Caminho Portuguese Lisbon to Fátima

Arriving in darkness Portugal from above looks like it is filled with thick curls that glow in the dark. It are the streets, the countless lanes on hills and between that connect without much interruption. It is here we will start our 6 week walk and I wonder where I will pitch my tent in between these soft glowing lighted hills?

Geo already long desired to walk a camino and when he spoke out ‘now is the time’ I immediately jumped on it and soon after it was cut and dried. Naturally I long to walk an arid, deserted, lonely patch of Spain whereas Geo, not liking to camp, needed albergues to sleep the nights. I decided to compromise and walk with Geo in a part of Portugal that is called ‘Caminho Central’ or ‘Caminho Portuguese’ and is characterized by a string of villages. In fact, this part of Portugal is as occupied as it gets and the only caminho that has most of the albergues open.

There’s a heavy storm raging the first few days that we are in Lisbon. And in collecting our first stamp for the ‘credencial del peregrino’ at the Sé cathedral we get so thoroughly wet that it is only my rain jacket that truly is waterproof. All the rest has to be dried by hair blower, a job that Geo works on for hours, in order that we can start next day in dry clothes.

Our first day of the camino starts off together, walking past squatter camps at the end of the city reminds me of the very first times I went to India. Except for the once luxurious mattresses placed underneath flimsy tents, it looks pitiful and poor. The bridges hosts mainly Africans and Indians who ended up furnishing their outside homes with findings from the street. Tables, chairs and makeshift kitchens are placed to create a homely functional atmosphere. Unfortunately, toilets are not and that’s to be done on ‘hidden’ spots along the road leading us out of the city.

When Geo and I got out of the airplane and into the metro system I was surprised by the gigantic amount of Africans and Asians. It seems Portugal is an easy country to enter. Yet, there aren’t too many peregrinos, pilgrims, as we see no others with a backpack. Geo and I soon separate, as he walks a different pace than I. Also, Geo has to speed up a bit as he needs to walk 30 kilometer to get to his first accommodation (a dormitory that is hopefully empty in this early season of the caminho). I decide to just walk and see where I end the day.

Local people show us the way, often without having asked for it they come to explain how to walk. Since a new wooden boardwalk right at the edge of the river Tejo was pointed out to me, I missed the more inland route and therefore couldn’t buy food. My first opportunity to find a supermarket is in Alverca at a time that I usually start to erect my tent. Now, it is my first meal of the day. I need to find a camp spot among abandoned factories and houses that are all fenced and locked, while some have watchdogs. I go into derelict buildings only to find someone living nearby and one time I get so scared that I literally run out. Against my hopes, it is a constancy of built up of houses. Some open abandoned buildings are occupied and I end up in a most sodden undesired spot at the back of a factory.

Connecting with text messages I figure out I walked further than where Geo is. I also figured out the gas cylinder I bought does not fit with the burner I have. Soon too I will find out the pastries and cafe’s of Portugal are the driving force to walk. To walk in rain, to be more precise.

The first few days of walking might seem uninspiring, along busy main roads, through industrial parks, past factories and through an endless string of towns. I am enjoying from the moment I wake up as it is all new and ever changing. My eyes are seeing so much while moving slowly forward. Though it rains often, the road is flat and I am able to move fast. I am astonished that I can walk 30 kilometer a day, the trailer and me are a perfect match. I soon come to give it a name. And soon Geo falls behind with an average of 15 kilometer a day. But only because he suffers from a big blister on his tiniest of toes.

Once a cafetaria is found I keep up the writing in my diary and collect a stamp for the credencial del peregrino.

Geo and I meet, a day after we started, as heavy rainfall continues, in a beautiful old house transformed to a hotel. As soon as we start walking together the next day it is obvious that Geo has a very different approach. He is fast and doesn’t stop until he reaches the albergue. I walk until it is time to find a camp spot, which turns out to be difficult and often there is no desire to be in camp a bit longer when it rains. And it rains a lot.

One of the first things I learn is that the Portuguese are patient people. They take time out for each other, whether it be in a shop or to talk with one another. My nature to do things quick and efficient comes to a halt when I am in search for a gas cylinder. Walking through town I am helped kindly and send from one shop to another by clear instructions. I end up assisted by an English speaking youth with whom I have a long conversation. The group of students strolls through town to talk to people, mostly elderly, who seem to be lonely. I leave without a camping gas cylinder and try my luck one more time. ‘Do you have a gas burner bottle, a blue one?’ I ask an Indian shopkeeper. He hands me a blue Gatorade from the fridge. Upon leaving the town I am whistled to and instructed by a man to take the stroller ramp over the road instead of the stairway.

