We were quite keen to be packed up and cleared out of the 'stealth' camping site before daylight, so at seven o'clock we dragged our slightly sleep deprived selves out of the sleeping bags and into the cold to get everything back into the bags and back onto the bikes. It all went back in thankfully, though our tent-packing skills leave a lot to be desired and my bag is a lot fuller than it was before as a consequence. We shared our meager food stores (one banana) and then got back on the road – destination: Pamplona!
In no time at all, we were there. Seriously, those 20km were some of the easiest I've ever done. It was quite nice getting to our destination in the morning with the rest of the day to do what we pleased. Luke was quite keen on those 20km being all for the day, but I wanted to do a bit more – at least until misfortune struck!
Picture the scenario. We're standing outside a service station, 2km away from the centre of Pamplona. A packet of chips has just been consumed as a measly substitute for a real breakfast. I'm wheeling my bike over a kerb in preparation to ride those last two kms, when CRADASGSHFDHDFDFGDJh!@E#QERWSD/%$%
“What on earth was that??” (What I actually said may have contained an expletive:P)
It turned out, on closer inspection, that the bolt connecting my pannier rack to my bike frame had been shorn in half by the impact of that one kerb hop. The rack was now scraping against my disc brake and wreaking all kinds of havoc. Riding it was now out of the question. We had neither the tools, the spare parts, nor the knowledge to repair it.
Rationally, it wasn't that big of a deal. At least it had happened then, near Pamplona and not somewhere out in the country, on a steep downhill, while I was going 50kph. Somewhere in the city there would be a bike shop that could fix it. It wasn't even that big of a problem. But still, seeing my bike suddenly become the two wheeled equivalent of a quadriplegic made me very sad:( I didn't even want to talk about it, it was my own cross to bear.
We stopped at a supermarket and I went in and bought a few things. Luke wanted something else and while he was in the shop, I managed to consume an entire packet of biscuits (200g say?), compulsively eating in my despair.
Woe was me!
I saw a Decathlon superstore – the Spanish equivalent of an Office Works for sporting equipment. On the off chance that they might be able to help, I went in and found there was a bike servicing department. Showing the man the problem, I understood from the grimace on his face and the few words I could understand that he couldn't help:( The best he was able to do for me was to put a few cable ties on the rack at my suggestion, so that I could at least ride the bike – gently – to another bike store.
Luke then went into the store to buy himself a jacket (I was cold and wanted mine back that I'd lent to him) and while he was gone, I ate another half a packet of biscuits (there were two in the box), only stopping when I felt ill.
While we were riding aimlessly towards the city centre in the hope that there might be a real bike store somewhere, I started hearing the terrible rasping sound that denotes a misaligned disc brake. Not another problem! I fixed it, but was still not a happy chappy.
Eventually we located a bike shop by the simple technique of asking a girl riding a bike, and after walking in the door, my day suddenly went from dismal to FANTASTIC! All thanks to Aitor and Ibon, the two owners of the 2eukal (second hand) Luke and I had the best day of the whole trip.
After explaining the problem to Aitor (in english for both of them speak it excellently in addition to several other languages), he told me he could fix it but as it was now 1pm, they had to go to lunch. Could I come back at four I wondered? “Hmm, I'll make you a commercial proposition. You come and have lunch with us, and then afterwards we will fix your bike.” You can guess what the answer was:P
After taking us to the market to get a few things for lunch, the two brothers (for they were brothers as well as being dual owners of the bike store) served us the first hot meal we'd had in about 10 days and probably one of the best meals I've ever had at that. The first course was a vegetable Paella with lovely sticky rice and yummy fresh vegetables and it was followed by shallow fried battered eggplant, tossed in a tomato-onion (and apple) sauce. Really filling, hearty, delicious food.
Over the food and in the process of cooking it, they gave us fascinating insights into Spain and in particular, the Basque country. The Basque country doesn't officially exist, but it is the spiritual home of speakers of the Basque language. Most people in the north of Spain speak Basque, which is completely different from Spanish, with almost no similarities (it belongs to a completely different family). Their political views are also different, with a primarily 'socialist' (though the Socialist party in Spain is not really socialist at all) voting pattern. Many of them are opposed to Spanish government policy such as sending troops to Afghanistan and also feel like they are being forced to subsidise the rest of the country despite gaining nothing from the exchange. Because of that, there's a strong groundswell of support for 'Independzia' – the movement that promotes the creation of a separate Basque state. We saw lots of graffiti and banners with slogans like that along our ride and I had kind of guessed at what it was about, but didn't know the details until we spoke to these guys. Apparently it's pretty doomed though because the Spanish government is not even prepared to let the people have a referendum let alone actually agree to give up a fifth of its constituency. Still the fight goes on in a passive way.
