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.”

 

Day 0

Sunday, October 6

Cape Town

Caroline’s to Newlands Guest House

Hot & Sunny

 

I was surprised to see 6:30 on my phone when I woke up. Even though the time change meant my body was still confused, it’s very rare for me to sleep as long as I did. The three of us enjoyed especially delicious French press coffee with heated milk, and then a satisfying breakfast, as we discussed the day ahead. We had said we’d leave at 8:00 so that Andy and I could be in line early for the tram to the top of Table Mountain. Caroline was going to spend the morning visiting her parents, then we would meet up later for a swim. When one of us checked the time during our conversation, it was almost 8:00. We hustled and were out the door fifteen minutes later. 

 

Caroline dropped us off at the tram where we first found the bathrooms, bought water, bought tickets, then joined the queue. It was a long line, but the morning was pleasant and Andy and I were happy for the time to visit. We were glad when we finally got inside the building that housed the tram because it had gotten hot quickly. There are two trams, one going up while the other comes down. We watched both, amazed at the steepness, while waiting for our turn. I was excited. Andy, it turned out, was anxious. Her fear was that the tram would get stopped on the way up, leaving us stuck up high crammed in a very small container with other people. 

 

Since I share both fears with her, acrophobia and claustrophobia, I was empathetic. For me the excitement outweighed the fear. But I loved her a little bit more because she was willing to endure the anxiety in order for us to have this time together, for me to have my time at the top of Table Mountain. Also, because I wouldn’t have been able to tell what this was costing her if she hadn’t shared. Our time that day cemented Andy in my heart as one of those rare and gentle and generous souls few are granted the privilege of knowing and calling friend. 

 

While we stood waiting for our tram (we were next in line), there was an announcement that there would be a delay because of “a technical problem.” No other information. In the hour or so we continued to wait we learned it was an electrical issue and that they were switching over to generators. Andy’s anxiety grew, and for the first time I considered maybe I should be a bit more concerned. We talked about leaving and getting our money back, but neither of us really wanted that, and no one else was leaving. 

 

When things finally started moving again, we got on our car quickly. They were only loading them half full, I assume because of the weight being carried by a secondary system, and we didn’t want to have to wait for another tram. The nice thing was that extra room meant space to move around and to breathe. I stood at the window, looking straight up the mountain. Andy found a seat toward the center. The ride up was exhilarating and breathtakingly gorgeous. I was so thrilled to be there, to finally be about to see the table itself, to be absorbing the glory of the skyline and the approaching rock face. 

 

 

Once at the top, Andy was restored to calm. I was in awe. Even though I had seen pictures and had heard many stories about the table, I was surprised. In my mind I had developed a picture of a jungle of thick vegetation, wild impenetrable woods, a place that was overwhelming and barely accessible. What I saw was fynbos stretched away from me until it disappeared into blue sky and blue sea and mountains. 

 

Fynbos, literally small plants or fine bush, is a biome found only in the Cape regions of South Africa, known for its rich diversity of plant species (more than 8,500, many found only here). I had fallen in love with fynbos my first time in South Africa two years before. At first glance, it’s scrubby and nondescript, especially when things aren’t blooming. But when the protea are blooming, whole areas come to life with color. Other wildflowers vibrate loudly, or offer sweet pastel respite hidden in the bushes. Many of the plants are medicinal, many offer familiar flavors such as anise and mint, many fill the air with a fragrance that is both exotic and comforting. 

 

 

Andy and I joined a path away from the tram station and were quickly in open space, looking out over Cape Town. The farther we walked, the fewer people we saw. There were moments when it was possible to believe we were the only people on the table. Even though we were past the peak of wildflower season, many flowers were still offering their beauty to us. So much color that was even more vivid in the contrast with the dusty greens of the bushes and the prehistoric grays of the boulders. We took pictures, shared our wonder at the glory of this day and place we were sharing. We stopped and had a picnic in the rocks, looking out into sky and sea. Andy told stories of people who had gotten lost in the middle of the table when they left the main path and got caught in fog, or just got disoriented. It was hard to fathom, since things were so flat, and in the bright light of that sunny day, being lost in any way seemed impossible. 

