Somewhere Between Lisboa and Porto, Portugal                 One day until Camino

Scar Tissue

I swear I just saw Anthony Keatis on the train.  I love trains.  Trains are so much better than buses.  Trains aren’t really a mode of public transportation to many places in the South.  I love trains.  You can stroll throughout the cars and any transportation that offers coffee and writing spaces, as the world languidly passes outside a window, works for me.  There’s something romantic about them.  I’m sitting in the dining car on a bar stool bellied up to a table.  Outside, the Portuguese countryside rolls by.  My camera rests beside my notebooks on the table, as I write and sip coffee.  It was a long night last night as I continued to prepare for my walk. Numerous emails to answer and writing to finish before catching the train was complicated by the computer crashing and my losing all of the writing I’d accomplished.  Followed by my water pack (one of only two items I purchased for the trip) leaking throughout my already packed backpack.  The water pouch was unsalvageable and my clothes soaked through.

It was a long night untempered by the all-encompassing anxiety I am feeling.  I’m on a train to Porto and am walking in less than 24 hours.  My lackadaisical attitude only gets me so far before my true nature pushes forward to the surface and I realize that I am actually closer to panic than confident.  All I know is that I need to get to the Cathedral Se and purchase a credencial or ‘pilgrim passport’ that will be proof that I walked the required kilometers to qualify for the compestella in Santiago. The compestella is a certification indicating that I completed the Camino de Santiago, and according to the Catholic Church, absolution from past sins.  Throughout history, both the wealthy and royals paid servants to walk the camino in their name, proving that with their wealth anything could be bought—even absolution.

Saying goodbye to Santeria is never easy.  She has a way of giving me strength and this morning she prepared me a cup of tea and a quick breakfast of bread and cheese.  With a kiss goodbye, I was off to catch the train to Porto.  The reality of the ‘Way’ still hadn’t set in as I settle into my seat on the train.  My lower back aches from a yoga move 3 days earlier and my foot has swollen to 1 ½ times its normal size.  My body rebels and it’s as if it knows.

Anthony Keatis is sitting behind me and I catch him casting curious glances at my camera.  My camera is a part of me.  I wouldn’t consider taking this trip without it, even though the weight of it adds a hefty amount to my load.  I chose to take very basic equipment: two lenses and an extra battery pack nestled in my small Tamarac camera bag.   I smile at Anthony and walk back to my seat to rest a bit before arriving in Porto.  Since Anthony Keatis is on the train with me, I think about one of my favorite Red Hot Chili Peppers’ song, Scar Tissue, and then about my own scars both visible and unseen.  My body has changed considerably since the accident.  Scars snake along my body from my toes to the top of my head.  My vanity has long since left, but still I have trouble accepting them fully; especially the new ones, now that it is undeniable my part in their creation.  How do I remedy the stress that plagues my body if I have no idea of the causes?

A few minutes later Anthony walks into my car and sits a couple of rows ahead of me on the left.  A Portuguese man wearing a black fedora in his mid-twenties sits across the aisle from me and soon he is telling me about his organization that is interested in furthering bicycling transportation.  He tells me that recently three men traveled to Portugal on bicycles with a piano and that his organization sponsored a concert for them.  He was on his way to Porto to discuss a bicycle event similar to X-Games.  Curious as to how he became interested in bicycling, I asked.  He explained to me that he lived in Groningen, Netherlands during school and that bicycling was such a part of the culture there…I laughed and said that I had been in the Netherlands just a few weeks prior for Queen’s Day and have a friend who lives in Groningen.  I witnessed the national obsession with bicycling first hand.  It’s addictive.  He explained that he prefers it to any other transportation and that he has a bicycle on the train that he borrowed form a friend.  The bicycle completely compacts; the only type allowed on this train.  He goes on about the festival he is organizing, engrossed in the hope of actualizing his project.  Suddenly, the man realizes the train has reached his stop, says goodbye to me and darts to the back of the car where I see him grab what I assume is the compact bicycle and hop off the train. Throughout my conversation with the Portuguese man, Anthony had turned in his seat and listened.  After the young Portuguese man darted away, ‘Anthony’ answers his phone and begins speaking in rapid Portuguese.  We make eye contact.  Alas, I did not just see Anthony Keatis on the train.

