This is an account of my personal experience as a pilgrim on the Camino Frances to Santiago de Compostela. This was originally written in 1999, so there will obviously be aspects that will be dated. As an editorial note, the original version in its previous incarnation had many links and italics. Perhaps one day I will dedicate the effort to reproduce it akin to what it once was.

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Looking to acquire the local stamp for my Credential booklet, I stopped at the refugio in the nondescript Spanish town of Tardajos. The hostalera, or innkeeper, shared her thought with me that the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, the Pilgrimage Road of St. James, was a “reflection of life”. Life as a walking pilgrim is simple in that one’s needs become basic: when one gets hungry, one seeks food, when one gets tired, one rests. Based around the daily task of reaching the next destination, one has the ability to choose at any given moment the manner to fulfill these needs. Though for the pilgrim, always present is the seeking of the divine in each of these satisfactions. Pilgrimage not only means the physical journey to the end destination, but more importantly signifies the inner quest of seeking the soul’s relation to spirit. Like the hostalera, the pilgrim becomes a philosopher, especially so in the more challenging moments, and I had come across a premium metaphor on which to meditate, especially welcome as I entered into the grueling stages of the Castillian plains.

Most pilgrims, who choose to make their independent journey on foot, will before long, encounter themselves as a part of a group. This phenomenon can be attributed to the distances of the early stages, 20-35km. on average, between certain refuges. These popular refuges have been featured in guidebooks. The most popular of the guidebooks seemed to be the Guía El País.

The day before setting off on foot, I met a married couple on a train in France. They were university professors from Quebec, returning to the town of St. Jean Pied de Port, my official launching off point on the Camino. They were on their way to recover items they had left behind, to lessen the weight of their packs, something which I too would eventually end up doing, as well. The husband spoke about his pilgrimage with contagious emotion, as he explained that group phenomenon that I was soon to experience. “A group forms on its own, but that doesn’t mean you always walk together,” he conveyed. “Everyone walks at their own pace, but you keep seeing the same faces in the refuges. Sometimes you may walk together, but you are always walking solo.”

The number of different nations, and the mix of languages used to communicate, is always a surprise. One morning over breakfast, I was joined by a Spanish gentleman from Marbella who spoke fluent Finnish to Elena from Helsinki. Elena and I spoke to each other in Spanish, despite her advanced level of English. Without a common language, the powerful sense of camaraderie and collective goodwill amongst pilgrims often bridges the barrier.

The official history of the Camino begins in the year 813 ad, during the reign of Alfonso II, head of the Kingdom of Asturias in Spain. At the time, the Christians in Spain were isolated from the Europe of Charlemagne. From a geopolitical perspective, Christianity was weak in comparison to the Muslim world, which was enjoying its golden age, as the Muslims controlled the majority of the Iberian Peninsula. The Christians were in need of a figure around which they could rally.

Pelayo, a shepherd from the then remote region of Gaellecia, was believed to have seen the light of a star signaling the buried tomb of Santiago. When Teodomiro, the bishop of the diocese of Iria Flavia (today Padrón), heard the news he ordered a search of the site, subsequently producing a marble sarcophagus. Teodomiro, by divine revelation, declared the remains to be those of the apostle, St. James the Greater. The argument was supported by early Visigothic writings that St. James had come to the peninsula to preach, before his beheading in Jerusalem, in 42 AD. According to tradition, his disciples stole his remains to return them to the land of his evangelism. After the seven-day sea voyage from the Holy Land, several miraculous acts were enough to convince Lupa, the local queen, to allow the burial on the mount Libradón. So in those days of rising Islamic hegemony, Christianity had a battle cry.

Carol began her pilgrimage in Le Puy, one of the four traditional starting points of the Camino in France. A Swiss girl in her early 20s from Geneva, Carol’s arrival to the Pyrenees meant the halfway point of her journey. She would be walking for more than 1600km in total, twice the distance that I was setting out to walk. When I met Carol at the refuge in Larrasoaiña, Navarra, she was already a master at treating the ubiquitous menace of blisters. She ran a needle with a short piece of thread through my blister, leaving the thread in my skin to act as a wick, and then applied a disinfectant. She performed the surgery with a laugh and a smile. “Leave the thread there for a couple of hours,” she counseled, “but apply the Compeed before bed.” Compeed is a second skin patch which most pharmacies along the Camino had been displaying prominently. The majority of pilgrims experience blisters of some degree: from treatment to prevention, it is a topic about which every pilgrim will have an opinion. I learned to say the word in five different languages: ampollas, ampoules, llagas, bolhas, blazen…. Carol had left her ampoules several hundred kilometers back in France, and I was envious.