 

We stayed on the perimeter trail, enjoying the views, the hidden gifts of flower sightings, one beautiful lizard, each other’s company. Andy pointed out Camp’s Bay below us, a beach town where she and Caroline grew up, and where we were headed next. I noticed young men in gear that indicated they were Base jumpers, and learned it was possible to jump from that mountain. I said to Andy that I might consider doing that, and at the time was a little disappointed it was something I wasn’t going to get to do. I’m at that place in life where there are no longer endless possibilities in front of me. And even things I might still have time for, and opportunity for, and might have enjoyed in a younger body, are not wise to undertake in this aging body. When, as I write this, I googled Base jumping on Table Mountain, the first thing that came up was the name of a famous Base jumper who almost died on a jump several years ago.

So, maybe it’s not such a bad thing it didn’t work out for me to jump. 

After a couple of hours, we were ready to head back down. While waiting for Caroline to collect us, we wandered the gift shop and considered getting ice cream (but didn’t because we didn’t know how long we had).  I love gift shops, especially when traveling, especially in exotic places. This one held the usual tourist souvenirs, along with some interesting food items that were uniquely African. Because I was at the start of my walk, it was too early to be thinking about souvenirs that I would have to carry with me for the next 37 days. We left the shop empty-handed, and then climbed into Caroline’s car full-hearted. 

 

We arrived at Camp’s Bay for our swim fairly quickly. Unlike our swim the day before, this tidal pool was very busy and the beach was in full summer mode. It was sunny and hot, the ocean inviting. Caroline was the first in, warning me in my entry about rocks and currents and the tide. It was important that my feet not be cut on the day before I was to begin a 700k walk. Before I got too far out, she came back and directed me toward what she and Andy called a mermaid pool. No rocks underfoot, no currents or extreme tidal pull. I was happy to submerge myself safely in the pool, sitting on the sand, enjoying the bite of the cold in contrast to the heat of the air above. A family shared the space with me and I found a little boy hand in mine at one point. When I looked up, he was smiling happily, his other hand in his mom’s. His brother took his place when he wandered back to shore. That magical moment was one more bit of light in a day already bright and shining. When I couldn’t feel my arms any more, I got out. The three of us basked and dried until the sun got too much, and we headed away happy and full.

 

One of the absolute gifts of being hosted by Caroline is her deep knowledge of and love for the Cape Region. Every drive with her is an adventure and a revelation. She took us back to her place by way of Hout Bay, which is the ending place of Cape Camino and one of the most scenic places anywhere. She pointed out Camino paths we’d walked together two years ago, and interesting sights along the way. 

 

There had been a tentative plan to go forest bathing later in the afternoon, with a friend of Caroline’s. I’d never been on an actual formal forest bathing walk, and was looking forward to it earlier in the day. By the time we were finished swimming, however, none of us had the energy, so we all went back to Caroline’s apartment. I showered and finished packing for the walk. My pack was pilgrim ready, poles attached to the outside, walking shoes tucked inside for the morning. Travel documents and clothing were stored away in bottom of the suitcase, which I closed and set out in the hall before joining Andy and Caroline for food and a good last visit.

 

Andy and I sat out on the balcony chatting while Caroline sat inside, listening and enjoying some stillness at the same time. I don’t know how the conversation started, but we learned that we both had been part of a church cult that was an offshoot of the Assemblies of God denomination. Andy’s participation had been as a teenager in Camp’s Bay, South Africa. Mine had been as a young adult in Vancouver, Washington, USA. Both cults had been called The Body. While hers was more in the form of fun meetings for kids with the intent of drawing them in, mine was more intense. A small group of people living together (or very closely), meeting daily, all under the human authority of a prophet of God named Harold. Andy left hers when other activities held more interest. I left mine when it gradually became clear that the cost of belonging was far too high for me to continue. It was such an odd connection, such an interesting time for it to happen, that I wondered how it would relate to the upcoming walk. The rest of our conversation meandered around the nature and value and danger of gossip, no being a complete sentence, and pilgrimage. By the end of that afternoon, I felt the same sisterhood with Andy that I had with Caroline and felt so rich and grateful to be an honorary member of their family. 

 

It was time to say goodbye (temporarily) to Andy, and head to the guest house where I would start my walk in the morning. The plan was to check in and then go find dinner. Caroline and I expected Cynthia, a fellow pilgrim, might be there already, and we discussed how our dinner plans might look either way, with or without her.  We wanted the chance for one last long conversation together, but also wanted to include Cynthia if she wanted to join. 

