ENG:

This letter (or rather “retrospective diary”) was written in March 2014 in 20 pages, which was then sent to 20 of my friends. The unsophisticated style occurring sometimes is due to the primary audience of friends. On those reading through themselves, it usually had a nice impact: many of them reported meditative experience pulling out of everyday greyness, that’s why I make the whole of it available here, in 12 parts...  /CLICK HERE for the former parts/

/…/ The bum characteristics in Santiago are often mixed up with pilgrim characteristics. This Italian guy pilgrimages as a way of living, has several meters long credential (stamp collecting pilgrim certificate) starting from Germany, besides he speaks many languages. So far I knew the cannibal English and here I’ve met a lot of people speaking the bum English which is fluent but also operates with few words, excluding almost any grammar or conjunctives. He never mentioned his name, neither asked for mine, just referred to me as “El Hungaro”…

There was another lad who was able to bother almost every tourist in their own language until they gave him cigarette and money to bugger off. But most of them are wandering hobos who run down the big cities of Europe, meanwhile learning bum German, bum French etc. Of course, there are the simply slid down bums and very run-down junkies who don’t even speak Spanish any longer, are just mumbling, crawling and vegetating. Further difference is that they are not only permanently drunk, but smoke herbs all day, as well. Many of them even sell it (e.g. the glass eyed one). Not even discreetly at all, so the police knows about it and doesn’t bother them. There are big differences compared to the situation at home. Bums are organic parts of the ecosystem.

For me, in the other hand, I had to keep avoiding the police ’cause day by day one or two of them warned me that I must leave the historical town with the donkey; a special permit is required to enter it with big animal. Because big animal makes big crap. However, miraculously Rocinante never shits in the city. In front of the Cocina, always a police car was waiting until lunch time – probably there used to be troubles where the good company gets together. At this time it was up to my special talents to dodge out of the way of the police so that I could also eat and at the same time take care of the packed donkey not to be robbed meanwhile. But, for example, they never, not even once asked me to show an identity card. At home every one of them starts with this even if you haven’t done anything; your only sin is that you are at the same place. Obviously this is (there use to be articles about it) because there’s an order regarding all the shifts to paper a certain number of measures so it appears in the administration that they were doing something. This was the case even long before Pintér (actual Hungarian interior minister).

„El Italiano” showed me where he regularly sleeps: a covered part of a university building where he invited me too. It would have been OK, but I didn’t feel the place ‘cause meanwhile I started to feel he wants to push me into the bum mafia, or at least I’m getting into some jail hierarchy where he supplies me with everything and I, in turn, would have to be his bitch. “I make food, you make joint”, and I go for water (leaving there all my stuffs with the donkey) and a lot of little things that together are ill-omened. It was becoming ever more obvious that he wants me to give him Roci for the Northern Camino on which he’d like to march backwards in autumn. Meanwhile, of course, people were making photos of the donkey and he was the cool guy with that. I finally backed out urgently when one of the students asked who the donkey belongs to and his bum Spanish sentence contained the pronoun “nosotros”, which – according to my modest Spanish literacy – doesn’t mean that “it’s this Hungarian pilgrim’s, over here.

The building was obviously outside the city, but a policeman came to tell me not to graze this animal in teaching time there. After 7pm I can come back if I still think so. But I didn’t think so, but walked back to Monte do Gozo to camp where I immediately lost my way in the dark (I told you, backwards it’s difficult to find the way), then I got extremely wet in the storm, whatever... By the way, this policeman was also very nice, he told me not to hurry and it’s not a problem, but well, please –anyway, Rocinante has already devoured half of the bushes.

Next day, on the way from Monte de Gozo to Santiago, in the suburbs a Brazilian journalist joined me who was wandering. I told her I might sell the donkey. Meanwhile the photographer of El Correo Gallego newspaper appeared, shot a series of Roci, then left. According to the professional intuition of the woman, my story is a big hit and I should go and find this paparazzi journalist to be interviewed, this is a good promotion for the donkey sale. She invited me for coffee and there we bumped into a dear friend, Mayka. The right time, the right place (synchronicity again!), so the Brazilian could translate between us. She ensured me personally so that he takes care of Roci for some time, ‘cause he’s a cool donkey. (Of course, as it’s already clear from the story, actually he’s a real ass, but anyway, he’s my dude.) 

