A letter to Scott, who is responsible for all this
April 29, 2008
Day 3
Dear Scott,
When you came home from the Camino, you were a changed man. “Wow.” I thought. “He’s totally changed.” And since you were already exceptional, to have changed for the better even MORESO must have been the responsibility of something totally good. That I somehow deduced it was the CAMINO that made you better is my fault, I’ll admit.
Because, dear Scott, three days into the Camino has not made me a better person. In fact, it has actually INCREASED the number of ways I take the Lord’s name in vain, rather than reducing it, as I am told it is meant to do. (This is a VERY SERIOUS religious hike. VERY). Halfway into day two, I considered at length if forgiveness of my living sins was something I REALLY needed to go all the way to Santiago to get. Was I so bad that I needed this kind of suffering? I don’t think so. And I think you’d agree. What sins have I that cannot be undone by a few Sundays at church, honestly?
Scott, I am broken! Three days out of thirty, and already, I am a failed pilgrim; humbled, yes, but ready to accept the punishing God that is doing this to me? No. (Nor am I quite ready to embrace the zillions of Germans treating the Camino like their own personal durby, thereby taking ALL THE HOSTEL SPACE in whatever town or village I crawl into late in the afternoon.)
Scott, dear Scott – I say this with love, but YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. Did I not deserve some cursory warning that my entire BODY would hate me after barely a TENTH of the road had been traversed? Could you not have warned me of the remarkable odour made by fifty farting men in a single municipal cellar before I charged, recklessly, towards whatever enlightenment I thought I might glean by your example? I do not profess you be your smartest friend, but am I so dispensible? So unloved? Alack.
Yours in pain and agony (and in Pamplona now, hermanos)
Kym the Pilgrim
******
A letter to God, who is responsible for all this (too)
May 11, 2008
Day 15
Dear God,
Ok God. Cut it out. I’ve walked 350 kilometers of your fun little pilgrimage thus far, and I gotta say, this is NOT going to win my membership.
I mean seriously. For the first few days, it was kind of cute, rethinking my life and reflecting on how heavy my backpack was. But as fellow pilgrims started dropping like flies due to injury, and the risk of not finding a bed at the end of an eight hour walk became periously serious (although I didn’t mind sleeping in the hallway that night if only to get away from snorers), it became abudantly clear what this pilgrimage is all about. Powertripping. Not cool, God. Not cool.
Your little jokey lessons are getting pretty tiresome, too. I mean, suffering through eight days of an incredibly heavy pack and sobbing uncontrollably for the last two kilometers into Najera was shameful enough. Subsequently realizing that “lightening your luggage” might actually apply to more than just the stuff on my back merely added insult to (painful) injury.
And enough with the ironic little biblical scenes, ok? That we happen to be travelling with An Italian Priest from Malawi is coincidence — SHEER COINCIDENCE — because he speaks English extremely well, and can be counted on to want coffee at about the same times as us. That night we stayed in a barn – the one with the sour inkeeper who gave away An American Artist from London’s bed to a hostile German woman who wouldn’t give it back – was pretty crass of you, I have to say. Did you really need to send sheep, clanging around in bells at all hours? And yes, God, I will admit; it was us that called it the Last Supper the night The American Artist left us by bus for Leon so that he could get to Santiago in time, but don’t think we didn’t blame you for it.
I think I liked this relationship the way it was before, where I ignored you and you, in turn, did not feel the need to patronize me. But since we cannot go back, and just for the record, let me be perfectly clear: I. Am. Going. To. Make. It. To. Santiago. So help me God. (No really. Please help me. My feet really hurt.)
Sincerely,
A potential constituent.
P.S. About a year ago, you so inspired a German writer on this path that he went home and wrote a book that has become “the most popular book published since the war.” Which is a gentle way of saying that it’s more popular than Mein Kampt. Which also means the trail is INNUNDATED by Germans who feel far more entitled to “finding themselves” than any of the rest of their fellow pilgrims. Which can be understood as resorting to very devious ways of ensuring they get the best and cheapest beds in every single town and, by sheer numbers alone, make it utterly impossible to do anything but RUN to the next stop, lest you arrive at the ungodly hour of, oh, 1:00 p.m. to find the auberges utterly FULL of Germans, and no beds available for another 17.5 kilometers. Was this truly necessary? And also, can you please give them a sense of humour? Thanks.
******
A letter to the mountain I have to climb tomorrow
May 19, 2008
Day 23
Dear mountain,
So. THIS is how you get into Galicia. By climbing a mountain. Very metaphorical, inatimate landmass. Very.
I have to tell you, I’m not looking forward to your rumoured spectacular scenery. Your tempting top-of-the-world bars hardly interest me. Mostly, I want to know just why there is an ENORMOUS GAP between where I am right now, and where I need to be tomorrow night. A 32 kilometer gap, to be precise. Which would be one thing, were you the open plains we spent five days crossing. But you aren’t: you’re ridiculously steep on both sides. And your buddy the weather isn’t exactly cooperating.
Listen, I’ll be honest: we’re exhausted. We’ve been booting it these last few days because we simply can’t handle dragging this out any longer. The bed race has got to end, and it has got to end in a BED that I have not chased for 30 kilometers through all kinds of madness (and mostly Germans.) You are an obstruction to this end that is not only very physical, but also kinda crushing my joy at the moment.
But this is all just top of mind, because no matter what, Mohammed shall indeed go to the mountain tomorrow. Really, for your part, there is nothing to do.
But if you know what’s good for you, when she does come ’round that mountain you’ll treat her well.
160 kilometers to go. Ole!
Kym the Pilgrim
******
A letter to the last forty kilometers I have to walk
May 23, 2008
Day 27
Hey,
Listen up. I’m done playing. Pretty funny, finding myself sick and slogging through a 30-kilometer day in the POURING RAIN for eight hours today, knowing that you’d still be there at the end of it. Bet you got a good laugh at that, hey? Just in case I started thinking forty-K wasn’t anything to fret about. YOU had to make it as hard as possible.
But here’s the thing. Even though we’re in Galicia, and rain is the status quo, and even though the road is once again innundated by people doing the EXACT BARE MINIMUM (that being a ridiculous 100 kilometers) to make themselves eligible for the official Certificat de Compostella, and even though I REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY WANT TO STOP WALKING, OMG PLEASE JUST GIVE ME ONE MORE REASON, I’m still HERE. In ANOTHER auberge. Surrounded, again, by Germans. STICKING YOU OUT.
So go ahead and just sit there, forty kilometers to go. Because tomorrow’s coming fast, and by sundown, I’ll be on Mont Goza, within sight of Santiago’s lofty towers, five little kilometers from this ever-lovin’ goal. And my feet will ache, and my shoes may still be wet, and there WILL STILL BE GERMANS. But I will still keep walking, still keep going. And I know this because I have kept going so many times when your daunting distance has greeted me on cold mornings, wet afternoons, and in the middle of the night. When you invoked doubt and fear and frustration and anger, and were not just a measure of here to there. When fatigue and pain and the absence of a hot shower made me wonder WHY I was doing this, why I didn’t just stop. But here at the end, you’re done holding that power over me. That none other should ever hold it likewise.
I’m not afraid, forty kilometers. See you tomorrow.
Kym the Pilgrim