Kiwi on the Camino Read online

  The spectacular Sierra de Tramuntana mountain range flanks our left and blocks our view of the Mediterranean Sea as we continue across the flat land. (The mountain range was declared a World Heritage Site by UNESCO in 2011.) As we near Pollensa, Wayne points out a rocky hill – the Puig de Maria – and with some relish (he is my younger brother you may recall) pronounces that climbing this three hundred metre limestone rock will be our training walk in the morning. In my jet-lagged state, I cannot begin to imagine making it to the top of this hill. It looks far too high and far too steep. I do not yet know that I will come to enjoy and value the climb to the top of the Puig.

  To my delight, Wayne and Julia’s cottage is in the old village just a few streets away from the Plaza Mayor, the main square. From this plaza, all roads in the old village begin and then fan out to the newer parts of Pollensa. The ancient stone homes, some with shops located on the ground floor with living quarters above, are built in rows, two storeys high, giving the feeling of being walled in. The houses are all constructed from the local sandstone and radiate light and warmth in the sunshine. The narrow roads, first paved as recently as the 1970s, also glow. (Prior to paving, women sprinkled water on the roads to reduce the dust nuisance.) The roads, initially built for human or donkey feet, are now either one way for motor vehicles, or remain foot traffic only.

  Many of the houses have either bright green or blue window boxes brought alive by brilliant red geraniums contrasting perfectly with the sandstone. Other houses have geraniums in planter boxes on the front steps. The external window shutters, so very necessary for shutting out the hot sun, are painted to match the planter boxes; all are very attractive.

  Few occupants of these eye-catching homes have garages in which to house their small cars. Some families have converted the downstairs space, which would once have provided shop space or stabling for animals, into garages. The garage-less residents, must drive up and around the one-way streets trying to find a park as close to their front door as possible. Often, a narrow, walled in road is blocked when a car stops for shopping to be unloaded. Mission accomplished, the car is then driven off to wherever it can be bedded down for the night. Wayne stops in the middle of the road and unloads us three passengers, in the absence of shopping bags, then drives off in the hope of finding a space in which to park.

  Before sunrise on our first morning in Pollensa, Wayne, Bruce and I are up and off to scale the limestone hill we had seen from the car the day before. I had had the opportunity to study the rock a little more from the lower terrace of Wayne and Julia’s house. The steepness was not diminished from this viewing position.

  To walk the two kilometres from the house to the base of the Puig involves passing through the streets of the old village. During this first early morning saunter, I begin to experience a quiet panic with the dawning realisation that Bruce and I will need to find our own way through the village on future excursions. To compare the old part of Pollensa to a rabbit warren is unfair; it is more a stone maze. The narrow streets with their two storied houses, all built with the same sandstone, begin to merge in my memory and I doubt I will find my way without Wayne. I might possibly have Bruce as a companion on later jaunts, but he relies on me to find our way. My sense of direction is better than his.

  After some twenty minutes, we arrive at the foot of the hill where the crowning monastery, Santuari de la Mare de Dēu del Puig built in the thirteenth century, awaits our ascent. The road up the hill, which is extremely narrow and potholed, only goes so far and as there is little parking at road end, most people leave their cars at a carpark across the road from the start of the ascent. There is a gap in the perimeter fence which gives an expedient short cut out of the car park. We don’t have a car, but do avail ourselves of the shortcut.

  The ascension is not difficult, but it is not a stroll either. As we wind our way up the limestone rock, grassy paddocks, olive groves and other fruiting orchards give way to holm oaks and pines. The road gradually becomes steeper and on this, our first climb, we are breathlessly obliged to stop and admire the views. Fitness, or lack thereof aside, the views are remarkable. We look back and down to Pollensa gradually emerging from the night shadows as the sun lifts higher. To the east, the rising sun is turning the sea at Port de Alcudia into a sparkling jewel.

