of life that appealed awesomely to the rebellious non-conformist that lingers like a sleeping giant inside me. The man’s words spoke true and real. An echoing voice vindicating what I knew to be true to my soul, that life is too goddman short to not be making art, making music and creating love.

Rusty would wake up nine hours later to find me wired on the couch, surrounded by piles of plates and mugs, having plowed through the book, the night and a two days worth of caffeine. I got through the whole damn thing. It’s what Kerouac would have done. The result was that the allure of San Francisco was now evermore heightened by the visions in my mind alight with the legacy of JK and the life he breathed, the vision he expounded, and the truth clambering along, clasping, white knuckled to edge of his coattails.

When you build something up in your mind there’s always the risk that the reality of it will never match up to your lofty expectations. Like a blockbuster movie with more hype than substance, many a destination hath suffered thine fate. An initial gobsmack of ‘wow’, followed by a steep decline of acclimatisation and diminishing novelty. Let it be said that San Francisco not only scaled the lofty echelon of my demanding imagination, it excelled and exceeded, and blew my mind in the process. Setting first steps into the mid-morning city sunshine of San Francisco was the first time on this lengthly trip that things felt truly surreal. I was here. I’d made it. And it was unbelievable.

I discovered a small hostel called ‘Pacific Tradewinds’ right by Chinatown and managed to secure a place to crash for the night. I’d initially planned a rendezvous at the ‘Green Tortoise’, an old mansion hostel up on the main strip, and a clear sister to my old workplace the ‘GreenHouse’. Alas, this chapter would come later.

Tradewinds was a cosy spot, full of Australians and English, with the customary smattering of Scot and Saffir. I met Chris from Perth, running the desk, and his partner in crime Bryan, a beefy, kilt wearin ladies man dubbed simply and suitably the ‘Scotsman’. My body clock was still smashed beyond repair and despite my physical displacement and disaligned verterbrae courtesy of the LAX concrete floor, I set off for the sights and went roaming. Everything was there as I’d expected. Sparlking water, amazing views – Alcatraz in the guts of the bay, the amber bridge far off in the distance. The theme song to ‘Full House’ followed me the entire day, as I soaked up the vistas and steep streets lined with Victorian three story row houses with archetypal half-barrell windows. My jetlagged mind could not contain the joy at finally arriving at a place I’d dreamed about for so long.

My first night in SF was a baptism of fire. Forever a fan of bad 80’s music, I was well enticed by the hostel group outing – “80’s night with 80 cent Cosmopolitans”. Alarm bells should have rung loud and clear at this point, but I remained oblivious. Though welcoming of all persuasions, the 80’s night turned out to be unequivocally, without a smattering of doubt, a flaming gay bar. This was indeed a first. Unaccustomed to being pinched on the arse by men, the night became an educational role reversal as I endured the level of subjugation that women in any run of the mill hetero meat den are exposed to on any given Saturday night. I was particular hit with one bloke, who, in steep Itali-Frisco drawl declared “I looove your look”. Indeed flattered, I made it extremely clear that regardless of the pink drink in my right hand I was indeed spoken for. The eighty cent cosmopolitans had gone down quicker than the clientele, and as more and more Spandau Ballet sidled covertly onto the playlist, we made a cosmo-tampered beeline for the exit and directed blurred attention back to our digs.

Tradewinds was solid opener to the SF experience but it wasn’t the sort of heavy duty, big vibe hostel that I’m accustomed to. Migrating up to Broadway, I made my new home the ‘Green Tortoise’ a great, historic old mansion converted into a backpackers den, complete with mammoth ballroom with booths and pool tables. In the guts of North Beach, I found my niche and met some great people.

