A promise is a promise. A lot of shit went down the last two years in our country – and worldwide. Stupid-ass restrictions and, more than anything, Ivan Gargamel’s[1] behaviour during COVID. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s people in power humiliating regular folks. That’s where I draw the line. Ivan Janez Janša[2] might be intelligent, but when it comes to emotional intelligence, it’s clear he was asleep when God was handing that out. So, a few days before the election, I promised myself I’d walk 70 km in one day if Ivan lost. Didn’t want to do it back home, too much hassle figuring out the route. Camino is perfect – one way, straight ahead. You do crazy shit like this at the end of the Camino, when you know your body and mind are ready. Save your energy for the finale. By then you don’t care if you destroy your legs – it’s about proving to yourself you’re made of tougher stuff.
So, the young Frenchman and I set off that day on a mission of attempted suicide. The day before, we looked at each other and thought: "Do we really need to do this?" No words, just a solid ‘ALL IN’ look.
Apparently we mentally prepped well, because by 9 a.m. we’d already crushed 25 km. Even better – we were totally alone until 10. Nothing better than having the trail all to yourself. We planned short breaks every 15 km to take our shoes off and ease the pressure. I had half a sandwich and half a litre of fruity yogurt for breakfast. That’s all I ate all day. Fuel stops were just coffee and ice-cold Coke. That’s all I need. We walked together, headphones in, pretty fast pace – except at dawn when it was still dark and we had to be careful not to twist an ankle. Walking with him was great – no drama, no whining. We didn’t talk much, just saved our energy for the road. Check-ins were short and sweet: "You good?" "Feet ok?" "Need a break?" That’s why I prefer hanging out with guys – no overthinking. You agree on shit in a second. So much energy saved. When we had "only" 25 km left, and the legs still held up, I knew we were going to nail it. We barely saw other hikers – normally the trail’s packed – but not that day. After 2 p.m., it was totally empty. Hikers apparently take siesta too. We couldn’t stop smiling. Having the last day to yourself – no noise, no perfume clouds – is magic. It wasn’t a flat stage though. Felt like Karst country again – up and down – but there was plenty of shade, which helped. At the 10 km marker, our energy tanked. Our feet were on fire. My right leg started acting up. We finally hit a water source – all bars were shut for siesta (again), because most hikers pass in the morning. I think we downed 2 litres each. The Frenchman lay down on the road, drained. The adrenaline was gone. We lit a cigarette each , then I said, "Let’s just get it done." He agreed instantly. From that point, I walked with my shoe untied – it eased the pain in my foot. At 7 km to Santiago, he stopped me and said, “Tina, I think we can walk faster.” I laughed – we were already in 5th gear, but hey, I love a challenge. We kicked into 7th gear. Sparta and trance in our ears. Adrenaline came back and we gunned it to Santiago. With 4 km left, he asked to slow down. He wanted the final stretch for himself – to cry, reflect on his journey, and accept that it was ending. He’d walked 1522 km in 44 days. Massive feat for someone so young. A few days back, I told him I had huge respect for him, for even doing this trek at his age. He’s got a wicked sense of humour and solid taste in music. Yes, he’s French – but he speaks English, so he’s officially my favourite Frenchman. He’s also the only person I’d ever wait 15 minutes for at the rainbow sign that marks the entrance to Santiago. When I finally arrived, my legs said, “Nope, we’re done.” My body gave in. Our hostel was at the entrance to Santiago – meaning 4 more km to the cathedral. I could have made it there, but the thought of coming back was too much. That would’ve made 74 km total. No way. I’d have either died at the cathedral or, worse, had to call a taxi back. My ego said nope. So, we went to the hostel where Andrea was already waiting – he’d done almost 60 km that day, walked to the cathedral and back. More than planned. Olympic effort on his part too.
Finding a bed was hell – Friday night, everything was full, even my favourite place at the start of Santiago. I stay there every time – it’s got a huge garden and still feels like the Camino. The owner, Dani, is a gem. First time we spoke, we clicked instantly. He donates everything he earns to charity. But that day, he had to turn me away – fully booked. Gave me a number of another hostel. When the Frenchman called, the owner said he had a few beds left – but we had to be there by 5. Frenchie explained that was impossible – we were still on the trail, trying to walk 70 km. The guy didn’t believe us and turned us down. So, I rang Andrea, who’d arrive earlier, and told him to call and book 3 beds and pay upfront. Then Dani called me again and asked if we found a place. I told him the guy didn’t believe us. Dani said he’d call and vouch for us – that I wasn’t exactly normal and wouldn’t lie about kilometres. In the end, we got 6 beds – Andrea sorted 3, Dani pulled in another 3. The day before I promised the Frenchman we’d go out and party once we got to Santiago. Plan flopped. I crashed straight into bed. My legs were rocks. I couldn’t even shower. You know that moment when your mum would bathe you as a baby? That’s what I needed. I told Andrea, if someone tried to rape me right now, I wouldn’t even resist – I’d just say get it over with and hope he enjoys it. I wouldn’t care. It took me 20 minutes to drag myself to the shower. Dead, but proud. First time this Camino I felt like I came back from war. A cripple. But that shower? Heaven. Andrea was bouncing with energy – wanted good food and a party. The Frenchman and I? Bed. Still, we joined Andrea for a beer and some gin he brought from Italy. It was really good. But the bed was better. Worst part? I couldn’t sleep. Too tired. Too much pain. Oh, and most important – no doping on this trek. Not a single beer or smoke. As for this stunt: FIRST TIME, LAST TIME, NEVER AGAIN!!!! [1] Ivan Gargamel is a satirical nickname for Janez Janša, Slovenia’s long-time right-wing political leader. The nickname combines his real middle name Ivan with Gargamel, the villain from The Smurfs, used to mock his authoritarian style and combative political persona.
[2] Ivan Janez Janša is a Slovenian politician and long-serving leader of the Slovenian Democratic Party (SDS)
