Morning Journal

Morning Journal Entry

Friday, October 11

 

 

Slept remarkably well – way more than eight hours. Feeling rested, sore back noisy this morning. Much calmer about things this morning. Letting go – last night’s “Retreat” card a clear validation of my choice. It’s so easy to get drawn into the need to shape, to control, to be understood, even when the stated intention is to accept whatever is in front of me, to surrender to it, to embrace. 

 

Just texted Walt – check-in only. Feels right to do. I get small waves of missing home, have to pull myself back to the present. My awareness of my tendency to grumpiness when I’m tired is important. When we arrive at BE last night, I hated the room, felt overwhelmed, wanted really only to go to bed and sleep. But sitting for a bit, a shower, tea, legs up the wall, and everything looked brighter. Accepting that initial reaction as a stage, not the end, is helpful. Also choosing not to give voice to the fear and the things I don’t like is critical. 

 

I think about preferences – part of the point of pilgrimage is to not let my particular preferences be the primary reason for choosing my responses to things, or even for choosing what I do. A strong part of me would prefer to be at home with Birdie and the cats on my couch, drinking my coffee, playing games. 

 

Except the inertia of that was killing my soul and keeping me from being fully alive. I do not feel the exhilaration I’ve felt before, although there are moments. Like when our server place last night’s dinner in front of us. I was hit with a wave of deep gratitude at the abundance and beauty of that meal, sitting comfortable, dry, warm, looking at the ocean, next to a comfortable and interesting companion who is well on the way to becoming my fried. I felt the moment completely. I have said since the first Camino that this is where I feel most alive. In part that’s because I’m not participating in the numbing activities I fall back on at home to make time pass. 

Day 4

Thursday, October 10

Muizenberg to Simons Town

15k/9mi, 5 hours

Cloudy off & on, Mild temps

 

I didn’t sleep well. The room was too warm, my stomach complained about two ice creams and greasy fish, and the slight soreness I’d noticed walking back from the beach grew just enough I couldn’t get comfortable. When the clock on my phone finally said 4:00, I was relieved. I grabbed my stuff and went out into the main area where there was a kitchen and a comfortable couch. Coffee in hand, I settled in to write and read, soothed by John O’Donohue’s words, and lighter for getting the swirl of thoughts from my head onto the page. After a couple of hours, as the darkness outside the window eased, I went back to the room. Cynthia was awake, so we got ready and went downstairs early for breakfast which started at 7:30.

 

Faizel was already waiting for us, sitting with coffee. We chatted with him as we ate the cold breakfast and while we waited for the hot breakfast. The subject of Chapman’s Peak came up. We were meant to hike it on our way to Hout Bay, the next to last Peninsula day. When I initially saw it on the itinerary, I had thought it meant we’d be walking along the highway, which is one of the most scenic drives anywhere. Cape Camino had said it was too dangerous two years ago, but people run and bike the road all the time. I thought they’d relented. Apparently, it wasn’t that, but that we were meant to actually do the hike over the peak. Considered challenging, it’s also one of those hikes like Elephant’s Eye, that is more than worth the effort. I was apprehensively excited.

 

Faizel had other ideas. He had decided it was going to be too hard for two older ladies (both the road walk and the hike), and that we would Uber over and spend an extra day exploring Hout Bay. I argued, upset to be written off in that way, and confused about why he was messing with the itinerary Cape Camino had set. He stood firm while at the same time saying we’d see as the day grew closer. We had until Sunday to figure it out. 

 

When Caroline arrived to join us for part of the walk, I was still upset, but set it aside as we all walked out into a warm and beautiful morning. I tried to explain to her what had happened because she knows Faizel and I thought she might be able to convince him to change his mind. Her response was neutral at best and it became clear that I was not going to find an ally in her. Cynthia was also being quiet about the proposed change. I knew the only thing I could do to get myself back into the day and the gifts it had to offer was to change my approach. I returned once again to my commitment to accept the pilgrimage as it unfolded. I was disappointed, and unsettled, but deciding to stop fighting against Faizel gave me peace enough I knew I was making the right decision. As we walked along the coast, I found a moment with him and told him I’d go along with whatever he decided. 

 

On our way out of Muizenburg, Faizel led us to a kramat, a Muslim shrine where a holy man is buried. There are more than twenty kramats in the Cape Peninsula. These holy places are visited by Muslims as a sign of respect and worship. As Faizel told the story of the holy man buried in this spot, we watched a hawk soaring overhead. In the same way butterflies seemed to be signs for Cynthia, these hawks were speaking to Cynthia. That it appeared on holy ground made the sighting feel even more significant.

 

 

The walk itself was storybook perfect. We passed through a series of small beach towns: St. James, Noordhoek, Sunny Cove, Kalk Bay, Fish Hoek, Glencairn. The sand was friendly and warm. The ocean gave us music for the heart and balm for the eyes, and whales in the distance. Kalk Bay gave us shops where I found new journals, and a Khoi shaman dressed in burlap who lives in the mountains and was selling some plants like sage. We stopped and chatted with him for a long time, absorbing his calm and welcoming energy. All three of my walking companions met people they knew. For both Caroline and Cynthia, they were people who offered validation for their work. Faizel seemed to know everyone, or be related in some way. We stopped at a pier to watch a man set out snoek (a popular fish) to dry. We stopped at a tidal pool so Caroline could swim and met a chatty woman with a chubby pug who was reluctant to see us walk away. We watched a group of men trying to launch a large fishing boat from dry sand, with no success. 