North Beach is a rich, amazing neighborhood - a relic locale that retains the vibe of San Francisco’s diverse, vibrant Italian heritage. Coffee shops buzz, saloon bars cook, tramcalls roll uphill and characters around Washington Square dance and laze. North Beach was once home to Kerouac and the beat movement – his local haunt ‘Vesuvio’ hums with revelry across all hours, parked conveniently on Kerouac Lane adjacent co-beat owner Laurence Ferlinghetti’s ‘City Lights’ bookstore. Though true to its’ past to a degree, the stretch down Broadway has lost its soul since the beat days, home now to a wide range of seedy strip clubs and pinstripe porno purveyors spewing ad nauseum pitches like “it’s a party in yo paaants”. The strip re-defined the term ‘Broad’ way. Indeed, it is a way to see broads. Kerouac would tilt his head and wield ice cool jive at these degenerates if he could see what has become of his digs. Shadiness aside, North Beach rules.

I spent a number of nights in a great bar called ‘Specs’. Adorned with wild shit all over the walls and ceiling, every regular had a story to tell, and on most nights, piano players churned out smooth boogie-woogie with the accompaniment of passing through Ecuadorian vocalists. Sitting atop the bar near the wheel of cheese sits a basket full of postcards from every obscure nook and cranny of the wild corners of the USA. Almost all of them are from one guy – a mysterious character who forever traipses the country searching long and hard for the ‘American Dream’. He signs his postcards with a squiggle; no one knows his name, and each postcard is a progression of thought, a few lines that usually declare his inability to find the wily bastard dream anywhere. A few times a year, the dude finds his way back to Specs for a session. Sits at the bar. Never speaks. Never says nothin’. Just drinks his beer, hits the road and continues the search.

It is now two full weeks since that first night at the gay bar. Time has unfurled greater wings and flown with haste. It is a cool, sunny day and again I sip a doppio macchiato in the warmth and rich vibe of Trieste. A sextet of worldly local women and men serenade the morning coffee patronage with traditional Italian trills and accordion 1-2’s, rehearsing for the afternoon concert. My mind filters through the freshly laid memory reel of the past weeks. The sights, the smells, the tastes…The relaxed nature of North Beach and the remarkable characters that roam the backstreets, giving life and purpose to the great places to dwell.

I kinda thought that when I got to San Francisco everything would make sense and my dreams would be answered. Things would go off with a bang and I would find my niche and a new sense of self. I can say that I’ve found some great things. Breathed in some new energy and inspiration. And certainly, I’ve found a destination that I could live in aside from Melbourne. But the journey is far from over. The travel bug continues to nip and demand more. San Francisco therefore, acts now as a distinct marker, a signpost along a much longer road than I’d initially forseen. Next Tuesday I fly to New York. From there I have no idea what lies ahead. In the spirit of Kerouac I may have to buy an old car, hit up the great beyond and just drive to my hearts content. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll pip that dude at the post and grasp hold of the elusive dream that refuses to be found.

I Left My Free Will In San Francisco

Four years ago in the oft forgotten metaphysical wonderland of Melbourne’s Wantirna, I had the pleasure of encountering a psychic soothsayer known to all in the know as Joan Starr. Petite and jovial, with an infectious laugh, neat teeth and Queen Anne furniture, the Starrwoman provided an enlightening experience and the prophecies she expounded proved intoxicating. According to visions permeating her mind’s eye, in years to come I would travel far and wide across this amazing globe successive times, whereby plans could change with the drop of a hat, wonderful, offbeat people would cross my path, and extraordinary experiences would be enjoyed and drunk up. With a gentle pause and glint in her pupil she declared softly – “I see you living in San Francisco…”.

This highly specific prophetic nugget never left me.

Be it the forces of destiny or just the power of suggestion, from this day onward the allure of San Francisco began to pervade my existence. A luscious dream was formed in my mind of this magical, far out city - its’ Golden Gate, its fog, the steep hills and vintage trams; Kerouac, Beatniks, hipsters, and boho carefreedom. Without ever having seen or tasted this far off nook something began to resonate within my intuitive innards that the Starrwoman’s oracular was bang on; her prophecies poised for vindication.

