We
spend the afternoon walking around the village. Triacastela has plenty of
pilgrims. We sit at terraces and listen to pilgrims’ comments. Most pilgrims
are walking the camino for the first time (They started at O Cebreiro). The
veterans are very proud of having started at Astorga. Pilgrims who began at Leon
are like grandfathers for the others. The members of this last group advise
others with condescendingly. There are some people that say they know pilgrims who
come from Burgos. Paca and I listen smartly to them while we drink a glass of
beer.
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« Hi, Pepe! Can you use your mobile phone here? »
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« Last night some arseholes had the bright idea of setting off at 4 a.m.,
triggering off this huge commotion which ended up with nobody getting a wink of
sleep, what with so much racket and pandemonium at the pilgrims’ hostel. »
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« Hey, Nelson, (that is his real name, and this so-called Nelson is a
right country bumpkin) tomorrow I am going to catch a taxi to Sarria with
Jessica and Pantani and then from there we’re making tracks to Barbadelo. We’ll
find a bed if it’s the last thing we do.
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« Man, you’re fucking mad if you’re going to do 4 or 5 stages like the
one today! »
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« Stop fucking about! You watch, tomorrow is going to be a right shitty
track, you’ll wish you’d never come. »
At
that very moment, on the terrace everyone sings and cheers and claps as if it
were the Rocío or the Seville fair. All you need is a bullfighter to complete
the picture, the sing-along group Los del Río and that spaced out TV program
Tombola coming to ask where they should get their stamp. Sorry, I forgot to
mention the Duchess of Alba and the four or five dolled-up bimbos that are never
far off.
A
dark, young and beautiful girl comes round to pick up the credentials of the
punters and returns them with the parish stamp. There you go!
Many
of them are riders. They have horses. As well as partying and knocking back
their drinks, they argue. Not all of them show the same concern for their horses,
and that creates tension among them. A woman butts in. « Fucking shut up
you old bag ! », they silence her with looks that can kill. And so
more drinks and more clapping and more songs.
Up
until now the Xacobea cycling tour had made news. And now, at last the cavalry
breaks through. The Santiago Matamoros may well sit back and feel satisfied for
there is no lack of riders. They are from Badajoz. Two jeeps equiped with straw
carts and fodder arrive.
-
« Look, they’re here! », a voice cries when the cars appear.
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« Oy, you! Who are you? », a rider asks the girl collecting
the credentials.
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« I’m a psychologist. »
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« Have they eaten the horses? All the psychologists are round the bend! »
The
jeeps leave and the riders remain behind and yet more drinks.
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« Ole, ole, ole! »
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« Long live the White Dove! »
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« Long live Spain! »
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« Fuck, and Santiago, for fuck’s sake, long live Santiago! »
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« Yeah, right on, long live Santiago! »
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« Long live Santiago! »
...
