Camino de Santiago

El Camino de Santiago

You start tomorrow, you’re anticipating and anxious. Your head is swimming with the advice fellow pilgrims are just bursting to give you.

The list of things you’ll definitely need is long; the cardinal sin of having too heavy a pack elicits disapproving clucks.
Advice on what to pack, how to prevent blisters (the natural enemy of the pilgrim), what to do once you inevitably GET blisters, how to wear your pack, how to tie your boots, and what to eat. You’ll be walking 800 kms (give or take).

The camino de Santiago (literally ‘The Way of St James’) is an ancient network of hiking routes across Europe. It started about 1200 years ago and was hugely popular in the middle ages. The camino originally was deeply religious and people would walk to atone their sins. In fact, the word ‘travel’ takes it’s origins from ‘toil, hardship’ (as in ‘travail’).Some particularly pious pilgrims would do the whole thing barefoot or with a stone in their shoe. Nowadays, people walk or cycle the camino for many reasons, maybe the physical challenge or simply the clarity that comes with a slower pace of life when you just walk for hours every day.

You receive your pilgrims passport from the kindly French volunteers. You attach a shell (the camino symbol) to your pack and head to your first albergue (refuge or hostel) to experience the first of thousands of language barrier exchanges. You’re aware that while technically you’re in France, you’re entrenched in the Basque region – an area that speaks an ancient language that linguists actually have no idea of the origins.

The hospitalero (host) of the alberguel is four foot tall and as ancient as the door you just knocked on. You use that mixture of Spanish, English and mime that is to become your mode of communication but it seems to do the trick. She bossily but kindly shows you to your bunk and you chat with the other pilgrims. You go through the role call of nationalities - Hungarian, Brazilian, Norwegian, Japanese, German, and you add Australian to the mix. Your accommodation for the next month will be in dorms, sometimes in rooms of eight, sometimes 100. Often the bunks are pushed together to make room, so you’re literally lying next to a 50 year old French man in just his undies. Often you actually feel like you’re in a war or disaster zone.

It’s everybody else’s first day too, and you can’t escape the ‘first day of school’ feeling. Inevitably, the advice exchange workshop starts up (‘How much does YOUR pack weight?’) and you escape long enough to run to the top of the hill next to the albergue, and watch the sunset go over the purple mountains next to the postcard village (St. Jean Pied de Port which means St John at the foot of the mountain) that you are in. You’re filled with such an unbelievable sense of gratitude and excitement about what you’re doing and the adventure you’re about to commence.

For the rest of the camino, when the inevitable ‘where did you start, when did you start?’ questions occur 50 times a day, you’ll say St Jean with a tone of pride, as this marks you as a veteran - ‘old school’ – in your mind at least. So as you go to bed, you make your final preparations. Having had the ‘too heavy’ fear of God given by the throng of earnest advice givers, you sadly throw away your pretty skirt and third top – and with it your last concession for your personal appearance. You begin your month of zero makeup, oily hair and hairy legs that would make an original Woodstock attendee proud. You have 2 sets of clothing. And you’ll wash your bra once.

That first day is among the most difficult, but arguably the most beautiful scenery .St Jean pied de port literally means St John at the foot of the mountain, and the Pyrenees mountains go relentlessly up up up, until you’re high above the world, looking only at the craggy mountains dotted with sheep. You already feel like a pilgrim, finding a rhythm with your walking. Each day feels like a week.

You meet some English guys who are walking whole thing with a guitar! In this world of fear bout extra weight, this is unbelievable. As your new German friend says ‘I have no words!’ But you laze on the grass, watch the sunset and get serenaded by the guitar; an unimaginable luxury. Each day, you share your food, your wine and dark chocolate. Conversations vary and swing wildly between religion, politics, romances, funny youtube videos and of course, your blisters.

You talk regularly about Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, as there has never been such a strong example of it. Basically, the theory goes that you focus on whatever you need. So while at home, you might worry about whether your job pays well enough, your boyfriend is good-looking enough, your life is fulfilling enough… on the camino, happiness IS a warm shower, a plain pasta meal and a rest for your feet. You vaguely recall once upon a time when you stressed about eating pasta or white bread, having read too many articles about carbs and their evils. But not on the camino.

