London to Bilbao
September 6th 1995
I caught the bus to Dover from Victoria bus station. While i was waiting for it, i heard this announcement over the public address system:
"Your attention please! For health and hygiene reasons, we request that you do not feed the pigeons or other birds. We are trying to persuade them that they will enjoy a better life elsewhere."
I couldn't help laughing at this announcement! "We are trying to persuade them that they will enjoy a better life elsewhere."! How ridiculous - and how incredibly british. I didn't know quite what it is that made me laugh so much at british ways those days, but there were a lot of things i found really funny. They were things that somehow contained the essence of british culture, things that i only noticed now i'd lived away from the place for so many years. And things that somehow made me conscious of a certain aspect of the british view of reality that was bizarrely ridiculous. I couldn't put a finger on exactly what it was, but i saw it around me quite a lot when i was in Britain and i found myself laughing at the "britishness" of all sorts of things. They're a very weird mob!
It had been quite a few years since i'd been across the channel, from Dover to Calais, and in that time, the ferry service seemed to have improved quite a lot. I remembered them as being quite grotty and uncomfortable, but the "Port Of Calais", which was the ship i was on, was clean, pleasant and comfortable.
I spent most of the time inside, as it was pretty cold on deck and, although i would have rather been outside in a way, i just didn't feel like putting up with the wind. For some reason, the journey brought back a memory of the ferry between Java and Sumatra. I wasn't sure why - it certainly wasn't the boat itself. It might have been the distance involved, which seemed to be about the same, and the fact that you can see the land on both sides once you're out of the docks.
At Calais, i didn't hang around, as i knew there was a train to Paris due to leave fairly soon. There was a free bus from the port to the railway station, and you didn't get to see a lot of the town on the way. But i began to be conscious of being in another country. There really wasn't a massive difference between Calais and Dover, those two towns being closer to each other than they are to the respective capital cities, but it was noticeable if you looked carefully.
At the railway station, there was a cop at the end of the platform, checking everyone who got on the train. He had a good look through my bags and then waved me on. It seemed a bit weird, but all through the journey, at every station we stopped at, i saw police on every station, doing the same thing to the passengers of this train. And the closer we got to Paris, the more police there were on the platforms. I wondered what was going on, and it wasn't until later that i realised this was connected with the french government's stupid, and mindlessly destructive resumption of nuclear testing at Mururoa in the south pacific. I didn't know exactly what they were expecting, but it certainly gave them an excuse to put on a show of police strength.
At Paris Nord station, i got straight on the metro and went to Chamartin, the station where trains for the south leave from, to try and catch the earliest train possible. I had to wait about three hours for the first one to Irun, which was a bit of a drag, but i suppose it could have been worse. I had a couple of beers and a bag of chips or something. I could have done with some proper food, but there was no sign of anything that i'd be likely to want to eat, so i just didn't worry about it. I took the opportunity to write a letter to Gretchen and Victor in Taxco, who must have been wondering what had happened to me by now. I'd told them i'd definitely see them before i left Mexico - but that was three months before!
I got a couchette on the train, which cost about ten quid, and i figured it was definitely worth it, if it meant i'd get a reasonable night's sleep on the way. I like sleeping on trains and i'd certainly done enough uncomfortable and exhausting long-distance travelling on this journey to last me for a lifetime.
It was like being back in Basque Country more or less as soon as i was in the compartment. There seemed to be quite a lot of Basques on the train too and their characteristic accents, loud voices and laughter filled the air all round. I'd only ever spent three months in Basque Country, but still, it felt like coming home. And we hadn't even left Paris yet!
- - -
I'd arrived at Irún station at least a couple of times before, over ten years earlier, but it didn't seem very familiar. I didn't know if it had changed, or if it was just my memory that was lacking. Anyway, it wasn't the sort of place you spend much time hanging around, and that morning wasn't any different. We arrived at Irún at about half past seven and i caught the first bus to Bilbao, about half an hour later.