Everyone has their story of how they found the Camino de Santiago. One of the more interesting I found was told to me by Barry. He was an engineer, in his fifties, completely bald, wearing a short-sleeved and short pantleg blue jumpsuit, and carrying a rucksack far exceeding the likely recommended weight for somebody his size. Originally from Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), he fled to Perth, Australia as a result of the civil war, which claimed the lives of many of his family members. When I inquired as to how he had come to know of the Camino, the response that it was that three years before he had read a book by the Brazilian author, Paolo Coelho, which inspired him to buy a plane ticket to Portugal. “It was very out of character for me to do something like this,” he confessed, “to drop everything and come in search of a spiritual pilgrimage road that I wasn’t even sure existed.” On the train from Lisbon to Pamplona, Barry met someone who confirmed the Camino´s existence. Unable to speak a word of Spanish, he found the bus to take him from Pamplona to Roncesvalles. The monastery in Roncesvalles is the traditional starting point for those pilgrims who are doing the complete Camino Francés within Spain. Getting off the bus, he had no idea in which direction to go. A French pilgrim understood his plight, and instructed Barry to follow. As they walked together, the Frenchman would periodically point to the yellow arrows and the scallop-shell reliefs found along the entire Route. “Follow these, and you will make it to Compostela!” He lost his way just once that first pilgrimage. Barry took the sort of leap of faith which common theme among pilgrims to St. James.

Between the 10th and 14th centuries, the Camino flourished, bringing pilgrims from all parts of Europe, and with them their art, architecture, and culture. Under the control of the monks at Cluny, France, many cathedrals, bridges, and monasteries were constructed. The church enticed pilgrims by declaring that upon completion of the Camino, their souls would be absolved of all sins and would subsequently earn a free pass into heaven. After witnessing the great numbers making their way to Santiago, a Muslim ambassador commented that St. James must be a powerful figure to garner such faith.

The Camino has seen its share of the picaresque. Also drawn to the Road were those elements looking for easy prey amongst the travelers. It was not uncommon to encounter thieves, gangs of bandits, prostitutes, and deceitful merchants, eager to take advantage of the faithful. Eventually organizations such as the Knights Templar and Knights Hospitaller came to offer refuge and protection to the pilgrim. The primary image of Santiago the Pilgrim was shows him with a wine gourd, scallop shell, and walking staff. However, in the fervor of the success of the Reconquest, a second image of the apostle was created: Santiago Matamoros (The Killer of Moors). This new depiction was of St. James mounted horseback, ready to lead the charge into battle.

A curious thing happens to one who sets out on an arduous journey, that being the inevitable invasion of song in the brain. Perhaps it is a defense mechanism in the brain which incites a collection of songs to repeat, on an endless loop in one’s head, to help keep rhythm and pace in moments of weariness or solitude. At the free wine fountain in Irache, Navarra, Jozef and Christina, a couple from Vienna, Austria, taught me their ironically named game, the EarWorm. The objective was to successfully implant a tune into the mind of another to win points. “New York, New York” was my first winner. As we met at various stages along the road, the score was adjusted accordingly.

Each region along the Camino has its particular cuisine. From Navarra and La Rioja, to Castilla y León, and again in Bierzo and Galicia, the pilgrim notices the subtle changes on the menu. Given its affordable price and ample quantity, for dinner one typically chooses the Pilgrim’s Menu. There are times when the pilgrim has complaints about the quality of the meal for which they have paid. Arantxa and Sandra, a pair of sisters from Tarragona, Spain, ordered sandwiches in the lone bar in Atapuerca. “What’s this?” they decried. “One slice of ham on dry bread! Where’s the olive oil and tomato like a true bocadillo?” Being Catalans, they were accustomed to their sandwiches being prepared as pa amb tomaquet. Given the paucity of their sandwiches, I couldn’t have agreed with them more.

The aforementioned Paolo Coelho, with his book The Pilgrimage, created within his native country of Brazil a fad which has brought a significant number of pilgrims to walk the Camino. It was a development which amazed the inhabitants of the towns along the Road on a regular basis. The book is a New Age tale of the writer’s alleged spiritual transformation along the road. The curious irony is that not one Brazilian pilgrim that I met would attribute their motivation for undertaking this journey to the book. Andrea, an accountant from Rio de Janeiro almost did. “I was contemplating the Camino while walking along the street in Rio,” he recounted, “then suddenly I saw Paolo Coelho walking on the same street. It was a sign. I had to come.”

