The ease with which you can finish this important preliminary at the Archdiocese surprises me.  I wonder whether it is simply a well kept secret or whether people shy away from visiting religious institutions except as tourists.  That reasoning may surprise, especially in a catholic country like Spain.  But, the relationship of the Spanish people with the church is complex and often ambivalent.  Consequently, I do not discard that explanation.  Whatever the cause, the future traveler would not be wrongly advised to start here.

As far as the actual journey is concerned, the camino starts at home and, if home is where the heart is, it starts there. Practically, however, it has become the tradition to start in France in St. Jean Pied de Port or in Roncesvalles on the Spanish side of the Pyrenees where, according to the Song of Roland, the 11th century French epic poem, Hruodland is slain by moors (historical fact points to the Basques) in a rear-guard action.  This is the beginning of the Camino Frances or the French Route. But, there are other caminos: the Camino de la Plata which comes from Granada in the South, the Camino del Norte which follows the wild northern coast of Spain and the bay of Cantabria and the Camino Primitivo, one of the oldest, a detour to the north from the Camino Frances that was used to evade the moors who controlled most of Spain to the south. There is also a camino that rises northward from Portugal. 

But, this describes only the caminos of the Iberian Peninsula. Historical maps show that there is a spider's web of caminos that stretch across Europe into Britain, Scandinavia and Eastern Europe that join and divide, eventually feeding into the principal Iberian routes leading to Santiago. 

Days 1-3: Finding The Rhythm

Day 1

I drive two hours northward from Madrid to Burgos, a town on the Spanish meseta or mesa that is known for its constant winds, the bitter cold of its winters and the quality of its morcilla, a type of blood sausage that is considered the best in Spain. The meseta has similarities with the geography you might find in the southwest of the United States, raised tables of arid, slightly undulating land. Burgos with its sausage and spires would be completely alien on any American mesa. 

I check into the refuge in the early afternoon and am helped by a lisping abrasive young man. He shows me to my bunk in a large room which is shared by both men and women, and my first question about the camino is answered. Spain has changed since when I studied here when there was a strict segregation of sexes. The beds are packed so tightly and there are so many backpacks on the floor that passage is difficult. A healthy snoring rises from some of the beds, and the air smells of mentholated cream, the kind used to alleviate the aches of muscles and joints. A woman whose feet are being attended to by a friend laughs at the snorers. Despite the laughter and the noise of people shuffling about and moving their baggage, the exhausted walkers continue sleeping contentedly and soundly.

After checking in, I visit the 13th century cathedral for which Burgos is so well known. It is the largest in Spain and is nothing less than spectacular. Nothing of the grim, blackened, sooty Gothic churches I had in my childhood memories of northern Europe. The cathedral of Burgos is resplendent, a brilliant, creamy white, its stones the color of the rock from which they were originally hewn, its interior and its ceilings of an extraordinary lightness and beauty. On the way back I take the time to sit on the tree-shaded terraces and have a coffee, and watch as the locals begin to emerge and the cafés become busy as the afternoon heat subsides. I learn how much the sun and the heat mark the rhythm of life in northern Spain and on the camino. 

When I come back to the refuge, I find a crew of six or seven paramedics working around a picnic table in the courtyard. At first I fear the worst, that someone has had a serious accident or suffered heat stroke. Then I realize that the paramedics are only here to attend to the sore and blistering feet of the pilgrims. They wear professional looking black uniforms trimmed with reflective international orange and seem a bit overdressed and overly serious for the task at hand. They appear to be enjoying the opportunity to listen to the pilgrims who are keen on telling their stories. 

Within minutes I hear French, German, English and more languages I don't recognize. Few of the walkers are Spanish. Apparently, some 80% of the travelers this far out from Santiago are foreigners. The Spaniards tend to join the camino 100 kilometers before Santiago, perhaps because they are less disposed to physical exertion and long journeys. 100 kilometers is the magic mark since it is the minimum distance for which the church will grant the pilgrim its indulgence and a certificate for making the pilgrimage. 

Day 2

I wake up the next morning not particularly well rested. A room with 50 or more pilgrims is not conducive to rest unless you too are in a state of utter exhaustion. Ear plugs are advisable for those who are sensitive to noise-even those who are not. So is patience; there is a constant opening and shutting of windows by those who find the room too hot at night and seek fresh air, and those that fear the pernicious effects of drafts. I conclude that refuges are not for the squeamish. I find an automatic instant coffee dispenser and am relieved to find something sterile and modern that quietly fulfils its expected function.

