Borrowed Shoes in Andalucia

This tale was told to me by a man I met by chance in town. I was sharing my sandwich with a gang of expectant pigeons, and he sat next to me and we chatted for a couple of hours. We put the world to rights: I asked him about his memorable shoes, and he told me this story.


Photographing the Rocio pilgrimage I decided to get wet and take pictures from the best viewpoint at the time- in the river that all of us, wagons, horses, tractors and all, were crossing. Not wanting to ruin my shoes I took them off and, tying the laces together, hurled them across the stream to the top of the opposite bank, BUT, they rolled down the bank, into the stream. Amid hoots of laughter and screams of derision my shoes vanished rapidly round the bend in the river, pursued by two small boys who failed to catch up with them....

That was that, I said to myself, and got into the river and carried on with my work!
Several hours later I emerged, well after most of the heavy wagons and horses had crossed over and well after almost all the beer and fino bottles on the far bank had been crushed under wheels and hooves, so I had a hard time of it picking my tenderfooted way up the road gouged by the wagons. I remember another photographer, mockingly chanting," Penitente, Penitente" , but he and Francois stayed by me helping me out of that situation, and we found something to sit down on. Everyone else of course had seen my shoes vanish and a kind lady managed to get her husband to give me a pair of his, which, overjoyed I then proceeded to wear for the next few extremely dusty miles.

That next day, reaching El Rocio, we were taken in and fed, and then offered a place in the stables of an aristo's mansion to rest our weary bones in our sleeping bags. I went out again in my borrowed new shoes to see what I could. Well, I got seriously involved in photographing a pair of dancers, very young, but really excellent flamenco masters- the best I had ever seen, who were giving an impromptu display in the courtyard of another house, with only a dozen or so of us there to watch the magic. And it was magic.

It was quite wonderful, but walking "home" in the dark I was mugged and robbed of all my equipment and money, my ID and most of my films, which were in a big can in my pocket. I was unconscious for several hours, waking, jacketless, in a pool of horse shit, of which I stank considerably. I staggered back to where we slept and Francois was already sleeping heavily. Fortunately there was a shower where we were and I washed myself really clean, including the bloody crack on my head, and shampooed my hair, until I felt just fine, and dry and very clean indeed. Of course I also had to wash my shirt and trousers very thoroughly, and the shoes that kind man had given me, which I dried off with a towel, as best I could, and placed at the foot of my sleeping bag bed on the floor. Feeling fully justified and utterly knackered, I lay down, and went to sleep, next to Francois on my right ,and the mule tethered across from us in the corner.

I didn't sleep the whole night long, or what was left of it, because, well, an odd noise awakened me. Perfectly backlit by the incoming dawn I gazed in wonder as the mule, our companion, angled his ass and directed a full and constant flow of urine, straight into my shoes.....

[PH, sent by email]