The rain on the plateau of Spain’s Meseta has left the pilgrim’s route a muddy runway cutting through the farm fields . The mud cakes to my shoes, building up on the soles and sides of my feet, adding weight…
Boarding a bus bound for Burgos, the driver opens the luggage compartment and Pilgrims toss bicycles, backpacks and poles into the cavernous space. Locals are piling into the bus, briefcases in hand. It’s Monday morning and day twelve of my…
(Previously published article) Our escort, Father James, stops the car. A tribal man with a machete in his hand rushes the car, his face pressed at our window, screaming in his native Khasi language. There is a lump in my…