Synchronicities and odd events surrounding San Francisco began to show up in my life on a regular basis. Café’s I’d been ordering take away lattes for months suddenly brandished ‘San Francisco’ postcards behind their counters. Geezers with SF shirts kept arriving on cue whenever the Golden Gate was on my mind, and more and more people I met at the hostel would voluntarily inform me about the wonders of the magical bay city. Imagination was thrust and remained in a constant state of anticipation, waiting for the right cue from the cosmos to begin constructing this potential destiny into a surefire reality.


A Fine day in England…

A spate of typically stubborn English murk heaved chubby rain across the fields some twenty miles north of Heathrow, inconveniently positioned right through the guts of our designated flight path. An already solid ten and a half hour trip was about to be stretched to a sweaty, concyx-jarring twelve, as we sat motionless in the cabin for the duration of an entire in-flight film without having even left the tarmac. Because I’d booked a flight from LAX to San Francisco to connect with the scheduled LA arrival, this unexpected two hour delay was a particularly shite predicament.

A ruby red sun shone through the plane window. A spectrum of amazing colour and remarkable sunset horizon.

We made it off the ground and eventually set down in LA. Fearing additional delays at the potentially fruitless border control, I was amazed to find a friendly, fast and efficient procession in place and little allusion to any serious cavity searches. As my bags took their time in spurting forth from the deep blackness of the conveyor shute, I was immediately reminded me of the time I arrived here 14 years ago a an unaccompanied minor, discovering that my bags had boarded a flight to China without me or my consent. History wasn’t to repeat itself and my tired, Camino-smashed blue sack eventually emerged from the abyss, looking ugly and tired, not unlike it’s owner. After initial hope that I’d just make it after the speedy, latex-free transition through customs, I missed my connecting flight and was stuck in bloody LA.

I breathed my first gasps of sinfully sweet, hedonistic air and intoxicating bustle of Los Angles. A Sheryl Crow song began to fight its way into my brain and spoke “This is L..A..” It was all so glossy, so fast – so sweaty and musty. Black Lincolns and shiny Lexuses vied for lane space. Background characters from American films roamed before me in real life – the big bling momma with corn rows, a badass mofo with head-kerchief and T-shirt fourteen sizes too big for his bony frame. Borderline angina, a fat taxi driver leapt from his cab and spewed “Hurry Da Fock up Luis, Ya Too Fockin Goddam slow for Fock’s sake. Foooock!”, to an otherwise unsuspecting airport cab rank employee. I reckon the cabbie’s name must have been Bill, Billy, Mac or Buddy.

Dreading forking out for another plane fare after missing the flight to San Fran, my old mate Dick Branson’s Virgin America staff proved great sports and offered to put me down free of charge for the next morning’s red eye. Marred by an already visible case of red eye, lagged, clock-blown and ass-numbed from the trans-time zone air-trundle, I pulled up a section of rank departure lounge floor and bunked down for the night in chateau LAX airport.

With dreams of the orange tinted Gold Gate at the forefront of my zonked imagination, The San Fran prophecy would have to wait for yet another night…I ate my second Maccas meal in four months and hit the floor.

Bubba

I woke up one morning a while ago.
I do that pretty often. Once a day usually.
On this weird Dublin morning, though, it felt like someone had suckerpunched me plum in the face in the middle of the night.
If i posessed the marine hairdo and maniacal penchant for long walks akin to Forrest Gump back in Spain, then my transition to Dublin had somehow turned me into Gump's shrimp lickin' compadre, Bubba.
I still don't know what went wrong with my lip that day, but it stayed for two days and kept me indoors for fear of scaring small bloodnut Irish children.

True Story

Time flows quickly...

Chafe. The Climax.

Bolstered by the successful 34k frolic of yesterday and aided by the presence of a new team of pilgrim compatriots, I experienced the smug hope today that my days of vicious leg rubbing and unfathomable pain were well on the path to oblivion. It might just prove to be smooth sailing and joyous trekking from here on in. Ahh, the delusional rhetoric of an idealist.