 

A couple of months before my departure for South Africa, I learned that there would be another pilgrim joining me for the entire time and distance of the walk. I was both excited at the prospect of a new soul sister, and pretty worried about what it might be like if we didn’t connect at all. I learned about her in increments: Cynthia was a colored South African from Johannesburg, walking to bring attention to whistleblowers and to raise money for her organization. At first glance that seemed an unlikely mindset for pilgrimage, and I was curious how she was going to accomplish both. She had written a book about her experience as a whistleblower, which I got and read. The picture of her on the cover makes her look tough, no-nonsense, more than a little scary. The book was well-written, and I felt I knew her by the end. I loved that she was a writer, a yoga teacher, and a seasoned pilgrim. She had been through something horrific, and came through both stronger and more determined than ever to do what is right. 

 

I wrote to Cynthia to introduce myself, make the initial connection, and to talk about logistics for our shared walk on the Peninsula. She didn’t respond for a very long time. Long enough for me to shift my perception and expectations from her being a potential tribemate to the challenge of possibly walking with someone who wanted to be completely separate from me. I was more curious than anything, not really worried, but a little apprehensive. I was in full pilgrim flow, and so knew and accepted that whoever she was going to be was exactly what was going to be best for my pilgrim experience this time. 

 

Then one day, out of the blue, there was a very long email from Cythia. She apologized for not writing sooner, saying she’d been working and preparing for the pilgrimage. Her message was long, detailed, open, funny, warm. I was excited now, not just curious, to meet her in person. We wrote a handful of times before the start of the walk. Every message made me like her more, and more grateful that she was going to be my constant companion for the entire pilgrimage. 

 

When Caroline and I arrived at Newlands Guest House, we were both eager to meet Cynthia. We were met first by our host, Sarah and her dog, in a sweet courtyard full of color and light. She showed us to the room, where we found Cythia settled in. My first impression was that she was so much prettier than the cover of her book indicated, and warmer, and tiny. She radiated light and openness. After Caroline and I got a quick tour of the guest house, the three of us headed to dinner in Caroline’s car to a nearby neighborhood that was said to offer a number of choices. We went to the first interesting place, a pub that had outside seating. The food was fine, the service was fine, but the conversation was extraordinary.

 

I sat and mostly listened as Caroline and Cythia got to know each other. Both are women of service, with a passion for building relationships and healing their country. Caroline has worked in the nonprofit world for years and recently started her own business where she works to help people manage transitions. Cynthia, since her own whistleblower experience has worked to help other whistle blowers move forward with their lives with support and understanding, and has dreams of creating a yoga retreat center where people can go for healing. I basked in the light of their shared goals, felt some pride in my part in their meeting, and was so inspired by their courage. It was one of those times that stands alone as a gift so significant it would be enough if nothing else followed. 

 

And we hadn’t even started walking yet. 

 

Finally, we had to call it a day, and Caroline drove us back. I said goodbye to her outside the gate, happy that it wasn’t a real goodbye because she had plans to walk with us soon. Once in the room, Cythia and I exchanged the gifts we’d brought for each other. Mine for her, a journal. Hers for me, a ball for easing knots in muscles and a small salt and pepper set that would be a life-saver for the dozens of hard-boiled eggs that were in our future. She then took her shower while I did my final organizing and packing to be ready for the morning. I had my first rooibos tea of the trip while I worked, feeling both comforted and strengthened by the red infusion redolent of fruit and sunshine. We settled into bed soon after, exhausted, eager to meet the day ahead, to begin walking, finally. 

 

Hafiz’ words for the day, “Seek nature’s embrace to reclaim your inner wild self.”

 

Travel

 Thursday, October 3 to Saturday, October 5

Portland to Seattle to Doha to Cape Town

 

 

One of the strongest memories of my first Cape Camino two years ago is how persistently anxious I was about the travel to South Africa. For months the anxiety dogged me like a lingering cold. It seemed no amount of planning and preparing, no amount of meditation, no amount of journaling, could vanquish it completely. I was traveling alone, farther away from home than I’d ever been. For the very first time, I was feeling uncertain about my resilience and problem-solving abilities. While I still felt strong at almost 71, everything was slower – my thinking, my pace, my healing time. In addition, in that post-Covid time flights were often cancelled without notice. I had one layover that felt treacherously too short. I was scheduled to arrive on Day 0, and was meant to start walking the next day, leaving no wiggle room for missed flights. 

 

It turned out that none of my worries came to life, and I arrived whole and on time. But the memory of the anxiety, and my puzzlement at my inability to make it stop, informed my travel preparations for this trip. This time I had zero anxiety about the travel. In part because the trip was now familiar. And I’d made sure all my layovers were generous enough that I didn’t even have to hurry, let alone run. I gave myself an extra day in the beginning, in case a flight got cancelled and to be a tourist if all went well. There were glitches of course, but nothing that ruffled my equilibrium. 

