Day 38-40 - Transition

Wednesday, November 13, to Friday, November 15

Langebaan to Cape Town to Doha to Seattle to home

 

 

Hanli and I started the day with a walk in surprisingly cool air. We walked above the bay, and past the restaurant of yesterday’s lunch. She pointed out where she and her group swam across big water to a sand bar. I marveled again at the magical color of the water. The conversation flowed, even as we were climbing the very steep hill given the name Mamba, one last South African snake. I was grateful to be walking, knowing it would be a couple of days before I had another chance to really stretch my legs, except in airports. 

 

When we got back to Pumpkin House, Caroline, who had spent that time resting and enjoying solitude, was ready to go swimming with us. I had agreed I’d get in the very cold Atlantic with them. Both women were committed ocean swimmers. Hanli just off the beach we’d walked the day before. Caroline in the tide pools around Cape Town. I figured the shock might help my transition from walking pilgrim to processing pilgrim to living back in the regular world. 

 

We arrived at the beach to find a group beginning to gather. Neither Caroline nor I had registered that this swim was Hanli’s regular morning dip with her friends. We were welcomed without question. It was windy and cold and people were talking about a shorter swim than usual given the waves and the strength of the current that morning. Hanli had decided she’d stay with Caroline and me, and just get in the water off shore.

 

 

When we waded out, shivering, Hanli went under quickly and paddled around. Caroline followed with only a little hesitation. I stood in water up to my knees and thought about going under. I was still thinking about it when they both were ready to go back to shore. While I was a little disappointed to have let an opportunity to challenge myself go by, I was mostly relieved to be off the hook. 

 

Once back at the house, we went to our rooms to shower, and Hanli made us breakfast. Once I was showered and dressed, I zipped and locked my suitcase. It was much lighter than when I arrived all those weeks before because I’d given so much away, and I was happy for that. The symbolism of that ready-to-go suitcase made me emotional and a little teary. It was the first of many times that day when tears would brim for no apparent reason, my entire being tender, my heart right on the surface. 

 

 

Breakfast, served in the studio, was happy, simple, and delicious. When we were done, Hanli took us back into the main part of her studio and we admired her work together, listening to her talk about different pieces. She led me to a shelf that held a number of smaller pieces and invited me to take one as a gift. The night before when I’d wandered on my own, I noticed a particular painting and fell in love with it. It just happened to be one of the choices on the shelf, and so in that way it became a treasured gift, a brilliant memento of my last magical pilgrimage day.

 

Saying goodbye to Hanli didn’t feel like an ending, but held the possibility of future travels together. I was feeling like, even though I would be leaving the country, I was taking home connections that enriched my life in ways I could never have anticipated. I was also leaving behind connections between people that started with me. Caroline and Cynthia made one such connection, and made plans to work together.

 

Caroline wanted to stop at the guest house where Cynthia was staying on our way out of town to say hi to her. The memory of our dinner together at the very beginning of the pilgrimage was strong and that dinner was the foundation of what would come next for them. When we pulled into the driveway, Caroline asked me if I wanted to join her inside. I said I’d wait in the car so she and Cynthia could have time just for them. Cynthia came out and waved at me when we pulled away, and I was sorry then I hadn’t gone in for one last hug. I’m still sorry about that. 

 

Our drive to Cape Town was scenic and full of a conversation that never seemed to run out of richness and depth. We went back along the Langebaan waterfront to absorb the blues and purples of the sea there. We enjoyed kite boarders zipping around under bright colors in the distance. We took a road that provided an iconic view of Table Mountain looming over Cape Town harbor, a perfect last look of that magical rock. 

 

We were stopped twice at road blocks. Once they checked all Caroline’s papers before letting us go through. The second time we weren’t stopped but there were police cars, motorcycles, and horses everywhere. It looked very serious. Caroline thought perhaps it was a search for drugs or gang activity, or perhaps related to the recent killing of a prominent gang leader.

 

Our first destination was a highly secure gated retirement community where Caroline’s parents lived. We were picking up Andrea, her sister, my Table Mountain adventure companion all those weeks before. The three of us were to go to lunch together. We spent some time visiting with their parents. I felt honored to meet these two lovely people who were committed activists in their day, who had raised these two women who were continuing to work to make their world a better place. 

 

We drove a distance to a restaurant that was also a rose farm with an incredible view of the surrounding hills. It was comfortable, if a little seedy. A place that had outlived its glory days, but was still the perfect spot for the three of us to enjoy our last hours together. By the end of lunch, I was getting a little antsy about the time, worried about how long it would take to get to the airport, and traffic that might impact that time. Andrea and Caroline wanted to show me the extensive rose gardens, but I realized I couldn’t absorb one more thing.

 

My whole being was now leaning toward home. Caroline got it. The three of us drove toward the airport, running into some traffic, but nothing serious. We arrived much more quickly than I thought possible, so the goodbyes came sooner than I was ready for. As with Hanli, though, I hugged both women fully believing that we’d somehow see each other again. I knew we’d at least stay connected through words across the miles.

 

I strolled, no hurry, through the check-in process, in part because I had so much time, and in part because I’d been there before. There were multiple passport and boarding pass checks, and two full body pat-downs. I arrived at my gate, recognizing the concourse and the gift shops from two years before. Wandering the shops, searching for the perfect souvenirs to take home as gifts, I found nothing appealed to me. For the first time in my traveling life, I was going home without gifts for everyone. I found snacks and sat watching people and then reading.

 

While I was waiting in the Cape Town airport, just as was getting ready to reach out to him, I finally heard from Shawn. He asked when I was going home. When I explained where I was, he apologized sincerely, and we were both really sorry to have lost the chance to see each other again. His family situation had kept his focus close to home, which I understood. But still, I felt sad to be leaving without at least a last hug. 

 

 

Caroline messaged me that she was home and reflecting on our remarkable journey. When we were together before the walk started, I saw a bowl of sea glass in her home and commented on it. She talked about collecting it and her intention to create a mosaic with her collection at some point. I had picked up some sea glass on the beach walks of the pilgrimage, and gave her my favorite piece: a tiny green heart. In her message she sent a picture showing the little heart resting on top of her collection. She also sent a copy of a poem about sea glass that offered the perfect words for me to reflect on as I began my transition home. 