My first contact with a pilgrim is with a pale, sincere-looking American woman from Oakland who lives, coincidentally, right across the hill from where my sister lives. As the Spanish say, el mundo es un pañuelo (the world is as small as a handkerchief). She is in her late 20's wears a long-sleeved shirt and a broad rimmed hat, a bit like that of St. James, to protect her skin. She started walking in St. Jean Pied de Port and is doing the camino in segments. This is her second year walking. Each year she walks the distance she can in her scant 10 days of American vacation. She then flies home, works for another year, and comes back and continues where she left off the year before. She is at the end of this year's journey, just 600 kilometers shy of Santiago.  Another two to three years and she expects to make it but, tomorrow she flies back to Oakland.

A clean-cut, fit looking Spanish man in his early 50's and I get into a conversation. He works in Casteau Belgium a small, little-known town that is home to an incongruously large and ominously named organization. SHAPE stands for Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe and is the headquarters of one of NATO's military commands. He is a military man and also a fervent believer. I ask him whether the opposition of some 90% of Spaniards to the Iraq war somehow had an impact upon his work. He responds that leftist manipulation had influenced Spanish public opinion but that any Spaniard with a grain of sense was for the war. Whatever the merits or demerits of the war, his fervent conviction reflects the attitudes of generations of Spanish military leaders who have traditionally felt it their obligation to correct the failings of democracy. 

The day starts sharing the same footpath with the pilgrims and I have the opportunity to observe some of their idiosyncrasies. I pass one man shielding himself from the blazing sun with a large black umbrella, balancing, seemingly, on a tightrope, a bit like a clown in a circus act. Many pilgrims break the most basic rules of hiking.  They walk dangling heavy items in plastic bags in their hands, straining arms and shoulders. Others carry weight that would strain a mule. Some wear heavy, stiff-soled boots designed for mountain climbing and others wear flip-flops designed for the beach. Each will clearly pay for their choice of footwear at the end of the day. But, no one seems overly bothered by the finer aspects of hiking technique. Everyone exchanges notes, but makes due with whatever equipment they have brought. It is clear that for some the pain is part of a penitential act.

I get off the camino and onto roads that are better suited for cycling and find myself alone on the Spanish meseta. The landscape is rolling and, with the exception of low scrub, piled stone walls and a few isolated trees, largely featureless. There is, of course, the sun. My mind wanders. I notice a large number of dead birds on the macadam. They remind me of a trip that I took a few years back to the Havasupai Indian reservation in the Grand Canyon. It seems that birds that live by scarcely used roads can be caught unawares and are easily struck by oncoming cars. I construe this to mean that their inexperience with life in the fast lane leads to their death in the fast lane. Later, there is the crunch of dead crickets under my tires. Nothing is spared, I suppose.

I continue in search of a place to rest and have a cup of coffee, and begin to realize that biking in Spain is not like biking in other parts of Europe where villages are close and where one can expect to find frequent and inviting cafés. I go many kilometers before I arrive in Castrogeriz, (of uncertain origin but, perhaps, high castle).  On the ridge overlooking the town are the ruins of an impressive fortification that may have had Visigoth origins.  The fortress was besieged by the Moslems during the eleventh century but also fought over by neighboring Spanish kingdoms. I find a bar to have my coffee. 

As in most Spanish bars, the locals are watching football on television. A woman in a wheelchair is having a coffee at the counter. She makes twitchy, uncontrolled movements, signals to me and we begin to talk. It turns out that she has done (walked would not be the right word) the camino five times, each time along a different routes. Each time, it takes her over one month to cover the 900 kilometers from her home in France. This time she plans to continue on to Fatima in Portugal, another object of pilgrimage, where three peasant children claimed to have had visions of the Virgin Mary. I ask her if she has someone helping her on her journey. No, she responds, she does it on her own. I am mystified at how this is possible. In response, she demonstrates that she is able to stand on her legs-somewhat-by holding onto the bar with one hand and drinking her coffee with the other.

