An Ode to Naz

We met upon a mountain top, buffeted by rain and held down by overweight backpacks. At first I only knew of him as the Canadian, and we hobbled together, watching as speedier, less burdened folk passed us. Then, strangely, I also had a burst of energy and left my new friend behind in the mist.

This was Naz, an amazing companion for my first two weeks of this walk towards Santiago. Slow, like a mule and destroyed by blisters and tendonitis, Naz was still always able to laugh the loudest and crack the funniest camino-related jokes.

I say "was", because he is gone now. But more on that later.

An ex-rugby player, born in Baghdad and raised in Toronto, Naz found it easy to make friends on his travels. Easily the slowest of our cohort, his arrival would be anticipated each night, and announced with a cheer. As a reward for our patience, Naz told us stories of his day, about how he had developed a subsequent generation of blisters, and of the new friends he´d made.

Indeed, everyone on the camino knew Naz. On the few times that I walked with him, we´d find ourselves passing a couple who´d enquire about the state of his feet. The extent of his blistering had become legend.

Together, Naz and I first discovered the joys of the Spanish postal service, sitting on the floor of the Pamplona post office hastily assembling boxes and stuffing them with excess baggage. Our efforts attracted a small crowd of amused Spaniards, taking time out from their duties to watch Naz rip his box.

There was a period when Naz, Mary and myself were bound together for several days, separated from our fleet-footed companions by the urge to drink beer at 10am. This story has already been told, but it was also the start of a series of events that would grow to haunt all of us over the next few days.

Forced to sleep in Redecillo del Camino, a small town outside of Santo Domingo de Calzada, we settled into the room with the infamous Portugeuse snorer. The next morning, aside from complaining about that man´s vicious night horn, Naz swore loudly about the hygiene practices of the man who´d slept beside him.

"His feet were growing trees...I swear, that smell will haunt me for the rest of my life!" he yelled, pointing at the empty bed beside his.

Despite sleeping on the bunk above Naz, I hadn´t smelled a thing. That was the last I thought about the issue, as I busily collected my socks from where they´d fallen off my bed and onto the ground.

The next night, in Tosantos, we all slept in the creepiest refugio that I´ve come across so far. The entire building appeared to have developed organically, with irregular wooden beams and bulging walls. Everyone slept on gym mats on the ground.

Before dinner we were asked to sing by the hospitalero (a volunteer member of some religious sect), who then shouted at us because we started eating before he´d had a chance to say grace. Following dinner, we were led into a strange chapel at the top of the house, where we read out prayers, listened to him sing strange songs, and then read out personal thoughts left behind by other pilgrims. This in particular didn´t seem right.

Naz just didn´t seem right after that, because the next morning he was extremely agitated. Finally, after debating within himself, he pointed at my socks and said, "Dude, it´s your socks. It wasn´t that man´s feet at all...your socks are filthy!"

Another pilgrim had overheard, and agreed that my socks were more than a little ripe. Flashing back to Redecillo del Camino, I remembered that my socks had fallen on the ground - behind Naz´s pillow. The poor man had been haunted by the offspring of my own sweat-socked soles.

I apologised and promised that I´d wash my socks at the next place we stopped at. Unfortunately that place was a hotel that for some reason didn´t believing in a laundry service. I shared a room with my traveling companions, and my socks were quarantined in a cupboard. When we opened those grim doors the next day, a stench so vile poured into the room, sending Naz running out of the room. I was not allowed to put on my shoes and socks until everyone else had cleared the area.

Finally, in the next hotel, we were able to find a laundry service to deal with my socks. For some reason this serivce took over twelve hours to be concluded. Kept in suspense like this, we found our imaginations drawn to horrific scenes of laundry ladies dead, the fatal socks clutched in their stiff hands. Naz warned me that the laundry would probably be returned along with a furious spouse, bent on killing the owner of "el socko".

As chilling as the episode of my socks may be, the final straw for Naz came yesterday.

Tormented by blisters and realising day after day that he was not going to be able to complete the camino before having to return to work, Naz bravely limped along with us for 30km. We stopped for a break from the hot, maddening boredom of the meseta flats in this beautiful little grove. At its heart lay a bubbling spring which, according to legends, would cure the ills of any feet placed into the pool at the base of the spring.

When Naz took a look at dark, algae-rich waters, he refused to dunk his feet in. Though the rest of us did, I think this was a wise move on his part. His poor, abused feet were filled with gaping sores, blisters within blisters and decaying skin. The only treatment he gave to his feet at that stop was to douse them with cringe-inducing Betadine.

Finally, we arrived last night at the town of Hontanas, which was completely full of pilgrims. Unable to push on for another 10km to the next potential bed, we bargained with the hospitalero. Finally, though appearing very angry about this, he led us to the only space available in the town: his garage. In total, seven of us shared this room.

After dinner, we crammed into the tiny space. There were only two foam mattresses available, so we turned them horizontally and each enough space to elevate our upper torso from the freezing cold concrete. It was almost impossible to sleep though, because we could do nothing more than giggle at the absurdity of our situation.

Naz´s grim luck struck again, however.

The only way out of the garage was to open the electric doors, which created a gun-rattling roar. Not only would this wake up anyone else sleeping in the garage, but it also set the home-owners into a frenzy and was always echoed by barking dogs.

This would´ve been easy to ignore except for the fact that Naz contracted a mild case of food poisoning. At first he tried to keep the garage door ajar, allowing him to slip out in an emergency, but the helpful hospitalero closed it early on in the evening, so that we wouldn´t freeze.

Finally, after two hours of containing a boiling fury within himself, Naz yelled sorry, burst open the doors, and escaped into the night. This was the last we saw of him until 6am.

Bedraggled, by strangely still laughing, Naz described the night that "finally destroyed me". Locked out of the actual refugio, Naz was forced to find a suitable toilet amidst the fields that surrounded Hontanas. Repeatedly. While stumbling on his rotten feet.

Driven to the brink of exhaustion and freezing, he finally collapsed onto a bench in front of the albergue and wrapped himself in his sleeping bag. His hobo sleep did not last however, and he was woken up by a curious German Shepherd, licking his face.

Unable to walk, internally tormented, Naz bid farewell to us this morning and set out for Burgos. Here he found a doctor who confirmed his suspicions - we was not going to finish the Camino. The last I heard, a much happier Naz was on his way to spend a week in Barcelona.

Our dwindling number set off, much sadder for having lost our funniest traveling companion, and made our way into the grey morning light.

Then, 6km away from our next destination, I felt a sinister gong vibrate loudly in my guts. I remember little of that last hour or so, except for my extreme concentration as I bunny-hopped my way along to salvation.

At least I hadn´t got it the night before.

Here´s to you Naz, good luck with the rest of your holiday, and safe travels back to Toronto! It´s been an absolute pleasure walking with you, and all your funny mishaps and observations.