Walking a pilgrimage in Portugal
My intention for this Camino de Santiago was simple. I set out to walk 250 kilometers to get to know Portugal better, since I became one of its latest newcomers, enjoying its sun, sea and saudades. As it sometimes-often-always happens, I got more than I bargained for. In the words of pilgrims - Camino provides.
As I was walking along sunny poppy fields on my first day, I kept thinking my goal here is to practice Portuguese, to strengthen my wobbly speech and my even wobblier confidence in it. The opportunities were provided shortly, a waitress complimenting my accent, until the whole village cafe was discussing my pronunciation of meia de leite. I then ended up staying at a monastery, where I found the most philosophical volunteer that I have ever met, who quizzed me on Buddhism (in Portuguese), encouraged me to define spirituality (in Portuguese) and introduced me to a meditation room (luckily for me, no words were required there). He repeated a mente mente - the mind lies (in the very same Portuguese). Just a week before I was wondering if I would ever be able to discuss philosophy in Portuguese. Not that I fluently quoted Nietzsche, but I managed to understand and get the point across, and that felt incredible, in quite a literal sense of the word. And I did quote Buddha.
The next day the skies got grumpier and the cobblestoned path got harder on my feet. Pain seeping in, a wish for familiarity calling. I said hello to a passing man, who looked strangely familiar to the Belgian man I encountered on the last year's walk through Spain, and I laughed at myself, and at my lying mind, doing its best to recreate something I know rather than to experience something new. I reached the albergue all soaked in rain, and craving company. That, of course, was provided. An elderly Brazilian gentleman offered me his life story eagerly, I understood a humble part of it, but that did not stop him. As he was leaving, he shook my hand before saying goodbye, and gave me a Brazilian coin as a memory of our encounter. Then my Swiss bunkmate asked if I can keep a secret and showed me a baby mouse, called Maia, that she had been carrying and feeding through a tiny syringe for a few days now. Maia was still blind, required feeding every few hours and constant heating, which my Swiss friend was providing restlessly. She found Maia along its siblings on the road, the only one still moving. And her Camino became all about it. I got to hold this tiny blind mouse while its guardian was heating the baby pet formula, and I couldn't help thinking that whatever I'm doing on this walk - rushing to walk enough each day, seeking to practice my language skills, and not being able to see beyond my sore feet - is way less important than this single mouse fighting to live.
The rain continued the following morning, but the legendary Camino spirit was starting to bloom. An upbeat passerby was greeting me, asking if I have any injuries, and almost singing out Bom caminho with so much enthusiasm that I was beaming, if not for the rest of the day, then at least for the upcoming three minutes. That night I stayed at the Camino-famous albergue, mentioned as the highlight of this walk - its host Fernanda said she was once filmed by BBC, but she never saw the recording as she doesn’t have a TV. Fernanda greeted me at a gate, telling me she will be with me in a few minutes, as she first needed to walk Stevie Wonder. She had, it turned out, a blind dog named Stevie Wonder, who, naturally, needed some assistance. When they got back, Fernanda chatted to me in Portuguese, telling me I need to get a Portuguese boyfriend if I want to learn the language. I told her I already have one. She seemed proud. It was the day of the first communal dinner fuelled by feijoada, fresh tomatoes from Fernanda's rainy garden and Port wine, it was the day when I met some of my favourite Camino people. And I did not only make new friends. I reencountered old ones. From 10 beds in this albergue, one was filled by a man who walked the same route as I did last year, at the same time, and who managed to stay at the same albergue as I did, on the same day. It turns out, my mind does not always lie and the Belgian man from the day before was sitting in front of me and confirming that, indeed, he is the very same person I encountered on my walk last year, and that he also remembered me, and not only remembered me, I was in his travel footage, that he used to create a film about the walk. He told me he would send me the film. He shook his head muttering incroyable.