Caroline left us before we arrived at Simons Town because she had to go to work. I was sad to see her go, but happy knowing both she and Andrea would be joining us in a couple of days. 

 

I recognized Simons Town from the outskirts. We walked past the hotel I’d stayed at before, now an addiction recovery center. Farther down the main street we stopped at a laundry where Faizel’s wife works. Sophia was beautiful and lovely to talk to, and it was easy to see why Faizel was so proud of her. 

 

From the laundry we walked and walked and walked until we were well out of the main square. It’s always hard walking farther than you think you’re going to, no matter how far or how unchallenging. By the time we arrive at our guest house, a beautifully restored old home, we were tired and footsore. Too much pavement walking at the end of a day is hard on feet. 

We were greeted warmly by Alex, the owner of Bon Esperance. She led us through the grand old house past gorgeously appointed and furnished rooms, through a door to the outside, down a couple of narrow paths to a separate room that looked nothing like the others. It was more rustic, and less inviting. Separate. It did have a kitchenette and a small table and chairs to sit in. The beds were comfortable. The bathroom was clean. If we moved the chairs, we had room for our luggage. 

 

As it seemed to every time we stopped for the day, it took me a bit to let go of what I hated about the new place and to settle into what I liked about it. To let it unfold and to remember it was only for one night, and that I was a pilgrim. I had to remind myself every single time to be grateful for what was, to let the strangeness and discomfort have their say and then to let them go. 

 

By the time we showered, did legs up the wall, had tea, and got ourselves organized, I was feeling much better. Neither of us wanted to walk the mile back to the square for dinner, both because it had gotten hot, and because we didn’t want to be walking back in the dark. However, we knew we had to get there somehow because we were hungry, and our stash of snacks wasn’t going to be enough. We went in search of Alex to find out about getting a ride. We found her in the kitchen, friendly, open, happy to chat with us. It turned out she was friends with Jenny who owned a tuk tuk business (with the whimsical name Hakuna Matuktuk). She contacted her, and Jenny came to collect us a short while later. 

 

We smiled and laughed the entire way to the square with Jenny chatting happily over the road noise. She dropped us off at the restaurant, a café named Fran’s, she had recommended, and told us she’d collect us in a couple of hours. Because it was late in the business day, Cynthia and I wandered the town before we ate. We walked into a small market, and like a couple of kids who haven’t seen candy before, exclaimed out loud at the array of chocolate available. The clerk laughed at us, and at our explanation for why we were stocking up on chocolate and other snacks. He didn’t seem to quite believe us when we said we were pilgrims walking a 700k path – on purpose.

Hunger drove us to Fran’s where we found friendly people, a beachy atmosphere, and one of the best meals I ate the entire walk. We were seated with a view of the bay and the military ships docked there, a reminder that Simons Bay is a naval base. I enjoyed a sugar-free Coke while waiting for our food, a drink I don’t indulge in at home, but that became my go-to comfort whenever I could get it on this walk. The sharp fizz, especially served ice cold, cleared cobwebs and created energy, and felt like luxury personified. Our lamb curry arrived looking as appetizing as it tasted. It was served with a side of sliced bananas, something new to me. Cynthia explained it was for cooling the spice of the curry. This was one meal there were no leftovers for.

 

After dinner we wandered the small square outside the restaurant as we waited for Jenny. We discovered a series of benches, each dedicated to a different area of land that was stolen from colored people and given to whites during apartheid. It was a sobering reminder of a terrible time in South Africa’s very recent history, and the impact in human terms. Cynthia talked about her own family’s experience during apartheid in a way that focused on how they rose above the injustice to create a life in which they could flourish. I thought about Faizel, living in a township in poverty, making a life that feels always on the edge of collapsing, but also flourishing in his own way. A deacon of his church, married and raising two girls, a respected elder of the community, working to bring awareness to the indigenous people of the Cape Region. I thought about my own deep privilege as a white American, how much I am allowed to take for granted even as in my own country people are still trying to overcome the long-term effects of slavery. 

 

The ride back to our guest house with Jenny was quiet. It was still daylight, but we were both reflective and tired. Still, when we arrived, we parted with Jenny as old friends and counted our tuk tuk adventure as a complete success. Cynthia and I tucked ourselves into our beds, she with her work, me with my journal, both of us with one last cup of tea for the day. I could hear in my head Facebook nattering at me from my phone, trying to draw me in. I ignored the voice, something that was getting slightly easier, and drew a card instead. 

 

Hafiz’ message for the day: “When you let go of what no longer serves you, you can see more clearly who you really are and what next steps are in alignment with your greatest good.”

