Reflections from Via Verano: Pilgrims on El Camino

Sheldon Good, Salford
sheldoncg@goshen.edu

“Perhaps yes, perhaps no,” he said. The Frenchman who walked with us off-and-on that day had barely uttered a word until that point. Our group had come to the proverbial crossroad. As the path split in two and our detailed maps conveniently failed us for the first time, I took solace in the Frenchman’s nonchalance.

Curiously, most of the complicated intersections along the Camino de Santiago were the least marked. Waist-high concrete pillars with blue and yellow seashells aimlessly directed the path of the Camino, often at points that were unnecessary. The Camino de Santiago, of Way of Saint James in English, is an ancient trail in northwestern Spain that many believe the biblical St. James to have travelled some two millennia ago. For hundreds of years, the Camino has been a place of pilgrimage for wayfaring strangers seeking spiritual, personal and communal reawakening.

Likewise, six young adults from various congregations across Franconia Conference embarked on a five-day journey on the Camino. We began where many pilgrims end – in the town of Santiago de Compostela – and set our GPS for Cape Finisterre, 100 kilometers to the west. Compostela is the city where many believe the remains of St. James are buried.

In our increasingly interconnected and competitive world, the Camino has become a bit institutionalized during its 2,000 years of operation. Albergues (lodges) – nothing more than concrete buildings with basic plumbing – have been erected to serve as safe havens of rest. The albergues are placed at estimated resting points. While conveniently placed, this also means bedding in these first-come-first-serve shelters has become competitive and unforgiving.

“There’s no more room,” we were told as we approached our first albergue. The stern innkeeper didn’t seem interested in negotiating. As we tiredly attempted to communicate in broken Spanish that we were students from the US who didn’t have much money, I felt uncomfortable. While the innkeeper rambled off strings of sentences clouded in an accent I couldn’t understand, a group of Europeans who had already staked out their beds mocked us for our ignorance of trail expectations and my stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten in hours, I began to eerily feel like Joseph might have on the eve of Jesus’ birth.

The innkeeper eventually allowed us to sleep in the backyard and charged us ten euro. It was the first of many exhausting attempts at communicating in a second language, trying to fall asleep at 10 pm in broad daylight and meeting strangers who offered us tokens of relief including a mattress, walnuts, a pen, blister aid and, on this day, tent lodging for two of us.

The fourth and final day of our pilgrimage was a pleasant hike along the coast of what was once considered the end of the world. There our we reunited with our team-leader, Steve Kriss, whose arrival in Spain had been unexpectedly delayed. He greeted us with chocolate “Smarties” and, having removed our shoes, we loaded our rented Dodge Voyager for our trek to southern Spain.

After a week of city-hopping, we arrived at what reminded me of southern California. The serene beaches of Tarifa provided space for us to reflect on our pilgrimage and prepare for the over-stimulating environment of northern Africa. I found comfort in Tarifa’s coastal breeze and mint tea.

A day later Northern Africa greeted me with unabashed shock and awe: a barrage of overzealous taxi drivers and car-honking, white garments illuminating dark skin, smells of saffron and mint. I felt out of place, and I’m sure I looked it, clamoring down the main thoroughfare in our group of seven white folk with Lonely Planet as our guide. I began to notice the same stares I felt while in Cambodia on cross-cultural.

Cultural immersion took the place of that initial culture shock over the next week. The mosques, minarets, mellahs and medinas of the imperial cities of Rabat and Fez at times felt over-saturating. These cities were so old, so rich with history. I was unaccustomed to thinking about history in terms of thousands of years.

The sixth day brought a visit to the Hassan II Mosque. A careful work of art with grandiose physical and figurative implications, the mosque boasts the world’s tallest minaret at almost 700 feet. Inspired by a verse from the Koran that reads, “the throne of God was built on water,” half of the structure hovers over the Atlantic Ocean. The mosque provocatively proclaims an ethos of authority, grace, peace, stability and faith to the world. It reminded me of the National Stadium built in Beijing for the 2008 Olympic Games. I recently read an article in the New York Times that described the stadium as I would the mosque, “rather than offering us a reflection of China’s contemporary zeitgeist, [the architects] set out to create a sphere of resistance, and to gently redirect society’s course.”

Though the alluring minaret of Casablanca provokes a challenging religious and political message, the souks (markets) of Marrakech are even more confrontational. Djemaa el Fna, the city’s main square and marketplace, is cordially used by both tourists and locals. During the day, one can aimlessly browse around the square and into the surrounding souks, become comfortably lost, enjoy fresh orange juice, bump into snake charmers and develop deep dehydration. As day matures into evening, story-tellers, musicians, magicians and Tarot-readers emerge.

Exploring this marketplace is best done alone. I explored its back alleys and attempted to distinguish tourist-trap from local treasure. Unexpectedly, I found a mixture of the two. At one point, as I came around a corner, a burly man greeted me. He lowered his large frame directly into my chest cavity. I stumbled back, then made eye contact. I continued on, no words exchanged. His shove was clearly no love tap.

Like Beijing’s National Stadium and Casablanca’s Hassan II mosque, he communicated a clear, deliberate and distinct message of authority. But might this man’s authoritative message had an air of welcoming grace disguised in it? Perhaps yes, perhaps no.