31: Making Deba

Not too long after walking on from the place where the shelter wasn't, I met a man coming up the trail with a yoke of oxen. They were beautiful animals with magnificent horns, and he was shouting and poking them with a stick. They were dragging a huge tractor tire. I assumed that he didn't have a vehicle big enough to transport something that large up to his farm, but I found out weeks later that he and his oxen were prize-winning competitors in such events.

We talked for a few minutes, and it was a strange meeting. He had a small but violent dog barking at me, and there was something anachronistic (again) about a man with a yoke of oxen talking to a pilgrim. But it was not just that; he seemed to be a sketchy character as well, so much so that I was on my guard and did not take such risks as taking a picture of him with his photogenic bovine friends. He asked me about the woman in my life, and I told her there was none, so he asked if I prefer men. This exact conversation takes place every so often, but it usually does not end well. I told him I do not prefer men, and apologized for not prefering men, and felt like I needed to say something more to assuage the confusion of a poor man who does not know what to do with a guy who has no woman in his life but doesn't like men either.

The rest of the walk to Deba was miserable. I trudged on in that "exhausted and dejected hiker" mode where you step into every puddle and mud-wallow in the trail, no longer making the slightest effort to keep yourself moderately dry and clean. It was raining again. My prayers were occasionally interrupted and gave way to cursing. On steep uphill slopes I didn't even say the full Jesus prayer any more, as I didn't have the breath for it. I just said, "Sweet Jesus, remember me..."

I stopped at one shop and bought a large bar of chocolate. I figured that I needed not only the energy, but also the endorphins.

I was in a somewhat trancelike state as I stumbled into Deba, but the surreal quality suddenly increased as the yellow trail markers pointed me right into an elevator door. I was on a height above the city, and there were elevators down into the town center.

I found the tourist information office, where I had been told that I could pick up the key to the local pilgrim shelter. The lady was very kind, and explained everything I needed to know. As she was talking, another pilgrim walked in. He, like the man I had met earlier on the trail, was an elderly Frenchman.

The pilgrim shelter looked a bit like you'd imagine a red cross shelter in a war zone to look like. There were steel bunks with green mattresses three beds high reaching towards the ceiling. There was a sink and a small centrifuge to dry your clothes in, and a bathroom and shower. The first French pilgrim I had met that day was already there.

Now I noticed how very wet and muddy I really was. I carefully took off my boots and socks, and I rummaged around in my backpack for some clothes that were moderately dry. The wet beach sand of Zarautz still clung to everything. I tried to wash the sand off of my sleeping bag, which I then put into the centrifuge for it to dry a bit. The centrifuge was an irresponsible affair, however, and a cracked part of the frame snagged on my sleeping bag, tearing a gash into it and flinging its white synthetic innards around the room. I immediately turned it off.

I took a shower and climbed to one of the top bunks with my mangled sleeping bag. I stuffed wax plugs into my ears, blindfolded myself with a shirt, and fell asleep.