The men from the bar join the conversation and begin to argue about where I should stay tonight, Frómista or Carrión de los Condes. One advocates one village, while the other advocates the other saying that the inhabitants of the first are unfriendly. It was founded by Jews, he explains. The link between the character of the present day inhabitants and the Jews challenges my imagination since I recall the Jews being absent from Spain for at least half a millennium. Later, I check the facts and find that in 1492, the same year that the new world is discovered, Ferdinand and Isabella expelled the Jews after bringing their crusade against the Moors to an end by driving them out of Granada. Yet, the men talk about the Jews and their influence (other than in the architecture) as if they were still in attendance, like ghosts meddling in our lives.

History and religion are inextricably interwoven with the Spanish landscape and the camino. Signs of the Spanish persecution of the Jews and Muslims are alive in the names of the villages and the people. I find that Matamoros (or kill moor) is not an uncommon family name in Spain. On the way out of the bar I chat with some of the locals who indicate the way to a town called Matajudios (literally, kill Jews). Despite significant pressure (mainly from outsiders) to change the name of Matajudios to Castrillo the inhabitants decide to retain the old name. Both the names Castrillo and Matajudios are on the sign as I later exit the town. 

On the last leg of today's journey, I stop in a village to get water from a fountain and to wet my shirt. A monk, dressed in a long black frock that must burn under the midday sun sits down at a bench in the shade across from me and reads and says nothing. He carries very little with him, just a rolled up mat. An old man on crutches, stooped and short from childhood under-nutrition, labors down the road. He sees me and shouts "que tengas buen camino" which translates as "may your passage be good", or "have a safe walk", or maybe just "happy trails". And, so I learn the typical greeting of the pilgrim. This cheery wish is oddly motivating coming from a man who can hardly walk himself. Villagers and pilgrims; everyone seems to be limping here.

Day 3

"This is nothing but cheap, low-cost tourism" says José Manuel the sacristan of the refuge in Carrion de los Reyes. He wasn't expecting to find any true pilgrims in this group he says as the last of the travelers sets off. The camino, especially during the summer months when tourism is at its height, has turned into a race from one refuge to another. People rise at four or five in the morning, in part to escape the midday heat, but also because they worry that there may not be enough room at the next refuge when their day of walking ends. People compete and compare notes on how many kilometers they walk in a day.

Absent a complete change of plans, he suggests that I spend my next night in Bercianos del Camino Real where he assures me I will have the true pilgrim's experience. I go to a café for my breakfast, mull over what I have seen to date and decide to trust the sacristan's judgment. The café has a computer with an internet connection in the corner.  As much as limping is omnipresent on the camino, so is the internet. People are maintaining contact, sometimes working, never entirely disconnected, never entirely focused on or aware of what is around them.

Some kilometers later, my legs find their rhythm and I observe the countryside as it passes. The character of the small towns changes. Closed gas stations remind me of parts of the American southwest. Businesses and employment must be leaving this region too. I see a lot of Down's syndrome children and I guess that this must have been a harsh region not too long ago. Medicine and food must have been in short supply. What I see seems a bit out of step with modern Europe.  Buildings, originally built from clay mixed with straw, now crumble into ruin. 

After a few hours I arrive at the refuge of Bercianos del Camino Real suggested by the sacristan in Carrion de los Condes. Bercianos' stately name belies a small farm village that has no more than a few dozen permanent residents. The buildings are made of mud and straw and many have fallen into such a state of disrepair that their complete destruction is imminent. The refuge is quite rustic as well. As I arrive, I notice that there are sparrows flying in and out the front door. I guess that we'll be staying with them tonight.

I am welcomed by a group of bright-eyed Augustinian nuns. They explain how they organize their day and ask whether I want to participate in a communal dinner. I agree. The evening begins with introductions from the pilgrims. It reminds me a bit of a warm-up to a business meeting but, it works. Everyone is now familiar with everyone else, and soon a guitar gets passed around and people begin to sing. A bearded young man from Canada contributes some folk songs in a thick and impenetrable Quebec accent. Some Germans sing Beethoven's Ode to Joy and a Brazilian woman sings a song of what I imagine to be lost love.

It is here in Bercianos that I begin to get a feeling for what type of people go on pilgrimage. There is an East German family from Dresden. The husband is unemployed and has been since shortly after the reunification of Germany. The wife maintains the family; she runs a company that provides assisted living services to the elderly. Neither seems to miss the old times but both find much to bemoan with their new capitalist reality. 