Day 3

Wednesday, October 9

Silver Tree Estate to Blue Bottle Guest House, Muizenburg

7k/4.3mi, 1 ½ hours

Overcast & Warm

 

From my journal on this morning: “If yesterday’s walk gave us the testing and hardship of pilgrimage, last night and this morning revealed the deep gifts of pilgrimage.” There are two days of this pilgrimage that stand out as completely joyful and full of light, where I feel such a strong connection to life and myself that I can’t imagine anything better. Even though the ending was less than ideal, today was one of those days. 

 

I slept hard the night before, woke at 5:00 (which is late for me) refreshed and eager to meet the day. I padded out to the kitchen in search of coffee and found the food for our lunches laid out along with our breakfasts. The coffee maker was ready to start – no instant to make do with today. I was so grateful for this unearned care, for the hospitality I remembered as a highlight from my first time in South Africa. 

 

With coffee in hand and the birds outside singing up the sun, I curled up on the couch to journal. I pondered whether to reach out to Peggy and Gabrielle, the creators of Cape Camino, with feedback about the Elephant’s Eye hike. I returned to my initial commitment to accept this pilgrimage as it unfolded, and decided I’d offer feedback to them at the end – if they asked for it. Facebook’s pull was a little less tidal as I wrote, but I did answer texts from friends, so that helped with my need for contact. I reflected on my growing relationship with Cythia, marveling at her strength and commitment to helping the world heal. 

 

Sheila got up and visited with me for a bit. She was preparing to visit a school for which she’d been providing supplies. Today she was going to read to a class. I’d checked out the pile of books and found myself wishing I could go with her. I miss kids. I miss reading to kids. I found myself wondering if I could find a way to bring kids back into my life on the other side of the walk. 

 

We made a relaxed start of the day since the walk was going to be so short. After a continuation of the conversation we’d started the night before, and a leisurely breakfast, Sheila drove us to the gate on her way to the school. Faizel was waiting for us, his usual smiling self. I was over my irritation of the day before. Cynthia and I had talked at length about the benefits of the Elephant’s Eye experience. We figured if we could get through that day in one piece, and feeling great the next morning, we could handle anything the pilgrimage could throw our way going forward. 

 

Elephant’s Eye turned out to be the most physically challenging day of the pilgrimage. There would be difficult walks ahead, but we faced them all with equanimity, knowing what we were truly capable of. If only that same thing held true for the social and emotional challenges that were lying in wait ahead of us. 

 

This morning’s walk found us on sidewalks following a road inland that eventually brought us to the coast. We were accompanied by pied crows, a particular pair engaged in what I assumed was a courtship dance in the air. Spring’s energy and color was infectious. The walk was fun and fast and we arrived at Blue Bottle Guest House before it felt like our bodies had even warmed up. Our room was ready and our luggage was waiting, even though it was just 9:30. Zaid, who introduced himself as an intern, got us sorted and went out of his way to make sure we were happy. The bed in the room was made as one double bed, so we asked that they separate them. There was no problem with that, but I felt bad a little later when we noticed a woman pressing the single sheets that would be used to remake our beds. 

Cynthia and I settled on the deck outside our room with rooibos and the sandwiches Sheila had made us . We enjoyed the sun and the birds and each other’s company for a bit. I saw my first sugarbird, the ribbon tail flowing behind a wonder to behold. Then Cynthia needed to work – in fact she was really glad for the short walking day so she could get caught up. That left me to my own devices for the day. Muizenberg is a small beach town which I had enjoyed on my previous walk. I figured I would be fine exploring on my own, trusting I’d find my way around from memory.

 

I set out, enjoying the 100 steps down from the guest house to the street level. I made sure I marked where I entered the street and where I turned to get to the main street. Shops looked familiar, the sea air promising peace and renewal. I strode happily, enjoying the stretch of my legs and the freedom. I turned toward the beach, anticipating the railroad crossing that marks the entrance to the shops and walkway and cabanas. 

 

It was the wrong turn, too soon as it turned out. I found myself on a completely unfamiliar street, with the beach to my right, but not visible on the other side of dunes. There was no one around, and I was aware that walking alone in a town in South Africa was not necessarily smart or safe. I kept moving forward assuming I’d find an entrance to the beach at some point. I was happy to see a sign that said Sunset Beach, and even happier to find myself on the beach. I walked back in the direction I’d come from, enjoying the sand under my bare feet and the waves’ percussion providing a perfect walking rhythm. 

 

 

It didn’t take long before I saw Muizenburg’s trademark cabanas ahead and I knew I was getting close to the spot I’d been aiming for. There were also people. Families with kids playing in the sand. Teens in groups doing what teens do everywhere when hanging at the beach. Surfers. Single walkers of all ages, shapes and skin tones. 

 

I made my way to the sea wall, with the shopping and parking behind and the ocean in front. One of my favorite memories from two years ago was sitting in that same exact spot with Caroline and Andy while they took turns swimming and I marveled at my presence at a beach in South Africa. I messaged with Caroline while I sat this time, sharing memories and my new experience. I watched a little girl with her bucket and shovel engaged in the serious business of moving sand. A group of people in Arabic clothing caught my eye. The men in their white robes and caps stood on the sidewalk and watched their wives, in full burkas, walk down to the beach. I watched the wives play in the waves at the edge of the sand, then return to their husbands. 