Sleep was intermittent last night due to a grizzled Eastern European nugget who produced animal noise all afternoon and evening on the bottom bunk below Charlie’s bed. We later hypothesised that he was solely responsible for the drained red wine tap back at the Bodega, and must have sucked the old girl dry before floundering up the hill to an exigent Albergue pass-out prior to our arrival.

At crack o’clock the fabulous peregrino five hit the trail and burned at a steady 6km/h through magnificent, low-cutting vineyards of the famous Rioja wine region, past haystacks and tractors, and the sort of crossroads where Satan might hang out with ‘Hell’ brand chafe cream for the tender price of one’s knackered soul. Two days ago I would have considered the transaction. Today, however, legs, back and inner thighs all felt great. One thing I began to notice was a damp disturbance around the end of my left pinky toe. A pitstop at the following town revealed the worst - a gaping, red raw, pustulious gash of blister that from sight alone appeared to be doing my efforts very little justice. A tad disgruntled, I bit lips, joined the crew and soldiered on. A part of me had reconciled with adversity and was beginning to welcome the fresh pain. Call me a sadist.

I caught a fresh wind sometime later aibetted by some mighty conversation with Johan and Christy and sailed through the noon sun and steep gravelly inclines. Charlie, 46, fit and mad, went fully spare at one point and excused himself before bolting ahead like a lunatic into the far reaches of the distance. He made it to our main stop ‘Viana’ at least half an hour before the rest of us did. Johan foolishly kept walking a good k outside, heaving sweatily and suitably ‘pessed orf’ upon return, as any South African would be in his situation.

A drinks session was convened post-siesta with new faces to the crew were - two geezers that I would have a fair bit to do with in the coming days. Brothers from Stansted, Liam and Neil, proved to be extremely irreverent and highly entertaining sparks of English hilarity, duel-handedly fuelling the night from a few quiet cervezas into an convivial piss up. They told us about their first day of the Camino, where the two of them ended up getting wankered drunk and beating each other up in the street. I wondered how the relationship might be tested after an additional four weeks on the trail.

After copious examples of the local red, we remained late stayers until the wee hours, lapping up Thunderdome-era Tina Turner on the jukebox in the last waterhole open in town. It’s no surprise that sleep was even more destitute than the night prior, and this time I was the sole grizzled wino to blame.

A red wine sugar high managed to propel my exhausted and dishevelled carcass from bed into the Viana hinterland, smashing 10km in little over two hours. But at the town of Logrono I was hit by a wall. I hurt bad. I was hungover and in physical pain and the hideous blister on my violated pinky toe was yearning for that Luciferian crossroad in order to cut a deal. After ramming down a pastry and Spanish coffee I followed the crew’s motion and saddled up for more throbbing action. Something, though, told me I probably wouldn’t be making it much further than the outskirts of town. The left knee had shat itself; it was fed up, and it looked increasingly like Logrono was to be my bed for the night. Initial dismay from the team at their fresh casualty turned into good tidings and an invitation to rendezvous up north in Bilbao if I felt like burning some more ligament down the coastal route to Santiago. I expressed my best wishes and intent to keep it as a viable option. But my knee and subconscious knew otherwise. This tired, aching stiff was nigh on calling it a day. The knee was gone. My Pilgrim dream all but over.

Ravenous, and still very much hanging out of my ass, I took advantage of a supermercado that was actually open for business, and made a swift, robotic dietary purchase. It was a no bullshit meal bereft of nutrition. 1 x big fuckoff breadstick; 1 x tray of chorizo. I can’t deny I felt slightly ill after downing a whole 250g family lunch pack of chorizo sausage, if not a sense of colloquial pride, but I resolved that it was necessary under the exceptional circumstances.

