Walk, eat, sleep, wake,
repeat.
What sounds boring, isn’t. It is testing though, and after a few days,
questions are being asked; reserves are being called upon. The rubber is
literally hitting the road, or the cobbles at least.
 |
[The Portuguese city of Barcelos, on the Cavado River] |
We’ve greatly enjoyed our
time in the city of Barcelos. As we leave, it offers us one final gift. On a cool
misty morning – the first hint of autumn in the air following a spell of warm,
sunny days – we walk into the city’s weekly market. As if prompted by the mist,
all is mellow and fruitful. Brightly-dressed locals haggle and chat over brightly-coloured flowers, fruit, vegetables and assorted stuff that's spread across the large square. This is vibrant Portugal simply being itself,
full of colour and joy in the simple things of life; warmly welcoming of these
strangers who buy only what they can carry, mostly fruit. We leave reluctantly.
 |
[Barcelos on Market Day] |
As I walk on I experience
an odd sense of shame. It’s not that I wish I’d bought more at the market,
although that’s true. Rather, hearing stories from home about our so-called “strong”
refugee policy, I am jagged by the contrast to what I find here, being a stranger in a strange land. As an
Australian in Portugal I have been welcomed, shown kindness, made to feel an
honoured guest. I like to think that Australians as individuals would behave in
the same way to the “stranger”. But I look at our refugee policy and see only backs
turned, blindfolds pulled tight, headphones pumping other stories to blank out
the cries for help.
 |
[An open door welcomes us to Balugaes] |
How and why do we behave
this way? Novelist/essayist Marilynne Robinson skewers it.
Where population groups are
seen as enemies or even as burdens, certain nefarious traits are attributed to
them as a whole that are taken to override the qualities of individual members.
Despite our government’s
frequent appeal to Christian values, this is precisely its tactic. Of course in
doing so it conveniently ignores the consistent message of the Bible in
relation to caring for the “stranger” or “soujourner”. Deuteronomy 10:19, for
instance, tells the people not to be forgetful once they are in the Promised
Land: You are to love the stranger, for
you were strangers in the land of Egypt.
A pilgrimage is supposed to
allow time and space for reflection, to offer a fresh perspective on your inner
life, and your life back home. This I had expected, but not the shame and anger
I feel now. It is more than a spiritual match for the physical struggles of
this long walk.
 |
[Ponte de Lima's bridge by night] |
We walk on. If distance and
hard surfaces have been our main physical obstacles up to now, after the town
of Ponte de Lima we meet our first true climb. We leave town via the long and
beautiful bridge, part Roman, part mediaeval. We pass a sculpture that wishes
us a good caminho, and wind our way along the edge of the Rio Limia.
 |
["Bom Caminho" on the bridge at Ponte de Lima] |
Once we leave the river, the
contours tighten. For the first time in days we leave farmland behind, and start
to climb through a resin-scented pine forest. Despite the “exotic” vegetation,
it feels quite like Tasmanian bushwalking, as cobbles and gravel roads give way
to roughish, steepish bush tracks.
 |
[Getting steeper and rougher] |
And there is no town or
village for lunch, so we’ve had to bring the makings of a picnic. After a 400m
altitude gain we finally reach the top. We’re hot, sweaty and happy to flop
down on some grassy open space. Lunch is frugal but satisfying, and we’re glad
of it; glad too that our afternoon walk is downhill.
 |
[A welcome spot for a picnic lunch] |
An hour or two later we’re even
gladder when we come across a pop-up pub. It’s just a van in a pull-off beside
a minor road, but it serves cold drinks. We’re waved in by some fellow pilgrims,
and are soon sitting down to share some tales and a lemon beer with them. Yet
again we feel welcome.
 |
[Tim shares a lemon beer with a Dutch pilgrim] |
No comments:
Post a Comment