  As we climb yet higher, the asphalt road ends and a narrow cobbled, two-person width path begins. At first the cobbles are level and orderly despite nearly seven hundred years of foot and donkey traffic. The oaks and pines become sparse and almost give up the attempt to provide shade for the wild goats which show off their sure-footed, skittish skills. Higher still the path narrows. The worn cobbles are now sometimes upended and the path becomes potentially treacherous. “Suitable only for goats,” I mutter. We totter from one rough stone to the next. We are now in terrain that is rocky, dry, and hardened by years of rain, wind and sun. Occasionally, I need to place my hands against the large boulders beside the path to steady myself. How many hands have touched these same rocks over the centuries?

  Finally, the reward at the end of the climb. The Sanctuary is necessarily a smallish complex; there isn’t a lot of space on the summit. The massive creamy to brown stones of the building are warmly bathed in the early morning sunlight as we sit and take in the near and far off surrounding beauty. We also steady our breathing.

  The dim chapel has its original flagged blue floor, so worn over the centuries that to walk upon it feels like walking upon waves. As well as the chapel, there is a large kitchen, dining room, sleeping quarters and three wells. How did anyone manage to dig three wells on top of this limestone rock, back in the thirteenth century, without the aid of earthmoving machines and mechanized drills? There is a modern addition to this ancient complex – a café. It is closed.

  As I walk through the kitchen, the cavernous dining hall and the sleeping cells, I notice there are no fireplaces except for those in the kitchen. The fireplaces may have been removed, but I think not. I am feeling cold on this early morning in spring. In winter, the nuns must have been very cold indeed on this exposed hill. The hardy nuns refused to leave their Sanctuary even when ordered down by the Bishop of Mallorca for safety reasons.

  On the west side of the monastery, looking out to Port Pollensa, stands the remains of the signal tower where fires were lit to warn of approaching danger. Other towers are located along the length of the Tramuntanas, and in times long ago, when a fire was spotted at one tower, the signal was repeated from tower to tower: communication was by fire in the absence of the mobile phone.

  From the summit, the loveliness of the environs of Pollensa is intensified with the backdrop of the limestone Tramuntanas rearing up out of the valley floor. Holm oaks, pines and olive trees have, over the centuries, thrust their way up through the limestone on the mountainsides. The lower mountain slopes are terraced and planted with olives and grapes. The greens and greys of the olive leaves create a stark contrast against the paler grey of the limestone rock. Valley floors are planted with grapes and olives, interspersed with fenced pastures where cows and sheep graze, giving a sense of domesticity in the face of wild limestone splendour.

  The mountains have protected the village for millennia from both natural and human devastation. Human devastation came in the form of Moorish pirate raids, hence the need of stone signal towers. Due to the presence of pirates, the village of Pollensa was established six kilometres from the sea. The pirates, although long gone, are not forgotten. Once a year the villagers celebrate the festival of La Patrona where they dress up as Moor and Christian to re-enact the battle that raged on a day in 1550. The Christians of Pollensa called to both God and the Mother of Angels and were aided in their defeat of the Moors. During La Patrona, the Moorish pirates throng the roads of the old village walking to their defeat at the hands of the Christians. On the way, the pirates rub the wax off their faces onto the cheeks of village women to mark them as, ‘taken by the Moors.’ Julia has b
een known to receive kisses as the rowdy Moors, always hopeful of victory, pass down the narrow streets.

  Gradually, Bruce and I begin to fall in love with Pollensa and by extension, with Spain. It is a sound decision not to hire a car to view as much of the island as we can. We slow down and become used to living at a walking pace. The quarter hourly ringing of the large 13th century church bells of the Iglesia de Nostra Senyora dels Angels (Our Lady of the Angels) marks the passing of our days. (Thankfully, these same bells ring only on the hour between midnight and 6 a.m. Wayne and Julia’s house is very close to this church.) We grow to be comfortable living in a different culture and environment.