Bilbao seemed distinctly familiar, although i didn't really know where i was when i got off the bus. But i wandered in what felt like the direction of the Casco Viejo (old part of town), using the hills and the fact that the river was obviously downwards as my guide. I wasn't too far off track, but i certainly didn't go by the most direct route! Somewhere along the way i had a look at a map on a bus shelter and got a clearer idea of where i wanted to go. I eventually managed to find the address of my friend Mamen that i'd been given by Javi and Joserra in San Cristobal.
The house i was looking for was up a longish flight of stone stairs from the street. At the bottom, the number was fixed to the stone wall the steps went up alongside. At the top of the steps, there was an iron gate, with a bell push inside, but there was no answer when i rang the bell. This, of course, was to be expected. The chances of arriving in a town you don't live in and finding who you're looking for straight away always seem to be less than zero. So i wandered off to look for something to eat.
A loaf of bread, a tomato and an onion were my breakfast that morning, sitting in the park by the river next to the Casco Viejo in Bilbao. I remembered the last time i'd been there, during the fiestas in 1984. Then, this little park had been full of txoznas, stalls selling food and alcohol, which seemed to be the main focus of fiestas in Euzkadi - the Basque name for Basque Country. It seemed like an incredibly long time ago. And of course, i suppose, eleven years is a long time, and an almost unbelievable amount of things had happened in my life since then. But at the same time, it seemed to have left a strong impression in my mind, and one that hadn't really dimmed with the passing of all that time.
In 1984, i spent three months living in Gasteiz, the capital of Euzkadi, which is up in the hills an hour or so's drive away from Bilbao. Somehow the Basque culture had had a very strong affect on me that had remained over all those years of not returning to Euzkadi. It was as if i'd left a small part of myself behind in those hills, that had served as some kind of spiritual anchor that tied me forever to that place. Whether or not i ever went back there again. A few places have had this affect on me now i came to think about it. And they all seemed to have been in the hills. Euzkadi was probably the first, but a few years later Main Arm and the area around Mullumbimby, in northern New South Wales, was the same. Main Arm affected me even more strongly than Euzkadi - probably because i spent more time living there, but it was a very similar thing in a way. A powerful spiritual link which keeps me almost constantly aware of its existence and exerts a permanent magnetic force which always seems to be pulling at my soul and trying to get me to go back. However, i never seem to make it back to these places nearly as often as i'd like.
The hills around Kuranda and Mossman in north Queensland are the same. And the most recent place i'd experienced this happening was in Chiapas, in San Cristobal. Although it was too soon to say what sort of an affect this was going to have on my life in the future.
Anyway, i didn't think very much about all this as i sat there in the park, looking at the filthy Bilbao river. I was more preoccupied with how i was going to find somewhere to stay if i couldn't get any answer from that house. Javi or Joserra had told me it was a squat (although it turned out that it wasn't) and i thought maybe they'd been evicted or something. The journey, the lack of sleep and the uncertainty that comes over me when i'm in a place i'm not very familiar with, combined in a mild and tranistory feeling of insecurity. I'd obviously go back to the house and try again. And keep going back until i found someone, but i couldn't help looking into the distance a bit and wondering what i'd do that night if i didn't find anyone i knew. Of course, it wouldn't be a serious problem, i could always find a cheap pension to stay in. If there was such a thing as a cheap pension in Bilbao in those post European Community days! But of course, there had to be. Things couldn't have changed that much.... could they?
Eventually, quite a bit later, after a lot of wandering around with a couple of inexplicably heavy bags over my shoulders, i did get a reply at the house. When i asked for Mamen, the man who answered the bell (whose name i never did manage to remember) asked if i was "Will". Mamen didn't live there, he told me, and she'd never lived there, although he did know her. But the letter i'd sent to her there seemed to have made enough of an impression on him that he'd remembered my name. I found later that a lot of people knew i'd written that letter to Mamen and somehow it had become a well-known event! And now here i was - the mystery letter writer!
Anyway, Mamen didn't live in Bilbao any more, but he knew a few of my other friends there and he took me out to look for them. In a bar called the "Jaunak", we ran into Maite, who i knew when she was living in London in 1986 and i was back there after nine months as an illegal immigrant in Australia, sorting out my immigration stuff to go back. It was good to see her again after all that time and she gave me some news of my other friends there. Neil, apparently, was seriously ill with leukaemia and was back in Ireland where he was being treated in hospital. Begoña, who used to live with Neil when i knew them in London, was in Bilbao and her and Neil had had a son called Konor, who was five years old. Dione was still living at her parents place in Bilbao. And Mamen was living somewhere out in the hills a fair distance away.
