The Camino de Santiago is, among other things (more significant) a cheap way to travel in Spain. The albergues (pilgrim hostels) generally cost about 5 euro per night, and often have kitchens so you can cook your spaghetti and dump that can of tuna in and eat on the cheap.
Even so, it adds up, so I have been cutting corners by occasionally sleeping outside, which is of course worthwhile in its own right, though after a sweaty day of walking I miss the showers dearly. (And I will definitely be dry-cleaning the sleeping bag when this trip is done.) A couple nights ago I had decided to sleep outside, since it was beautiful weather, and the first albergue I had checked that day was 12 euro. (12! What is this, the Hilton?)
I heard the albergue would let me shower for free though, from the waitress in town who I bought my daily bocadillo from (seriously, I am so sick of Spanish bocadillos...I don't mean to be ungrateful to my host country, but Spanish cooking is tremendously unimaginative. White white white bread, eggs, and jamon do not a cuisine make! Sorry, had to get that off my chest).
So I headed over post-haste (what does that mean? I think I am losing my grip on the English language...) and found the albergue was in an empty building. It had a rusting swing set out front to indicate that it was once the town's schoolhouse, and I found myself wondering if they had built a new one, or if the town kids had started escaping this town earlier than usual. It was basically a squat, thin mats thrown down on bare floors, bare bulbs hanging in a couple of the rooms, nothing in others, except for one very important difference: the bathroom had a massive new water heater.
Praise Santiago! Like I said, it has been blazing hot lately, and I spend most of the day dripping. By the evening it cools down though, and I am generally not a fan of the cold shower when I am not in Mexico.
Anyway, the point is that I slept in an abandoned schoolhouse, which was pretty cool. There was a farmhouse across the street whose cow lowing in serious irritation for awhile, and the farmwife offered to make us cups of coffee in the morning for a euro each. I loved it.
P.S. "Squat" in Spanish is the same as English. I suppose it would have the little dots over the u though....the umlaut thingy.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Facing death by Beethoven and Babe.
I was singing the cheery song from my last post (the one about not dying from contaminated water) yesterday when I came upon another one of the tiny towns that dot the camino. They are generally beautiful and tragic interludes. Villages too small to have a post office, where you rarely see any sign of life, maybe an old woman wandering around or leathery man sitting in the shade who responds to your “buenos dias” with a raspy voice so heavily dialected that you can’t understand the words even though you know what they are.
A lot of the houses are empty shells, roofs caved in, doors padlocked shut with heavy chain or missing entirely, and it is likely there are neglected farm implements rusting away in the alleys or behind houses. It seems to me that all the children leave these towns for the cities as soon as they are able, and you are left with these ghost towns; the only steps in the streets are the passing strides of pilgrims and the shuffling scrape of the elderly. I can only imagine the stillness of the ones off the pilgrimage routes.
So, like I said, normally I find these towns beautiful and tragic, and I have to resist the urge to whip out the camera to take pictures of every decrepit doorway and lined face. This one was different. The village was literally about six houses long, less than 100 meters, with no sign of human life visible, but a surplus of canine life in the street. Snarling, growling, barking canine life. How can half a dozen houses have more than a dozen street dogs? And why are they all so pissed?
My first response was to back my weary pilgrim butt out of town, where I waited until they calmed down, then tried again. I admit my heartbeat was faster the second time, and as soon as I made it through my second response kicked in, which was anger. What the hell, man! This is a shit town ON the Camino de Santiago, and they leave their dozen bloodthirsty hounds in the street?
Anyway, there’s not really a point to this story, I just wanted to tell you what I’ve been up to.
Oh, and when I backed out of town at first to let them calm down I stopped next to two houses, the first shattered and the second whole. I went up to the whole one to ask if the dogs were actually going to kill me and saw through the window the refrigerator door hanging open, rusting, the cabinet doors decaying off their hinges, the floor covered with the detritus of an abandoned house. It was creepy. Then from the ruined one came deep grunting growling sounds. As I leaned over to pick up a couple stones to carry in my second attempt at crossing the town (just in case, you know?) I straightened to find myself face to face with the largest pig I have ever seen.
Normally this would have been cute, but with a little animal-induced adrenalin already in my system all I could think of what that part in Hannibal where the pigs are eating people’s faces. I gotta stop watching movies, man.
A lot of the houses are empty shells, roofs caved in, doors padlocked shut with heavy chain or missing entirely, and it is likely there are neglected farm implements rusting away in the alleys or behind houses. It seems to me that all the children leave these towns for the cities as soon as they are able, and you are left with these ghost towns; the only steps in the streets are the passing strides of pilgrims and the shuffling scrape of the elderly. I can only imagine the stillness of the ones off the pilgrimage routes.
So, like I said, normally I find these towns beautiful and tragic, and I have to resist the urge to whip out the camera to take pictures of every decrepit doorway and lined face. This one was different. The village was literally about six houses long, less than 100 meters, with no sign of human life visible, but a surplus of canine life in the street. Snarling, growling, barking canine life. How can half a dozen houses have more than a dozen street dogs? And why are they all so pissed?
