This story started with my wish to go to Santiago de Compostela, capital of Galicia in Spain. I dreamt of walking the Camino de Santiago, the Way of St. James, as soon as I learned about it. As I read the stories of those who made the pilgrimage, and as I listened to those who actually walked the hundreds of kilometers, I was taken. The Santiago Camino has been traversed for thousands of years by saints, sinners, generals, misfits, kings and queens. It is done with the intent to find one’s deepest spiritual meaning and resolutions regarding conflicts in Self (The Camino, Shirley Mclaine).
Legend has it that the coffin of St. James who was martyred was washed ashore, and then brought to rest at the site of the cathedral of Compostela.
My friend Manolita’s husband Wilhelm walked this way from his doorstep near the vineyards of Lausanne, Switzerland via France, crossing the Pyrenee mountains going all the way into Spain taking the French route which, if you start from France, is about 800 kilometers.
I could only open my mouth in astonishment because he walked the route three times on different years.
Because of the network of paths and roads in most of Europe, specifically for this pilgrimage that eventually leads to Santiago, I sometimes found myself doing a minute section of some kilometers of the Camino or Jakobsweg within the boundaries of Switzerland while I was still living there.
There are markers along the path with the symbol of the clam shell, the symbol of St. James. It passes through forests, hills, towns, cities, always a monastery, chapel, abbey, church along the way.
The possibility though for me to go to Santiago seemed out of reach for one reason or another, and it became more distant as we moved to Dumaguete.
This year, while in Berne having tea and apple pie with friends, I mentioned that there was this whole week in September with no appointments. I would like to go to Santiago de Compostela, I wistfully said.
We also want to go!, my friend Ester declared. At once, her husband Kurt checked the internet, and lo, there were promo rates on Easyjet from Basel direct to Santiago.
Within the hour, we had our booking, the three of us. I could not believe it. We were really going!
Approaching the airport of Santiago, I looked at the unfamiliar landscape. Many trees I could not identify. Although the weather report said 28 degrees C at noon, the mornings are cold at 13 degrees C, and there is a cold wind blowing.
Kurt arranged to hire a car during the four days of our trip. Yes, it was a road trip this time, but we had occasions where we could walk along the Camino for some kilometers from time to time.
We met pilgrims along the way, mostly with huge backpacks, some carrying a staff, others with Nordic walking sticks. The pilgrims arriving that day converged at the Praza do Obradoiro, the huge square to the west of the imposing Cathedral. Many plomped themselves with relief on the stone floor lying on their backpacks and airing their feet. Some ceremoniously said goodbye to their walking shoes forever.
The other destination I was looking for was the village of Vila Xoan de Arousa in the province of Pontevedra along the Celtic Galician coast. The map indicated only 50 kilometers from Santiago to Vila Xoan. That afternoon, Kurt drove us there.
Some years ago, we found among my Tito Andy’s filing cabinet a set of documents in Spanish in beautiful script. One of them was the birth certificate of my maternal grandfather, Jesus Maria y Josef Montenegro y Marino.
My lolo Jesus and his sister Carmen Bocanegra y Montenegro were the children of Enrique Ruperto Montenegro and his wife Maria Manuela Marino y Montenegro who immigrated from Galicia. They came from the village of Vila Xoan, specifically from the parish of San Martin de Sobran.
Arriving at Vila Xoan, I took in the landscape intensely. I noted the rocky terrain, the low hills, and the presence of windmills dotting the region. I noticed the purple bougainvilla, and the green fig trees. There was a patch of white beach where two heavy women sunned themselves. There were fish traps, and a small port for fishing boats. Their boulevard reminded me of Dumaguete. There was a playground, and I noticed their waste segregation. Huge vats for plastic, another for paper, and another for biodegradable.
It was easy to find the church of San Martin de Sobran. It was the oldest structure in the area. The church was closed so I entered the gate to the cemetery beside it. I found two Montenegro family tombs, and several Marinos.
Coming to the origin of my ancestors made them more real to me. They must have bathed in the sea, and sunned themselves at this patch of beach. Were they one of the pilgrims that walked the Camino?
Vila Xoan is on the Portuguese route of the Camino along the Galician coast. So close to the border of Portugal, their language is tinged with Portuguese.
I wanted to leave something of Negros in this village. I had brought with me a package of dried malunggay flakes from Valencia, which I spread on the base of the trees at the church of San Martin. Then I took a couple of stones from the beach in exchange.
I wondered at the lives of my Galician great grandparents. I also know their parent’s names from the documents. The Martis, the Marcatos, the Bravos. They are my great great grandparents. They must have walked along the seashore, musing at the world beyond, and making the decision to leave everything to go to the colonies. Settling in Tanjay and Bais, later in Ayuquitan (Amlan), never to set foot again in Galicia.
Standing by the seashore in Galicia, musing on the lives of my ancestors, I am touched by the past.
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Author’s email: terryneemwindler@gmail.com