Due to the content of this blog and respect for the families of the victims of September 11th, I chose not to publish this entry upon its completion.  Several months have passed and the Walk of Hope continues…

Lisboa, Portugal                                                                        Two Days until Camino

Angels Among Us

I am supposed to be leaving for Porto tomorrow and my unwillingness to do any research is biting me in the ass.  I haven’t booked a train or hotel.  I have no idea about the bus or train schedules. All I really want to do is run away to my spot on the beach at Paco de Arcos and pretend that I’m not starting to walk 235km in two days. I need to get to the train station to buy a ticket to Porto for tomorrow and it’s after six already.

I have no clue where the train station is located, but I know how to get to the bus stop and metro.  If I’m lucky some of my good karma points will help me in finding my way quickly.  I walk through the park with the giant statue, that I’ve never actually taken the time to look at, toward the bus stop hoping that the ticket booth will still be open.  If I find the station.  The early evening heat reminds me of summers on the farm in Alabama and a wave of nostalgia rushes through me.

I spot a teenage boy, similar in age to my students in Prague, standing to the side of the bus stop and I know that chances are good that he speaks English.  I ask for directions to a bus or train station and explain that I need to purchase a ticket for Porto.  He tells me that he speaks English only a little and indicates how to get to the station.  Furrowing my eyebrows doubtfully, I repeat the directions.

He tilts his head to hide a grin and says, “I’ll take you.”

“You are going to take me?” I questioned suspiciously.  Recognizing my paranoia, I laugh and say, “Don’t you have some place you need to be?”

He sends a text from his phone and replies, “You seem like a good person and I will help you.”

A skeptic by nature, I ask “Why?”

Matter of factly he replies, “Because I believe in God.”

Once on the bus he asks what music I like.  Then specifically, he asks if I like rap.

“Some,” I reply.

“Who? Biggie Smalls?” he presses.

“Yes.”

“2-Pac?”

“Sure.” I counter his 2-Pac with, “Snoop Dogg?”

“1996,” he says.

I couldn’t help laughing and burst into “Sippin’ on gin and juice. Laid back with my mind on my money and my money on my mind.”  I’ve never been known for my singing abilities and several of the passengers cast curious looks in my direction.  I laugh again, surprised by this teenager in Portugal talking about my era of music.  I never expected that and wonder what else will surprise me about this boy.

We transfer from the bus to the metro and as we do so, I watch him.  He has a quiet calmness to his demeanor and I ask his name.  He tells me that his name is Saliu and that his family is from Cabo Verde in Guinea-Bissau, Africa. He speaks affectionately about his sister and tells me she is 19 years old and a model. Glancing at my Nikon, he shows me a few photos on his phone.  She is stunning and has the same well-defined jaw line as her brother.  When I ask about his mother he says simply, “My mother is a good woman.”

“Won’t she be worried about you?” I ask.

He explains that it was to her he had sent the earlier text message.  The metro doors open and a group of boys and girls enter.  School friends of Saliu, one boy asks who I am.  “A tourist.  I am helping.” He says this in the same concise, matter-of-fact manner that it is pointless for his friend to broach the subject more.

I smile. I had become accustomed to helping tourists in Prague and like the idea of being one for once.  The doors open and the metro car clears.  Saliu and I find seats and he tells me that he is studying humanities and is interested in peace work.  Again, I smile thinking of the Peace Project and say, “Me too.”

“Wait! How can you like rap music and be interested in peace work?” I joke.

Saliu clarifies that he likes rap music but not the shooting guns and drugs style.  The lyrical driven style of rap appeals to him.  He has an uncle in radio in Florida and hopes to work for him one day.