With the reality of a subverted knee ligament, I came to a very natural conclusion that the Camino was over. It had been real - I’d learned what I needed, pushed myself well beyond anything I needed to and had nothing more to prove to myself, nor anything to prove to anyone else. I supped a snifter of the pilgrimage vintage and that was enough to whet my proclivity. Those other mad suckers could keep bloody walking. This pilgrim was cactus. No more masochistic lugging of an absurdly packed boulder on my ailing back; no more perilous bastardry of my tender thighs. I felt a new optimism. The madness was over.

After lining up at the closest Albergue with the standard array of oddballs, I noticed two familiar faces lumber in at the end of the line. It was Liam and Neil, my UK pals and Tina Turner aficionados from last night. Thrilled to see that I was still nearby and not four towns ahead with the others, we agreed to convene for another night on the town post-siesta.

It was a grande night.
The opening of the Olympics, a happening social vibe in the cobblestoned streets, and no shortage of licentious options. After a fat meal of lunch, the Spanish like to sleep in the arvo before waking up around 8pm and hitting the old quarter of town – crawling through a bevvy of assorted bars, each with their own tapas and vino specialty, and pigging out on sumptuous morsels of food and hodgepodge of piss to wash it down. It’s not a bad existence. Neil and Liam, never shy of a convivial tipple, provided solid support tonight in painting the town chafe red. Bar after bar, we ate the most amazing skewers of spiced pork, shells of scallop, black Spanish sausage, chorizo pockets, washing it all down with crisp glasses of cerveza and local vintage red.
We were pigs in shit.

Thanks to Neil and Liam’s pidgon Spanish we forged a number of new acquaintences, including budding red-painters, the Quebeqoise femininas Virginie and ‘Madamoiselle’ (can’t for the life of me remember her name), who joined us for the evening long haul. At one point a mashed old Spaniard attempted to initiate fisticuffs with Liam, mumbling something about always wanting to punch an English pigdog in the kisser. I relished in breaking it up, showering the glazy none-the-wiser Spaniard with some of my more colourful vocabulary, plum to his face, with a grin eminently disproportionate to the calibre of tidings expounded from within it. At the next bar we were informed sternly by the manager that if we didn’t promptly finish our drinks and vamoose we would be kicked out to the street. As staff members cleaning up outside confided to us that their boss was a colossal prick, Liam, manly in Virginie’s frilly sunhat, staged a monumental slapstick protest to the manager’s burly truculence. After copying the manager’s motion in kicking a disused winebox, Liam slipped plum on his ass into a large pile of swept rubbish, before trying to save face by pouring a bin full of the night's trash over it. A display as spontaneous as it was bizarre, it made the cleaning staff’s night, and at least gave the dense manager something to think about. Words give but a fleeting insight into the comic resplendence of this Abbot and Costello calibre scene. Complaints and anger have their place, but acts of sheer randomness and self-violation really get the adversary's head ticking over.

With enough shenanigans to pack into a 17-kilogram sack, a heavily inebriated Liam insisted on walking the girls 20 minutes away to their camp site. Neil and I stumbled back to the Albergue and were somewhat horrified to see that both front and back gates were locked solid. This was not good. After banging like madmen on the wooden doors and ringing the bell excessively for a solid minute, the very disgruntled old Spanish bloke running the shop opened up, sputtering gibberish and displeasure. Neil, fluent in Italian but not Spanish - also heavily inebriated, attempted to negotiate a re-entry into our accommodation. No cigar. He didn’t believe we were pilgrims at all. As the old git attempted to close the door on us, I stuck my foot in and demanded that we at least be able to get our stuff from upstairs. Now it was beginning to look like forced entry, as an aging Albergue owner jousted with an unruly Australian ex-pilgrim desperately trying to get to a bed. The police were called and the comedy of errors continued. Neil, in fine form, negotiated some leeway, claiming we were Catholic brothers from Ireland, accusing the policemen and the Albergue bigot of religious persecution. “Its enough that we deal with our hardship and persecution back home…but not in Spain, not in Spain!”. He would later berate the owner at not being of Catholic persuasion, taunting him with the impending reality of two years in purgatory. With Neil doing the talking, I was relegated to a role of desperate gesturing, and anything that might prevent us from being locked up. After threatening to abate Neil of his teeth, the officers ruled that we were allowed to re-enter the Albergue, on the proviso that we got the hell out of there by eight the next morning and never came back. Otherwise, handcuffs. Or, as it were, fisticuffs.