 

I decided to walk and ended up following the group as they made their way to a large van. They made me think of the Mennonite people from home we often see vacationing in groups, dressed head to toe in their traditional clothing.  I loved that we all were enjoying the sea at that moment in time, and that all the things that might separate us in life didn’t matter right then. 

 

My walk took me past them to a long boardwalk that followed the ocean to the next town, St. James. We would be doing this walk the next day, but I needed to move, and Faizel had said it was safe. It wasn’t until I got back to my perch in Muizenburg that I wondered whether he meant it was safe for two of us, not necessarily for a solo walk. 

 

That walk was glorious. The ocean danced against rocks, sending spray high. The boulders were mossy and craggy and prehistoric looking. The walkway was busy, and I found people returning my smiles and greetings more often than not. Once I reached the cabanas at St. James, I considered going further, but decided not to push my luck. When Cynthia and I talked about it later, and Caroline even later, it turned out to be a good choice. Being a lone woman walking in St. James proper was considered risky. I turned around, my usual brisk pace much slower as I soaked in the perfection of light and air and water and ground. I didn’t want to get back in a hurry and I felt my whole body relaxing into the groove. 

 

Once back to the Muizenburg waterfront, I walked along the shops until I found the ice cream shop. I took my cone back to the sea wall and sat to enjoy the cool sweetness and the perfection of the day. I noticed two women of color sitting a bit farther down the wall, and it seemed they were watching me. When I made eye contact with the closest woman, she came over to me and asked if I needed domestic help. I told her I was a pilgrim from the U.S. and so couldn’t offer her work, and she turned away with little emotion and no further conversation. They left shortly after. 

 

I asked Cynthia later if that was a normal interaction and if that’s how people found work. She said it was not, and that hiring someone that way was really risky. Most domestic help was found through word of mouth. Regardless, I admired the woman’s courage.

 

It was afternoon when I decided to head back to our place to see if Cynthia could come out to play. She was ready for a break, so we walked to the beach together. We picked up shells, people-watched, got ice cream. For the longest time we sat on the sea wall being entertained by a large group of women in Barbie pink t-shirts taking surfing lessons. We walked back to the room to rest for a bit, then returned to the waterfront for a dinner of fish and chips and more people watching. 

 

On our way back from dinner, I was aware that my legs were a little sore. Nothing like it might have been, though, and I was happy about that. As we waited at a stop light, a man approached us and asked for money. We said no, neither of us wanting to get our purses out in front of him, on this semi-deserted street. He followed us from a distance, speeding up when we did, but never getting closer. We both breathed a sigh of relief when we turned up the street toward our guest house and he turned back. 

 

It was still daylight when we settled in for the night. Cynthia went back to work. I tried to read. And fought the urge to check Facebook. There were an increasing number of enticing notifications on email from Facebook. Like it was desperate to get me back. I was too tired to journal or to read for very long, and Cynthia was busy. I was hit with a huge wave of homesickness that passed quickly, but that took my breath away. There was nothing to distract myself with. Except Facebook, which had always been the perfect thing for filling time in an entertaining way. And now that was out of reach.

I could have broken my fast. No one would have cared, and in those over-tired moments the comfort would have been most welcome. But I had made a promise to myself, and I knew I was getting less and less enjoyment from Facebook while spending more and more time there, and I had already survived a week without it. Surrendering to homesickness or the call to Facebook would mean I'd return home unchanged. That felt more untenable than the considerable discomfort crawling under my skin. Today would not be the day I gave in. I turned out my light, settled into the freshly ironed sheets, and drifted into sleep.

Day 2

Tuesday, October 8

Schoenstatt to Silver Tree Estate

30k/18mi, 9 hours

Sunny & Pleasant

 

Today was the hike up Elephant’s Eye, a sacred cave at the end of a very challenging trail. Cynthia and I had both been concerned about doing such a long and rigorous hike on the second day of our pilgrimage before we had a chance to settle into our pilgrim bodies and rhythms. When I walked two years previously, we saw Elephant’s Eye in the far distance. It looks like an elephant’s head, the cave its eye. Because it was a sacred site for the original indigenous people of the area, it seemed like it would be a good addition to the Cape Camino route. In my research before the walk, I read the hike was easy on one route, moderate on another. That it would take a couple of hours. That it was child friendly. When I received the itinerary from Cape Camino and it said the day would be 27k, I was confused. Cynthia was concerned enough she contacted them, wondering if it was a mistake. 

 

Because the day was forecast to be hot, and because it was going to be a long walk, Faizel met us at 6:30 a.m. It was still comfortably cool, shirtsleeve weather, as we started out. We walked through very fancy neighborhoods and lush urban trails as we approached the foot of the mountain. There was one bathroom stop at a coffee shop on the way. I would have loved to stop, get a real coffee and a pastry, to fortify before the hike. Because we didn’t want to be hiking up in the heat, that didn’t happen.

 

As we approached the bottom of the mountain, we could see clouds swirling at the top. We couldn’t see the eye for the mist. Faizel was a little concerned about the safety of hiking in the fog, but we proceeded hoping it would clear. Just before we arrived at the entrance to the trailhead, a baboon ran across the road right in front of us. Everyone stopped to watch it, not showing much concern. The people working on the side of the road said it was a common sight as there was a troop living in the area. It was 8:30. We had been walking for two hours before we even started up the mountain. 

