Dispatches Del Camino

Six of us have fallen in together, walking side by side for the last several miles of the Camino de Santiago.

We are all strangers. All pilgrims. From different nations. There is dust on our backpacks, mud on our boots, and we all smell like something a diuretic horse produced.

Each of us walks with a forward leaning gait, which is a gait synonymous with backpacking pilgrims. We perpetually lean forward against the never ending weight of the individual loads we carry. Some persons’ packs are heavier than others. As in life.

But at this moment, our individual paces have, for some reason, aligned. And now we are all together. Six unlikely people on a trail.

Which happens a lot out here. Sometimes you walk alone; sometimes with people. Friends come. Friends go. People’s daily walks intersect, then diverge. You might meet someone and form a connection, then never see this person again. You might meet someone who could piss off Mother Teresa. You will see this person every day.

The Spanish sun is hot. We are covered in sweat. The sound of our feet on the trail sounds like many percussion instruments.

Richard, from Cork, sees the fiddle on my back. He speaks with an Irish brogue. “Are you gonna be singing for us now, Sean?”

“Depends,”‘I reply. “How badly do you want to throw up?”

Richard is young, tall and lean, with an auburn mass of curly hair. He keeps asking me to sing so I give in. I sing a Johnny Cash tune. I sing in rhythm with my steps, gasping for oxygen, recounting the eternal anthem of a male named “Sue.”

Everyone applauds when I finish because this is more polite than gagging.

“Your turn to sing,” I say to Richard.

“Aye,” he replies. “You want me to sing?”

Richard sings in Gaelic. It is a haunting folk melody. And although I have seldom heard Gaelic spoken, my mother named me with a Gaelic name and I feel my highland blood rising as he sings.

We applaud.

Next, we turn to Molly, who is Richard’s wife. “Now it’s your turn.”

She is young and fair. She is holding Richard’s hand as they walk. Molly is originally from New Zealand and speaks like it.

She sings a John Prine song, singing the lyrics with an Americanized countrified accent, because “That’s just how you sing John Prine,” she explains.

Applause.

Next it is my wife’s turn. She sings Shania Twain’s timeless opus to infidelity, “Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under?” You have to worry about this woman.

Next it is Taku’s turn to sing. Taku is from Japan. He is small and lithe. He speaks little English, no Spanish, and yet navigates this country alone, on a budget of pennies. He is the happiest young man I have ever met. He laughs often. He is meek, soft spoken, and sincerity is painted all over his face. Taku is my newest lifelong friend.

“Sing for us, Taku,” I say, slapping his slender shoulder.

“Me, sing?” he says.

“Yes!” we are all shouting! “Sing, sing!”

He is silent for a beat. Then Taku says, “I sing a song for children. Song about spring is coming.”

The melody is simple. Taku sings honestly. A few of us are wiping tears when he tells us how he misses his mom, who used to sing this song.

Next, we turn to Diego. Diego is a young guy from Jalisco, Mexico. He speaks little English. He has long hair, earrings, and his blood pressure is low enough to concern a cardiologist. He, too, is my bosom friend.

He sings “Cielito Lindo,” which is a song we all know the chorus to. “Ay ay ay ay…!”

Applause.

We walk onward. The sun is getting hotter.

The Spanish countryside is green and gold.

“Maybe we should all sing something together,” suggests Molly. “Something everyone knows?”

“Good idea,” says my bride. “How about some Skynyrd?”

“Maybe a hymn?” adds someone else. “After all, we ARE all walking to Santiago.”

We are quiet for a bit. The rhythm of our shoes, crunching on gravel.

“We could sing ‘Amazing Grace,’” someone says.

Taku speaks in broken English. “I do not know the words to this song.”

“It’s okay,” someone replies. “We don’t need the words. We’re experiencing them right now.

”