My first response was to back my weary pilgrim butt out of town, where I waited until they calmed down, then tried again. I admit my heartbeat was faster the second time, and as soon as I made it through my second response kicked in, which was anger. What the hell, man! This is a shit town ON the Camino de Santiago, and they leave their dozen bloodthirsty hounds in the street?
Anyway, there’s not really a point to this story, I just wanted to tell you what I’ve been up to.
Oh, and when I backed out of town at first to let them calm down I stopped next to two houses, the first shattered and the second whole. I went up to the whole one to ask if the dogs were actually going to kill me and saw through the window the refrigerator door hanging open, rusting, the cabinet doors decaying off their hinges, the floor covered with the detritus of an abandoned house. It was creepy. Then from the ruined one came deep grunting growling sounds. As I leaned over to pick up a couple stones to carry in my second attempt at crossing the town (just in case, you know?) I straightened to find myself face to face with the largest pig I have ever seen.
Normally this would have been cute, but with a little animal-induced adrenalin already in my system all I could think of what that part in Hannibal where the pigs are eating people’s faces. I gotta stop watching movies, man.
Today's Deep Thoughts on the pilgrimage.
So walking the Camino is a form of meditation, and a great time for introspection, but I’d be lying by omission if I let you think I was over here pondering The Mysteries of Life all the time. To be honest, I am usually thinking about the same random stuff I normally do (despite my efforts to “live in the Now,” thank you very much Eckhart Tolle) such as movies I’ve seen, places I’ve been, and the big one: conversations I have had, may have, or should have had.
You know that last one, where you think back to interactions and suddenly think of what you should have said. According to Chuck Palahniuk (the author of Fight Club and other, better books) the French have an expression for this that translates to “Spirit of the Stairs” because that’s when the right thing to say comes to you, when you’re on your way out.
I have to say “according to Chuck Palahniuk” because none of the French people I have ever asked about this have had the foggiest idea what I was talking about. They generally reply something along the lines of “Je ne sais pas what the fuck you’re talking about.” Excuse my French.
This morning it was singing new words to other songs. You know The Killers song about “Are we human, or are we dancing”? First it was “Are we tuna, or are we salmon…My roe are spawning, my scales are grey, and I’m on my way across the ocean, but am I a tuna, or am I a salmon?”
Then it was “Do you like Paul Newman, or do you prefer Ted Danson?”
It is blazingly hot lately, and the water fountains are of three types: labeled as potable, labeled as “without sanitary guarantees,” or unlabeled pipes sticking out of hillsides. I chugged a couple liters from one of these mystery fountains and spent the next twenty minutes singing (to the tune of Happy Birthday)
Buena Suerte a mi,
Que no me muero aqui
Por haber bebido mucho
Agua lleno de pp.
(Good luck to me, that I not die right here, because I just drank a bunch of water, full of peepee.)
You know that last one, where you think back to interactions and suddenly think of what you should have said. According to Chuck Palahniuk (the author of Fight Club and other, better books) the French have an expression for this that translates to “Spirit of the Stairs” because that’s when the right thing to say comes to you, when you’re on your way out.
I have to say “according to Chuck Palahniuk” because none of the French people I have ever asked about this have had the foggiest idea what I was talking about. They generally reply something along the lines of “Je ne sais pas what the fuck you’re talking about.” Excuse my French.
This morning it was singing new words to other songs. You know The Killers song about “Are we human, or are we dancing”? First it was “Are we tuna, or are we salmon…My roe are spawning, my scales are grey, and I’m on my way across the ocean, but am I a tuna, or am I a salmon?”
Then it was “Do you like Paul Newman, or do you prefer Ted Danson?”
It is blazingly hot lately, and the water fountains are of three types: labeled as potable, labeled as “without sanitary guarantees,” or unlabeled pipes sticking out of hillsides. I chugged a couple liters from one of these mystery fountains and spent the next twenty minutes singing (to the tune of Happy Birthday)
Buena Suerte a mi,
Que no me muero aqui
Por haber bebido mucho
Agua lleno de pp.
(Good luck to me, that I not die right here, because I just drank a bunch of water, full of peepee.)
A quick note on Africa projects and fundraising
We have almost made it to our first fundraising goal! The de-prisonification of the day care and orphanage and supply delivery to the new center in Zambia are almost certain. Thank you each and every donor! You guys are fantastic, I really want to thank you all.
We are also working on additional projects to lend our hands and hearts to while there. Maybe teach some English…take some soccer balls down so the kids can actually play soccer, instead of spending more time looking for scraps of plastic to wad into a makeshift ball than actually playing (until it falls apart). And we are working on a puppet show and/or craft day for the kids the first day, maybe broach some serious issues in it, hopefully earn their trust and connect enough to enable Katrien to use her Social Worker education and skills to provide some counseling services… There are a lot of kids in dire circumstances down there, and a talented woman like her can hopefully make a big difference; a single spirit helped would be a beautiful thing.
There is a lot to be done, and though we obviously won’t be able to do everything, your support has and will enable us to do more, so thank you again to each and every one of you who have contributed! And to those who are about to!