“Will you rap for me?” I ask.

It’s his turn to smile and I notice that he ducks his head again as he does so. He takes his phone from his pocket and says, “You won’t understand.”

He plays a song and I strain to listen on the noisy metro.  He raps in his native Criolo under the m.o. Ghandy (with a ‘y’).  As I listen to the amazing flow of the song, I indirectly watch Saliu as he listens too.  Again, I observe his calm, quiet assuredness and think, “Yep. Ghandi.”

At the station, Saliu helps me purchase a ticket and then takes me back to the bus stop.  He has taken over an hour and a half out of his evening to help me and I am certain that I’m testing his patience with the number of times I’ve thanked him for his help.

As he walks with me to the bus stop he asks, “Do you think Osama bin Laden is dead?”

I cringe and miss a step.  Um, didn’t see that coming.

I had made a pact with myself.  In an attempt to stop avoiding how I feel, I promised to answer any direct questions asked of me, honestly.  Saliu’s question is as direct as it gets.  And the seriousness of his question requires a careful answer.  As part of a Fulbright program, I’d studied International Foreign Policy one summer in China and became good at expressing my opinion generally and on political maneuvers in the past, but this was a recent incident.  I felt as if I’d just been thrown into the deep end of a swimming pool and I had to decide to sink or swim.  Honoring the pact with myself meant that I had to answer his question.

Sometimes when I travel, I feel that what I say and how I act has an importance beyond who I am as a person.  As if I can repair international opinions of the United States one person at a time.  Which is ironic considering my hesitancy to discuss politics.  It’s a strange life I lead as an expat.

Finally I say, “Yes. I believe so,” and then quickly continue, “The things he did were wrong and I believe that he should have been held accountable for the deaths he caused; however, I didn’t like that his death was celebrated.  Even for all of the terrible things he did, he was a human and had a family.

Saliu stands silently before me for a long moment considering what I said.  He looks contemplative and wizened beyond his years and again I think of Ghandi.

As if reaching a decision about me within him, Saliu says, “You are a good person.”

Unaware that I have been holding my breath, I exhale and smile at him.  I feel as though I have passed a test, not only his, but one within me as well.

He asks if I know how to get home and I say yes.  Saliu smiles, shakes my hand and walks away.

Hello! I´m Hope Hayes and I´m about to embark on the journey of a lifetime…tomorrow.  Many people say that walking the Camino de Santiago is a life-changing event. I know a bit about those.

Everything Went Black

In November of 2006, my ex-husband and I were going on vacation to celebrate his birthday and ten years together when less than three miles from our home, we were hit head on by a semi-truck. Everything went black.

Although completely conscious, I remember nothing of the accident or the immediate weeks that followed.  Doctors say that they pieced my knee back together like pieces of egg shells; my upper arm ripped open, my leg and shoulder broke, and the right side of my face crushed. “All the king´s horses and all the king´s men couldn´t put Humpty Dumpty back together again.”  The king should meet my doctors.

A series of unfortunate events unleashed over the next two years. Each time I began to try to walk again, doctors discovered something new. The worst discovery required a bone fusion of my left foot making walking normally again impossible. Surgery. Physical Therapy. Follow-up doctor´s visit. More surgery.  It seemed like a never-ending cycle.

Struggling to regain a semblance of who we once were and battling to recover from numerous injuries, our marriage became the casualty of our accident.

In a six month period of time, I continued to have surgeries, one grandmother had a brain aneurysm, the other fell and broke her neck, and my mother was diagnosed with Bell’s Palsy.  All the while I was in my final semester of university, facing an impending divorce, and fighting to recover from the surgeries.  It was a despondent, daily struggle for strength and hope.

The Decision

Much of my time in the wheelchair was spent alone in my home with just my dog, Lanie, and me.  Sitting in my chair, I gazed out of the windows for hours at a time, never seeing the streets before me.  I imagined all of the things I wanted to do and couldn´t.  According to the doctors, I would never be able to do most of the things I imagined.  They underestimated my determination.