 

All those weeks before, I had expected this would be the time I returned to Facebook. I was sitting, waiting, with nothing else to do. It was time to begin re-entry and I had all those messages waiting for me. I had the opportunity to do a first post announcing my return. 

 

I decided to wait.

 

Maybe until my first morning home, the next day. Or until some as yet undetermined time when it felt right. It just didn’t feel right that afternoon. I was so full of feeling and still really unsure about what had just happened to me and I didn’t want to do anything to make me lose access to any of that. I knew something important had happened on this pilgrimage, something that was still happening, and I knew taking it to Facebook before it had had a chance to incubate would ruin it. 

 

As the time for my flight departure grew closer, I realized I wasn’t seeing many people at the gate. It turned out I needed to go past the gate number down a long aisle to get to the actual gate. People were seated by boarding groups. I joined my group and sat quietly, simply watching and waiting until we were called to board. 

 

For the 9 ½ hours to Doha, from my aisle seat, I settled into that cocoon, coma-like state that makes being there bearable. I listened to my Scottish seat mates talk, enjoying the lilt of their conversation. I ate what was put in front of me, choosing vegetarian when it was an option, and enjoying at least some of it. I watched movie after movie, dozing off and on, not really caring about the stories, but glad for the distraction.

 

We landed on time, and I figured I had plenty of time to catch my next flight with a 2 ½ hour layover. I hadn’t counted on having to wait for the busses that took us to the terminal, the very long drive there, the shuffling behind slow people to get inside, or the long walk to my departure gate. When I found the departures board, it already said go to the gate. I managed a stop in the bathroom, but didn’t stop for drink or snack. Once I got to the gate, I discovered we all had to go through another security check. Once through we again sat in our assigned zones, and couldn’t leave unless we wanted to go through security again.

 

That security check turned out to be an interesting experience. As I stood in line, waiting my turn, the official at the kiosk kept calling people ahead of me. Some families, some businessmen, but all Arabic. There was no explanation or apology, and no smile when he ran out of other people and finally beckoned me forward. 

 

The next leg was 15 hours to Seattle. The plane wasn’t completely full so the two middle seats next to me were empty. I had also organized myself so my pack could go in the overhead instead of at my feet, so I had plenty of space forward and sideways. Again, lots of movies and food, on and off dozing. I was especially grateful for the aisle seat because I needed to get up to pee a lot. It was unusual, and I decided perhaps my body was beginning to shed the pilgrimage time. I was happy for the need to get up and walk and stretch, which made the time less uncomfortable. 

 

The guy sitting directly in front of me was a pain. He reclined his seat fully back, then pulled it up when food arrived, then reclined it again. Over and over. Once he reclined so quickly and violently, my stuff was knocked from my tray to the floor. When he stood up, he grabbed the seat back, messing up my screen every time. I noticed his wife sitting across the aisle from him. I assumed it was his wife at least when I watched her hand over a spoonful of rice to him across the aisle. She was so bundled up in blankets and scarves, she overflowed into the aisle. It was a cold flight, and I was grateful for my extra layers, so I appreciated her creativity. And while I found him immensely irritating, I didn’t mind the distraction their dynamic provided me.

 

I had a three-hour layover in Seattle, way longer than I needed, but leaving plenty of space for customs and all that goes with re-entering the country. The worst part of these re-entries is waiting for luggage to arrive, and there is no way to skip that step unless you don’t check luggage. I was one of the first to arrive at the carousel, so positioned myself close enough to see when the bags came out. The longer I stood there, the farther back I got pushed. One woman in particular edged her luggage cart next to me and gradually pushed in front of me. I had to stand on tip-toes to see the carousel, but wasn’t really concerned because I had plenty of time. 

 

I was mostly curious and amused by the pushing and shoving going on all around me, no one speaking or getting angry, just determined to get to the front. At one point I watched another woman move the cart of the woman who’d pushed in front of me so she could get in front. I watched expressions, one indignant, the other determined, still no words exchanged, and expected things might escalate. I might have been a little disappointed when they didn’t. When my bag finally came out, I was several people back from the carousel. I tried to move forward, pointing out my bag moving ever closer. A man, who was standing directly in front, grabbed my bag and set it at the back of the crowd without once looking at me or speaking. Problem solved. 

 

Generally, after baggage claim, there is a long line waiting to go through passport control. This time, with my shiny new Global Entry card, I walked toward that sign. A man in uniform pointed me toward a kiosk where I stood and had my picture taken. I looked up to see what was next and he said, “You’re good to go, Deborah,” waving me forward. It happened so fast I had a hard time believing I was really back in my country. As happy as I was with the ease and speed, I did miss a little being welcomed home. 

 

I was so early that the gate for my flight was not yet listed. I found a Starbucks, had my first cold brew since the day I left for South Africa, and a cookie. I sat savoring the familiar flavors, absorbing and enjoying being surrounded by the English language and all the familiar things of home. I took the train to what I knew was the correct concourse and eventually found my gate. I wandered shops, still not finding anything to buy. I sat, still not ready for Facebook, and read. 

 

 

The last leg of my trip into Portland was fast and easy. I was a little amazed that the entire trip had been problem-free, and I was actually now standing on very familiar ground. The iconic carpet of PDX and the familiar shops and restaurants flew past as I sped toward baggage claim and Walt and home. 

 

Homecoming was nice. Walt was glad to see me and drove me home in a newly washed car. Birdie and the cats were glad to see me, for once not punishing me by ignoring me for abandoning them. The house was pretty much as I’d left it and food was stocked for my return. I knew that Walt had worked hard all day to make things just right for me. We watched an episode of Survivor, a show we’ve enjoyed together for years. I kept falling asleep, not just drifting off, but out cold, head snapping back. 