One day, full of energy you decide to go further than planned – a trifling 8kms further. This soon becomes another 17kms, on the hottest day of the month. The sun beats down as your unsuncreened face hardens with resolve and on you press. There’s one particularly horrendous hill that takes you about 6 months to climb and you regret your lack of water. You later discover that on that exact hill, an older pilgrim had DIED earlier that day. This news is shared amongst the pilgrims in hushed, saddened tones, a silent respect for this pilgrim we didn’t know.

Finally in the next town, you’re worried about finding a bed this late in the day as sometimes there is a competition for the beds. Even in May, there is a long line of bags outside each albergue when you get there, from people who get up at 5.30 in the morning, flashlights flailing. But you are lucky again and you discover your German and American friends had decided to press on too! You genuinely thought you might never see them again. A joyful reunion ensues and the four of you share your customary staple of pasta, wine and dark chocolate. You take photos, congratulating yourselves at your good fortune.

You marvel at the kindness of strangers. A Spanish pilgrim rests on a rock and as you pass, he offers you a banana. You gratefully accept and you sit with him for awhile in silence, not feeling compelled to talk just for the sake of it, as you ordinarily might. You walk through tiny medieval little villages. Never for a moment do you forget the wellworn path you’re on. The thousands of countless tired feet who have walked this path.
Townsfolk with the serious faces of people in remote places say ‘Buen camino’ when you pass, especially older ones. They’ve probably grown up accustomed to their town having a constant stream of travellers, holding sticks and carrying backpacks. You wonder what they make of it, an eternity of hikers.

One particular day is disgustingly rainy. It’s like you’re standing in a shower all day. Your boots that say ‘waterproof’ on the tag are not doing their office, you’re cold but don’t want to stop and get your jacket out, as everything will get wet with it, so just trudge trudge trudge along in the mud trying not to slip, in a foul mood. Nothing redeems this day, the scenery isn’t that pretty or it might be but the fog and slushy rain hides it.

It’s in this state that you get to the tiny albergue. You’re silently wondering why this was the chosen destination, but the Germans had heard good things and you don’t want to get separated from your group again. It’s next to the church in the tiny town, and you walk up the flights of stairs. You see soggy boots of other pilgrims with newspaper stuffed in them. Evidently the word ‘waterproof’ on boots is bandied around a lot these days.

But immediately, this particular albergue is immediately set apart. It’s filled with a warmth, literally, by the open fire and figuratively by the members of the church it’s attached to. Every day these dedicated volunteers just do a big cook up for dinner for whoever happens to be there that day. They have a ‘turn nobody away’ policy, which means that once the floors pace all runs out, the overflow sleep in the actual church, shoving pews together for beds. The meal is terrific fun, they have to make the food stretch but we’re all full and laughing and forging conversations with people of who you’re mutually ignorant of your respective native tongues.

Before lights out, they have a pilgrims blessing in the chapel. You pray, read bible verses and a psalm in each respective language. You’re overwhelmed by the warmth and the love shown by these volunteers, and are struck by the fact that the year round, they must see thousands of tired pilgrim faces. One particular volunteer just is sweetness itself, you’re bowled over by their warmth and compassion. She prays for us, suggesting we offer up our worries of the day and we rest our tired body feeling truly touched.

And then one day you find yourself alone with the American, a mix up with the others in your group. You’re not quite used to walking with somebody else, having spent the last week largely in your own company during the day. There’s a few sparks flying, but you’re ignoring them as you’d had a strict ‘No boys on camino’ rule.

You arrive in the village, and the afternoon looms on as you loll in the grass, soaking up the sun. You suggest playing ‘have you ever’; partly as a way to pass the time, partly a textbook flirting move on your behalf. You share things freely and openly. Here there are no barriers, no friends to pre-approve your choice, nothing invested, nothing to hide. So you’re unexpectedly, unbelievably open, sharing yourself and your life in a way you wouldn’t at home.

You and the American take your obligatory red wine and chocolate up there. It’s only once you’re there, and you see the sun setting across the Spanish countryside, surrounded by ancient ruins and breathtaking coloured skies, you realise the cliché and suddenly feel awkward. You babble senselessly about nothing much, until eventually the American asks to kiss you. (Inwardly you giggle at how Americany that is to ask, give half a second’s thought to your ‘no boys on camino’ rule and go ahead and kiss him anyway). You figure that when you find yourself on top of a Spanish hilltop watching a sunset and sharing a bottle, there’s some things you can’t fight.