I do feel sympathy towards the movement. The government dismisses their claims, saying that an independent Basque country has never existed and that in any case, borders no longer exist in the European union, so any such demarcation would be pointless. But it seems to me that if there does exist such a bloc within any one sovereign state, the state cannot be said to truly represent all of the people and there is grounds for a separation. At the very least, the Basque government (which exists in name only) should have more say in where money is spent and what languages are taught in the schools (currently many schools only teach Spanish and a 'real' foreign language such as English or French).
On the other hand, from a purely utalitarian perspective, it would be better if the Basque language were to simply die a swift death and for everyone to not have to have to waste valuable language acquisition skills on a language that is only spoken in a relatively small part of the world (and instead to use those skills to learn english so that lazy Australian tourists would have an easier time of things:P). But that's a cold, unemotional line of thought that quickly leads on to the edict that everyone should drop their native language and learn English (or some diplomatically neutral universal language). So much of a culture is wound up in its language that I think that were that ever to happen it would be a great tragedy.
Yes, anyway, on with the blog. Lunch had been had, discussions of a political nature were entered into, and then the party washed their dishes and proceeded down the stairs and across the street to the bike shop (it was literally two houses away, talk about convenient!). Along the way, Aitor exchanged the usual Basque greeting of 'ala pueva' (untranslatable – maybe 'how's it going' with the expectation that the fashion in which it is going is not actually given by the other person) to someone. It was really amazing how closely knit the community in the 'old city' (as compared to the quite hideous, mass produced urban sprawl sprouting out from the sides of Pamplona and every other city in Europe) was. Aitor seemed to know everyone in the area, which is both a testament to how much of a convivial chap he is, and also just how different Basque culture is to urban life in Melbourne. Later that evening, over a dinner of Cowboy Hotpot that I cooked, Aitor spoke about exactly that concept and tried to explain why it was so successful in Pamplona but perhaps not so in other cities.
It was all down to the architecture, he explained. Both of the brothers talked in a truly riveting way about how the town square is responsible for forming a community. Old, young, male, female – all mix together in that one open, neutral location. Pleasantries and gossips are exchanged, friendships and romances (and emnities too I guess) ignite, and every other connection possible is formed between every type of people (as long as they can speak Basque). In an intellectual leap that I found absolutely brilliant, Aitor argued that for us in Melbourne, the only thing that even comes close is the social networking site 'Facebook'. Everything he said was so spot on, it was remarkable. He could've gone head to head with most of my lecturers at university (and actually that went for both of them). English was not their first language (both of them could speak four or five), but the way they communicated overcame any slight grammatical mistakes.
But now I have committed the cardinal sin of writing and have completely misplaced the temporal thread. We were crossing the street, about to walk back into the bike shop. That action was completed, and then over the next three hours, Aitor gave my bike a thorough going over, fixing the problem with the pannier rack (it is now infinitely more sturdy and I feel so much more confident riding with the heavy load now) and a number of other small problems. I felt bad about using up so much of his time, especially when I found out they were due to do a recording for a local (and illegal – no broadcasting licence) radio station. But he would have none of my reservations. It was inconceivable for him not to help – simple and honest hospitality flowed through his veins.
Later, I asked, careful not to press too much, if he knew of any good Pensions in Pamplona. “Hmmm, well the cheapest Pension in Pamplona is in my apartment.” “Oh really? What is the price per night?” “Two beers” And of course we agreed!
At 8pm, after the bike had been fixed and all the work that was to be done was done, they locked up the shop (Spanish working hours: 9-8 with a three hour lunch break) and while Aitor went to take care of some business, Ibon went with us to the supermarket to get ingredients for dinner. On the way, he mentioned that because of the money they owe on the bike shop and its attendant equipment, it's very hard to make ends meet and that every time he goes to the supermarket he steals half of what he walks out with. He justified it with the quotation “He who steals from a thief (the supermarket chain is apparently no good at all) wins a 1000 years pardon” (from which text I do not know – maybe he invented it himself:P). It railed against me a little bit, but I could tell from the first five minutes of meeting him that he was a 'good' person and I didn't pass judgment. Still, because of that, and because of the great help they'd already given us, we thought it was only fair to not only buy them two beers, but also all the ingredients for dinner. After all they were saving us 40 euros in Pension fees!
So, we bought the ingredients, went back to the apartment and I cooked Cowboy Hotpot (vegetable casserole with baked beans and a layer of crisp potato on top), labelling it a 'traditional Australian dish' (bs:P). It went down well and it scarcely seemed strange at all eating dinner at 10pm after having a big lunch at 4pm. Before going to bed, they put on a DVD about a traditional Basque instrument whose name I don't recall. It's like a giant xylophone except made out of timber and is one of the few instruments that have to be played by two people at once. Makes a very cool sound and it was quite a good movie too (the players went to the arctic circle and constructed one of the instruments out of ice:O).
By then it was 12, and everyone was yawning, so we hit the futon very contentedly, having had an unforgettable day:)
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