 

If there is anything more disorienting than being away from home for 40 days, then flying for more than 24 hours plus layovers, then arriving the next day less than 24 hours from the time you left because of time zones, I haven’t experienced it. This arrival was complicated by the season change. I’d left Africa in late spring and arrived home in late fall. I’d gone from sunny and blue and warm to cloudy and gray and cold. And while I was full of the fun and love of my last day, I was also struggling to absorb the whole of the pilgrimage.

 

 

The next morning, Friday, I was up late for me, but after a night of broken sleep. Severe muscle cramps kept waking me. And then I just couldn’t sleep, so spent time messaging friends and reading until I drifted off again.  I fell back into my morning routine as though no time had passed. Feed Birdie, then the cats. Get my coffee (real brewed coffee with real half and half), settle onto the couch with my journal and the animals. 

 

From the outside, it looked like nothing had changed. But between the jet lag that would stalk me for the next week, and continuing to avoid Facebook, and the strangeness of what I’d just been through, I felt like everything had changed. I hated the weather, and was upset to not get a softer entry into fall. I was restless and exhausted. I couldn’t quite figure out how to get back into my life, or if I even wanted to. I certainly didn’t want to go back to that pilgrimage, but I did want to go back to the simplicity of the pilgrim life. And the sunshine. And the freedom. 

 

Walt asked for stories. Unlike previous trips, because I wasn’t posting on Facebook, he didn’t really know what had happened. We’d been in touch frequently, but there was no way to explain anything clearly on WhatsApp. I tried to give him highlights, good stories, easy flashes of color. He knew some of the social issues and I summarized as best I could without going deep. I couldn’t go deep because I didn’t really understand what had happened or how I felt about it, or what it really meant. 

 

It was the same with friends as I slowly renewed those connections. I told the same stories over and over, keeping them as light as I could. I was grateful for the love that made people reach out, and struggled with, for the first time in my pilgrimage life, not wanting to talk about it. 

 

The first week back was tough. I clung to what routine I could manage. I unpacked and did laundry and put pilgrimage gear away. I settled back into being a wife and tried to be supportive as Walt was dealing with his own things. I reached out to friends. I walked Birdie, grateful to be walking, but missing the openness and freedom of pilgrim walking. I found my way back to yoga class slowly, also grateful for what it offered: the heat and meditation and stretch.

 

I journaled intensely every morning. Every entry for that first week was full of questions and went on for pages. They were the same questions I’d been asking all through the pilgrimage, but with more urgency. I was home and it was time for answers, or at least new questions, but there was no epiphany or even a glimmer of revelation.

 

I read a ton, seeking comfort in the place that had saved me since childhood. Caroline had suggested I re-enter with Katherine May’s book Wintering. “Wintering is a season in the cold. It is a fallow period in life when you’re cut off from the world, feeling rejected, side-lined, blocked from progress, or cast into the role of an outsider. . .. Perhaps you’re in a period of transition and have temporarily fallen between two worlds.”

 

It turned out to be the perfect medicine, so much so that I read all three of her books back-to-back in the following weeks. I had actually read her books before. However, this time through, in the daily immersion into her world from a world I was finding untenable, I found whole new wisdoms that wrapped around my pain like warm blankets. Katherine May didn’t solve me, but she did offer companionship and understanding.

 

 

 

In that first week home, people continued to post on the group WhatsApp site. I enjoyed seeing where my fellow pilgrims were. There was a lot of friendly chatter as people moved forward in their lives. Anna-marie and N. were walking the Peninsula and posted pictures of their adventures. We celebrated Cynthia completing 40 days and being the third person to do so. We also congratulated Anna-marie on being the 4^th person to complete the entire Cape Camino in one go. (I was first. An Australian named Frank was second. I was the first to complete it twice.) Ina and Frikkie were camping. Clare commented positively on other people’s posts. Clare (see above photo) and Anna-marie both posted inspirational messages. A. demanded that none of her photos be used by anyone else. 

 

Cape Camino was mostly quiet. They answered questions Anna-marie and N. had about the Peninsula, and it did sound like that was not going smoothly. Peggy did confirm when asked that Anna-marie was number 4. There were no congratulations or recognitions for any of us. They did abruptly end the group just a week after I’d returned home, with no explanation, and no time to respond. I went to bed one night with access to an active group, and woke up the next morning kicked off of the group.

 

Cape Camino didn’t delete the group, for which I’m very grateful. Because they left a handful of members in the group, it still exists as a time capsule that I’ve relied on quite a bit. I figured out later that the abrupt ending was a response to being questioned on the group about their treatment of Anna-marie and N. on the Peninsula. 

 

I had decided to put off my decision about returning to Facebook until I had a chance to talk to Pat, my counselor. I saw her within that first week home, beyond grateful for the comfort and safety of her. Since doing the pilgrimage without Facebook had been her suggestion initially, I knew she’d understand my uncertainty about returning. I left her that day with nothing decided for certain. Only that I wasn’t yet ready to return, and for the very first time I held the possibility that I might never go back.  

 

I arrived home two weeks before Thanksgiving. We were hosting at our house and it was a special year. My brother had just gotten married and it was a chance to introduce his bride, who was from Thailand, to other family members. That meant I had to get off the couch and focus and plan and cook. It turned out to be the just right thing to begin to lift me out of the darkness I was trying so hard not to sink into. 

 

Focusing on Thanksgiving also gave me some time and space to decide how, and why, I was going to tell the pilgrimage stories. I considered, briefly, not telling them at all. I considered telling them on Facebook, only with more depth than before. Blogging was an option, and one that called to me more and more during those two weeks. I had blogged before and found it to be a satisfying forum for going deep, for discovery. 

 

I suppose it makes sense that I’ve written myself to this place and have no idea how to end this post. Maybe because I’m still in transition, although aren’t we always in transition from one place or state to another? Maybe because there is no neat way to wrap up those three days, that first week home, the two weeks until Thanksgiving? My memories of this time are fuzzy and I’ve had to work hard to drag them out of the dark. My journals, the few photos, the WhatsApp group, all helped, but much of that time feels blurred.

