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Published: February 16th 2007
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The visit to Andorra has produced devastating results. For the second time in less than a year, the quick change of altitude and consequent change of pressure have reduced my body to a heap of ruins. It must be something connected with the respiratory system and perhaps I should consult a doctor about it. But, that is, the two Andorran days turned into nightmare. A few hours after my arrival to La Vella I begun to feel unwell to the point to be forced first to visit a pharmacy and finally to total yield, accepting lodging in a 50 euros per night hotel to defend myself from the by then totally uncontrolled fever tremors. And, believe me, under normal circumstances I would have a foot cut off rather than paying 50 euros for a bed.
At “Sant Jaume”, the hotel where I had repaired in full emergency, Jose, the Chilean, receptionist, probably bored because of shortage of tourists, had begun a lengthy and, in other circumstances, interesting conversation about life in Andorra. I know for experience that where one really learns is by talking to employs of pensions, bar and other establishments of contact with the public. If there is
something that really deserves to be seen or done in a place, this is the type of people who know it and if there is a way to obtain certain kind of information that is by establishing a frank confidence with them. Nevertheless this time I couldn’t. Jose’s words got lost in the boiling cubicle that my brain had became by then and my answers came out slow and incoherent. Withdrawn into my room, the fever was by then so high, the tremor so violent that, have I had enough energies to brush my teeth, I could have done it with no need to move my arm.
Already in bed, completely dressed, heating turned on at full power and covered by all the blankets I had managed to put my hands on, I shivered because of the cold while my mind rambled uncontrolled. I have vague memories of those moments, gloomy like those of a dream at the awakening. Then sleep arrived bringing the dreams along. And with them, the woman of the dreams arrived too. The woman of the dreams is that never ended or maybe never really started love, met sometimes somewhere, to whom our thoughts often
ran during life, specially in melancholic moments. And, in my deliriums, she told me that I was not alone. Then, after a time apparently infinite but that in reality just lasted three hours, the awakening. End of fever induced dreams. She was not anymore with me and, yes, I was alone. Alone in a pool of sweat. Aspirines and duvets had apparently had effect. The fever temporary washed away with the sweat and with it my body drained of any energy.
Weak but with a rented car to handle back 200 Kms away. During the return trip to Carcassone, the landscape, already seen in my way in, did not detach me from the idea of her, of her beautiful smile and of how many and which the consequences of love are. Thousands of times, during my travels, I have been forced to listen to shallow people (all males, mind you) whose only idea of travelling lies in the sexual encounter with as many members of the opposite sex as possible. According to such persons, applying the transitive property I suppose, the traveller is a ever happy type who plays the harmonica, drinks like a Cossak and got a woman
in every city. Someone who would need so many condoms that -if willing to buy them (but of course he doesn’t want to because he is too happy and light-hearted to fear diseases)- would be forced to ask for a mortgage. Not quiete. It can sometimes turn out to be true in the substance, but then, in the deep, no wise man -nomadic or sedentary alike- would change a thousand one night’s loves for one love of one thousands nights. Sad thoughts gulped down along with water, bananas and aspirines, the diet of the ills. Not even good food to console me!
Recovered from the unexpected fever (and from melancholy), I resume the travel by train towards Spain. I enter the Basque country, sadly famous for terrorist group ETA. I must confess that three years spent in the Canary islands and a less recent one in Castilla had created in my mind the false image of the Basque being brute, warlike and ready to shoot a blow to your nape if angered. As it always happens, such manichaeism is patrimony solely and exclusively of those who never set foot in the Basque Country and that base their opinion on
the milk sucked at mother television’s nipple, the true cancer of our society. The images repeated thousands of times of a bus given aflame are very powerful and end up acquiring the status of absolute truth. That said, the ETA problem exists indeed, but the first victims of their fanaticism, those who daily live elbow to elbow with such reality, are the Basques themselves.
Of great interest is the discussion about the use of local language. Euskera (Euskadi being the name of the region in Basque language) represents a totally different case from catalan (Catalunya is the other Spanish region pervaded from a strong movement for independence): while catalan is a romance tongue and under certain aspects is so similar to spanish to be considered by some (not by the pro-independence parties, obviously) like a dialect of the latter, euskera is not related to any of the known linguistic groups. Its origin a mystery, its roots lost in the silence of prehistory. Its sound is dry and its graphic contains more “k” than an anarchical manifesto. For the not initiated it’s hard stuff and, in fact, I only learnt a single word: eskerrikasko (thanks). Nevertheless, contrarily to what happens
in Catalunya, where more than once in the past I’ve been reproached by some intolerant for talking to him “in the language of the invaders” (spanish), no Basque has refused to make conversation with me in spanish, nor any of them seemed angered or offended because of it. It is true that the region is upholstered with billboards inviting the population to learn the local lingo -language always represents a powerful political arm- but I believe that not even ETA’s chief commander in person would try to convince a foreigner to dedicate years to the study of a language spoken by less than one million people rather than spanish, spoken by approximately 400 millions people in the world.
One evening, while taking a walk along the beautiful San Sebastian’s playa de the Concha, a violent thunderstorm surprises me. I seek shelter under a portico, the fury of the elements is such to advice against any sortie, the rain so intense to create an effect “curtain” between the portico itself and the bay in front. I’m trying to capture the moment with my camera when a voice coming from a dark corner calls to me. It’s a middle aged man
who is preparing his night bed in his bivouac: a homeless. He asks me in unfriendly manners what I’m doing there and why have I not asked permission before taking his picture. I answer that I am not photographing him and that I actually had not even seen him. The man believes in my good faith, relax and his tone changes from interrogative to conversational. He’s a Greek nicknamed Pin-Pon, speaks four languages including italian and makes a point in specifying he’s a vagabond, not a tramp. He tells me of his life and of his travels across Europe, carries a harmonica along (therefore the legend is not completely false…) and funds himself with what he earns from his improvised concerts. Two substantial differences between Pin-Pon and any other homeless I met till now: a) Pin-Pon seems to be a person who, despite lacking in means, does not neglect his personal hygiene. Indeed, thanks to my self-indulgent traveller laziness, I’m sure that if the two of us would board the same bus and the remaining passengers would be called to choose which one to drop (like Jesus vs Barabbas), I would be the one pointed at as antisocial skunk of the day. b) He not only did not ask for money but even refused my invitation for dinner.
He finally pulls out his harmonica and plays a Pink Floyd piece. Then, after pulling the instrument aside, a shadow seems to obscure him. It’s only a moment, then he speaks -to the night rather than to me-: “this song reminds me of a girl…”. I understand you my friend, I do.
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