We are also working on additional projects to lend our hands and hearts to while there. Maybe teach some English…take some soccer balls down so the kids can actually play soccer, instead of spending more time looking for scraps of plastic to wad into a makeshift ball than actually playing (until it falls apart). And we are working on a puppet show and/or craft day for the kids the first day, maybe broach some serious issues in it, hopefully earn their trust and connect enough to enable Katrien to use her Social Worker education and skills to provide some counseling services… There are a lot of kids in dire circumstances down there, and a talented woman like her can hopefully make a big difference; a single spirit helped would be a beautiful thing.
There is a lot to be done, and though we obviously won’t be able to do everything, your support has and will enable us to do more, so thank you again to each and every one of you who have contributed! And to those who are about to!
Monday, June 28, 2010
Introducing USA versus Belgium fundraising race.
In the spirit of friendly international competition (I’m loving the World Cup, go Ghana!) I’m challenging Belgium to a fundraising race.
My unbearably lovely co-fundraiser has been making fabric flowers, which have been selling like hot-cakes. I’m not so crafty like that (unless you want to buy a scarf or blanket in advance…which actually you can totally do…) so I am going to challenge her flower empire with my feet.
Over the past month I walked the Camino Frances to Santiago in northwestern Spain. I covered 700 kilometers over the course of a month. To be honest, I am exhausted. My feet hurt, by body is worn out, and sleeping in is an abstract concept I vaguely remember. But I am going to challenge Belgium, you, and myself to see if I can make it to 1000 kilometers.
Introducing: 1,000 kilometers to Pretoria. If you think I can do it, and want to help me do so, you can email me at santacruzt@gmail to pledge however much you want. You can either pledge to donate upon completion of the 1000, or for each 100 until I get there, or whatever you want. If I don’t make it, you don’t pay anything. (Of course, if you want to contribute normally, you are more than welcome to do that!)
She has been selling flowers for a little while already…but I think we can catch up…
Game on!
Oh, and here are a couple from the Camino...fairly randomly selected, more to follow...hopefully.
Entering Galicia, the last province of the Camino de Santiago.
Over the past month I walked the Camino Frances to Santiago in northwestern Spain. I covered 700 kilometers over the course of a month. To be honest, I am exhausted. My feet hurt, by body is worn out, and sleeping in is an abstract concept I vaguely remember. But I am going to challenge Belgium, you, and myself to see if I can make it to 1000 kilometers.
Introducing: 1,000 kilometers to Pretoria. If you think I can do it, and want to help me do so, you can email me at santacruzt@gmail to pledge however much you want. You can either pledge to donate upon completion of the 1000, or for each 100 until I get there, or whatever you want. If I don’t make it, you don’t pay anything. (Of course, if you want to contribute normally, you are more than welcome to do that!)
She has been selling flowers for a little while already…but I think we can catch up…
Game on!
Oh, and here are a couple from the Camino...fairly randomly selected, more to follow...hopefully.
The sunrise on the field where I spent the night a week ago. That's my bag and baston.
The view over Santiago, the Cathedral is the destination of the Caminos de Santiago.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Made it to Santiago, and some of the people along the way.
I finished the French Way of the Camino de Santiago.
I started on a chilly morning in Pamplona in late May and finished on a bakingly hot afternoon in late June. Over 700 kilometers, 28 days, more hours walking than sleeping. My feet hardened, I shivered and sweated, and I got a lot better at washing clothes by hand.
The landscape of northern Spain is absolutely gorgeous. The towering Pyrenees, though I missed the infamous first day and the two lesser cousins that follow. The luxuriant La Rioja with its neat fields of vineyards wrapped over soft hills. The notorious and undervalued Meseta region between the cities of Burgos and Leon, with its own more subtle beauty of pattern and countryside life. Then the verdant reaches of Galicia, Celtic influences echoing on stone streets, susurrations of the Gallego dialect in the greetings of locals that echo with Portuguese, and pausing while elderly women herded cows to pasture on the path. And finally the arrival in Santiago itself.
It is an amazing journey physically, but every priest and pontificator along the way will tell you that the real pilgrimage is internal. The Camino is not just walking a lot, it’s the inward process. That is not true for everyone, some just enjoy a long beautiful walk, but the potential for much more is definitely there.
But that is maybe not blog material, at least not right now.
But more beautiful even than the scenery, and more salient than the inner process, is the community in motion of fellow pilgrims. United by common experiences in different shades, and spanning nationalities from across the globe, the people you can meet on the Camino are arguably the brightest gem in the crown of this experience.
I walked with pilgrims who were Spanish (and Basque), Italian, German, French, Swiss, Danish, Dutch, Belgian, Canadian, Australian, Austrian, Kiwi, South African, Polish, British, Slovenian, Norwegian, Czech, Hungarian, South Korean, Turkish, and even occasionally other Americans. Different ones had different presences, some stand out more than others, but they were all welcome fellow travelers.
Out of the probable 200(?) pilgrims I talked to or met, I can think of one who annoyed the hell out of me, and one who gave me the willies. Other than that they were all positive presences, and even those two were welcome parts of the experience.