Morning came. In a blink, my bunk was being shaken by our mate Adolf Albergue. It was ten minutes to eight and, recalling the threat of the local constabulary, I decided it was in my best interests to get out of there and fast. I wasn’t up for a night in the local pen. Not with Neil doing the negotating. Plus I’d since booked a flight to Dublin and had to get up to Bilbao. I shook Neil a couple of times but the bastard was out cold. He wasn’t getting up for anyone. And Liam was nowhere to be seen. Shrugging my shoulders I saddled up and hobbled out of the god forsaken Albergue, giving my regards to the owner with my customary misleading grin.

It was the night to end all Caminos. I’d done what I came to do. Which, ultimately, was never completely defined. But whatever it was, I did it. So, I may not have traipsed the entire 790km of the Camino de Santiago. But I walked like the wind. I sang like the bush. I trundled like the invisible horseman. I went hard and did it in style. Nearly got arrested. My El Guapo was as good as conquered.

A valiant return to Dublin was in order. Plus, i'd scored a sweet and lucrative writing gig there, with the added fortune of free, luxurious accomodation. As Duck Dunne of the Blues Brothers band once declared, "If the shirt fits...wear it"

As the sun began to rise, I placed my hands on hips, twisted my head and thrust my crotch skyward. This amigo had done his dash, done it in style, keen to let El Sol set over yet another wild, of not ambitiously random adventure.



Prologue
Still mid-trek across the far reaches of the Camino, I would later receive word from the Stansted brothers…

From Liam
neil punched in the face by the police, am sure he´ll explain.
locked out the hostel slept in an abandoned house, awoken by a rat crawling across my face. found neil in the town plaza asleep.
oh well, was a good one. let us know if you head to london and we´ll rock it out.

good luck in dublin.

From Neil
Hey Cam,
Beaten up by the police the next day. Hope Dublin is treating you well. We have relaxed a bit since then, money has not lasted. Liam slept out, lost most of his stuff.
Let us know when you get to London.
Bye for now.

Pavareedy

As a brief intermission from the compelling 'Chafo De Santiago' Series, Doolblog brings you this short clip. Pavarotti + a shitscared looking Lou Reed. One of the more amusing collaborations i've come across.

Chafo 3 - Madness Begets Madness

They say Madness begets Madness.
This morning I arose at the comely hour of 3.30am and began walking the El Guapo well before Dawn even had the chance to whip off her jumbo undies and get her crack out. This trek was beginning to get to me, because I thought nothing of this strange behaviour at the time. Energetically I felt an inkling that today would yield a better walk – my legs were well stretched, the chafing almost completely gone and my body reasonably rested. Everything seemed to be in order. But as I began to walk further and further away from the deserted Puerte La Reina laneways and amber town lights, I moseyed further and further into darkness. It hit me that it was still a good couple of hours before the sun was going to come up. My organisational bankruptcy had once again tucked its teeth into the core of my arse – If I didn’t pack a sleeping bag then there was buckley’s chance that I’d had the foresight to pack a working torch. Light began to fade, darkness seeped in, and before I knew it I was trundling through pitch black fields with only the silhouettes of the distant hills and trees to give me any credible bearings whatsoever.