 

Today is the summer solstice. The longest day of the year, where there is the most light a day can hold. I read just this morning that there are a few days now before we begin slipping back toward darkness. Like slack tide. The wrack line again. I started these stories just before the winter solstice, so it seems fitting that I’m now at a turning point. A new transition. New possibilities. And the maximum light possible with which to see what’s emerged. 

 

I can’t quite believe I’ve finished writing the stories of what actually happened. These months of writing have been their own journey, and brought about their own insights and questions. The next stories will be what came next, and what is yet to come, but that telling doesn’t feel as urgent. There is still so much I don’t know about what happened to me on that pilgrimage, about how it’s changing me, and I want to be careful that the next stories shape a truth that enlightens and heals. Finding meaning and finding the words for the found meaning is a delicate task. I’m not entirely sure I’ll be able to pull it off, but I am determined to try. 

 

As I see it now, I have two more stories to tell directly connected to the pilgrimage. After that, I’ll go back and read what I’ve written so far and let what emerges from that determine where I go next. The time I spend here writing nourishes me as much as it unsettles me, and I hunger for it now more than I hunger for the easy connections of social media. 

 

I will end this post, and the actual pilgrimage stories themselves, with a thank you. Blogger lets me see how many people read each post. There are a couple dozen of you who have read every post, and I am grateful for your silent company. To the small handful who wrote me directly, your words were always gifts in the darkness, the timing always a perfect pat on the back when I needed it most. I hope you’ll stay with me, and that these stories add some light to your lives in return. 

 

‘I want to age like sea glass’

By Bernadette Noll

I want to age like sea glass. Smoothed by tides, not broken. I want the currents of life to toss me around, shake me up and leave me feeling washed clean. I want my hard edges to soften as the years pass — made not weak, but supple. I want to ride the waves, go with the flow, feel the impact of the surging tides rolling in and out.

When I am thrown against the shore and caught between the rocks and a hard place, I want to rest there until I can find the strength to do what is next. Not stuck — just waiting, pondering, feeling what it feels like to pause. And when I am ready, I will catch a wave and let it carry me along to the next place that I am supposed to be.

I want to be picked up on occasion by an unsuspected soul and carried along — just for the connection, just for the sake of appreciation and wonder. And with each encounter, new possibilities of collaboration are presented, and new ideas are born.

I want to age like sea glass so that when people see the old woman I’ll become, they’ll embrace all that I am. They’ll marvel at my exquisite nature, hold me gently in their hands and be awed by my well-earned patina. Neither flashy nor dull, just the right luster. And they’ll wonder, if just for a second, what it is exactly I am made of and how I got to be in this very here and now. And we’ll both feel lucky to realize, once again, that we have landed in that perfectly right place at that profoundly right time.

I want to age like sea glass. I want to enjoy the journey and let my preciousness be, not in spite of the impacts of life, but because of them.”

Day 37 - The End

Tuesday, November 12

Saldanha Bay to Langebaan

10k/6mi -ish

Cool, Sunny, Windy

 

 

“Man plans. God laughs.”

 

The plan:

 

Clare Ubers to Cape Town. Anna-marie rides with our luggage to Langebaan. She arranges with Gerrit to take us in the boat across the harbor to Mykonos. The five of us walk from Mykonos to Langebaan, although there is no chaperone or map and I seem to be the only one concerned about that. The last day of walking for the pilgrimage only with people I love, and who love me back, is full of fun and easy. Once in Langebaan, I go with Hanli to Pumpkin House, Ina and Frikkie go to his brother’s, and the others spend one last night together at a guest house. Caroline comes to get me the next morning to take me to Cape Town for one last adventure and then the airport for my evening flight home. 

 

God laughing:

 

Gerrit canceled the boat ride because of the wind. He offered to transport us in his bakkie for a fee. Gabrielle told us we could use the company she hired to transport our luggage to transport us to Mykonos if we wanted. Clare and Anna-marie and Ina got mad because they thought she was telling us what to do at the last minute after expecting us to handle things ourselves. Anna-marie, who was the designated communication person, arranged to ride with the luggage. She did not plan to tell Gerrit the rest of us would ride with him until the luggage transport came.

 

The result of all of that was a lot of waiting and a lot of angry conversation about Gabrielle. And an angry conversation between me and Anna-marie. When I asked Anna-marie why she hadn’t told Gerrit we needed a ride at the beginning, since that was our plan all along, she didn’t have a good answer. I was already upset that all her communication on WhatsApp at that point was in Afrikaans. I got frustrated enough with her taking care of herself and leaving the rest of us to hang that I had to walk away from the conversation and go outside. 

 

Part of my frustration with Anna-marie was that she wasn’t really answering my questions. After I’d calmed down, and some time passed, I figured out she had told Gerrit the rest of us would ride with him earlier. She had not told him yet when to get us because she wanted to make sure the luggage transport happened first. By the time she got back to him, he’d already made other plans and so couldn’t come get us until later. If she’d been willing to trust, and let him come first, everyone could have been happy. 

 

As we waited for someone to come, Clare’s Uber or the luggage transport or Gerrit, I sat outside and forced myself to calm and breathe. Cynthia came out and asked if I was okay, but there was nothing she could do at that point. We did consider taking off and walking, but that would have meant way-finding, and ultimately taken even more time to figure out. She and Nicole hung out in their room while we waited. Ina and Frikkie hung out in theirs. When sitting got too hard, I wandered over to Ina and Frikkie, around the back yard, out to the front of the hotel. 

 

 

The luggage transport arrived first. Anna-marie came and said goodbye to us all, even though there was a chance she’d join us toward the end of the walk. When she approached me, she was smiling and a little tentative. We hugged and I released my anger, determined not to let that conflict ruin the day. We all waved her off as the car pulled away. 

 

Clare’s Uber arrived last. She stood and waved us off as Gerrit drove us away in his bakkie. Earlier that morning, in a moment of quiet when several of us were sitting in the lobby, I asked Clare if the pilgrimage had been what she was looking for. She said she wished there had been more sacred sites, like on the Camino de Santiago, to visit along the way. Her answer, offered with smiling sincerity, gobsmacked me. All that anger for all those days and miles, and she left wishing for more sacred space. 