A particular aspect of the Brazilian experience to Compostela is the community they bring with them. Many Brazilian pilgrims already know names of others who will be walking due to internet forums dedicated to Santiago, and to the official organizations of pilgrims. Another Carioca (resident of Rio), Vytoria, came to Spain with a list of Cyber-cafés where she could access her E-mail, and seemed to be counting the kilometers to the nearest one. “I feel much better,” she said after logging on in Burgos. “Everyone at home is now up-to-date.”

What best defines the Brazilians´ group image is their typically joyful spirit, such that when gathered in a group, one can almost dance to the collective samba rhythm that seems to flow in their blood, with the ability to create a Carnaval atmosphere regardless of the location. It is a spirit that, were it not for Paolo Coelho´s book, would at moments have been sorely missed along the Road.

The question of why one walks is frequently asked. Those on foot will typically claim religious or spiritual reasons, as opposed to many traveling by bicycle, who do it for recreation or sport. It is a subject rarely taken lightly, however. One takes a risk in undertaking the journey, and it is not uncommon for pilgrims to find their mortal end on the road. While suffering in the oppressive heat of the Castillian plain, I passed the tombstone of a German woman who had fallen from a sudden heart attack and died on that very spot. The day before I arrived, the residents of the nearby town had held a memorial service at the gravesite, in remembrance of the first anniversary of her passing. It was heartening to see such reverence and respect paid to the death of a random pilgrim.
The risk is always judged from one’s own perspective. Ana, a Spanish mother of two from San Sebastián, Gipuzkoa, Spain, had open-heart surgery less than a year before setting out on foot. “I’m not afraid, though my husband may be,” she told me confidently. “I guess I’m proving to myself that I’m capable of making it.” She and her husband were in frequent daily contact via cellular phone.

While studying in Madrid with the Syracuse University Division of International Programs Abroad in 1991, I had occasion to take a course on the Camino. We traveled for eight days by bus, over two four-day weekends, from Jaca, Aragón to Santiago de Compostela. We learned a blend of the history, architecture, traditions and mythologies of the Road. Our professor and guide, William Melczer, fluent in seven languages and a true friend of the Camino, took us from Romanesque and Mozarabe to Gothic and Renaissance. “Willy”, in his feisty indomitable Hungarian style, instructed us in the arches and reliefs found in the Cathedrals, churches, and monasteries along the Road. What the class ultimately did for me was plant a seed in my soul, one that would, eight years later, sprout into an irresistible need to follow the most traveled pilgrimage route in known human history. At a crossroads in my life, I literally heard the voice of St. James proclaim, “It’s time to walk the Road to Compostela.” So I dropped everything, bought a plane ticket, and did just that.

The refuge is typically a significant aspect of the pilgrimage. More than just where the pilgrim rests for the night, this is where one gets to know their fellow pilgrims through cured wounds, handwashed clothes, shared rumors and highlights, and the next day’s itinerary. The cost of a night in a refuge can vary from voluntary donations to five dollars, typically with the maximum stay being one night, with exceptions made in case of illness or injury. The quality of the refuge often has nothing to do with the cost of lodging. A pilgrim may pay five dollars for an uncomfortable, and possibly infested, mattress and a cold shower one day, and the next pay nothing for a three-course meal and the type of shower one dreams of while walking for hours under the punishing Castillian sun.
Normally the pilgrim sleeps in a room with dozens of others. The challenge with this arrangement is that if one doesn’t try to get to sleep early in the evening, the decibels from the collective snoring make it very difficult to fall asleep once the majority in the room have done so. In the Refugio Municipal de León, I had the misfortune to be situated in a top bunk next to an elder pilgrim from Barcelona, with his wife occupying the bunk below him. He was the first in room to fall asleep, and not long after burst out in a thunderous barrage of snores. This evoked snickers from the rest of the group of us, all except for his wife, who, quite embarrassed, tried to silence him by hitting the underside of his mattress. Unfortunately for all of us, her efforts were futile. Soon after, I fell asleep. However, in the middle of the night the sheer force of his snoring was of such power that I was jolted awake. Seething with disgust, I hit him in the face with my pillow. To be sure, I would not have been so bold but for the fact that the pillow was only a large block of polystyrene foam, capable of doing zero damage. Two more times during the night I dealt him blows in the darkness, yet with negligible effect. After the third time, the absurdity of the situation had me laughing myself back to sleep. In the morning, before setting out, I approached the wife while she was seated alone, and opened by saying, “I thought that we had left the Valle del Roncal several weeks ago!” It was a play on words between Roncal, a valley in the Pyrenees close to Roncesvalles, and the verb Roncar which is Spanish for to snore. She was confused at first, however my conscience forced me to confess my actions of the night before. She looked at me caringly and said, “Young man, you did good!”