There were the Basque youth who taught me an acojonante variety of new Spanish words, a veritable mogollon of Castilian Spanish vocabulary (and no, don’t say either of those words in class or in front of your mother-in-law). The two Swiss matrons who were a reliable and welcome presence of greeting and smiling eyes in nearly every town after about halfway. The Turkish fellow with smiling eyes and a depth of character I could only guess at, but could quickly sense. The spiritual students of Hungary who I unfortunately lost track of early and have been watching out for ever since. The South Korean who closed the second chapter of her life during her pilgrimage and is looking for the third, while in the meantime shining with potent hospitality that turns a park bench into a banquet table. The teddy-bear German who will sprint down a muddy country lane in the mud to keep a friend from going astray. The construction worker from Andalucia with the full back tattoo of raging demons who always wanted to do the camino but couldn’t take the time off…until he won the lottery grand prize…twice.
Or the drill sergeant with his passionate tirades against the Spanish government, who reputedly pulled a knife on an amiable quiet lad one night (yeah, that’s the one that gave me the willies). And his sidekick, who was already your friend when you met him and carried an astonishing quantity of marijuana.
Everyone remembers meeting the bizarre French woman who is taking seven months to walk to Santiago and then back to France with her donkey named Sherpa following along behind her. Or the Italian/Australian butcher who survived throat cancer that left his jaw tight and speech uniquely appealing who has walked several times before, and is currently on his way with his fourth wife; I seem to remember him saying he was 76, but that cannot be true in a man of such phenomenal striding vigor, surely. There was the sweaty Portuguese man with a fin of unruly hair who I met in the middle of baking nowhere who had been walking for a year and a half, and thinks he’s heading to Rome now. Or the mythic figure of the guy who has been walking the various Camino routes since he was 14, approximately 20 times, though figures may vary.
All these characters barely fit in 700 kilometers, and it is with shock that I acknowledge that if I had walked a day or two earlier or later it would have been a whole different cast. This goes on for about a third of the year. During the rest of the time the numbers are less, though I would posit that the density of intensity and peculiarity increases in the off months…
I started on a chilly morning in Pamplona in late May and finished on a bakingly hot afternoon in late June. Over 700 kilometers, 28 days, more hours walking than sleeping. My feet hardened, I shivered and sweated, and I got a lot better at washing clothes by hand.
The landscape of northern Spain is absolutely gorgeous. The towering Pyrenees, though I missed the infamous first day and the two lesser cousins that follow. The luxuriant La Rioja with its neat fields of vineyards wrapped over soft hills. The notorious and undervalued Meseta region between the cities of Burgos and Leon, with its own more subtle beauty of pattern and countryside life. Then the verdant reaches of Galicia, Celtic influences echoing on stone streets, susurrations of the Gallego dialect in the greetings of locals that echo with Portuguese, and pausing while elderly women herded cows to pasture on the path. And finally the arrival in Santiago itself.
It is an amazing journey physically, but every priest and pontificator along the way will tell you that the real pilgrimage is internal. The Camino is not just walking a lot, it’s the inward process. That is not true for everyone, some just enjoy a long beautiful walk, but the potential for much more is definitely there.
But that is maybe not blog material, at least not right now.
But more beautiful even than the scenery, and more salient than the inner process, is the community in motion of fellow pilgrims. United by common experiences in different shades, and spanning nationalities from across the globe, the people you can meet on the Camino are arguably the brightest gem in the crown of this experience.
I walked with pilgrims who were Spanish (and Basque), Italian, German, French, Swiss, Danish, Dutch, Belgian, Canadian, Australian, Austrian, Kiwi, South African, Polish, British, Slovenian, Norwegian, Czech, Hungarian, South Korean, Turkish, and even occasionally other Americans. Different ones had different presences, some stand out more than others, but they were all welcome fellow travelers.
Out of the probable 200(?) pilgrims I talked to or met, I can think of one who annoyed the hell out of me, and one who gave me the willies. Other than that they were all positive presences, and even those two were welcome parts of the experience.
There were the Basque youth who taught me an acojonante variety of new Spanish words, a veritable mogollon of Castilian Spanish vocabulary (and no, don’t say either of those words in class or in front of your mother-in-law). The two Swiss matrons who were a reliable and welcome presence of greeting and smiling eyes in nearly every town after about halfway. The Turkish fellow with smiling eyes and a depth of character I could only guess at, but could quickly sense. The spiritual students of Hungary who I unfortunately lost track of early and have been watching out for ever since. The South Korean who closed the second chapter of her life during her pilgrimage and is looking for the third, while in the meantime shining with potent hospitality that turns a park bench into a banquet table. The teddy-bear German who will sprint down a muddy country lane in the mud to keep a friend from going astray. The construction worker from Andalucia with the full back tattoo of raging demons who always wanted to do the camino but couldn’t take the time off…until he won the lottery grand prize…twice.
Or the drill sergeant with his passionate tirades against the Spanish government, who reputedly pulled a knife on an amiable quiet lad one night (yeah, that’s the one that gave me the willies). And his sidekick, who was already your friend when you met him and carried an astonishing quantity of marijuana.
Everyone remembers meeting the bizarre French woman who is taking seven months to walk to Santiago and then back to France with her donkey named Sherpa following along behind her. Or the Italian/Australian butcher who survived throat cancer that left his jaw tight and speech uniquely appealing who has walked several times before, and is currently on his way with his fourth wife; I seem to remember him saying he was 76, but that cannot be true in a man of such phenomenal striding vigor, surely. There was the sweaty Portuguese man with a fin of unruly hair who I met in the middle of baking nowhere who had been walking for a year and a half, and thinks he’s heading to Rome now. Or the mythic figure of the guy who has been walking the various Camino routes since he was 14, approximately 20 times, though figures may vary.