 

In my feedback to Cape Camino two years previously, I had said something similar. I mentioned that the sacred spaces were over-promised on the website. Most of them happened on the Peninsula, which was at the end of that walk. And which wasn’t part of Clare’s walk. Cape Camino was not the ancient sacred space the Camino de Santiago was, and a couple of labyrinths, one convent, and a few Muslim shrines weren’t going to change that. What had changed for me on this walk was that I had found the sacred space inside myself. The outer manifestations of spirituality weren’t needed. Cape Camino was a perfect walk for deep inner reflection without the distraction of traditional constructs of sacredness. That would have been true even without this walk’s extreme difficulties that forced me to go much deeper than I even knew I could. Certainly much deeper than I would have chosen given the chance. 

 

 

The rest of us waited for more than half an hour until Gerrit came to fetch us. He was a lovely cheerful man who seemed truly happy to be driving us. He said the wind had turned out to be not quite as bad as he thought and that we might have been able to take the boat. None of us really needed to hear that. He talked nonstop for the entire ten-minute drive, most of which I couldn’t understand. Nicole and Ina sat in the back of his bakkie. Frikkie sat up front and Cynthia and I got the back seat. 

 

I can’t remember saying goodbye to Clare. I hope I did. I think I must have.

 

When Gerrit dropped us off at a restaurant in Mykonos, he hugged us all. For some reason, when he hugged me, he called me Blondie. We all wondered at that, where that came from and laughed. It was a nice way to end the craziness of the morning. 

 

The five of us stood in the parking lot, unsure which way to go. We knew we were to follow the coast line to Langebaan. Ina and Frikkie and I had done the walk two years ago, but with a chaperone then and starting from a different spot. They seemed confident that we could find our way on our own.

 

 

We started toward the beach and followed it until we were blocked by rocks. We climbed stairs into the main part of the resort and followed private walkways toward the next stretch of open beach. At one point we had to walk inland, into streets full of vacation homes and condos, moving in the direction of Langebaan, constantly running into dead ends. I struggled against frustration at Ina and Frikkie who had said they knew where we were going. When I challenged Ina at one point, she said she thought I would know since we had walked it together. 

 

 

We asked people in the neighborhoods we were walking through for help, and we eventually found our way back on the beach with a straight shot up the coastline to Langebaan. It was windy, and we were walking straight into it, so the walk was often cold and sand blasted. Still, it felt so good to be walking in the right direction without obstacle, the conditions hardly mattered. Parts of the route began to look familiar to Ina and Frikkie, but nothing rang a bell with me until we were close to Langebaan. There were stretches that were familiar to Cynthia and Nicole as well because they’d been on that part of the coast before. 

 

 

 

I worked hard to let go of my anger and frustration, and disappointment that the morning hadn’t turned out the way I’d hoped. I stayed intentionally cheerful, and walked off and on with everyone. During the stretches I walked alone, I made sure to keep everyone in sight. I loved these people and was grateful to end the pilgrimage in their company. 

 

 

When the beach led us to the far outskirts of Langebaan, sidewalks and businesses replacing dunes and waves, we spotted a coffee shop. We approached it like desert wanderers finding an oasis. The owner was warm and welcoming, friendly and open. The bathroom bright and clean. The coffee and cheesecake and carrot cake some of the best we’d had. We splurged on gelato, dessert to our dessert snack. We sat and talked and laughed, happy to have the finding-our-way part of the adventure behind us, but proud of ourselves for having found the way. 

 

I looked up in the middle of our snack to see the tiniest and fluffiest of puppies staggering out to greet us. He had escaped his enclosure. When the owner came out and saw us holding and cuddling him, she let him stay. A four-month-old silkie terrier, he apparently escaped often. He was definitely the cherry on top of the sweetest of rest stops. 

 

 

Someone said, “Isn’t that Anna-marie?’ And there she was across the street, looking for us.  We got her attention and she seemed really happy to see us again. The host of the guest house where she and Cynthia and Nicole were staying wasn’t quite ready for guests and had driven Anna-marie to the coffee shop. Cynthia had been communicating with her so she knew where we were.

 

 

Shortly after we left the coffee shop, we found ourselves back on the beach. The wind had picked up, so walking was an even bigger challenge. We all stopped and watched a seal zip around in the surf right off the beach. It was hard to tell if it was hunting or playing, but its fluidity of movement felt like dance and was mesmerizing. We turned a corner to see the ocean full of kiteboarders, all vivid colors and speed, the human version of ocean dancing we’d just witnessed with the seal. The beach itself was full of boards and sails and people in wetsuits and lessons being given. It was fun to watch the expertise – one instructor kept riding his board right up to the sand – and the freedom and the joy. I could have sat and watched forever.

 

 

After that stretch of beach, things started to look familiar. I recognized the restaurant where I had last seen Ina two years before. I recognized the poles in the water that Hanli and her friends swam from every morning. We turned into town from the beach and were glad for Anna-marie’s semi-familiarity with our route going forward.

 

Street walking is the hardest for me, and that last leg of our walk was a slog. We relied on Anna-marie’s directions and Nicole’s Google Maps. There was a lot of uphill and a lot of “I think it’s the next turn.” Because we’d started out so late, I was impatient to get to Pumpkin House and Hanli and the next chapter. I knew she was waiting for me, and had expected to arrive much sooner than we did. I was also reluctant to arrive because it meant saying goodbye. 

 

When we finally did arrive at the guest house where the others were staying, there was a flurry of activity. After the long morning of waiting and being lost and getting found, suddenly time sped up. I messaged Hanli, whose house was only a couple of blocks away. From my pack I pulled out the care package I’d started for Anna-marie to give to Faizel when she and N. started their Peninsula walk with him the next day. In addition to my Cape Camino shirts and extra snacks and paper and pens, I added my walking shoes. Even though I’d given him a new pair, I knew he’d find a home for this older pair. 

 

 

Hanli drove up, and I have a vague memory of saying goodbye to everyone, and of hugging everyone, but none of the partings felt enough. After all those days and miles together, nothing was ever going to feel like it was enough. With a final wave goodbye to the group, I followed Hanli to her car her in my stocking feet, feeling deep sadness and a soaring kind of joy at the same time. 