I was getting closer to the Portuguese-Spanish border, and the locals in Portugal were more and more welcoming. I was learning to make the first step of saying hello, and as soon as that happened, almost as if they had been waiting for those gates to open, the people would greet me and ask everything about my walk and me, repeating the sentences patiently as I would get tangled in Portuguese words. Ponte de Lima was the epicenter of these friendly encounters - the oldest Portuguese town (although not everyone agrees on that), bathing in the sun that was finally provided, if not to raise our mood, then to at least dry our laundry, which got the higher priority anyway. The path got hillier, the corn fields turned into vineyards, sheep grazing on grapes, baby goats jumping in high grasses. Before I knew it, I was crossing the bridge between Valença and Tui, which was also the border between Portugal and Spain, and all the defaults had to be switched from Bom dia-Obrigada-Bom Caminho to Buenos dias-Gracias-Buen Camino.
But even beyond the Portuguese border there were more surprises awaiting me. One morning I was climbing a misty hill with an infected toe, only able to move with painkillers, which I was running out of, with no pharmacies in sight that day, with Sunday the day after (aka No-Open-Pharmacies day) and a holiday on Monday. I desperately needed to not only reduce the pain, but to heal the infection, and I had no way to do it. Other than to learn how to ask for help. And so I did, running into my German friend, who shared some painkillers, and introduced me to her American friend, who shared an antibiotic cream that singlehandedly saved my toe and the rest of my walk. I am not sure what are the odds of someone carrying antibiotic cream without needing it, probably similar to the ones of meeting the same person on two different international hikes for two years in a row. Incredible.
While I was taking care of my injuries, I kept reminding myself to pause, and when I would forget that - as I do - something else would remind me of it, a pebble beneath my feet, or a song. I was passing a small chapel, when a group of people standing beside it drew me in, introducing me to their 98 year old grandfather and father, and offering a pilgrim blessing song. There was no way I could refuse that, so I had to pause, and listen, and marvel at this wonderful bizarre experience of walking, and the kindness that it invites.
That kindness continued up until the Cathedral square of Santiago de Compostela, that I walked into on an early foggy morning. No crowds, no rush. I ran into a couple of pilgrims I knew, they asked what's next, implying, I guess, spirituality, or at least sightseeing. I responded with breakfast. They roared with laughter. My stomach roared. The simplicity.
Even my trip home maintained the spiritual standards. We will soon arrive to your destiny - called a bus announcement, an automatic translation, hilarious and strangely thoughtful. We are indeed arriving at our destinies one step at a time -
Learning languages and learning to ask for help, learning to accept help, learning to make the first step.
Learning that things take time, they have to, that blisters come from friction accumulating with steps, that it takes time to get to know people, to get into the rhythm, to get into the meditative mind space. Sometimes it takes tremendous pain to learn to focus. Tuning out the chaotic, lying, imperfect minds, tuning into the space in between of thoughts and sensations.
Learning that everything has a beginning and an end, as Maia passed away days later after refusing to eat, having grown greatly, no longer blind. Her guardian had to surrender her plans of bringing Maia back home, and continue her journey bravely.
And that's a pilgrimage in itself, not crosses visited along the way, but care shared and minds touched, forgetting the routines at home and stepping into the simplest rhythm of moving and resting, forgetting the obsessive thoughts and stepping into the simplest feeling. And the sense of wonder. As the mind empties, it opens up to the incredible, strange, marvellous things that keep happening around us all the time, that can be hardly explained by the probability theory, that, really, require no explanation, only attention.
Once I got back from my walk, I visited a friend, who happens to be a father of a baby. The baby, who finds everything wonder-full, roaring out his amazement at sea, trees and hummus. He did not need to walk 250 kilometers to arrive to the same conclusion - the world is full of wonders, if only we manage to pay attention, and be brave and kind enough to take the first step to roar a loud wondrous woah.
Life is too damn short, in my opinion, not to be awed - said Nick Cave.
Woah - said a wise baby.
Woah, indeed.