  We enjoy wandering the narrow streets listening to and observing the villagers. Bruce and I watch the old men meet and greet in the cafés each morning where they relish their gossip, coffee and newspapers. Within days, we grow to recognize some of the elderly women who with a slow, but purposeful walk, pass us on their way to do their shopping. They are dressed predominantly in black, and their wheeled shopping trundlers follow like faithful border collies.

  In the evenings, before sunset, families appear on the streets and gather to discuss probably not the weather as each day is sunny, but the day’s happenings, the state of the world, the failings of the government and the latest updates on family and friends. Parents, as they supervise young children doing what energetic children do best, swap parenting tips and commiserate with one another over the cost of living. I do not actually know what the conversations are about – these are my best guesses. Watching this evening gathering of families, and the separate groups of shy adolescent boys and girls who eye each other from different corners of the various plazas, is a phenomenon we are to enjoy and notice in each village and city along the Camino. Village and townspeople informally creating stronger bonds of community together. Always, the older folk are immaculately dressed. Coming from New Zealand where dress is often casual, we know we will never blend in, even with our mouths shut. Our clothes give us away. Besides, Bruce standing at 1.88 metres unshod, is head and shoulders taller than most local males.

  As days go by, I begin to pick up a little Spanish; just what is needed to begin each day. “Dos Café con Léche por favor.” (Two white coffees please.) One of my continued annoyances with myself is my monolingual status. Despite five years of French tuition at school I cannot claim to be able to speak French. Bill Bryson, in Neither Here nor There, suggested that the French phrases in school texts do not include the kind of phrases one needs when travelling abroad. While I am in accord with such a sentiment, I am fully aware that I am the only one who can change my monolingual status. My awareness does not transmute into action.

  We are in Pollensa for two Saturdays which gives us the opportunity to attend the local food market (complete with shopping trolley on wheels) held in the Plaza Mayor. As we have arrived in Pollensa in the middle of March, before peak tourist season, there are few foreigners around. Even so, Julia makes sure we get to the market on both Saturday mornings by 8 a.m. before the tourists arrive at 9 a.m. I am reminded of fun times shopping with my mother at the produce market in Suva, Fiji, where I spent my childhood and adolescence. Here too, in Pollensa, is stall upon stall of fresh produce carefully and tastefully arranged and displayed. The colours call to me. There are deep red, orange and green peppers. Large bunches of vibrant green spinach sit alongside large, brilliant red strawberries. There is row upon row of fresh cheeses, olives, nuts (almonds everywhere of course) and dried fruit. So much food, but only so many meals needing to be prepared before we leave for the Camino. Ten days is not long enough to sample a fraction of the varied produce.

  There is a three-tiered pricing system at the market. At the top end is the price for tourists, followed by people speaking Spanish (Castilian) and then the lowest tier for those who speak the Mallorquian dialect. This is as it should be of course. Julia, being island born and bred, speaks the local dialect. Wayne, Bruce and I are under strict orders to be silent while Julia orders her produce in the local lingo. She does not want our foreign status affecting prices. After all, she is entitled by birth to the lowest prices.

  When it is my turn to purchase food, I am extremely anxious given my paucity of Spanish. Julia and Wayne take brief pity on me and give me some language tips. Then in true parent-eagle style push me out of the nest to fly on my own. When they abandon me to complete their own purchases, the vendors are kind and patient. One of the stall holders comes to the rescue and helps me with my purchase.

  My favourite time to climb the Puig continues to be early morning, before sunrise, so I can watch the sun intensifying and turning the inert sandstone blocks of the Santuari into solid gold. Often, I just have the wild goats for company. One morning a very pregnant nanny goat squares off with me for a few minutes. She has stationed herself in the middle of the path just before it becomes very challenging underfoot. Her abdomen is very extended and I wonder, “Do goats ever give birth to triplets?” Fortunately, with the disdain due a biped, she lets me pass.

  After a few walks, up and down the Puig, I become adept at balancing and hopping from one small rounded stone to the next. I am self-congratulatory on my increasing fitness and ease of both ascent and descent, that is, until a very fit, lycra-outfitted young person runs past. Some of these fine, fit people even run to the summit twice in one session and do not have a scroggin fuelled stop at the top.