The students were not the first to tell what is bothering them about Portugal. They complain about inflated prices due to foreign citizen with high income who come to live cheaply and work online jobs. Houses have become pricey, out of reach for them to buy anytime soon. Young studied people leave the country, work abroad to not return and have foreigners do the jobs the locals won’t do. Portugal seems to be quick with issuing local residency and appears to be an easy portal to enter Europe with economic assylum reasons.

Interesting scenes happen when walking. I am not only walking through a world that is not mine, I am part of it. Perhaps they are so interesting because not much ever happens in our own unanimated bubble where only plants and cats move. My mind wanders about when I walk behind a dark African young man dressed in factory attire smoking marijuana.

He: ‘I can not pass you without helping you’, while reaching for the backside of the trailer to lift up while I pull the trailer by it’s handles, walking backwards, step by step, over the stairs.
Me: ‘That is so very kind of you, if everyone would be like that, the world might look different,’ is my not so optimistic view on the world, something not visible in Portugal as of yet. I rejected his offer at first yet the large amount of stairs over railway tracks do not rejoice within me.
Me: ‘Where are you from? Originally I mean?
He: ‘Africa’
Me: ‘Yes, I can see that, but where in Africa?’
He: ‘Gambia’
Me: ‘Oh, Gambia’, (I cringe at the thought), ‘I’ve been there’
He (giggles): ‘I know’
Me: ‘How can you know?’
He: ‘Because everyone goes there’
Me: ‘I didn’t go for the bumsters’, I say not ‘but I cycled through’
He: ‘That is a very good life experience’
I feel at once a gap in origin, the more optimistic opportunities that were given by birth to me. I wish him a successful stay, that he will make it here.
He: ‘Inshallah’

I smell artificial lemon scent from a bottle, fried sardines, diluted bleach and am thinking why I like walking. Probably it is because walking is the only thing that need to be done. Although my upper legs have a painful sensation, it feels liberating to only just walk. The trailer gives me no discomfort at all. First I have the belt around my waist and later strap the belt as a backpack over the shouders and in the end I walk freestyle, no belts attached.

African inhabitants seem oddly out of place in the native tiny square houses built from rocks and plastered white. The windows small squares with a broad blue ribbon of paint. A lady dressed in many meters of flower pattern cotton from top to toe sways slowly and slightly bored over their compound. She’s pregnant with an unhappy look on her face dragging herself from one task to the next. Their home a poor one, more an abandoned style. I wonder if this is better than her homeland?

Abandoned homes are plentiful in Portugal but most of them are locked so when I saw this house open I sneaked in. I could dry my tent and make, painstakingly slow, a tiny fire with the dried out grapevines from previous season. Unexpectedly people came working the broccoli field surrounding the house yet no one peeped in.

Days are wet and damp. Fields are flooded. Nights are cool with 10º C degrees, sometimes much cooler. Each day my first destination is finding a café without straying far from the route. Upon entering a small village in the middle of agricultural fields a huge music system blast Brazilian style music. It is early morning in Vallada and being used to the chattering sound of stork beaks this feels a bit out of place. Men with long black beards have their sound system coming from a car, a bit further a funeral takes place. An old Portuguese man walks past. A few steps later I see a Pakistani in salwar kameez. He, like I will come to learn, as most Indians, plenty of them beautiful turbaned Sikhs, are usually on the phone with someone from the homeland. Talking in their native tongue makes me feel even more excited to be here. Thankfully I find a café where I can have coffees. Not for long I sit in quietness, the place fills up with elderly women and some of my age, chatting so loudly that it surprises me at this early hour.

Walking through Santarém made me realize that I, as a camper, can not linger too long in a city as my time need to be wrapped around finding a spot to camp. Geo starts and ends his days in such towns and has plenty of time to even attend to church mass.

For me something similar to church mass awaits me in Parque Natural das Serras de Aire e Candeeiros. Yet to get to there becomes a tough day, with steep hills where I pull the trailer with me walking in sandals that appear too small for hiking backwards up a hill. My heels are hanging over the edge and the toe box flaps up and down with each step. Shoes are an issue on such long walks. Geo and I did some test walks of 15 kilometers and the new shoes I got are performing extraordinary good, as I have no blisters, no chafing and my feet are never tired nor sore. Yet they’re made from suede and not waterproof, so I do as the Indians here in Portugal do in rain and wear sandals.