The three of us started a brainstorming, we even called Alba at her workplace to help me to keep in touch with the journal in Spanish etc. (Mayka’s daughter Alba is a graduate medical student and works at the luggage service next to the pilgrim office.¹) Following the Internet-surfing and contact searching I started to her, but instead I thought I check this oficina de los peregrinos before to ask for a compostela (certificate of the completed pilgrimage) for the donkey, just for fun. They didn’t give him, but this time I met there the journalist of El Correo (what a coincidence again!), and it turned out she’d already seen the pictures sent by his colleague to the editorial office, and she wants an interview with me – which we immediately did on the spot. Cool, you don’t have to search for them, they find you, anyway. The article came out the next day, almost a full page with a huge picture, on which I seem totally homeless, but that time it reflected the reality. I got a copy just because I fetched it at the office. The article is also can be found on the Internet. There’s some misunderstandings due to the fact that the woman didn’t have much better English skills than my Spanish. However, I actually received 3 emails of interest. One from the local radio to invite me to a show, besides they help to find a place for Roci. I answered in English it’s OK but I don’t speak their language. They didn’t answer to this, never mind…

Hooey, how ugly I looked in the newspaper... Whatever, the donkey is handsome.

After the pilgrim office I was talking to Alba at the luggage service until a policeman came for me to bring the donkey away. Funny situation: outside some pilgrims were surrounding him, feeding and petting him (one of them also supplied me with a lot of canned fish and instant soup, yeah), and when I lead Roci away, the policemen marched in front of me, showing the direction for leaving the old town. People didn’t see that the two policemen went before me ‘cause of the donkey, so they kept stopping me to take photo, gave him apples, and the policemen almost felt shame as obviously they were the bad guys in this situation and everyone loves the donkey.

Okay, here’s another policeman-story (now it was really a lot): I went to dinner to the Cocina and a Jamaican-style father joined me to make his 2-year-old son Yago, ride the donkey. The father was called Santi (=Santillana); Santi and Yago – pretty witty. The police car that is normally parking in front of the Cocina came behind us and wanted to send us away as usual. Santi explained to them that I just want to eat and then go back to Monte do Gozo. They accepted it easily and cool, indeed, while I was inside, they also dealt with the donkey. At least they took care of the packs while I ate inside, perfect.

During my 3 and a half days staying here, it was not only Mayka I met by chance, but everyone I got to know in autumn, even those who were staying at Camilla’s when I was first there. One of them, a crazy Holland wanderer-greenpeace activist was for example hanging out with the glass eyed back then when I got into them. Little town where the wind blows the rubbish together. Returning to my camping place, I was hanging out a little bit with a German hippie family running along the caravan. One of their (four or five) daughters goes to school here; true wanderers, good for them.

Was raining like hell. I leaked so much and became so ragged that I rather went to the municipal albergue in Monte do Gozo to recreate a bit, immediately when it opened. And I paid. Also for a washing machine, the first time ever! The previous day I tried to get into the Franciscans homeless shelter in Santiago (which the bum lads didn’t talk very pretty of, ‘cause there are too many people in one room, including some with heroine- and crack heads), but they sent me with the explanation that I’m actually a pilgrim and pilgrims are not able to come here. I’m sure with some Spanish knowledge I could get admission into this place, whatever…

I left the donkey in the albergue, I went for a walk in Santiago alone in the afternoon and now could do the Cathedral. Philosophizing, statue-hugging, sightseeing, fetching my paper, making friends with another hobo, checking the university and the bar belonging to it, Cocina feast for half Euro, then returning to the albergue and being happy for the clean, drying clothes – man can value the little pleasures sometimes. /…/

¹ This luggage service has since been liquidated.

² Santi is a great friend of mine ever since, already father of two kids.  There was a time we met more, but since then the family lives in Ponteverda.