The wife is particularly interested in how old people are taken care of in the United States and in Spain. She likes the treatment of the elderly here. They are more likely to be taken care of by friends and family at home, and those in the villages continue living much as they did when they were working and younger. Since there is no need for cars in small towns, they walk to the corner grocery store to purchase their necessities, and stop by a friend's house to chat, or perhaps at the corner bar for a game of dominoes. The very modest state pensions are usually enough to cover basic needs.

Christian, a man in his early 50's has walked 2,400 kilometers in 75 days from his home in Hiltenfingen Germany. In that time he has grown a red-grey beard and lost some 40 lbs. He hardly speaks Spanish and his English, which could have been useful, is not strong either. In the absence of conversation and distractions, he has written the lyrics to a Gregorian chant in his head, which he sings, with a complete lack of self-consciousness, for the rest of us in the makeshift chapel of the refuge. The distance from his home and the solitude of Christian's walk are clear to all even if we do not understand German. The orange evening light backlights Christian as he sings and it is a serene and beautiful moment.

Spain, even if not deeply religious, is marked indelibly by its Christian heritage, and it is difficult to separate the camino from its context, even if you want. But, even for those who do not walk with religious intent, the camino can offer a message. That evening it becomes clear to me that the camino is a simple and useful metaphor for life: a linear passage where we meet people, see places and have experiences, a passage that leads to a finality. For those who find it difficult to imagine a final reward, the compensation must be found on the journey. This is what believers and non-believers alike emphasize on the camino, and it is in keeping with the modern philosophy of living in the present and for the day. 

We prepare dinner together. The Brazilian woman and I cook the lentils. The Canadians help with the salad. We all pitch in to make a fruit macedonia. The Brazilian woman adds caramelized sugar, red wine and cinnamon, which gives the macedonia a tropical touch that is welcomed by the rest of the travelers. I sit down last at the table and Mercedez, one of the nuns, offers to fill my glass with red wine. I accept, and offer to do the same for her. She accepts, and I am pleased to find that neither she nor I are opposed to filling each other's glasses probably a bit more than we should. 

The dinner table conversation turns to the question of whether it is better to do the camino alone or in company. Two people take opposed sides of the argument but, I get the impression that despite what appear to be irreconcilable positions, both are lonesome travelers in need of others to help them make some sense of this journey. Other hands help clean up after dinner, and some hands do nothing at all. It is a wonderful harmonious evening spent in good company.

Days 4-6: Pushing Hard -- Perhaps Too Hard

Day 4

By the time I wake up, just after dawn, most of the others are gone and on their way. Christian, the singing German is dressed and packing his backpack when he stops, puts his head in his hands and breaks down in tears. He has reached his limit. He cannot believe that he has lost his strength so close-a mere 400 kilometers-to his goal. I try to console him, remind him that he has done more than what most would have the courage to imagine, and suggest that he take a rest for a day or two. As I adjust the saddle bags on my bicycle and ready myself to leave, Christian bemoans his lack of family at home. This is what stopped the man dead in his tracks. He had pushed hard but, it was not his legs that failed him. 

I hasten to get on the road. The sparrows fly in and out of the front door of the refuge in the orange morning light. This is their home and not ours. Not even the nuns will be here in a few weeks. At the end of the season they will give up their stewardship of the refuge and will return to their monasteries and their routines. It is time to move on despite the wonderful evening and the beautiful sunsets in this place. It takes me many kilometers before I find the calm of the road again. 

What a difference a little distance makes. The refuge where I stay tonight has only four beds to the room, a genuine luxury. I share a room with an agreeable Danish fellow, a tree surgeon turned wood sculptor. He is in his early 50s, powerfully built with shaggy blond hair and muscular forearms. I had observed him making sketches in a notebook over dinner. 

We are both rather pleased with our lodging though it really is as minimal as it can get. You begin to appreciate very simple things on the camino like a little bit more privacy at night. We also agree that human perceptions are relative and fickle. We can feel happy or sad depending on if we sleep a bit better tonight, whether the day is sunny or grey, if we're well-hydrated or hungry, or not. "What does that mean for the truth if our feelings are so easily changed?" asks the big Dane. I say "there is no truth" and ask the much more mundane question about what that means for an argument with your wife. "Those arguments I would have even if I'm well fed" he counters. 