 

Faizel was enjoying the build-up to the hike, making it sound harder than hard, laughing at us when we looked up the beginning of the trail and groaned. Straight up. Well, not straight up, but steep enough that we knew we were in for some pain and sweat. He had chosen the longest and steepest route for us, not either of the two easier ones I’d read about. He had no answer for why we weren’t doing one of those, except to say he was doing what Cape Camino asked. I was torn between wanting the fog to stick so we’d have to turn around, and not wanting to miss out on finishing. 

 

The climb was steady and steep, often very rocky and uneven. We had to use our hands to assist more than once. The fog began to dissipate and was always in front of us. It did keep the air cool so our sweating was from exertion and not the sun. Every so often we’d emerge at a road that offered the hope of some flat walking, only to be directed with a fair amount of glee to the trail that continued up. It was hard. But it was also fun. My body was fine, remembering the steep hikes I’d done the summer before. The views were incredible, even though it was very misty in the distance. A lizard eyed us suspiciously as we passed him. The plants were interesting and at one point we found one single brilliant fuchsia flower shining at the side of the trail. 

 

We stopped to rest at a crossroads. Faizel pointed out the path to the easier start. We asked if we could go down that way and at first he refused saying we had to go down the way we came up. Both Cynthia and I were concerned about the steepness of the descent done on tired legs, especially knowing our walk wouldn’t be finished at the bottom, so we pushed. We didn’t care it would add 3k to the day, figuring it would ultimately save time, and possibly our lives. He eventually gave in, and said we could go down the easier way.  Somehow knowing we had that ease to look forward to made the rest of the hike up a little less daunting. 

We only saw two other people on the trail, and they were coming in from the easy start. As we got close to the cave, we saw two young men seated at easels just off the trail, painting the cave. The cave itself was tall and narrow, very rocky and smelling deeply earthen and ancient. We congratulated ourselves at getting there in one piece, and marveled at the wonder of the place. Faizel told the legend of Elephant’s Eye as we sat catching our breath and letting the sweat cool. His version of the story involves a princess kept in the cave by her father away from the man she loved. Her grief was so great her tears formed two streams that flowed down the mountain to form Princess Vlei, a tear-drop shaped lake at the foot of the mountain. 

 

While Faizel and Cynthia rested and chatted, I climbed up into the cave. There was nothing extraordinary to be found, but I was happy for the scramble and that I had the energy for it. We ate our lunches overlooking the city, contented in that singular way you get after a hard hike accomplished. When we headed back down, I stopped and chatted a bit with the artists. Both seemed talented to me and I was impressed with their styles, and wished, not for the first time, that I had enough artistic talent to do what they were doing. 

 

The descent was pleasant and short. Once we reached the alternate path, we got to walk flat for a while, but then found ourselves climbing again. The terrain was easy, but our legs were not happy with more climbing. Eventually we arrived at the trailhead at Tokai Park where most people begin the hike. What we didn’t realize right away was that we still had 5k to go and most of it was on a busy winding highway with narrow shoulders and no shade. That it was downhill seemed little consolation as trucks and cars came roaring at us while we stayed as far at the edge of the tar as we could. The blind curves were the scariest. The blasts of wind caused by the speeding vehicles only made the heat worse. By the time we reached the town of Silver Lake below, I was sweaty, tired and grumpy, all the fun completely leached out of the day. 

 

As we trudged our way toward a destination that seemed never to grow closer, I quietly fumed. It was only the second day of the walk and already it felt like Cape Camino had not thought out the route very well. My unwavering faith in them had been dented even before the walk when I learned that I was only getting 37 days instead of the promised and advertised 40. Faizel’s making fun of us felt more pointed than playful. All of my pre-pilgrimage commitments to not try to shape events to my preference, to accept whatever came my way as teacher, to meet adversity cheerfully, seemed naïve and ridiculous in that scorching, scary, frustrating hour it took us to finally arrive at our destination. I even considered ending the pilgrimage there, spending the rest of my time in South Africa visiting with friends and exploring on my own. And telling travel stories on Facebook. 

 

Our place for the night was in a gated and high security community. Once the uniformed and unsmiling security guys let us through and gave us the luggage that had been dropped at the gate, we made our way into the high-end neighborhood, hauling our suitcases behind. Faizel left us at the gate and promised to meet us there in the morning. It was unclear whether he wasn’t allowed in, or whether he was as finished with the walk as we were. We were given verbal instructions at the gate about how to find our house, and an address. The first house we stopped at with the correct number turned out to be on the wrong street. The next house with the right number was the right house, we hoped. No one was home and there was no note. The doors and windows were all open, so we went in. After exploring a bit, and unsure what we were meant to do, we settled ourselves on the patio and messaged Cape Camino for help. 

