Lately, I’ve been reading a lot about female pilgrims.
In the twenty-sixth story of a medieval collection of bawdy tales called the Cent nouvelles nouvelles (One Hundred New Tales), Katherine uses the pretence of going on a pilgrimage to visit her lover in a nearby town. Because travelling as a female pilgrim is so dangerous, Katherine’s father suggests she travels with a large entourage to keep her safe. This hardly lends itself to a secret rendez-vous, so Katherine presents her father with a better solution: ‘It seems better to me that you have men’s clothing prepared for me and leave me to my uncle’s charge. We will be able to leave sooner, in greater safety, and at less cost’.[1] Of course this is all part of a clever ploy to see her lover, but the point is, Katherine uses the fact that female pilgrims will not be safe on the road to her advantage, using the need for a male disguise as a better and cheaper alternative to an otherwise large (and nosy) entourage.
One of the questions I have been frequently asked about the Camino is whether I felt safe travelling as a solitary peregrina. Put shortly – yes, absolutely. In fact, one of the appeals of doing the Camino Frances was the fact that this is a busy route with good infrastructure, so if one does run into trouble, help should be easy to come by. In terms of numbers, I was surprised to hear one girl remark there were so many more men than women on the Camino – to me, it felt more like half and half, perhaps even like there were slightly more women than men. Recently statistics also show that slightly more women than men actually completed the Camino in June 2018.
On the whole, sex or gender rarely factored into my thoughts on the trail. I realised this for the first time when I spent a very pleasant day walking with a lovely gentleman named Lesmes. We talked about everything, from the Chanson de Roland (a medieval French text that I teach, that he had studied at school and that remembered leaving a deep impression on him) to the unlikely (for us) existence of God. When we went our separate ways at the end of the day, it struck me that I had spent a day one-on-one with a complete stranger of the opposite sex, and not found this strange in the slightest. It’s rare that this can happen. Although I tend not to think about gender being a factor in most of my interactions in “normal” life, this is even truer on the Camino. I spent several nights in a room full of strange men, walking with men, eating, drinking, and getting changed (discreetly!) in-front of men. None of this bothered me, and after the first few days, I didn’t find it at all weird or uncomfortable.
Fortunately, women no longer need to dress like men to stay safe on pilgrimage (everyone wears the same gear on the trail these days anyway!). That said, there are a few things I’d suggest any female pilgrim bear in mind…
- Packing tips
I became weirdly fascinated by the products available in shops along the Camino. Most places don’t have a super or even minimarket – in many villages along the Camino, you’ll be lucky to even buy a few supplies from a small stall or a counter in a workroom. I regularly took stock of the items on sale: men’s razors, men’s deodorant… I guess these items are fairly unisex, and I’m not going to get upset over a lack of women’s razors (it’s the Camino! Who’s shaving?), but one item that was notably absent from most shops was sanitary wear. Sanitary towels and tampons are hard to come by, especially if caught off guard on an especially rural stretch. Some albergues might be able to help out, but a lot of these are run solely by elderly gentlemen (Tienes un tampón, padre?). Using a menstrual cup can be messy and impractical – in Navarre especially, most bathrooms don’t have soap or any kind of drier, let alone a bin. My advice? Be aware, be prepared, bring wet wipes.
- Girl walks into a bar…
The day I walked with Lesmes, I was exhausted. My night at the hostel in Santo Domingo was the worst night’s sleep I had all Camino. A room with 19 other people; a group of Spanish cyclists who didn’t get in until 1am; a snorer who became legendary all the way to Santiago; a snoring-induced 3am mass-exodus from the dorm to the couches; and another group noisily departing at 5am. Tired didn’t begin to describe how I was feeling. Belorado was therefore the first of three occasions when I splashed out and on a private room in the lovely Casa Walala. €25 for a good night’s sleep? Bargain.
In my room, there was a handy little laminated guide offering advice on places to eat, drink, and see in Belorado. I was freezing, so when I saw the owners recommended nearby Bar Acha for its hot chocolate, I had my coat and boots back on before you could say chocolate caliente, por favor!