The following day holds another joyful reunion, you find your Germans AND even the original English guys, still with guitar in hand. You all go out for a very average pilgrim meal, you eat, drink and laugh at the English boys. The Germans are sadly ending their walk tomorrow, and thus will end your time with them. You also won’t see the English boys again. As for the American, there’s no perceivable difference between you, nobody at dinner suspects. But that night as you’re lying in your pushed together bunks, full of a room of European middle-aged retirees, you whisper to each other in the darkness and fall asleep in each other’s arms.

As the days roll on, they all start to blur together. You can no longer list verbatim all the towns you’d stayed in or remember which Albergue was which. The last stretch is your favourite part, but also the most crowded.
You and the older crew stifle smiles at the new hikers’ expense. You can spot them a mile away - their unnecessarily high tech equipment, their over-purchase in the souvenirs shops. A few ask you for advice on their first day, you tell them the drill and of course casually work into the conversation that of course, YOU’D started in St.Jean pied de port…

In the final week, you get a cold. Nothing you’re about to die from, but enough to make you snotty, miserable and grumpy. A nice challenge for your budding relationship with the American, which despite all the whingeing from you, is coming along nicely. You’re relying on him more than you’d care to admit – he’s happy to talk or not talk and will coax you up a mountain when you’re just over it all. He works to cheer you up and makes the most horrendous ‘dad’ jokes. He has this habit of trying to sing a song that he can’t remember the words for, and from the sounds his singing – the tune. This winds up in in:
’You know! That one ‘Dah doo doo love doo doo my car la la la’? They also did that other song that went ‘Welcome bababababab nanana’ Come on!’
Endearing at 5kms, murderworthy at 30km.
You’re now kind of known to be a unit and people just automatically assume you’d met before the walk. You don’t admit it’s only been 3 weeks since you met. You jokingly start referring to each other as ‘my camino wife/husband’. You’re finding yourself increasingly very smitten, but chiding yourself at the same time – this wasn’t the point of the camino!
There’s always a note of the bittersweet with the American. He’s just on the very start of a year long trip and after this you’re off to work in the UK. You know there’s realistically not much chance you’re going to see him again, which makes it all the sadder when you start tentatively using the ‘L’ word.

But bittersweet just sums up the last few days. There are pilgrims you’ve been living alongside, they’ve given you bandaids, lent their guidebooks, offered their leftover wine. There are many people to whom you haven’t spoke much, the language barrier persists, but you feel a connection and always share an excited greeting when you see them. The day before you actually enter the town of Santiago, you cook your final pasta meal and share loud raucous laughter and drinks with a group of young Germans.

And so it’s with a slight hangover that you make your final descent into the valley and to the massive square of the Santiago cathedral. You receive your certificate and attend the midday pilgrims mass, smiling at all the faces you see. It’s like the cheesy end of a movie. Everyone’s there; the group of Catholics from Iowa, the overexcitable Hungarian with his obnoxious camera, the slighty creepy Dutch guy, the German girl who had an affair – the gang. You share hugs and photos and winks at a few of the other pilgrim romances – clearly the love bug has been biting in those albergues! But you’re not one to talk…

Finisterre is the very end of the caminio. It literally means ‘the end of the world’ as it’s the most Western point of Spain. People would watch the sun set at night with concern, hoping it would rise the next day. You’d run out of time to hike there so you and the American take the bus out there, guilty for not having walked it, for a few beautiful joy-filled days on the beach in this quaint coastal town. It seems to you that there’s just joy in the air here! You see ‘Danke’ written on the sand, clearly by a recent pilgrim and for the thousandth time, imagine all the lives who have shared this journey, feeling the relief and peace here on this beach.

And as you fly all the way back to the other side of Spain, you note that it’s slightly depressing that 2 hours in this plane reflect a whole months worth of emotions, experiences and difficulty.

Are you different? Are you deeper, more spiritual? There was no large ‘Road to Damascus’ epiphany moment, but you definitely feel.. something for having completed it. You’re a completed pilgrim now! The gnarled feet prove it. And as you consider this new American with whom you have no idea what will happen now, you wonder what new adventures there are to be had, what new mountains to explore. But it’s probably time to start laying off on the pasta, wine and chocolate…

Buen camino.