 

It turned out our host, Shiela, had WhatsApped Cynthia earlier in the day with clear directions to the house and all we needed to know about settling in. Cynthia was having battery issues and hadn’t checked her messages all day. Eventually we accessed the message and got ourselves sorted. We were in a beautiful light and airy home that felt like a retreat. There was a sweet little garden to wander and gorgeous outside seating areas. We each had our own room and bathroom with luxurious linens. We spied a washing machine and wondered if we’d be able to use it as we both had been traveling for nearly a week without laundry access. 

 

In that space of time between our arrival and Sheila’s, I wanted to get on Facebook so badly it surprised me. I recognized I was looking for comfort, some form of normal, to ease the discomforts of the day. Not the physical discomfort so much as the turmoil rattling my insides. It’s possible I was also looking for allies, for someone to tell me I was right about the unreasonableness of the structure of the day’s walk. I resisted. I rested (legs up the wall). I read (No Two Persons by Erica Bauermeister – a novel that would turn out to be an important part of this pilgrimage experience). 

 

We had been told there were restaurants within walking distance outside the gates of the neighborhood. However, we were tired and it was hot and we didn’t want to risk walking in a strange neighborhood at night, or run the gauntlet of the security back in. So we decided to make do with leftover pizza from the night before and the snacks we each had in our packs. 

 

Sheila, our host for the night, arrived as we were settling in. It turned out she lived in the home; her bedroom was the locked room at the back of the house. She was warm and welcoming, a gentle soul. She allowed us to use her washer, and gave us space on her clothesline to hang our wash. I had set the leftover pizza on the counter, preparing to warm it for our dinner once we were clean and rested. When she saw that, she seemed shocked that was our meal choice, and invited us to join her for her dinner. 

 

That act of kindness brought me to tears. On the Peninsula leg of the Camino, pilgrims are expected to find their own dinners. On the rest of the Camino, the hosts provide dinner. It was one of the things I struggled with the first time I walked. That time I did the Peninsula at the end of the walk, which is how Cape Camino has it set up. After weeks of being hosted with incredible generosity and care, it was a real challenge to switch to the self-sufficiency and energy necessary to find food after a long walking day. Sheila’s offering of mercy, on this day especially, was no small thing.

 

The dinner turned out to be a miracle of connection and comfort, and one of the enduring memories of the walk. We ate at her outside table, the warm evening air losing light gradually as our conversation flowed. The simple meal of fresh bread, homemade kombucha, green salad and tuna salad was nourishing for both body and soul. Sheila revealed herself to be a yoga teacher, a retreat leader, a person much like Cynthia and Caroline with a strong service orientation. Listening to them talk about the ways they were working to bring light and peace to South Africa was a comfort and a privilege. They are both strongly Catholic and found a firm foundation in their faith. That religious security is not something I have, and I was fascinated how it fed them and their efforts. 

 

When it got too dark to see each other at all, we cleared the table and went inside. Vanilla ice cream cones for dessert, a simple childhood pleasure, seemed the perfect end to a complex and confusing day. We took our not-quite-dry laundry from the line so Sheila could hang her own laundry. I draped clothes everywhere in my room, enjoying the smell and the little bit of pioneer feeling it gave me. Bedtime was just as simple. I slipped between crisp sun-smelling sheets and fell asleep, utterly exhausted and completely spent, without reading or wishing for anything other than what I had in that moment.

Day 1

Monday, October 7

Newlands Guest House to Schoenstatt Retreat

14k/8.7mi, 4 hours

Hot & Sunny

 

After a night of fitful sleep, I was up well before the sun. I had set out my journaling kit the night before so I could grab it easily by the light of my phone. I headed downstairs, while Cynthia still slept upstairs. In what would become my ritual for the rest of the walk, I made a cup of coffee (electric kettle, sachet of instant, with milk), and settled into a comfortable seat with my phone, my journal and John O’Donohue’s Anam Cara.

 

The very first thing I wanted to do was check Facebook. I would have wanted to regardless, the deep groove of habit hard to dig out of, but I received an email notification the night before that a former fellow pilgrim had commented on one of my posts. Even though I had posted that I would not be on Facebook for the next several weeks, it felt important that I respond. 

 

I had a complicated relationship with Dot and wanted to be available for a conversation with her if she was reaching out. When we walked together two years before, she had been a serious challenge. She drank constantly, to the point of drunkenness. She was openly rude to nearly everyone, and walked so far ahead of the group, the chaperones were always stressed about where she might be. She left the pilgrimage early and without notice or explanation, calling her husband to come get her. We learned later that she left because of an embarrassing incident the night before that she didn’t want to face. The ensuing peace of her absence was a relief to the whole group. 

 

Dot wasn’t done with us, however. When our walk took us to her town a few days later, she tracked us down and visited us at our host’s home. She blew into the room where we had gathered to visit, bearing gifts of food and her trademark manic energy. It was an act of generosity and kindness, even as it drew all the attention in the room to her, that was at odds with the Dot we’d experienced as we walked with her. 

She also wasn’t done with the Camino, and over the next two years walked the rest of it in sections. One section she walked with Caroline. That time she was sober, and she shared then that she had just fallen off the wagon when she walked with us. 

 

So, if she was sober now and wanted to connect, I didn’t want to ignore her. I understand struggling with sobriety and the sneaky power of addiction. While I’ve been sober for decades now, clearly my struggle with Facebook was an indication that addiction had not released its hold on me. The irony was not lost on me that I would be indulging in addiction if I went on Facebook to connect with someone I hoped was winning her battle against addiction. 