 

Two years before, Hanli was a host for Cape Camino. Her backpackers place, called Pumpkin House, was the last stay for the West Coast leg. She is a talented and inspired artist, her place an artist’s retreat as well as a backpackers. On that walk, Ina and Frikkie left me to go with his brother, as they did this time. I was alone with Hanli, and would be driven the next day to Cape Town to start the Peninsula leg of the walk. The leg I started with on this walk. 

 

That day with Hanli was one of the most impactful of the first pilgrimage. She spent the afternoon driving me through West Coast National Park and took such good care of me I didn’t have time to be sad about losing Ina and Frikkie. We made a strong connection over a love of travel, lives lived through extreme loss, and writer souls in common. We had been in touch a few times in the two years since, and when I knew I was coming a second time, I reached out to her. I knew she was no longer hosting, but was hoping she’d let me rent a room at Pumpkin House so we would have a chance to catch up with each other’s lives. She invited me to stay with her as her guest. The privilege of that, the kindness and generosity, was a gift that makes my heart swell even now. 

 

That my pilgrimage was bookended by the kindness of friends I’d made on the first walk felt like love and safety and affirmation.

 

Our conversation took off as though no time had passed. When we arrive at Pumpkin House a few minutes later, she showed me to my room, the same one I’d had before. She had planned the rest of the day. After a quick shower I met her in the courtyard and we headed out to a restaurant overlooking the ocean for lunch. It was a favorite of hers, a beautiful place with incredible views. It was quiet, so we felt like we were in a private club, and had unlimited time and space to visit. After a scenic drive back to her place she invited me into her house for tea. 

 

She told me she had an art class in her studio that afternoon, and that I was free to do whatever I wanted during that time. As we were chatting, we were startled by a knock on her door. It was Caroline. 

 

It took me a beat to realize that she was really standing there, that afternoon, not the next morning when we’d arranged for her to get me. She had decided she wanted more time together so had arranged with Hanli to arrive early and spend the night at Pumpkin House.

 

This woman, magical and kind, generous and full of love and spirit, had just given me the biggest gift imaginable. To get to spend my last night in South Africa with two women I admired and aspired to be more like far exceeded anything I might have planned for myself. I was feeling a little like I imagine a time traveler would feel. One moment in one world, the next in a completely different one. Untethered and ungrounded. The old world full of pain and struggle, the new one so full of light and joy it was overwhelming.

 

When Hanli walked across the courtyard to her studio to teach her class, Caroline and I stayed in her living room and visited. That time gave me a chance to bring myself fully into the new space. It was also my first chance to start debriefing the walk I’d just finished, and Caroline was the perfect person for that. She’d been connected to me the whole time and knew at least some of what had happened. 

 

She was – is – also a person who listens with her heart and soul and in her expansive reception of my stories, helped me begin to process toward healing and a deeper understanding of myself and the pilgrimage. One of my favorite things about Caroline is that as good as she is at listening, she’s also open about sharing her own life. Our conversation was a balance of pilgrimage processing and catching up on equally life-changing events in Caroline’s life. 

 

Hanli had invited the headmistress of the school where she was now teaching art to join us for dinner. Bernadine was a perfect fourth to our gathering. I was reminded of the dinner earlier in the walk with Cynthia and Sheila, where the conversation went wide and deep, and fed dormant parts of me that came to life with the nourishment of it. Bernadine had created a well-respected and much in demand private school that covered a couple of city blocks from classes she’d offered in her home. She was humble and soft-spoken, even with all her success. 

 

Dinner was in Hanli’s studio, surrounded by her art, where she’d set a pretty table for us. She served us individual fish casseroles, garlic bread, and a very special salad made with garden greens including peas and fennel. Dessert was cupcakes (carrot cake, of course) from Bernadine’s daughter’s wedding of the weekend before. None of us really wanted the evening to end, but Bernadine needed to get home, so we reluctantly said goodbye to her.

 

 

We headed back to Hanli’s space for tea. On the way across the courtyard, I stopped and drank in the sunset. The soft colors and Jupiter shining alone, as it had for every night of the pilgrimage, felt like a benediction for the day and for all that was coming next. 

 

Hanli told stories of her life and travel that had us amazed and laughing. The day finally caught up with us all. Caroline was fading visibly across from me and I was dizzy with exhaustion, so we said goodnight. Even as tired as I was, I had a hard time falling asleep. Before bed, I did the final sorting of gear that shifted my focus from pilgrim to traveler. Scenes from the day kept replaying. I wondered about Shawn, whether to reach out, or release. The wind sang and rattled (and maybe laughed) outside. 

 

I pondered what would come next for me, and who I would be for what did come next: Facebook awaited, home awaited, stories awaited. 

 

 

 

Day 36 - Saldanha Bay

Monday, November 11

Jacobs Bay to Saldanha Bay

14k/8.7mi

Sunny, Breezy, Cool

 

 

Octavia and her dad came for our luggage at 8:00. They would bring back our chaperones, who would meet us at the coffee shop. While we waited, Ina and I walked the labyrinth at the front of the place. It was, like Pixieland, a little kitschy and a little neglected, but still satisfying. The highway was right next to us, and the huge sign for Pixieland, so the place did not sing sacred space. 

 

Although not standard labyrinth practice, we chatted as we walked. We talked about the labyrinth itself, noting the plants and weird artifacts lying around. We talked about life, and our fellow pilgrims, and how strange it felt to be so close to the end. We talked about what was coming the next day: boat or no boat, how we were going to find our way to Langebaan from Mykonos without directions or chaperones. 

 

 

I took several photographs in the labyrinth and not one of them showed up on my camera later. This wasn’t the first time I’d noticed that happening, but the most obvious. In the several days previous to this, I thought I’d taken pictures, but couldn’t find them at the end of the day. There were pictures of Ina and Frikkie I knew I’d taken, but when I went to share them, they weren’t there. It was strange and a little unsettling. I decided that in my fatigue I wasn’t hitting the button hard enough when I thought I was catching a moment. It’s not something I had ever experienced before, and it hasn’t happened since. 

