Throughout the Season of Advent, we have been thinking about the season as a "pilgrimage" to the Bethlehem manger. Below is an article about one person's pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago for your enjoyment and reflection. Look for more information to follow about "Movie Night at the Manse" as we gather to view Martin Sheen in the movie "The Way", relax and celebrate the Christmas Season together.
An unlikely pilgrim
Michelle Coram
My pilgrimage was never meant to be meaningful.The Camino de Santiago, in Spain, is over a thousand
years old and trodden by tens of thousands of pilgrims
each year. For me, though, it was simply a cheap
holiday. A safe walk to do as a solo traveller. And, I’d been
told, a sure way to get fit. I didn’t believe that the remains of
Saint James had somehow managed to end up in Santiago de
Compostela. And I wasn’t expecting any miracles.
So I feel like a fraud collecting my pilgrim passport in
Pamplona – a document that gets you into the less-thansalubrious
pilgrim accommodation along the way. I hand
over the equivalent of about $12 for my bunk and dutifully
accept my first stamp.
My first impression is of a basic backpackers hostel. But
there are some differences, too.
I listen to three nuns, in habits, sing grace before their
meal in the common room.
I inhale a pungent mix of stale sweat and tiger balm.
And I watch a German woman tend an English woman’s
blisters.
“I’m doing this for my son, you know,” the English
woman says. “He died last year.”
“I’ll be praying for you and your son,” says the German
woman, lotion and bandage in hand.
I’m perplexed by the exchange. They can’t have known
each other more than 48 hours. I slip away to my bed. It’s
clear no one else regards the Camino as a budget bootcamp,
and I don’t want to be found out as a fake.
The next morning, I set off, just me, a backpack, and a
walking stick I call Jimmy, my one nod to the saint this walk
is supposed to be all about. The path is simple enough –
a dirt track, marked by yellow arrows. A cheery hola and
buen camino greets me as the first (of many) pilgrims pass
me on the trail.
I’m not sure why everyone is being so friendly. I’m not
feeling particularly chipper as I tackle my first big hill. My
feet are starting to hurt already. Saying hola or buen camino
to every pilgrim that passes me is going to make me insane.
It only takes an hour or so to develop my first blister,
and I pull over to sit down and assess. Every single pilgrim
stops to check on me. I am asked, in about five different languages,
if I am okay. I answer in English that I am. The lack
of a common language in no way hinders the conversations.
Still, I am determined to do it on my own. I load myself
up with food and water from supermarkets – bars are scattered
along the path, but I’m embarrassed to go in. I smell
bad, I dropped out of my Spanish classes, and I don’t know
any other pilgrims. Public toilets don’t seem to exist in rural
Spain, and I find myself diving into blackberry bushes when
the need arises. It’s a prickly experience, to say the least.
After the first day’s walk, I email my friends back home
and try to explain the Camino. I decide it is like a roving
time-out room for adults. I cannot help but reflect on what
I have done (that would be the impulsive use of frequent
flyer points that got me here) and what I haven’t done (that
would be learning Spanish and getting fit).
The second day is less like a time-out room, and more
like a good, old fashioned thrashing. I start the day hurting
and then I go and make myself hurt some more. Somehow I
push through the pain and make it to the hostel. After dinner,
I hear bells and instinctively follow the sound to enter a
church. I’m glad to sit down and rest my throbbing feet.
The language barrier during Mass is quite useful. Unlike
at home, there is no chance of me being offended at the priest’s
theological position. I feel welcome here even though I do not
understand. I watch the older Spanish women go to Communion,
faces lined, bodies hunched over and hands clutching their
rosary beads. I wish that faith was contagious, perhaps like a
divine form of measles. I fear that modern life has vaccinated
me against believing in anything that can’t be explained.
My church attendance must be having some kind of
effect, because I find myself making deals with God as the
days roll on. I don’t really believe in God as an Old Man
in the Sky, but the image works for me as I bargain like a
naughty child might with Santa.
God, it has been a long day. Lots of hills. I’ve said hola to
everyone and smiled and waved. I went to Mass last night.
Is it possible that tonight’s hostel might actually have a
shower with hot water?
Of course it didn’t. Still, removing the peregrina (pilgrim)
scent has its own pleasure, even if it’s done with cold
water. “There is no pleasure without the pain,” a hospitalero
(warden) smiles at me as I limp into the hostel. I am beginning
to think he might be right.
God, I like potato. I like eggs. But I have had tortilla
bocadillos every day for two weeks now. I never thought I’d
say this, but I’m craving broccoli.
As I sit with a fellow pilgrim in a small restaurant that
night I explain to the cook that I am vegetariana.
The cook frowns, and asks, Huevos? Papas?
Eggs and potato. Again. She doesn’t look like someone
I should argue with and I don’t know the word for broccoli.
There is only one answer.
Si, I say. I won’t be rushing in for a cholesterol check the
minute I get home. And I sincerely hope I’m not developing
scurvy. But guilt-free eating is one of the few benefits of
walking 20 kilometres a day.