I had no marriage. No Job. No home.  I had nothing.  This realization changed my life.  When you have nothing, you have nothing to lose. I was free.  Free to live the life I imagined while sitting in my wheelchair.

Six months following my final surgery, two weeks following my divorce, and four days following graduation, I was on a plane to Europe to follow my dreams: Travel. Write. Photograph.

Avoidance Tactics

I settled into a teaching position in the Czech Republic and quickly surrounded myself with new friends.  Professionally, I excelled in teaching and was offered the Director of Studies position of my small private school and even held an exhibition of my photography in Prague.  Socially, I floated and flittered from one event to another.  But a routine doctor visit less than a month ago changed everything.   Most people see the scars on my arms and assume they are from my accident or from a fight with a wild tiger.  Confession: I haven’t fought tigers lately and only the large scar is from my accident.  Four doctors on two different continents have drawn the same conclusions: Stress.

Disagree with the first doctor’s diagnosis, get a second opinion. The second dermatologist, I ignored.  The third, I decided to resign from my position at the school.  The fourth time I sat sobbing in the doctor´s office as she explained her diagnosis: this underlying formation of the marks on my arms is due to stress and worsens during my sleep, when it seems that I claw at myself.  She suggested an experiment involving UVA treatments, wrapping my arm in a bandage at night, and to visit her again in a week.

A week later, the evidence was undeniable.  My arm had begun to heal. I felt as if I had been hit by a truck.  Again.  I was doing this to myself.  I was scratching my arms in my sleep. I began to feel a little Black Swan-ish and I needed to find a way to determine the underlying causes of the stress inside my body.  I recognized that my life in Prague had become a medíocre existence of avoidance.

Finding My WAY

So.  I make lists. For everything. Things I want to do. Things I need to do.  Things I should do.  Nothing is more satisfying to me than checking something off one of my many lists.  In an attempt to understand and come to terms with my body´s coup d´etat, I decided to check something off my list.  I am going to walk the Camino de Santiago.  Alone.

The Camino de Santiago is also known as Santiago de Compestela or The Way of St. James.

There are many paths to choose from called Ways, and I´ve chosen to walk along the Portuguese Way – a 230 km trek to Santiago, Spain.  I chose the Portuguese Way for both practical and personal reasons.  The length of the Portuguese Way could be walked in the time frame I have allotted, I could practice my Portuguese and Spanish, and it would allow me a short visit to a close friend in Lisbon before I set off.

There has been different media surrounding the different Ways and even a recently released movie, “The Way,” by Emilio Estevez.

However, I have not seen the movie or completed any additional research, because I wanted as little outside influence on my journey as possible.  I plan to watch it once I finish walking the Way.

Operation Rise

Walking the Camino de Santiago will be both beneficial and challenging to me in immeasurable ways.  Therefore, I´ve decided to help others.  All of you on The Whole 9 are aware of Operation Rise, however for my friends tuning in, The Whole 9 is an online community of creative people who are behind a social movement called The Peace Project.  Several weeks ago, The Peace Project announced an incredible initiative called Operation Rise.

On World Peace Day ~ that´s September 21st, 2011 so mark your calendars~ The Peace Project will distribute 10,000 pairs of crutches throughout the country of Sierra Leone, Africa.  Sierra Leone is home to over 20% of the world´s amputees.  As a person with limited mobility for over two years, I know what a difference Operation Rise will make in the lives of the citizens of Sierra Leone.  A donation of $25 buys one pair of crutches and will change the life of one person forever.  We often complain that one person can’t make a difference in the world; however, Gandhi said “Be the change you wish to see in the world.” Prove yourself wrong and make a difference. You be the change.

Click here to donate.

I would like to thank you all for your support as I walk the Portuguese Way.

In the past, and even for many today, the Camino de Santiago is a pilgrimage of faith.

Mine will be a walk of Hope.