The mornings I often start with packing and leave right away. Startled by gun shots right behind me I decide to leave even earlier. The shots are persistent and many. Even the visit to the natural toilet comes to an abrupt end as it starts raining and I am still in sleeping gear. The very first café I find open in pouring rain is where I eat a sandwich with a brick of cheese and some coffees. Continuing on in heavy rainfall the nature slowly moves from agriculture to more inspiring hills and beauty that surrounds me.

Lunch time starts at 12.00 until 15.00 and so one has to be exactly in time in town to have warm food, which I hardly ever am. Most of the food in Portugal however, is as uninspirational as it gets all over Europe.

‘The white bread is doing me no good, I get so constipated!’ which bounces back to the cashier who gives me a pitiful look. While waiting in the queue at the supermarket a Portuguese woman speaking English asked me something and it was not about toilets yet I gave this totally unrelated, or at least far fetched answer. She seemed not finding it odd. Neither the cashier. Come to think of it, I very much like the Portuguese. Most of the emigrants are adopting the spontaneity, friendliness and patience of the Portuguese and to be in Portugal is truly comfortable and pleasant. I usually walk with a smile and greet about everyone.

Unlike in Hungary, I am able to talk. People are open and approachable. I like it here. I feel more alive and the optimism of the people, their open smiling faces and immediate return of a greeting makes me feel embraced. The exceptions aside, as I quite understand the suspicion of elderly women in tiny villages who do not see much use in greeting a lunatic pulling a yellow cart. For what would you do that?

Most people in villages are old looking and most have a vegetable garden. The ones with a vegetable garden are by definition above 67 years of age in appearance. I walk through olive groves where red cows and sheep are grazing in nearby fields. There are plenty of water sources and more than anything else there are dogs.

On the other side of the climb is the long downhill into Minde. The original trail short cut straight through the hills but with shaky legs I had to take the long road down. Arriving in a bigger town gives some stress as I need to find food, water, a place to dry my sleeping bag and charge my phone. Of course, it is self created stress as I have a power bank with me, water fountains are everywhere and food… I decided to buy my own supply of grains, seeds and nuts. Some kilograms heavier, but with a friendlier approach to the intestines, I leave Minde.

Signposting of the caminho is excellent although with a trailer at times impossible. I tried, fell with my back on a rock and decided to not torture the trailer and myself any longer so I turned round. Forced to take other options, which are more in kilometers, I notice how my mood shift at such unexpected turns. Funny, as all that comes my way is unexpected and therefore I like it so much. I bend my thoughts from annoyance to ‘this is not a race’ and often I walk in a meditative gait, thinking very little I am simply walking.

Cooking is accomplished when I stumble upon a China Bazar where they sell the gas canister that fits my burner. The second fantastic surprise is a Chinese restaurant where I can eat as much as I want. Among remarkable many obese, I eat more than I usually do too. On top of that, my social need is saturated with a talk with the waiter, again, complaining about his Portugal: ‘Yes, Portugal is nice… for you, as a tourist, but not for us. Portugal has become expensive, while our wages go up only 5%. All the while paying taxes to pay for a war somewhere.’

Geo and I opted to walk via Fátima (Geo wanted that as I usually want the opposite). The route towards seemed to be nicer and more natural but longer. It has become beautiful indeed, the proof is in the pudding when I accidentally chase away a big black bore that was comfortable dozing off in the close knit bushes when I scramble through. In surprise I hide behind the trailer, which I have come to name ‘Yellow Submarine’. This is where I have the most beautiful and certainly most natural camp spot. Elated and dead tired I fall into a perfect leveled sleep.

To wake up the new morning to feelings of only one thing: wanting to walk. Desiring to see new surroundings and curious what will come my way. I start the day actively when I wake up and end it only just before going to sleep. There’s no knitting, embroidering or chai sipping and often the camp spots are precariously chosen which makes me want to move on… To Fátima!

The last stretch to Fátima through a windturbine park in an eucalyptus forests was beautiful in the late afternoon sunshine. Next morning adding fondness for the prospect of meeting Geo in a hostel after another wet, dodgy camp spot.

We were in Portugal from February 8th to March 17th 2024. I walked about 153 km from Lisbon to Fátima (to be continued).