  Our stay in this charming village of Pollensa is drawing to an end and the morning of our second to last day on the island of Mallorca dawns. Wayne arrives to take us on another Camino training walk in the dramatic Tramuntana mountain range. We had a previous day completed a flat walk around the Cuber Reservoir, overlooked by Puig Mayor, the highest peak in the Tramuntanas, 1,432 metres above sea level. That training walk was a flat walk as Wayne did not want to make Bruce puff yet.

  The morning begins well - the sky a Mediterranean azure blue, cloudless, with a gentle breeze on our exposed skin. It is a glorious day, the type that gets photographed by travel agents and published on shiny brochures to lure tourists to the agents’ version of the promised land. Below, to our left, the grapevines have been pruned, but are still leafless awaiting spring’s warmth and energy to begin the annual cycle of growth, wine harvest and production. The vines’ eager green shoots would soon be stretching and reaching for the much-awaited stronger sun.

  Having assured himself that his car is out of the way of tourist buses, Wayne leads us towards the high security fence which protects the famous vineyard through which we will walk to the mountain trail. The fence appears to be at least two metres high and looks even more intimidating the closer I get. The double gate is padlocked. To allow access for walkers, a high climbing stile has been placed to the left of the gates. How helpful of the vineyard operators. I would have preferred an open gate myself, but it is generous of the owners to allow us to walk through their vineyard.

  By the time I arrive at the stile, it appears to be three metres high. It is not of course. Not wanting to appear wimpy, nor to inflict any dampening upon our enthusiasm and enjoyment of the day, I stifle my doubts as to whether I can manage such an obstacle. I wait until my brother and husband, both taller than me, have scaled the stile, then take courage in my legs and climb over.

  Unfortunately, I sometimes get into a frame of mind where excitement and enthusiasm rule out better judgment. This occasion is one of those ‘sometimes.’ In my zeal and joy at being in an amazing environment, on such a superb day, I jump from the stile choosing to hold my two tramping poles aloft. Just for the fun of it, I leap as though I am a sure-footed mountain goat. I am not a goat. On landing, my left ankle rolls. It is not a small roll. “Oh no!” That is not actually what I say. My anguished cry is far more robust, though modified, due to my awareness of Wayne’s presence. My long standing eldest-in-the-family posture of, ‘I must show an example to my younger siblings’, is undiminished. Bruce’s presence does not warrant any
conversion of my language given he has witnessed me in pain on many previous occasions. The pain I experience is intense.

  In that ankle-roll moment, rather than my life passing before my eyes, I notice I can multi-task after all. I discern the immediate sensation of physical pain and the emotional angst brought about by the concurrent thoughts of, “I have just ruined the day. How stupid of me not to use my tramping poles to stabilize my landing. Why on earth couldn’t I contain my excitement and enthusiasm to take the care needed in such a mountainous terrain? If I can’t even manage this short walk, why on earth am I contemplating walking nine hundred kilometres across the north of Spain?” The inner critic is quick to censure and condemn. There have long been three in my marriage relationship: Bruce, me and my inner critic. Bruce is almost as familiar with this third entity in our marriage triangle as I am myself.

  I sit down and remove my sturdy tramping boot which has, on many previous tramps, provided much needed ankle support. There is good news and not so good news. My ankle does not appear to be broken, but the sprain looks to be severe and the swelling has begun. I recall knowledge gained in several bush-craft first aid courses. “Sprained ankles are the most common reason for failed tramping trips.” The inner critic is now at full volume. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” We are just three days away from beginning our nine hundred kilometre walk. Will my moment of careless joy and abandon now prevent not only our anticipated day’s walk in these picturesque limestone mountains, but also our walk across Spain? Much more than the loss of a one day walk is at stake. I cannot bear the thought of having potentially ruined this one-time Camino opportunity in which we have invested so much emotion, time and finance.