All these characters barely fit in 700 kilometers, and it is with shock that I acknowledge that if I had walked a day or two earlier or later it would have been a whole different cast. This goes on for about a third of the year. During the rest of the time the numbers are less, though I would posit that the density of intensity and peculiarity increases in the off months…
My last night before Santiago
After all those steps, sweating and freezing in turns, and trying my hardest to remember how incredible it all was the whole way, I found myself on the last night before arriving in Santiago, the end of the traditional Camino de la Compostela.
I had arrived in the company of a Dane and a Spaniard, with two more Spaniards coming behind us. It had been a day of about 35 kilometers, where no sweat fell on the path because it evaporated off your febrile skin before it had the chance to drip off. Each step lifted puffs of dust, both from beneath your foot and from the ankle as socks coughed out their dusty surplus.
After an interminable final 400 meters of tarmac, we entered Pedrouza and found a bar. As soon as possible we were drinking cold beers and eating massive cherries grown in the neighboring town. The interior of the bar was cigarettes, so we sat in the street, feather-light tin chairs scraping on the tile sidewalk whenever we mustered the energy to move, which was not often.
Sufficiently refreshed, though that is not the right word without sleep and a shower, we searched out a place to spend the night. We were tired of the albergues (i.e. pilgrim hostels) and wanted something more intimate for our last night, so we found a little park on the edge of town. It had a concrete barbeque frame, and after a trip to the supermercado and an excursion into the work site next door where we borrowed a pair of slate roofing tiles to use as a grill, we were cooking our dinner as the Spanish evening fell to Spanish night.
Sleeping outside during this time of year is no problem, but it is advisable to have a mat to put under your sleeping bag, to protect it from the damp and you from the heat-sapping ground. I had the sleeping bag but not the mat; the Dane was the same. Pilgrims frequently leave gear behind, so the albergues often have a large stash of abandoned or forgotten items, so we headed out to check the four in town for available mats.
This simple errand proved to be one of the more beautiful memories of my time here. Walking through the tiny town we ran into person after person, group after group, pilgrims we had met on the way. Smiles and greetings were as ubiquitous as the sun’s rays, but warmed hearts instead of burning skin (sunscreen may be heavy but it is worth the weight). It was maybe not unexpected, but still a wonderful surprise that before even finding any albergue staff to ask, we had several offers of mats from our fellows who would not be using them that night.
On our last night before entering the big city of expensive accommodation, fees for everything, and advertising splashed everywhere, these gestures of sharing and goodwill stood in stark contrast to the commerce of the “normal” world.
There is a saying in the albergues: “el turista exige, el peregrino agradece.” That is, “the tourist demands, the pilgrim is grateful.” I hope I am a pilgrim, and I am truly grateful for the Camino de Santiago, and the people who make it what it is.
I had arrived in the company of a Dane and a Spaniard, with two more Spaniards coming behind us. It had been a day of about 35 kilometers, where no sweat fell on the path because it evaporated off your febrile skin before it had the chance to drip off. Each step lifted puffs of dust, both from beneath your foot and from the ankle as socks coughed out their dusty surplus.
After an interminable final 400 meters of tarmac, we entered Pedrouza and found a bar. As soon as possible we were drinking cold beers and eating massive cherries grown in the neighboring town. The interior of the bar was cigarettes, so we sat in the street, feather-light tin chairs scraping on the tile sidewalk whenever we mustered the energy to move, which was not often.
Sufficiently refreshed, though that is not the right word without sleep and a shower, we searched out a place to spend the night. We were tired of the albergues (i.e. pilgrim hostels) and wanted something more intimate for our last night, so we found a little park on the edge of town. It had a concrete barbeque frame, and after a trip to the supermercado and an excursion into the work site next door where we borrowed a pair of slate roofing tiles to use as a grill, we were cooking our dinner as the Spanish evening fell to Spanish night.
Sleeping outside during this time of year is no problem, but it is advisable to have a mat to put under your sleeping bag, to protect it from the damp and you from the heat-sapping ground. I had the sleeping bag but not the mat; the Dane was the same. Pilgrims frequently leave gear behind, so the albergues often have a large stash of abandoned or forgotten items, so we headed out to check the four in town for available mats.
This simple errand proved to be one of the more beautiful memories of my time here. Walking through the tiny town we ran into person after person, group after group, pilgrims we had met on the way. Smiles and greetings were as ubiquitous as the sun’s rays, but warmed hearts instead of burning skin (sunscreen may be heavy but it is worth the weight). It was maybe not unexpected, but still a wonderful surprise that before even finding any albergue staff to ask, we had several offers of mats from our fellows who would not be using them that night.
On our last night before entering the big city of expensive accommodation, fees for everything, and advertising splashed everywhere, these gestures of sharing and goodwill stood in stark contrast to the commerce of the “normal” world.
