My backpack attracts a fair amount of comment on the trail. The vast majority of packs on the French Camino are by a ubiquitous American brand. Every other person has one, and the bright colours add a festive element to the trail. Mine is made by a small New Zealand company. It has an unusual look and unexpected features that “challenge traditional thinking on pack design”, to quote their website. I describe it as a ‘capacious hold-all’, fitting about 50 litres. It is very comfortable to carry, even when full of my stuff (about 10 kilos), plus daily water and food. I named my pack ‘Bertha’.
On the trail, my fondness towards Bertha has taken a protective or even defensive dimension. Total strangers feel authorized to make comments on Bertha’s size. Perhaps it is the unconventional shape or the ratio between her girth and my height that leads them to verbalize their opinion…?
Yesterday, during a tricky downhill section a young Brit passed me and commented that my pack was “very large”. In response, I said “But I am strong”, and flexed my biceps. Then, with the lyrics of Helen Reddy’s 1972 hit song ‘I am Woman’ in my mind, I said “I am strong (strong) I am invincible (invincible), I am Woman, I am womaaan!’
The Brit laughed, in a bemused sort of way, and despite the risk, increased their pace down the slippery slope. Perhaps this feminist anthem isn’t as trans-generational as I thought. Or perhaps they weren’t quite ready to encounter my consciousness-raising efforts?
There is hope for them, I thought, recalling that my proto-feminist awakening was aided by a cranky old woman.
I was about 8 or 9 years old and away from home for the weekend with my family. We were attending church with my Uncle, Aunty, and cousins, who belonged to an even more conservative denomination than we did. Perhaps the visit was for a wedding, or a family gathering. Mum had made my sister and me new outfits for the occasion: flared trousers with sunflower appliqué on the hip pocket. It was the late 1970’s and we were pretty chuffed by our fashionability. An old lady at church, however, was less impressed. She took me aside after the service and scolded me for my unlady-like appearance. Trousers were reserved for boys. Girls should wear dresses or skirts.
I was a quiet and compliant little girl, but I also had a stubborn streak. I have never liked being told what to do or when to do it. And this gendered ‘dressing down’ seemed unfair. I like wearing trousers.
I thought more about how my characteristic recalcitrance had shaped my life after we passed the Cruz de Ferro, a landmark at the highest point of the Camino Frances in the Montes de Leon. Many pilgrims carry emblems of their inner burdens to leave at the cairn, ritualising their spiritual journey.
We reached this milestone landmark just a few kilometres after setting out for the day. It was just after 7 am and before we had even warmed up. I was focused on my first coffee and chocolate pastry, about 5km away. But as we turned the corner, the monument was right next to the main road. Pilgrims were clambering up the huge pile of stones with their symbols, and posing for photographs as cars raced past. The whole scenario took me by surprise, and I was not ready to participate.
Later, sitting at dinner with other pilgrims, we discussed the different functions played by spirituality and organized religion on the Camino. The vast majority of ‘pilgrims’ walking the Camino do not have religious motivations, yet spiritual rites, like the prospect of adding a tile to the Cruz de Ferro, clearly give meaning to the walk. Something has to sustain people over so many tough kilometres.
During the last six weeks, there has been plenty of time to consider personal predilections. While walking through the vast natural ‘cathedral’ of rural Spain I have come to understand that:
Baggage isn’t just material.
Some burdens are better relinquished than carried.
The right time will come to lay these down.
But in the meantime, bearing my ‘10 kilo Bertha’ has made me stronger than I might appear.
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