El Camino
Mark K October 12th, 2006
After my fifth day of walking the Camino de Santiago – the Way of St. James, the pilgrim route across the north of Spain, I arrived at the hostel at Los Arcos. My fellow pilgrims trailed in alone and in groups of two or three. There was the rail-thin German girl with one leg that bowed out every time she took a step. Yesterday she was ready to give up, but today she was stopping only for a short rest before continuing to the next town. Her companion was a little older and was walking to heal her broken heart. The night before she had tiptoed into the dormitory to leave a walking stick for a sleeping Japanese woman, who she felt needed a little help to keep going. There was a group of French people of all ages – the last time I had seen them they were having an impromptu picnic consisting mostly of grapes in a vineyard on the side of the road – the middle-aged woman with the wild blond hair was the most outspoken of the group, but refused to speak anything but French. There were the two young Brazilians, the quiet one who lived in Portugal now and made no secret of how much he missed his home.
Lone walkers trudged in with their heads bowed, betraying the difficulties of a long day on the trail. Each person approached the desk set up in front of the hostel and presented his or her official pilgrim certificate. The host, a Spaniard in his sixties, welcomed each one in Spanish with a smile, mixed with a few words of the traveler’s own language. He asked how their Camino was going and offered words of support and humor. On the desk was a simple plate with several walnuts in their shells – the unspoken message was to help yourself, you are among friends here. He then stamped their pilgrim’s certificate to show that they had come through this town – each town had a unique stamp. At the end of the Camino several hundred miles down the road, at the cathedral of Santiago de Campostella, each pilgrim could present his credential in order to qualify for a special blessing of pilgrims.
After registering at the hostel, we left our shoes or boots on the porch. There were perhaps thirty pairs when I arrived – serious hiking books caked with mud, casual running shoes with sweaty socks stuffed inside, others with cracks and signs of wear in the leather and nylon. People went inside, following the usual evening routine: placing a backpack next to a bunk, spreading a sleeping bag on a mattress. Then they would take a shower, wash some clothes by hand, write a letter, or sit and chat.
Sitting in front of the hostel, I heard a variety of languages – Spanish, Portuguese, French, German, English. Even without distinguishing the words, I could almost tell from a distance which language was being spoken – English and German words jolted me from time-to-time as certain words were emphasized, the French were very animated, and the sounds of Spanish created a pleasant sing-song in the background.
There was a Spaniard from Cadiz, near Gibraltar. He had a gruff look with his short-cropped hair, three-day old beard and scowl. He had his shoes and socks off and was looking at the huge blisters on his heels. Actually, they were no longer blisters – the blisters had broken and he had tried to drain them and trim away the flesh so that they would heal. I had seen him working on his feet at the hostel the night before and remembered seeing him resting on the side of the trail several miles back. Now you could see that he was left with deep open sores. He had told me earlier that he had had a tough day of walking and that he was planning to return home for a week or two so that he could spend some time healing before returning to the Camino. A Brazilian man, about sixty years old was talking to him in a loud voice, almost as if he had had a glass of wine or two. He spoke Spanish slowly and loudly. He was like the comedian, the story-teller in a bar who wanted everyone to listen to what he had to say.
“They’re not so bad. I think you’ll be able to continue!”
“I don’t think so. It’s time for me to go home.”
“No. Not at all. They’ll be better in no time. You just need to rest overnight!”
“Whatever you say.”
“It’s really no problem.”
Other people nearby were grinning, amused by the false optimism of the Brazilian. Meanwhile, the man with the blisters continued to scowl.
“It’s no problem for him,” I said to the Spaniard seated next to me.
Now the Brazilian launched into another topic – extolling the virtues of some sort of liquor produced only in Brazil.
“It’s very good. Very strong. Sort of like grapa, but with a stronger finish. You must try it sometime.”
“Sounds interesting,” said the man from Cadiz, the one with the blisters.
“You know, there is something else we have in Brazil that”s better than what you will find anywhere else in the world. You know what it is?”
“Las brazilenas?” joked the Spaniard, looking up and smiling for the first time. “Brazilian women?”
The Brazilian started to explain that this wasn’t what he meant, but his speech was lost in the good-natured laughter from the rest of the group.
“Why are there so many Brazilians walking the Camino?” This from another Spaniard, one wearing a black and red nylon track suit.
“It’s because we have a writer in Brazil – Paolo Coelho – who walked the Camino and then wrote several books about it.”
“So that’s why so many of you have come?”
“Yes, but I don’t find the Camino to be the way he described it. He’s a strange writer. It’s as if he’s writing about his dreams, nothing appears the way he has described it.”
“It’s like the American writer, Hemingway,” said the man with the track suit. “He wrote about Pamplona and now all of the Americans come there.”
“I like Hemingway,” said the Brazilian in his usual straightforward way. “He’s direct and clear, easy to understand. Not like those crazy dreams of Coelho, who must have been on drugs.”
“Yes, Hemingway was just drinking all of the time,” I said.
“You’re American?” asked the man in the track suit.
“Yes, I’m from California. But I must leave now. I’m taking a bus to Logrono and then on to Madrid for my flight home. I don’t have time for any more walking.”
“Too bad. You won’t be able to walk the entire Camino.”
“Maybe like me, you’ll come back and finish some day,” said the man with the blistered feet.”
“I hope so.”
I stood up to leave, looking at the group as they looked back at me. I hesitated for a moment, not quite knowing how to put my thoughts into words. “Buen Camino,” I said, wishing them luck with their pilgrim’s journey.
“Gracias,” they answered. “Buen Viaje”. “Have a good journey home.”
I hoisted my backpack, remembering how to walk in such a way that my blisters and sore legs hurt the least, and headed toward the bus stop.
We were awakened this morning in Estella by a group of singers and musicians seranading us from beneath our window at 6 am. The countryside has changed and it was somewhat dry and barren today. The one highlight was a winery near a monastery. They have a fountain there for pilgrims that has two faucets, one with free wine and the other with water! Unfortunately, the wine wasn´t running freely (so to speak) on a Sunday morning, but you could still play with it and get it to deliver a few drops.
Spent last night in a small town called Puenta la Reina (Queen’s Bridge). They had a little farmer’s market where they sold nothing but peppers. They had these oven contraptions that used gas for fuel. They would dump the peppers into a hopper at one end and then the peppers would pass through a long cylinder with fire underneath. Someone would turn a crank at a constant speed and the roasted peppers would come out the other end. People would come and buy a bagful – about 1.40 Euros a kilo (somewhere between 1 and 2 dollars a pound) and take them home. I’m hoping that tonight we’ll be able to find a meal of roasted peppers with scrambled eggs and some local red wine!
I’m starting my fourth day on the Camino today. I spent the night two nights ago in Pamplona, made famous by Hemingway and the running of the bulls. The bulls run through the steets of the town with brave (and foolish) people running in front of them. This picture shows the last part, where they enter the bullring. Today, I’m in a smaller town called Puenta la Reina, which has a very nice medieval bridge. It’s amazing how open the people are – you can stop someone in the street and they’ll talk to you for 15 minutes, answering questions and chatting.
I spent much of the first day with Francisco, a Catalunyan who lives near Barcelona. He was ecstatic when he found and harvested this crop of mushrooms.
The beginning of the path…
Getting ready to start the Camino. This picture was taken in front of the hostel/bar at Roncevalles. There is a note in the official office that says “No photgraphs. This is a place for pilgrims, not tourists.”