There is a saying in the albergues: “el turista exige, el peregrino agradece.” That is, “the tourist demands, the pilgrim is grateful.” I hope I am a pilgrim, and I am truly grateful for the Camino de Santiago, and the people who make it what it is.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
El Camino de Santiago
I have walked around six hundred kilometers over the last three weeks or so, and have just over a hundred left to my destination, though from there I intend another hundred to the coast. I start each day around 6:30 in the morning, and generally walk around eight hours per day. Blisters, sunburns, and myriad aches and pains.
I have walked across Spain on the Camino de Santiago de la Compostela.
It deserves, and has, a library of books about it, but to try to convey some idea, I have put up a couple of posts from this morning’s walk and will try to give a quick summary.
The Camino de la Compostela has drawn pilgrims for over a thousand years. The destination is the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, where legend says the remains of the apostle Saint James were brought after he was martyred in Jerusalem in 44 AD. “Compostela” comes from “Camino de la Estrella” or “Path of the Star.” I will let you look up the details for yourself if you are interested, which I recommend.
Since the ninth century (if not far longer) pilgrims have been coming to Santiago. Doing so earned you a plenary indulgence, freeing your soul of the penance due for your sins. Over the centuries untold numbers of pilgrims attempted the voyage, many or most dying along the way, either to robbers and bandits, or to the rampant diseases and rigors of the trip. Before beginning the pilgrimage, people were generally required to write their Wills, since the odds were that they were not going to make it back.
There are many routes, though nowadays the most popular one stretches from the French side of the Pyrenees Mountains, across northern Spain into Galicia in the West. This, the “Camino Frances” is the one I have taken. It has passed through some of the most gorgeous countryside I have ever seen, from the beauty of the Pyrenees, through the famous vineyards of La Rioja, across the fabled flatland of the Spanish Meseta, and into the green mountains and valleys of Galicia.
There are a few pilgrims who supposedly escape without blisters, tendonitis, sunburn, or other ailments, but the sleeping places, called albergues, generally resemble triage centers more than hotels.
I pulled out a needle the other night to sew closed a hole that has formed in my shirt under my pack’s waist strap and everyone assumed I was going to use it to lance a blister, which is a common sight in the afternoons and evening. (You pass the needle through the blister, pulling a thread along behind it, which you leave in for a couple hours to help drain the fluid.) I have enjoyed that experience too, and if you’re lucky I’ll upload a picture of the results when I have a chance…
Basically, the camino is painful, arduous, and one of the most beautiful and rewarding things I have ever done. The countryside is stunning, but the best part of the experience by far is the people you meet. Local people are generally pilgrim-positive, though the poison of Normalcy and the virulence of Money have tarnished this as the pilgrimage grows more popular. The other pilgrims have been, basically without exception, amazing people. Though exhausted (or maybe because of it) everyone shares a common bond on the camino, and friendships form every evening, and throughout the day.
I would love to tell you more about it, but I have already taken by far the longest break yet, and the road is calling to my feet, which are throbbing in response (that’s what that throbbing is, right?)
One last note: the pilgrimage is not about just walking. It means different things for every person, and for me there are several aspects. The one I specifically want to mention now, is that for me this experience has been in preparation, spiritual more than physical, for my trip to Africa this summer. Going from the comforts, safeties and assumptions of the “First World” to the poverty and quotidian realities of southern Africa is not something to be taken lightly, or experienced easily.
I cannot properly explain that right now, and must leave it at that. But, as you probably expected, I do want to ask for your help. I am walking these 800 kilometers as preparation and in respect for the realities I expect to find in South Africa. If you would like to help me with my goal of helping in some small way some of the lives I will find there, I would very much appreciate any donation you can make.
I realize asking for sponsorship for something that I have almost finished is not how it’s done, but if I can raise just $5 for every 100 miles I will walk (500 miles) from a dozen people, I will raise $300, which will pay about half of what we still need to reach our minimum fundraising goal of $2000.
So if you would like to donate $25 to correspond with the month of walking I am doing, please click the “donate” button at the top of the page.
Thank you.
I have walked across Spain on the Camino de Santiago de la Compostela.
It deserves, and has, a library of books about it, but to try to convey some idea, I have put up a couple of posts from this morning’s walk and will try to give a quick summary.
The Camino de la Compostela has drawn pilgrims for over a thousand years. The destination is the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, where legend says the remains of the apostle Saint James were brought after he was martyred in Jerusalem in 44 AD. “Compostela” comes from “Camino de la Estrella” or “Path of the Star.” I will let you look up the details for yourself if you are interested, which I recommend.
Since the ninth century (if not far longer) pilgrims have been coming to Santiago. Doing so earned you a plenary indulgence, freeing your soul of the penance due for your sins. Over the centuries untold numbers of pilgrims attempted the voyage, many or most dying along the way, either to robbers and bandits, or to the rampant diseases and rigors of the trip. Before beginning the pilgrimage, people were generally required to write their Wills, since the odds were that they were not going to make it back.
There are many routes, though nowadays the most popular one stretches from the French side of the Pyrenees Mountains, across northern Spain into Galicia in the West. This, the “Camino Frances” is the one I have taken. It has passed through some of the most gorgeous countryside I have ever seen, from the beauty of the Pyrenees, through the famous vineyards of La Rioja, across the fabled flatland of the Spanish Meseta, and into the green mountains and valleys of Galicia.
There are a few pilgrims who supposedly escape without blisters, tendonitis, sunburn, or other ailments, but the sleeping places, called albergues, generally resemble triage centers more than hotels.