A week later I was reencountered with the couple along a river in Galicia. The wife recognized me immediately. “I remember you from the Valle del Roncal in León,” she laughed. “You tried to stop my husband from snoring with your pillow!” The husband was grinning from ear to ear, likely more embarrassed than I was.

The pilgrim, whose journey on foot seemed the farthest distance, and perhaps the most grueling, was a man in his sixties from the southeast of Holland. Upon departure from the front door of his home, the town held a celebration in his honor. We had crossed paths several times, though only at a café near the end of our road did I have a chance to talk with him. He showed me the stamps from towns and cathedrals in Holland that few people would ever receive. With so few days left in his journey, I asked if he was sad to see it come to an end. To my surprise he shook his head and winced, “Three months is a long time to be walking, especially at my age. I want to go home now. I miss my bed, my family.”

Arrival in Santiago de Compostela is official when the pilgrim passes through the Portal do Camiño and enters the walls of the Old City. The route continues amongst walls which have absorbed a millenia of vibrations from pilgrims experiencing such powerful emotions of joy, relief, and ecstasy. The Road ends at the Plaza de Obradoiros, located in front of the main entrance of the Basilica. Standing in the plaza in front of the Pórtico de la Gloria (Glory’s Gate) is where one best appreciates the enormity of the Cathedral. Eventually the pilgrim finds their way to the Office of Pilgrim’s Services, where the Compostela, the official document signifying completion, is awarded.

The tradition of the Botafumeiro is the most notable daily event in Compostela. It occurs during the 11:00am Pilgrim’s Mass in the Cathedral, attracting many non-pilgrims alike. A large cistern containing burning incense is tied to a long rope, passed through a pulley on the ceiling of the nave, and is set in motion by a group of priests pulling the other end of the rope. The cistern swings back and forth at an astounding pace, emitting smoke and flame, filling the Cathedral with its aroma. When witnessed for the first time, it may be difficult to believe that the cistern will withstand the velocity it attains. While an impressive side-show today, the ceremony served to mask the stench of the unwashed pilgrims of the Middle Ages who slept in the Cathedral.

A readjustment from the daily nomadic existence occurs after a day or two have passed in Compostela. The desire to keep moving nags at the soul. One craves the daily grind of the walk, and misses the idealistic adventures. For those who indeed choose to carry on, they can continue onward three days to Finisterre, or Land’s End. Once there, pilgrims will generally perform a symbolic act such as burning a sock or a T-shirt, or throwing their shell into the Atlantic Ocean, with the hope of fulfilling their promise to St. James. Satisfied with the illusion of having earned my free pass into Catholic heaven, I happily accepted a ride to Fisterra from Ana and her husband, Jorge. For me, a month of walking had been enough.
The Camino, between the 15th and 19th centuries, suffered a period of decline, attributed to the rise of Protestantism in Europe, and the fervor of conquest in the Americas. Recently however, the Camino de Santiago has been experiencing a rebirth. In 1982, John Paul II, became the first Pope in history to visit Santiago. The number of pilgrims that received the Compostela in 1985 was 2,491; in 1993, the number was over 100,000. During the high-season of July and August in 1997-1999, the number of pilgrims had been so great that tents were borrowed from the Spanish Army to accommodate the high volumes. The authorities of the regional government of Galicia have, with their extensive advertising campaign, put out the welcome mat for pilgrims into the next millennium.
Though he never expressed it publicly to the class before his death, I felt it was Willy’s hope that one day his students would undertake the pilgrimage for themselves. There were many points along the way that I thought of my former teacher. It was generally during the more trying moments that he came to mind. In the midst of my suffering from aching blisters and tendonitis, unbearable heat, fatigue and hunger, my faith that Willy was proud of his former student inevitably served to enliven my spirits and push me onward.

As one sets out on the Road, there exist many possible paths to choose. In the beginning everything is fresh, that innocence has yet to be stained by hardship. In the middle stages, the road becomes the monotonous and seemingly endless work of the daily grind. By the end, the pilgrim becomes reflective upon the portrait of events that has been painted by one’s decisions. People come and go, and with any luck, some become true friends. Some are prepared for the inevitable arrival of the end, while others feel there is more to complete. Birth, the events of life, the inevitable mortal end… a reflection of life. It seems to me that the hostalera in Tardajos was on to something.