 

All during the pilgrimage, I was ambivalent about taking as many pictures as I usually do, thinking perhaps fewer pictures would mean greater inner focus. I knew Anna-marie was taking a ton of pictures and sharing them every day, so I had access to those memories. That last week, though, I felt some urgency to get photos that only I could shoot. When that didn’t work out, I accepted the loss, wondering if it wasn’t the pilgrimage’s way of confirming that I needed to stay focused on what was right in front of me. As I’m writing these stories, and noticing fewer and fewer of my pictures available for each successive day, I’m sad for the missing pictures. Mostly because of the memory trigger each picture provides. 

 

** A little research revealed that the likely culprit for the pictures not actually being taken is dry fingers. One contributor to that is aging. Another is the environment. Mystery solved.

 

Once the luggage was gone, Ina, Frikkie, and I walked over to coffee shop. The others walked the labyrinth or spent some quiet time in the courtyard, and joined us later. We all had cappuccinos and ate some of our packed lunches while we waited for the chaperones. They were two young colored men, both very quiet, and neither whose name I learned. We headed out around 8:30. 

 

 

 I was looking forward to the day’s walk, one I remembered as being really beautiful and scenic. We started out on the beach. There was some soft sand walking, but by that point in the walk it barely registered as difficult to manage. Our first stop was in rocks on the edge of the surf, where Ina and Frikkie shared their coffee with me for the last time. (Those pictures didn’t turn out either.)

 

 

We stopped one more time at the end of the beach walk, just before climbing dunes up to the street. It was a particularly beautiful spot. I found myself captivated by the waves crashing against some rocks right by the shore, and while the others sat and rested, I stood and shot picture after picture, trying to catch one perfect moment. (Those pictures did turn out.) While I was shooting, I placed myself firmly there, breathing in the charged air, listening to the crashing waves, feeling the sun and the breeze. 

 

 

 

The dune climb was fun and all too short. We found ourselves in a slightly industrial setting, all pavement and barbed wire and shades of gray. I could see the green hills ahead of us, but our walk took us away from them. Sometime that morning, our chaperone leader had talked in Afrikaans (neither of the young men spoke English) about our day’s route. I recognized the Afrikaans word for snake: slang. Ina explained to me that colored people were terrified of snakes. All that to explain why we didn’t get into the hills, much like what had happened in Wittewater. I, however, did not make the connection between the chaperone’s conversation about snakes and the route we took through the suburbs of Saldanha Bay, until we were in the middle of town. 

 

 

 

At one point, as we paused on the sidewalk so the group could re-form and stay together, I looked up and saw the hills again. I realized we were walking through the urban area we’d observed from above two years before. From that perspective it looked huge and sprawling with houses crammed together. From the street all we could see was what was on either side of us, and directly in front. The pilgrims were the only white people in sight. There was concrete everywhere: our walkway, the buildings, the fences between. The ground was scrubby, even when there was grass. The drabness was lighted occasionally by murals and brightly painted shops and laundry hanging on lines. And by the people whose home we were walking through.

 

We passed many groups of young men slouching about. Families passed us as they went about the business of their lives, while we tried to walk respectfully. People were friendly, if we spoke first. Women were more responsive than men. Engaging with children opened up conversations and brought out smiles. No one spoke English. The greetings that were returned to me often ended in Tannie or Oma, both terms of respect for an older person. It felt lovely.

 

 

We arrived at our hotel quickly, around noon. From the outside, it looked like a prison or a fortress: high walls and a metal gate. It also looked a little seedy. When we were let in, the young woman who would serve as our hostess, took us to our rooms. The interior was bright and inviting, with vivid flowers everywhere and stairs going in a variety of directions. Cynthia and Nicole were put in a room, and Clare and Anna-marie in the room next to them. Their rooms were spacious and modern feeling, clean and light. Ina and Frikkie and I were led down stairs and up stairs to a separate building. We walked into what looked like a suite, with a kitchen and couches and a long table for dining. They were given the bedroom right off that space. 

 

I was feeling a little uncertain by that time. I wanted a space like the other women had gotten. Being the last to be settled worried me a bit. So, when the host took me down some steps, down a narrow hallway, farther away from everyone, I was feeling concerned, and very alone. When she opened the door to my room, I laughed and restrained myself from hugging her in gratitude. She was clearly pleased at my reaction, and told me I was there so I could be close to my friends. I had a single room, nicely appointed, with a very large window, and my very own bathroom. I hit the jackpot. 

 

During the morning’s walk, Gabrielle had been WhatsApping me. She wanted to meet with Cynthia and me once we got settled into the hotel. When I told Cynthia, she was up for it, and we agreed it would be best if we didn’t tell the others (except for Nicole). I didn’t want to hurt Ina and Frikkie’s feelings, and neither of us wanted the inevitable drama that would come from the other two. Also, as difficult as they’d made the walk, and as challenging as they’d been, we knew what it felt like to be left out, and wanted to spare them that discomfort. 

 

It was surprisingly easy to slip out the gates without anyone noticing. Gabrielle and her little dog waited for us in her car. She drove us to a hotel overlooking the water, where we sat on their deck and had tea and cheesecake. The three of us talked for more than two hours. It was a lively and positive conversation. Both Cynthia and I talked about what the pilgrimage had meant to us. We asked questions about things that had concerned us and received answers that, if not completely satisfying, smoothed edges. There was a lot of laughter, and there were tears. 

 

We talked about Clare and A. in particular: their drinking, their anger and resistance to everything Cape Camino said the pilgrimage might offer. I don’t remember if we talked about N. It seems like we should have, but her situation was so complicated, and Peggy had dealt with it mostly, so maybe we didn’t.  We were able to tell Gabrielle that comparing Cape Camino to the Camino de Santiago was not serving them well, that it set people’s expectations in a way that were doomed to disappointment. It was the one bit of feedback that was received gratefully and without deflection.