I pulled out a needle the other night to sew closed a hole that has formed in my shirt under my pack’s waist strap and everyone assumed I was going to use it to lance a blister, which is a common sight in the afternoons and evening. (You pass the needle through the blister, pulling a thread along behind it, which you leave in for a couple hours to help drain the fluid.) I have enjoyed that experience too, and if you’re lucky I’ll upload a picture of the results when I have a chance…
Basically, the camino is painful, arduous, and one of the most beautiful and rewarding things I have ever done. The countryside is stunning, but the best part of the experience by far is the people you meet. Local people are generally pilgrim-positive, though the poison of Normalcy and the virulence of Money have tarnished this as the pilgrimage grows more popular. The other pilgrims have been, basically without exception, amazing people. Though exhausted (or maybe because of it) everyone shares a common bond on the camino, and friendships form every evening, and throughout the day.
I would love to tell you more about it, but I have already taken by far the longest break yet, and the road is calling to my feet, which are throbbing in response (that’s what that throbbing is, right?)
One last note: the pilgrimage is not about just walking. It means different things for every person, and for me there are several aspects. The one I specifically want to mention now, is that for me this experience has been in preparation, spiritual more than physical, for my trip to Africa this summer. Going from the comforts, safeties and assumptions of the “First World” to the poverty and quotidian realities of southern Africa is not something to be taken lightly, or experienced easily.
I cannot properly explain that right now, and must leave it at that. But, as you probably expected, I do want to ask for your help. I am walking these 800 kilometers as preparation and in respect for the realities I expect to find in South Africa. If you would like to help me with my goal of helping in some small way some of the lives I will find there, I would very much appreciate any donation you can make.
I realize asking for sponsorship for something that I have almost finished is not how it’s done, but if I can raise just $5 for every 100 miles I will walk (500 miles) from a dozen people, I will raise $300, which will pay about half of what we still need to reach our minimum fundraising goal of $2000.
So if you would like to donate $25 to correspond with the month of walking I am doing, please click the “donate” button at the top of the page.
Thank you.
El Baston
One of the traditional instruments of the pilgrim is the baston. (That should have an accent on the o.) It is basically a walking stick, to help pass the miles, but is also recommended as protection against local dogs. In my experience, the dogs of Spain have not been at all a threat. The aggressive ones along the Camino are all tied, and sleepy farm dogs are fun companions when they are not working.
I have flirted with the idea of finding a baston, but had not yet found one that I liked, and have decided that I will only carry one if the universe sends it to me.
This morning I was walking along a deserted path through some sleepy farms. I had already passed several dogs sitting out, shivering a little in patches of sunlight. Down the road towards me came trotting an interesting pair. A giant white hound of some sort loped along, while beside it an equally white Chihuahua-type trotted along.
The big fella reached the fence, squeezed through the hole they are clearly accustomed to using, and watched me through droopy eyes as I walked past. Same as a hundred other times.
The Chihuahua was a little more unusual. It stood in the path, looking at me through its buggy eyes and shivering. I lived with a Chihuahua last winter who I quickly grew to adore, so I smiled at the little guy and kept on.
As I passed him my foot scuffed a stone. The Chihuahua flipped out. He started barking and growling. Kind of comical until the big white hound took up the mood, slipped through the fence, and advanced on me, head down, eyes no longer droopy.
There alongside the path was a fallen branch twice my height. I put a foot on it and pulled up the edge, breaking off a piece about 5 feet long and reasonably firm despite having lain on the wet ground for however long.
I backed away with it in hand and the dogs watched me go, growling and following, but slowly. Soon I left them behind (though they watched me until I was well down the road) and I set to the pleasant task of learning to walk with my new baston.
I have flirted with the idea of finding a baston, but had not yet found one that I liked, and have decided that I will only carry one if the universe sends it to me.
This morning I was walking along a deserted path through some sleepy farms. I had already passed several dogs sitting out, shivering a little in patches of sunlight. Down the road towards me came trotting an interesting pair. A giant white hound of some sort loped along, while beside it an equally white Chihuahua-type trotted along.
The big fella reached the fence, squeezed through the hole they are clearly accustomed to using, and watched me through droopy eyes as I walked past. Same as a hundred other times.
The Chihuahua was a little more unusual. It stood in the path, looking at me through its buggy eyes and shivering. I lived with a Chihuahua last winter who I quickly grew to adore, so I smiled at the little guy and kept on.
As I passed him my foot scuffed a stone. The Chihuahua flipped out. He started barking and growling. Kind of comical until the big white hound took up the mood, slipped through the fence, and advanced on me, head down, eyes no longer droopy.
There alongside the path was a fallen branch twice my height. I put a foot on it and pulled up the edge, breaking off a piece about 5 feet long and reasonably firm despite having lain on the wet ground for however long.
I backed away with it in hand and the dogs watched me go, growling and following, but slowly. Soon I left them behind (though they watched me until I was well down the road) and I set to the pleasant task of learning to walk with my new baston.