Gracias, I say, and mean it, as the plate piled high with
fried eggs and chips is placed in front of me.
God, I really need a good night’s sleep. That Spanish guy
in the bunk below me … well, he’s big. Really big. I saw him
quaffing red wine in unpilgrimlike quantities at dinner. The
risk of him snoring is as huge as he is. Please don’t let him…
Snore? The word doesn’t begin to do justice to the sounds
he makes. It’s a herd of pigs below me, surely, not one man. It’s
definitely a herd of pigs. But what were they doing? Eating,
drinking, emptying their bowels, mating, or being slaughtered?
It was hard to tell. Mercifully, physical exhaustion is
its own anaesthetic, and the herd of pigs disappears into the
dark, distant night.
The days merge into one another. Get up. Change from
sleeping clothes to walking clothes. Ease reluctant feet into
boots. Have yoghurt or bread for breakfast. Put on backpack.
Walk. No big decisions. Follow the yellow arrows. Rest when
you need to rest. Eat when you need to eat. Walk. Surrender
to the rhythm. It’s simple, but hard. Life at home is cushy, but
complicated. I decide it’s a fair exchange.
The faces become familiar, and I am the one calling out Hola!
I stop in all the bars and discover the joy of a mid-morning hot
chocolate and a toilet with toilet paper. With a dose of humility,
a smile, and a phrase book, I can make myself understood by
the bartender. I’m not sure why I was so determined to avoid
the hospitality of the locals and the friendship of the pilgrims.
One evening, I lend my jacket to John, an Australian
fellow who decides everything in his backpack needs a
wash. John, in turn, has the ingredients for potato and leek
soup. John sits in my clothes as I eat his food. Alone, it’s a
struggle. Together we have more than enough. The loaves
and the fish story suddenly makes sense.
The end is looming for all of us, and hot topic in the
hostels is the compostela, the certificate that proves you have
completed the pilgrimage.
The catch is that you need to convince the authorities that
you are an authentic pilgrim. “Stamps aren’t enough – you
need to prove that you are properly religious, not just a tourist,”
a fellow pilgrim warns. Properly religious? My wavering faith
doesn’t make sense, even to me. I don’t think I can explain what
I believe, in Spanish, to a stranger. Despite the many miles, and
many stamps, I worry that the compostela is going to elude me.
I arrive in the pilgrim office in Santiago and line up
waiting to be spoken to by an official. It feels a bit like
Judgement Day. The lady behind the desk calls me forward.
I am prepared for the interrogation. I have a phrase book.
I brace myself. But there is no judgement from the official,
just a welcoming smile.
“And how was the Camino for you?” she asks.
I can handle anything except kindness. Her gentle
words break through my final resistance to the word pilgrim.
I start to shake, the room starts to spin. I can barely
breathe, let alone speak. Tears stream down my face. The
official nods. She gives me the certificate.
Later, I take the bus to Finisterre, a little fishing village at
the western tip of Europe. As its name suggests, Finisterre
was once quite literally regarded as the end of the earth.
I take part in one last Camino ritual, watching the sunset
from the lighthouse. As the last streaks of light disappear
into the ocean, I have an overwhelming sense of sadness.
My fellow pilgrims are already dispersing to the distant
corners of the world.
The Camino community might have been everchanging,
strange and more than a little smelly. But it was
a community nonetheless. Every pilgrim who said hola and
buen camino. The Spanish snorer. The locals who fed me and
bore my mutilation of their language with such patience
and good humour. The hospitaleros, often volunteers, who
made pancakes and tended blisters, day after day after day.
I turn on my phone as I sit in the dusk, and see a little
envelope appear. It’s a text from my brother.
“Congratulations! Now you can sin all you like for a
whole year!”
I’m not sure he has got the concept of indulgences exactly
right, but I smile. There has been another community with me
on this journey. The community waiting for me at home.
My friends sent long emails to cheer me on when
they really should have been working. My uncle, a retired
farmer, sent text messages to me every single day. And my
parents made horribly expensive calls to my mobile phone
to make sure I was okay.
I realise that my family and friends have been part of my
pilgrimage despite their physical absence. It gives me hope
that my fellow pilgrims will still be part of my life, somehow,
whether it’s through the wonders of the world wide web, or
the simple memories that are now part of me.
The fusion of ancient ritual and modern technology
makes for an appropriate ending. The thousand-year-old
Camino is the best antidote to the lonely stresses of modern
life I’ve ever encountered.
As I get on the bus to leave Finisterre, I watch two pilgrims
embrace. “Buen camino for the rest of your life,” says
one, as she slowly lets go.
And so a new journey begins. The journey home. Buen
camino.
Michelle Coram is an Adelaide, South Australia, based lawyer who likes to combine
travel with deeper questions. Michelle’s latest travels have been with Habitat for Humanity
and she blogs about those experiences at www.adelaidecambodia.blogspot.com.
Used by permission.
Copyright © Wood Lake Publishing Inc. 2012 Seasons of the Spirit™ SeasonsFUSION Advent • Christmas • Epiphany 2012–2013 p. 6, 7