 

Cynthia and I both raised concerns about Faizel, our chaperone on the Peninsula. Gabrielle’s version of the truth was quite a bit different from his, and it seemed he wasn’t nearly as neglected as he’d made it sound. Cynthia raised her concerns about the community center in Wittewater, and again Gabrielle’s vision was quite a bit different from our experience. We mentioned Clare’s campaign to expose the lack of chaperone pay, which Gabrielle countered. We talked about the Gezie situation: too many people, not enough support, her anxiety and stress. Gabrielle was not sympathetic, but rather seemed to think Gezie was making too big a deal of things, 

 

Most importantly for me, I vocalized for the first time the hardship of the pilgrimage, and how I believed it was necessary for the work I needed to do. I talked about Facebook withdrawal and having to repeatedly reaffirm my commitment to accept whatever came my way and to not try to shape events to my comfort. I talked about the difficulty of going through withdrawal when I was surrounded by people indulging freely in their addictions. I talked about challenging my ego, including living with Cape Camino’s very different treatment of me on that walk. I talked about the times I thought about quitting. I talked about my gratitude for Cynthia, and the hosts, and Cape Camino. I talked about my love of the farm wives, and my concern they were being taken advantage of. 

 

Gabrielle filmed each of us sharing our pilgrimage experience. I don’t remember exactly what I said there, and I haven’t seen the film because it was posted on Facebook. What I do remember is consciously focusing on the positive while acknowledging what was difficult and painful, without blaming anyone. Listening to Cynthia talk about her pilgrimage, I was once again impressed with how articulate she was and proud to have been part of her experience. 

 

After the hotel, Gabrielle drove us to the waterfront to show us where we would go in the morning to find Gerrit and the boat that would take us across the bay to Mykonos. When she dropped us back at our hotel around 4:00 we parted with hugs and smiles. The energy was happy and empowered. 

 

I knew that I hadn’t really changed Gabrielle’s mind about anything, just as I knew I had been careful to keep my feedback without anger or blame. Our hotel conversation, hearing myself, and hearing Cynthia, helped me grasp how important everything that had happened on the pilgrimage was to whatever it was I needed to learn. Changing any of it would have meant the loss of this huge gift I was just beginning to grasp the power of. That didn’t mean I wasn’t glad to see it almost over, or that I would ever want to repeat the experience. 

 

Now I was truly oriented toward the ending of the pilgrimage and the return home. Back in my room, I packed and sorted, and pulled out the last of the gifts I’d brought to share. I walked over to Cynthia’s room and gave her my travel yoga mat. I sat at the long dining table visiting with Ina, and gave her my nautilus shell necklace, something I’d planned before I even left home. She had admired a similar necklace two years before, and I wanted to fulfill that want. Her reaction on receiving the necklace lit up the room and my heart. Anam Cara, which had been such a comforting companion for the last weeks, was going to be left with Caroline, whose care had also brought such comfort.

 

 

We all gathered at the steps into our building for some photo fun. I had observed that except for Nicole, we all had gray hair. It seemed a picture highlighting that was called for. We lined up, just the women at first, and then with some serious urging, Frikkie joined. Nicole took the pictures. We laughed and jostled as different poses were struck, united by age and hair color.

 

 

When workers came in to set the table in our space where we’d all have dinner, I added my gifts to the place settings. Each person got a card, a wooden bird, and a bandanna. Writing the cards, even to the two women I had such ambivalent feelings about, felt like forgiveness and closure and love. When everyone came in, they were pleased to see gifts. Clare even made a small speech, and seemed very sincere in her thanks. 

 

People asked where Cynthia and I had disappeared to earlier in the afternoon. We said we’d gone into town and explored a bit, that we’d had tea and cheesecake at another hotel. All true, just not complete. It was hard not to tell the rest. 

 

Part of the dinner conversation was about what would happen in the morning. Clare was going to be picked up and taken to the airport to go home. Anna-marie was still uncertain, but leaning toward riding with the luggage transport to Langebaan. The rest of us wanted to take the boat, and Anna-marie had agreed to relay that to Gerrit. There was some question still about whether the conditions would make taking a boat possible, and how we would get to the harbor to catch the boat. We decided to let things sit until the next day. 

 

We didn’t actually know who was doing luggage transport at that point, and that was a point of anger for the group. As always, the anger was focused toward Gabrielle for not communicating more clearly, for being cavalier about what we as pilgrims should be dealing with. It felt like all the frustrations of the entire walk came to a head. The confusion about luggage transport and how we were to get to Mykonos and then how we were to find our way to Langebaan tipped the balance into anger that went beyond Clare’s usual discontent. 

 

During the group discussion, I stayed mostly quiet, as had been my choice for the entire pilgrimage. I agreed with what was being said, but I also felt loyalty to Gabrielle and Cape Camino. We wouldn’t be on that walk without her vision and tenacity. Pilgrimage was about letting go of expectations and being willing to suffer for the privilege of walking and seeking inner change. Everyone was wrong, and everyone was right. 

 

Later, in conversation with Ina, I did defend Gabrielle directly. Ina was operating on what had been said at the dinner table. I pointed out that some of the things she was being held responsible for, like not securing luggage transport, hadn’t even happened. Gabrielle messaged us eventually to tell us she’d hired a driver to take our luggage to Langebaan. 

 

 

Our last pilgrim dinner was fried chicken, roasted potatoes, and roasted vegetables. Simple and satisfying. I brought out the last of my chocolate stash for dessert. Everyone left as the sunset was just beginning to color the sky. Even with the upset about all the uncertainties, everyone seemed happy at the end of dinner and a little reluctant to end the evening. I thought back to our first dinner together, and felt gratitude at the contrast. 

 

 

I went to my room, but was feeling restless, so went back out to make tea. I found Ina also up, and so we sat with our tea and visited one last time. Part of our conversation involved me telling her that she and Frikkie should come to the States for a visit. She said they’d consider it in a way that felt more than the usual “I wish I could” response. 

 

The last words in my journal for that day: “It was a very good day and last night together. I’m at peace, feeling calm and happy, if exhausted. No word from Shawn.”