Day 5

I start off the day with some straight stretches and some thoughts on geography. Long straight stretches, of which there are many, especially behind Leon, are conducive to reflection. The rhythm of the legs becomes monotonous. It's difficult to go much faster or, for that matter, much slower. The landscape, whether it is rows of corn, tilled land or dried scrub also tends to be monotonous. I practice putting on a bit of Chap Stick while pedaling, take my helmet off and put it back on and eat trail mix with one hand. But, how often can you do that? So, I think. 

The hills are a different matter altogether. The rhythm of the legs may be the same, but the pain in your legs and lungs keeps your mind off of anything but the next few hundred meters and the peak, and the hope of a long descent. There are two passes that you need to cross before entering Galicia. The first in the Montes de Leon culminates in the Cruz de Ferro (or the iron cross) and the second in the Monte do Fedo at the O Cebreiro.  Both passes are marked by picturesque stone villages. The descents are steep and pure elation. With the added weight of the saddle bags, the bicycle easily accelerates to 60 km/hour and more. 

Later I find out that more than one pilgrim has died on this descent. The elation that I felt upon the descent evaporates when I realize how dangerous it was and how foolhardy I had been. Like food and water, the geography too has its magical effect on the spirit. What is the truth? 

When I reach the Cruz de Ferro, I take some pictures of the rocks which people have carried to the top of the hill and placed in a mound. Tradition says that the pilgrim should bring a rock from home and leave it at the Cruz de Ferro, thus relieving himself of a burden. The pile of stones is several meters high, though some of the stones are far too large to have been carried there by people. Some of the smaller ones have the names of individuals scratched into them. Other people have tacked pictures, notes and bright colored pieces of cloth to the cross like the prayer flags you might find in the Himalayas. 

A laminated bit of paper catches my eye among the rubble. These are pictures of R.J., a gangly adolescent boy, and a letter from his mother. The mother does not explain how the boy died, but she has advice for the reader on how to love your children. The note is heart-rending. At the bottom of her letter is an address in Reno, Nevada. I wonder what moved this person from half way across the globe to make the journey all the way to Spain, and I wonder if it helped to relieve her of her burden. I take down her address and decide to write her a post card to tell her that I will heed her advice. Perhaps it will make her feel better.

Day 6

Just after Ponferrada I pause to get water from a fountain and overhear a priest berating the group of young boys he is leading. They can't seem to be able to keep up the pace; he shouldn't have to be forced to tag along behind the slowest he says.  So much for the last being first. I watch the bedraggled bunch pick itself up and make itself on its way. The last ones are limping badly. It would not be the last indication on this day that the church has human frailties.

Later in the afternoon, I climb the second mountain pass into the province of Galicia, known for its green rolling hills, its foggy mornings and cooler Atlantic weather. It is famous for its food, which stands out not for its sophistication but the quality of its ingredients. This is a region that had escaped the control and much of the cultural impact of the moors. The mountain ranges to the east protected it from invasion and isolated it from the rest of the Iberian Peninsula. The language here is also different, reminiscent of the Portuguese. I stop to ask for instructions and find that the local dialect is impenetrable to foreigner and Spaniard alike. 

On the way up to the O Cebreiro, I pass two men on bicycles who are unusual both for their age and their enthusiasm. Later that day, we meet at the refuge in Triacastela. They are talkative types. One is 74 years old, the other not far behind. Far from being worn out by crossing the consecutive passes into Galicia, they carry on a lively conversation with the other inhabitants and make a special effort to entertain the ladies. 

At dinner, one relates his experience as an orphan being educated by Jesuit priests. The conversation becomes hushed. He does not hold fond memories of the time and mentions the sexual abuse suffered by others. The issue has received considerable attention in the United States but virtually none in Spain, and I wonder whether the problem is limited to the US. I take the lowered voices at dinner as a confirmation of my suspicion that the problem exists but that people simply prefer not to talk about it. 

Before calling it a day, I speak with two women from Quebec. They have been walking for five weeks. They are obviously gay. Among the many people I met on the camino, they were best able to articulate what the camino meant to them. Back home in Quebec, they have a comfortable "bourgeoise" existence that they haven't missed for a moment despite their aching bones. 

