Making Much Water

He appeared as though a mirage. I first noticed him as a blue figure in the distance, clearly a fellow pilgrim as no locals walked this stretch of road. The gravel path, scratched out of the edge of a farmers field, paralleled the highway leading into Sahagun. It was a wet, splashy, dreary day and I was cold. I wanted nothing more than to be out of the rain, sitting in a nice warm cafe with my hands wrapped around a hot mug of ColaCao (cheap hot chocolate powder.) These warm thoughts were broken by the movement of the man in blue. He had paused and turned back to look my way. The motion took only a second but it was enough to break me of my thoughts. As I walked on the figure paused two more times, each time seeming to mark my location. This simple act made me feel safe, protected even. I liked knowing that someone was looking out for me, encouraging me to press forward on this rainy day. As I entered a bend in the path I lost site of my distant pilgrim. A sudden wave of panic flooded over me and I picked up the pace in hopes of seeing my emotional safety blanket on the horizon once again. As I cleared the bend there he was, not 1/4 km in front of me, peeing into the bushes on the roadside, with little shelter from the eyes of passing cars. I stopped walking and looked away, trying to grant some semblance of privacy. As I waited for him to finish, I laughed at myself as I realized that the pilgrim I heralded as watching over me was in reality just timing my distance so he could go to the bathroom. He finishes and walks on with me not too far behind.
I catch up to him, my pilgrim stranger, in about 10 minutes. We smile, say hola, and walk on together in silence. We walk together this way, neither saying anything for about an hour, when suddenly a eerie sounding moan escapes from my pilgrim and he races, doubled over at the waist, into the bushes once again. From the bushes I hear the sounds of someone suffering from "pilgrims revenge". I move away to grant him some privacy, but I opt not to press on in case he turns out to be seriously ill. After a long time, he emerges from the bushes, pale and clammy. I hand him some of my water and a hanky.
"Merci", he says and smiles weakly.
"You ok?", I ask.
"Not ok, but walk now", he says in thick French accent.
We walk on.
Ten minutes later, another moan, followed by another bolt into the bushes. Again, I wait to offer water and a hanky. This routine continues for another 5km. Each time a moan, a mad dash, the sound of a backpack hitting the earth and a buckle being undone.
He emerges yet again from the bushes. He obviously feels embarrassed and tries to explain.
"My stomach makes much water."
"I know", I say with a laugh. "You ok to keep walking?"
"Not ok, but we keep walk."
Eventually, we reach Sahagun. He says he will stop at the alburgue (pilgrim hostel) and he points to his stomach. I smile, offer a hug and my last hanky and I walk on.
I reach my destination of Calzadilla de los Hermanillos as the sun was setting and a early evening storm was threatening to break. I meet up with some pilgrim friends at the alburgue and I ask if any of them were feeling ill. All of them recount some type of stomach ailment and we conclude it must have been the food from the alburge the previous night.
The next morning, I begin walking to Leon, a mere 20km away. After about 8km a sharp pain grips my abdomen and I launch into the bushes. I emerge pale and clammy with my Frenchman pilgrim from the previous day standing before me.
"Your stomach make much water", he says with a smile.
"Yes it does", I manage to respond, as he hands me some water and a hanky.
"You ok?", he asks.
"Not ok, but we walk", I say, as I shrug into my backback.
We walk on this way for another day, our roles reveresed.
And so it was that an unknown American and an unknown Frenchman walked the Camino de Santiago de Compostela together for two days, each taking turns making too much water and offering a hanky.