 

I tried to WhatsApp and didn’t have her current number, so I Messaged her, and then let it go. She never did respond, her part in this pilgrimage simply a reminder of the power of addiction and the ever-possible grace of recovery. It would turn out to be the central theme of this walk, although I wouldn’t grasp that until much later.

 

From my journal that morning: “The pull to Facebook is strong. So much like an urge to just have one drink, one sweet. The slippery voice - just this one time. The empty space of time where Facebook filled.”

 

While I resisted the tidal pull of Facebook and felt proud that I had easily resisted reading the news, I checked messages and email. I considered sending messages and pictures to my closest people, desperate for the distraction of outside connection while at the same time marveling at the revelation of the layers of distraction I’d been using to avoid spending time alone with my quiet inner voice. I knew I’d be reaching out at some point, but to do so this morning would not serve me. 

 

It did not occur to me until after I returned home from the pilgrimage that I might have considered not looking at my phone at all, or at least not twice a day. I used the phone for a camera, and a few times for navigation, which fit in with my pilgrimage mindset. But the habit of looking to my phone for entertainment and comfort and connection turned out to be so engrained, even without Facebook, it had its talons in me. Fortunately, the blank screen eventually lost its promise, and I had to turn inward.

 

So as the birds outside started singing the light into a new day, I grabbed my journal, and a second cup of coffee, and started writing. The words flowing through my pen softened the urge to scroll. I became aware that if I was going to write as a way to detox from Facebook, I’d likely need another journal before the end of the walk. For the first time in a long time, I felt renewed curiosity about what this journaling would reveal about my inner self. 

 

When Cynthia got up, we got ready quickly. Our packs were ready for the walk, our suitcases ready to be picked up and transported to our next destination. We stood outside in the sun, and did some stretching exercises while waiting for our chaperone and breakfast. We were both eager to start walking, but as would be the case for many of our walking days, the start time was not up to us. 

 

I was really looking forward to our chaperone’s arrival. Faizel is the Cape Camino chaperone for most of the Peninsula leg. When we walked two years ago, I came to respect and like him as a person who had overcome a difficult early life to create a successful and happy adulthood. He was funny, a great storyteller, and of a culture so very different from my own. A person of color, a deacon of his church, living in a township in what is considered poverty here, his view of the world was as far from mine as our countries were from each other. To see the Peninsula and South Africa through his eyes was truly a gift. 

 

I had left him my walking shoes last time. They were too worn out for me to want to take them home, but with enough life left, I thought, for casual wear. Faizel wore them constantly when he worked as a chaperone for the next two years. I would see him in pictures on the Cape Camino forum and recognize the shoes. During the planning for this walk, I decided to bring him his own brand new pair, a gift of gratitude for his work. 

 

Faizel arrived at our guest house a little before 7:00. We were his first job for the season, which was a bit of a surprise because it was pretty late in the walking calendar. It did mean he was especially glad to see us, and the reunion was a happy one. I noticed he was wearing the old shoes, the fabric shredded, the soles nearly treadless. I had needed to contact him to get his size, so the new pair wasn’t a surprise. Still, he told anyone who would listen that the shoes were a gift from God, and insisted we take a picture of him receiving them. 

 

Cynthia and I went in to breakfast while Faizel sat in the lounge with coffee. The food was nourishing. The coffee lukewarm. We did have a fun conversation with the couple sitting at the next table. They were from Montana, on holiday, and very interested in our pilgrimage. My conversation with Cynthia wandered from the possibility of writing a book together to walking other Caminos, the Japanese one in particular. We lingered at the table, waiting for our host, Sarah, to find the stamp for our pilgrim passports. Our passports were eventually stamped, the obligatory group pictures at the start of each day were taken, goodbyes and thankyous were spoken, and finally we set out. Faizel looked lighter in his new shoes. Cynthia and I were nearly floating with eagerness and excitement.

 

The morning was bright and warm. We traveled quickly from street to urban trails, and were in Newlands Forest before we knew it. There was steep climbing that got our blood going, and felt glorious. I could feel fog lifting, tightness loosening, light filling long-dark places. Alive. We were surrounded by lush greens and crayon boxes of flowers with ragged mountains on the bright blue horizon. Pincushion proteas were in full bloom everywhere and never failed to delight in their unlikely symmetry, little suns on stems. There were lots of morning walkers and their dogs. I wanted to stop and pet every one, missing Birdie.

 

Kirstenbosch Gardens was at the top of our climb through Newlands Forest. A gorgeous botanical garden that had been a highlight of my previous visit, Kirstenbosch did not disappoint. Because it was a month later this time, more was in bloom. We wandered a bit, spent time in the scented garden rubbing leaves and inhaling mint and lemon and anise. Faizel led us to the Boomslang, a bridge suspended over the canopy winding like its namesake snake. I managed to grab a moment when Faizel and Cynthia went ahead to stand alone, looking out over the forest, feeling wonder and gratitude, breathing the air of the foreign land that felt so much like home to me. 