They describe how they have lost all sense of time on this journey; they cannot remember the names of towns they have just been through, much less the ones they will pass through in the future. They feel completely in the present, and they feel good about it. As far as the "why" is concerened, "quelque chose t'amene au chemin", something brings you to the camino. Something about the camino is in you before you even start.

At night, I am surprised that the older more fragile partner snores like a lumberjack on steroids. No one can sleep and the other inhabitants of the refuge start making cluck-clucking sounds to get her to quiet down but without success. The Spaniards are direct and, aided by their colorful language, the air soon fills with obscenities. Nothing helps, and eventually everyone does get to sleep. 

Day 7: The Way Not To Travel

Day 7

Moncho is indignant that people do the camino without faith. He is indignant that some kiss the statue of St. James upon arrival in Santiago rather than hugging it as custom demands. He says he has even seen Muslims with prayer rugs. As he and I talk, a woman comes into the bar wearing short shorts and a bikini top. He holds his head in disbelief. 

He lists the things that people bring that should best be left at home: video cameras, heavy duty mountain boots, shoes for free climbing, makeup, volumes of summer reading. He knows. He has done this six times before. But, this year he will be cutting it short. His father is dieing of lung cancer and he doesn't want to spend too much time away from home. 

Moncho says that the bones in the crypt of St. James have been proven to not actually be those of the apostle. I haven't made the effort to verify but, either way, it doesn't bother me.

Jakobo an Italian fellow stumbles in late in the afternoon with a perfect band of red burned across his thighs. He is in serious pain. "I come from Sicily but I didn't think it would be so hot in Galicia". It's not hot but, the sun is intense under the bright blue skies once the morning mist has burned off. Jakobo was born on July 25, the day of St. James 40 years ago. He says that his christening after St. James was a coincidence, as is the likelihood that he will arrive in Santiago on his 40th birthday on the day of St. James. He is rather pleased with the series of coincidences.

Day 8: Coming Into Santiago

Day 8

So much for the trip. 

As I cover the last kilometers, I look closely at people's faces to see if I can discern a feeling. Is it exaltation or exhaustion? No doubt; it's exhaustion and numbness but, as we come into Santiago things change and a sense of satisfaction and happiness begins to creep into the walkers.

Santiago, after days of sometimes austere countryside, is overwhelming. It is not difficult to imagine how pilgrims must have felt hundreds of years ago after months of walking in conditions much wilder than today's. It must have been equivalent to landing on a wonderful alien planet. There is eye-candy everywhere. The architecture is playful, unusual or inviting wherever you look. The spires of the cathedral look vaguely foreign to me, a bit like the lost temples of Angkor Wat, but more likely the influence of the Mayans or Aztecs via the conquistadors. 

I walk through the city with some of the friends I've made and find it hard to stop smiling. Everything seems so wonderful and clear, and I begin to wonder if I am not perhaps suffering from a very serious endorphin surge. 

The last few steps of the trip are to the pilgrims' office. There you can get your pilgrim's license stamped and receive a certificate. As I wait in line to get mine, I read some lines painted on the wall. The hymn to the pilgrim ends with something to the effect that the traveler, now that he has journeyed to Santiago and seen its marvels, can die in peace. I am not sure if I would go so far. However, it is certain that the camino is peculiarly conducive to unhooking from life's many extraneous distractions and to encouraging us to live fully and simply in the present. 

My friend for whom I made these notes asks me: "What? Where's the romance?" This is not what she had expected. She had the impression that there would be a single's scene. If so, I didn't see it. But, there is plenty that is romantic, and there is certainly the potential for romance. I saw people making friends, couples walking and talking together and many moments of harmony between people. Not quite within sight of Santiago, a couple, she Asian, he Caucasian, walk wearily, hand in hand, wordless. Perhaps they've had an argument but, I doubt it. I guess that they have said everything they need to say.

The following articles are Kyle's previous articles for the magazine:

• Discovering The Inca Trail ~ Hiking The Andes
• Adventures In Peru ~ Peru's Manu Biosphere Reserve
• Paddling The Pathways Of Patagonia ~ Deep In The Heart Of Patagonia
• Trials And Treasures In Patagonia ~ Adventures In The South Of Chile
• New Zealand’s Waitomo Caves ~ Explorations
• Living A Dream In The South Pacific ~ In Fiji 
• A Child’s Tale ~ In Peru

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