Approaching the café, I couldn’t see through its voile-curtain clad windows. I pushed the door open, and nine grey heads – I counted – turned to look at me. Oh god. I was the younger than everyone there by at least forty years, and the only female in the room. The men all quickly went back to their card games and to watching the bull fighting on the TV (yes, the scene really was this clichéd!), and I nervously approached the barman. I ordered my hot chocolate, and sat at the far back of the room, where I hoped not to draw too much attention. Probably used to the sight of errant pilgrims wondering into their natural habitat between the hours of end-of-walking and bedtime, unlike me, the men weren’t bothered in the slightest.
My hot chocolate came, and I prayed it would be cool enough to gulp. I held it nervously, trying not to look uncomfortable. Moments later, the waiter wondered over, and dropped something down casually onto the table in front of me. A menu perhaps? Oh no: he had presented me with a copy of Yo – a glossy women’s magazine with a woman holding a baby on the cover, and a bright pink background. Clearly this is what women are expected to do whilst the men play at cards.
Being a woman alone in a bar is never a comfortable experience, but one I got somewhat used to on the Camino. However, you are unlikely to see local women in the smaller villages doing the same. The moral of the story is: always bring a book.
- Shit does happen
Although I didn’t have any problems to speak of, a minority of peregrinas are less lucky. The hospitalera in Puente la Reina was particularly concerned to hear I was walking alone, and checked I had a whistle with me (I did). She told me that this time of year should be fine, but that in the Winter months, they occasionally got wind of a female pilgrim who had gotten into trouble. Similarly, a pilgrim from Korea was deeply concerned about walking on her own amid rumours of a rapist on the Camino that had spread amongst the Korean pilgrim community. For some incomprehensible reason, this group, who keep in touch through a WhatsApp thread, had decided it wasn’t worth reporting these multiple suspected incidents to the local police who were believed to be “inactive”. Unfortunately, violence against women happens everywhere, including in Spain and on the Camino. If you are worried, avoid the quiet ‘alternative’ stretches, or team up for safety in numbers. If in danger, it is worth contacting the Spanish police on 112, or through the Alert Cops app.
- Dickheads are everywhere – even on the Camino
Despite all of the above, my Camino experience wasn’t entirely free of gender prejudice…
After my hot chocolate in Belorado, I met up with Bjoern for dinner, who brought along a South African friend. A tall, bulky man of Viking stature. The kind of man who looks like he could pick you up and crush you in his palm. Now, I’m always wary of men who won’t meet my eye – as if my looks could kill or turn them to stone. This was a warning sign to me early that evening.
As soon as my friend went up to the bar, my parental status came under scrutiny: ‘Do you have children?’. No, I don’t.
‘Do you want children?’ I don’t know. Maybe.
He raised his eyebrow at me critically. ‘How old are you?’ I’m 33.
He widened his eyes and scoffed, seemingly delighted that his assumption had been correct.
‘Oh! Well, you’d better make your mind up!’ He took a big glug of beer and tossed another slice of chorizo into his ample gob. ‘What’s stopping you from having children?’
This was getting a bit sensitive for me, and I told him so. I calmly explained that I’ve only just finished my studies, don’t yet have a stable job, and that to take time out to have children now would be career suicide.
‘Oh! So you think a career is more important than people? You’re wrong. People. People are what matter. Children are what count. Fuck your career. Having children is more important. Not having children is selfish; focusing on your career is selfish…’
I cut him off, trying to smile. I explained that this was a very difficult subject for me, and that I’d rather not talk about it. Besides, there are both children and people in my life, I’m a teacher, after all.
‘Me, I have two children. I’m sorry, he said, but you have a bad attitude. I think that’s selfish! You should definitely talk about it…’
He was clearly up for a debate I was not willing to have. I repeated again that this was a difficult subject for me, and that I’d rather not talk about it. When he objected that I should, I got up, put enough money on the table to more than cover my share of the food and drink, and walked out. I managed to hold back the tears until I got round the corner, but by the time I got back to my room, I was half choking.
The next morning, I found a note had been pushed under my door, containing the cash I had left on the table and a deeply apologetic note from Bjoern. See, there are bad eggs everywhere, even on the Camino, but there are plenty of good ones, too.
[1] Translation my own. ‘Si me semble bon […] que me faissez faire un habillement d’homme et me baillassez en la conduicte de mon oncle […]. Nous irons plus tost, plus seurement et a mains de despense’. Les Cent nouvelles nouvelles, ed. Franklin P. Sweetser (Paris: Droz, 1966), p. 171.
Mini Adventures on Foot 