I'd just missed Begoña, who'd only left the Jaunak a short while before, but she'd almost certainly be back in there later on and i could catch up with here then.
- - -
Maite and her friend, who's name i promptly forgot, took me to a small restaurant up in the hills, just outside Bilbao, to have some lunch. It was on the side of a road going up a hill, with a view over the whole city. There was no dining room, only tables outside, and there was a strong wind which made things interesting! It was a good place to get an idea of the scale of Bilbao from. It was really quite a small city, although with a million population, it was incredibly densely populated, like the whole of this part of the Iberian Peninsula really. Basque Country in particular seemed to have amazingly high population densities in its towns and cities, with virtually everyone living in flats and no separate houses of any sort to be seen anywhere. It was a complete contrast with Australia, where a city of a million people, like Brisbane or Adelaide, would probably have covered at least five times the area of Bilbao.
Later on, i met up with Begoña in the Jaunak and she invited me to stay at her place.
Begoña, Konor and Txamen lived in a flat on the third floor of a building in a street just the other side of the river from the Casco Viejo, in another old area of Bilbao. That part was more like i remembered the Casco Viejo being last time i'd been there, before it got "gentrified" in the way it was then. I guessed the gentrification would spread across the river before long, but for now it was a cheap area to live in. Txamen was working as a cook in the Jaunak, but when the academic year started again, she'd be going back to her normal job of teaching women plumbing and building skills in courses organized by the city council.
Their flat was a decent size, with plenty of light and a view down the street and across the river from the front window of the large living room. They were lucky to have found such a pleasant place to live for cheap rent in a crowded city like Bilbao - and with a five year old kid, you need all the space you can get!
An english friend of theirs, Jon, was running a second-hand clothes shop just round the corner. It was called "Lakit" and most of the stock was imported from Britain. I went round there with Begoña and met Jon and a friend of his, Ken, who was also from Britain - well, he lives there, anyway, i think he was actually born in Jamaica and his parents migrated when he was a kid. We hung around in the shop for a while and drunk some beer and arranged to meet up with them in a bar a bit later.
That night, Txamen had said she'd stay in with Konor if Begoña wanted to go out for a drink with me. We met up with Jon and Ken in a bar not far from Begoña's place, and had a few beers around there, before moving across the river to the casco viejo. By that time, it was raining. And i didn't really remember much about the rest of that night, which wasn't really surprising, as i hadn't had much sleep the night before and i hadn't had much of a break from drinking since i'd gone into the Jaunak early that afternoon.
- - -
The next day, which was Friday, i didn't wake up till quite late. Begoña had arranged with Dione that we'd meet up with her that lunch time at the Jaunak, and i didn't really have much time to get myself together before it was time to go out.
I hadn't seen Dione since 1986, when she'd gone to London briefly during the period i was there waiting for my visa to go back to Australia. I met her and Mamen on the bus from Gasteiz to London at the end of September 1984, when i was on my way back to Britain after spending three months in Basque Country. The bus had started from Bilbao where they'd got on and they were on their way to London to try their luck at surviving there for a while.
They were sitting in the back seat of the bus and i sat in the seat in front of them and we got talking because they asked me if the punk music they were playing on their cassette machine was too loud for me. "No, turn it up!" i said, and we ended up getting to know each other during that journey. We spent quite a lot of time together during the next nine months or so, and they went back to Bilbao not all that long before i went to Australia. It all seemed like such a long time ago. And, at the same time, it seemed like yesterday. But it was good to see Dione again.
Begoña invited me, Dione and Jon back for a meal that afternoon and later on me and Dione went to the area where she lives and spent the early part of the evening drinking in the bars there and trying to work out a way of getting in touch with Mamem so we could go and visit her at the weekend.
We didn't manage to catch her that evening, but the next day, Dione called round to pick us up to go to Otxandia, where Mamen was waiting for us to arrive.