This morning on the Camino de Santiago
This morning I wake up in a I-don’t-even-know-which century monastery in the tiny town of Samos, Spain. The lights flip on at 6:30 (which is as late as I have yet managed to sleep in while staying in an albergue) and we are asked to be out by 7:00. The 100 of us who had slept on the bare bunks (most places provide a pillow and a thin mattress, some even have blankets upon request, this one just the mattress) get up and ready for the day.
I lower myself down from my top bunk, cautious to see how the legs and feet are feeling this morning, after yesterday’s 30+ kilometers. They feel good, so I head to the bathroom line with just a slight limp of tight tendons. Brush the teeth, roll up the sleeping bag, stuff any odds and ends in the bag and I am ready to go within half an hour of waking.
(In the normal world I prefer showering in the morning, but showering leaves your feet wet and soft, so more vulnerable to blisters. Plus, upon arrival in the afternoon one is generally in need of a shower pronto.)
The Galician morning waits outside the door, chill air and mist sliding down green hillsides, sections of which have modest-sized trees in the rows of timber plantations. Winding my way through the small town I pass a small park area with a pilgrim statue. I feel like an early breakfast today so sit on the bench and eat some bread and cheese as other pilgrims filter by, starting the day’s walk.
Finishing my meal and saying goodbye to the ants who are swarming my crumbs, I swing the bag on, cinch the waist-belt, and start walking.
Within an hour in I encounter the first metaphoric lesson of the day. I had heard the first 11 kilometers today are alongside the highway, but only a few km in there is a sign indicating a choice of paths. On the left is the familiar, flat tarmac, heading straight to the next town. On the right a patchier road climbs a fairly steep slope through trees and vanishes around a curve.
The two Norwegians in front and the Spaniard in between had all headed straight down the flat road after a glance up the hill. The choice: the flat and known path, which everyone seems to be taking, or the steeper unknown.
Ten minutes later I am around several of the turns up that hill and come around a bend to find a panorama of Galicia waking up below. The sun has made it up over the horizon and it highlights the hills as the farms in the small valleys stir to life. Cows wander here and there, taking themselves to the pasture untended, water emerges from hillsides to blumble down ditches, and towns too small for signage pass by, their names known only to their residents.
I see no other pilgrims for the next half hour or so, before I overtake the two Swiss women who I have been leapfrogging with for the last two weeks. They look up and smile, “Bon jour Teem!” We walk together for a little while, wandering through French, English, and Spanish as we greet each other and the day, then I move ahead and continue.
An hour later I am in the relatively large town of Sarria where I have written this for you while eating my customary mid-morning meal of a bocadillo de tortilla. Tortilla Espanola is completely different from tortillas in Latin America, to the point that I don’t understand why they have the same name. A Spanish tortilla is basically a simple omelet with thin slices of potato. Hopefully freshly made (today’s is) and put on dry white bread, it is carbohydrates and protein and my best friend.
Buen provecho.
I lower myself down from my top bunk, cautious to see how the legs and feet are feeling this morning, after yesterday’s 30+ kilometers. They feel good, so I head to the bathroom line with just a slight limp of tight tendons. Brush the teeth, roll up the sleeping bag, stuff any odds and ends in the bag and I am ready to go within half an hour of waking.
(In the normal world I prefer showering in the morning, but showering leaves your feet wet and soft, so more vulnerable to blisters. Plus, upon arrival in the afternoon one is generally in need of a shower pronto.)
The Galician morning waits outside the door, chill air and mist sliding down green hillsides, sections of which have modest-sized trees in the rows of timber plantations. Winding my way through the small town I pass a small park area with a pilgrim statue. I feel like an early breakfast today so sit on the bench and eat some bread and cheese as other pilgrims filter by, starting the day’s walk.
Finishing my meal and saying goodbye to the ants who are swarming my crumbs, I swing the bag on, cinch the waist-belt, and start walking.
Within an hour in I encounter the first metaphoric lesson of the day. I had heard the first 11 kilometers today are alongside the highway, but only a few km in there is a sign indicating a choice of paths. On the left is the familiar, flat tarmac, heading straight to the next town. On the right a patchier road climbs a fairly steep slope through trees and vanishes around a curve.
The two Norwegians in front and the Spaniard in between had all headed straight down the flat road after a glance up the hill. The choice: the flat and known path, which everyone seems to be taking, or the steeper unknown.
Ten minutes later I am around several of the turns up that hill and come around a bend to find a panorama of Galicia waking up below. The sun has made it up over the horizon and it highlights the hills as the farms in the small valleys stir to life. Cows wander here and there, taking themselves to the pasture untended, water emerges from hillsides to blumble down ditches, and towns too small for signage pass by, their names known only to their residents.
I see no other pilgrims for the next half hour or so, before I overtake the two Swiss women who I have been leapfrogging with for the last two weeks. They look up and smile, “Bon jour Teem!” We walk together for a little while, wandering through French, English, and Spanish as we greet each other and the day, then I move ahead and continue.
An hour later I am in the relatively large town of Sarria where I have written this for you while eating my customary mid-morning meal of a bocadillo de tortilla. Tortilla Espanola is completely different from tortillas in Latin America, to the point that I don’t understand why they have the same name. A Spanish tortilla is basically a simple omelet with thin slices of potato. Hopefully freshly made (today’s is) and put on dry white bread, it is carbohydrates and protein and my best friend.
Buen provecho.
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