 

We left the garden along a path that revealed Silver Trees and an abundance of different proteas. The rest of the walk continued on urban trails through urban forests. The cork forest held as much fascination this time as it had the first time. Cork trees, their spongy jigsaw bark the actual source of corks, made me feel like we were walking through a fairy tale. We only took a couple of short breaks during the day, without a longer breakfast stop because we’d eaten our breakfast before we left, and so weren’t that hungry. The path drew us on.

 

The walk revealed a bounty of what are highly prized domesticated flowers at home, growing wild. There were masses of bright orange nasturtiums filling the air with peppery sweetness. Calla lilies, those stately elegant white wands that florists prize, grew in scattered clumps along roadsides and in fields. Bright red geraniums beamed from the branches of gnarly, curly-leaved trees. Jasmine surprised, hidden in the scrubby grass along sidewalks, and peeking through the cracks of stone walls. I picked a stem, crushed the blossom between my fingers, inhaling the tropics, and carried it for a long time, marveling at the magic of finding such an exotic flower growing as a weed. 

 

By the time we reached Schoenstatt, we were hot and weary. Even though it was a short walking day, we were glad for it to be over. Faizel pointed out the wineries down the road and told us which one did tastings, and where we could walk to find dinner later. This was very different from two years before when we’d stopped at the Constantia Groot Winery to use the bathrooms, and wander the gorgeous facilities, and get a stamp for our passports. It appeared Faizel was ready for his day to be done, too. 

 

I was happy that we were staying at the Schoenstatt Retreat Center. Two years ago, we had visited the grounds of this religious retreat that is also a convent, but it was not our stop for the night then. When we arrived, the only voices we heard were the geese who patrolled the grounds like sentinels. There was not another person in sight. The young girl who checked us in seemed not to know what to do with Cape Camino pilgrims. She had to hunt for the passport stamp when we asked, and then had to leave the room to find someone to help her get it open. She was uncertain about our breakfasts, and had to ask and later told us they’d be in the fridge in the common area for us to grab the next morning. She showed us to our rooms, reminding us to not go to the top floor where the nuns lived. 

 

We each had our own room, a most welcome luxury. The rooms were simple, but each had its own bathroom and a chair to sit in and a comfortable bed. Air conditioning was an open window through which a comforting breeze floated, along with the raucous conversations of the geese. We rested for a couple of hours. I did legs up the wall, showered, found the common area and made tea, journaled, researched the Japanese Camino, resisted checking Facebook. When Cynthia and I met in the hallway later, we laughed at the fact that we were both wearing dresses. We walked to the shopping area Faizel had pointed out earlier and settled into the first restaurant we saw. It was an inviting Italian restaurant with outside seating. We were early enough it wasn’t crowded. We ordered salads and pizza and water. The food was delicious, although there was far too much and we took the leftovers for lunch the next day. I drank a full liter of sparkling water, enjoying the taste and the abundance of ice the server had provided when I asked. 

 

We drank tap water for most of the walk, filling our bottles wherever there was a faucet. The taste wasn’t great, but it wasn’t terrible either. Hydration on a walk like this is as important as shoes and foot care. It’s hard to drink warm water with a weird taste, so I was often very thirsty at the end of a walking day. Because the weather was frequently hot, a cold drink was true bliss. Ice wasn’t provided at restaurants or in the homes of our hosts unless I asked, but it was almost always given gladly. It became a luxury item I looked forward to at the end of the walking days. 

 

Conversation flowed easily. Cynthia talked about her job as an advocate for whistleblowers. Her situation was very complicated and the courage and grace with which she was facing it made me like her even more. The next day’s walk was of concern to us both and we worked to convince ourselves it would be okay. We talked about Faizel, and how we’d help him over the next week. I learned the first time that he often didn’t bring lunch, and it seemed it was because he didn’t have enough food at home. Since the hosts did not provide him with a packed meal like they did for us, we simply shared what we had with him. Tomorrow’s lunch would be pizza. While we didn’t run out of things to talk about, we did run out of energy and headed back to the retreat center on tender feet and stiff legs.

 

Once back, however, the grounds called to us and we wandered in the balmy evening air. I slipped off my flipflops and let my feet soak up the comfort of the soft spring grass. We visited the small chapel and found a graveyard where we read gravestones and wondered at the lives of the people buried there. Cynthia seemed to see butterflies everywhere, affirmations from the universe of the rightness of her being in that place at that time.

 

We were back in our rooms before 6:00 p.m. so that we heard the call to prayer bell and the haunting music of the nuns singing the end of the day. Settling into bed, I was tired but restless. I wanted more than anything to post my musings on Facebook, or at the very least share them with my people at home. I knew to resist the pull, that I was not going to break my Facebook fast until the end of the walk, that I was not going to reach toward home out of a sense of loneliness. I would need to be enough of a receptacle for the day’s events and my reflections. It would need to be enough for me to hold it all and allow my soul to process it without outside influence. I would need to be able to withstand the discomfort of resisting the urge to fall back into old patterns in order to find my way to new ones. I eventually drifted off with Hafiz’ words punctuating the day. “Go willingly to the fire and surrender whatever is aching to be reborn.”