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Visitors
The castle slowly diminished in our rear-view mirrors as we pedalled south out of Burgos. Just before dark, alongside a lazy reed-clogged river, we spotted a campsite and plunged a hundred meters down a steep dirt path to the river's edge, braking hard, skidding our rear tires to slow our bikes. On the opposite bank, a herd of sheep scurried away in fright amidst a clamor of dinging and jangling bells. I couldn't blame them - we were an exotic-looking sight to animals who had never been off the farm. At the bottom, I squinted back up to the road through leafy cork trees and saw that the guardrail effectively hid us from passing cars. Only truck drivers, in their elevated vehicles, had a view of us. And even they would have to be keenly observant to spot us in the split second they raced past. Darkness enveloped us as we confidently set up our tent. We fell asleep easily, not worried about receiving uninvited visitors. The morning sky dawned pewter-gray. An occasional wind-driven raindrop popped the tent's fly. I must have been half-asleep, for even though we lacked food, I jokingly suggested we give my slow-down philosophy a chance and stay in the tent all day. And that was exactly what we did. At noon, my stomach rumbling, I tried consoling myself by reading my Journal. But that didn't work. I found myself focusing on past entries describing particularly enjoyable meals. When I read the entry about a succulent roast lamb dinner we had in France, I mumbled, "Maybe I can catch one of those sheep." Sharon glanced over, and said, "You sure like to torture yourself!" A shepherd must have read my mind. Across the river from our tent a sheep herder began to bang a rock against a fence post over and over. He carried on, cracking that post for a couple of minutes straight. I was about to crawl out of the confines of my artificial womb and investigate his motives. But before I untangled my feet from my sleeping bag liner he mercifully stopped. I lay back down and snuggled deep into silent comforting warmth. In the afternoon, while sipping hot chocolates and reading tourist brochures, we listened to our pint-sized short-wave radio, catching up on broadcasts from London and Washington. The hot chocolate didn't do much to assuage my hunger and my stomach vigorously protested its emptiness. I was writing in my Journal, trying to take my mind off food, when a vehicle screeched to a halt on the roadway above. Peering through our tent's mesh door, I watched, engrossed, as three members of the Italian army - in full military fatigues and clutching machine guns - jumped out of the truck and, each man taking a different route, moved stealthily down the hillside towards our position. I wondered if the fence-knocking shepherd had been suspicious of our tent and had phoned in a query. I slipped out of my sleeping bag, and cautiously emerged from the tent with my hands up. "Everything okay?" one asked in a friendly tone. "Si," I assured him. He asked where we were from and where we were going. Satisfied that two foreign bikers didn't pose a national security threat, the three soldiers said cheery goodbyes and returned to their personnel carrier. As the truck belched off in a black cloud of diesel exhaust, I climbed back into the tent. "You should have asked them if they deliver," Sharon wisecracked. My stomach growled in agreement. |
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