It’s funny what your mind does to itself when it’s alone in a strange foreign land, in the middle of pitch darkness in a nondescript forest. The music from my Ipod did its’ best to quell a brooding wave of fear and isolation climbing up within me, slowly gripping its way around my imagination and rationalism. I began to shit myself. Jesus. What if I got lost? What if I couldn’t see the Camino signs and ended up walking the wrong goddam trail in the middle of the desert, or down the murky pits of a Spanish cliff? Then suddenly, something startled my vision from the far reaches in the depths of the adjacent field. Strange lights. Flashing. Two of them, close together. Spine tingles rose within me. Fear gripped my heart and choked it like a deranged strangler. It poisioned my brain with outrageous thoughts. At that exact moment, all alone in the middle of a Spanish forest, I swore to St James that I was about to be preyed upon, abducted and probed by belligerent aliens from another dimension…waiting with baited martian breath for a torchless pilgrim to provide an easy target for an inter-species probing.
If it wasn’t bunionitis and red raw chafing it was fucking aliens.

Again, I pulled my logical mindset together. I breathe in deeply. ‘There are no aliens, fool’. There will be no probing. I regrouped. My mind at ease. It felt good. Positive. Back on track. And then I plunged my runner into a three foot puddle of brown water. Understandably, this really pissed me off and with temper now overriding fear, I was in the right mind to smash something in the face. With a saturated foot my spirits fell again…until another glimmer of hope - a distant thought from left field. God It would be amazing if it were true! After five minutes of blind rummaging, buried within my toothpaste stained toiletry manbag was a tiny four year old torch the size of a double A battery, planted and sitting idle for years on hand to rescue me from a future scenario of interstellar sex crime and incidental cliff diving. I was delivered from all evil. The potency of light emanating from this sorry torch was akin to an Ikea desklamp at the MCG, but it provided just enough to allow me to put one foot in front of the other and avoid any further foot saturation. The day just got better, and dawn and her crack were still nowhere to be seen.

With five solid hours of walking behind me, I’d reached the same distance as yesterday, only this morning I completed it by 9am. And the legs, well, they felt pretty good. Sore, splinty, but solid. Maybe they were getting used to this onslaught. Pleased with efforts I decided I’d treat my body to some more walking. In the town ‘Estella’ a number of locals appeared to be suiting up in customary bull running attire, for what I wasn’t sure. Sure enough, some time later a race commenced…mad bolting through the streets! Fury and fear in the whites of their eyes! And behind the hoard of brave, red and white adorned men, stomping furiously around the corner, there came burning into town a hoard….of COWS!. Forget a bullhorn to the clacker – nothing strikes more fear into the heart of a man than a swift udder to the face. Estella’s ambling of the cows leaves Pamplona’s weak lumbering event looking like a walk in the Spanish park.

Trundling by a nearby winery, I was touched by the thoughtfulness of a drinking fountain which provided one tap for water, and another tap for fresh red wine. Someone wino had drained it early, so I was bereft of free piss on this day. But this was the least of my worries. The sun began to seriously burn. I’d been walking for hours and my body clock was shot. It should be dinner time but it was only noon. Plus, after walking up a steep incline, I must have lost at least a litre and a half of my bodily fluid drooling behind the fence of a deluxe holiday park which contained the most bright blue watered swimming pool I’d ever seen. Looking back it could well have been a mirage.

A few more k down the track I bumped into a group of folks – Charlie the Perthian, Jonas the Saffir, Christy from San Diego and Alex from Brighton. They were a good mob and I offered my services to complete their team of five. Finding it instantly easier to keep up with a group pace, I burned deep thigh up the next hill and breathed an epic sigh of relief at the sight of the Albergue at the top. An incredible vista greeted our efforts and we crashed in spectacular style. Another day down, another 34k for the ailing joints. A night on this piss, good food and good wine. Plus the nice change of good conversation with some excellent people. After a potentially perilous commencement, this day turned out alright…
Would the good times last? Could I slay my El Guapo and send him on his ass?
Chafo: The Epic…continues with part 4…
Don’t you go changing’