 

When I entered PDX the morning of October 3, for the first time since the revelation of the most recent remodel, I was in awe. The new look is stunning, a work of art that symbolizes the Pacific Northwest perfectly. It felt like an omen, an open invitation for the adventure ahead. As I walked around, looking for my airline check-in counter, I felt the excitement that has never failed to meet me once I’m at the airport. I’d been here before and knew what to do. My body, which I’d worked hard to prepare and which I was never certain I could rely on in this latest decade of life, hummed with energy.

 

Checking in, I was happy to see my bag was well under the weight limit. I had struggled with what to take and what to leave behind. Even with the mantra, “we pack our fears”, running in the background of my thinking, I would put things in and the next day, take them out again. I was worried about not having enough nutritious food. Last time I walked, rusks (think biscotti) were all that were really offered from the end of the walking day until a very late dinner time. So, I packed protein bars, which were heavy. I also had gifts. Two years ago, the gifts were generic and small. This time, because I knew so many people, the gifts were specific, and took up considerably more space. Even though I wanted the simplicity of walking as a pilgrim, relying only on what was necessary, I also knew the value of comfort, no matter how small. Extra cute tops. Makeup. Books. They all went in, and stayed in, although I balanced the weight by carrying more in my pack. 

 

The woman checking me in seemed uncertain about what she was doing, and the man who appeared to be there to help her was busy talking with a friend. I swallowed my impatience, reminded myself that I had lots of time, that I was traveling as a pilgrim, and smiled through our interaction. When I got to security, the guy checking my boarding pass sent me back to the ticket counter because something didn’t match. I still had lots of time so I calmly (mostly) found my way back, and was able to walk right up to the woman who’d helped me. I told her what happened and she and the guy who was actually focused on her this time figured out her mistake. New boarding pass in hand, I headed back to security, where I was allowed through the fast line, and then strolled to the gate to begin waiting. Once boarded, we were in Seattle in less than an hour. 

 

With a longer layover than two years ago, the Seattle airport was easy this time. I walked, rode the train, and walked again, leisurely, to the international gates. I had time for a last Starbucks coffee, and enjoyed the company of a man from India traveling with his adorable 5-year-old son who seemed thrilled to have a new grandmotherly audience. The 15-hour flight to Doha was uneventful if long. I had an aisle seat, plenty of snacks, and the menu of movies offered some promising distraction. I even managed to sleep off and on. Somewhere on that flight a new day was born and I was in October 4. 

 

The Doha airport is an entertaining wonder of expensive shops, interesting art, and people from all over the world. I had 9 hours in which to be entertained, in the middle of the night. I walked concourses and shopping areas, rested, and then walked more. I found snacks (diet Coke and croissants) to soothe a stomach that was not enjoying the time warp. I found a hidden garden at one far end of the terminal, lush, and jungly with splashing water features. People were tucked into corners enjoying the stillness. I didn’t find my own nook because I was afraid I’d fall asleep and miss my flight. I settled instead into a seat along one of the walkways to write and people-watch. A swirl of voices in varying emotional states in multiple languages was background to a rich palette of skin-tones and clothing styles. Young men draped in white toweling that appeared to be religious garb, rushing along in Croc-clad feet. Women in various states of coverage from full burka to skin showing, many with fancy shoes, designer handbags, taking selfies. Older men in long robes and a variety of head coverings. Western travelers, a minority, in jeans and t-shirts and sneakers. As my eyes wandered, I connected with a silver-haired woman who could have been me. We exchanged a quick smile, a small oasis of connection that kept me smiling for a while after. 

 

 

While I sat, I played games on my phone (the word games that are a fixture of my life at home), but eventually quit because I kept nodding off. Literally. My head falling and then snapping back in a perfect sit-com routine. I visited Facebook, determined not to do another entry, and not finding much to distract, but wanting to be there for as long as I could. Once I got on the next leg, the flight to Cape Town, I would not be on Facebook again until at least the middle of November after my pilgrimage was complete. 

 

From my journal that night: “Leaving Facebook is not easy. I keep wanting to scroll, to write, to keep the connection going. I will definitely disconnect once I leave this airport. It seems I choose either Facebook or writing and reading. Facebook is mindless, requires less of me, is much like sugar in its numbing effect.”

 

A good friend had gifted me with a set of oracle cards based on the poetry of Hafiz to use as inspiration on the walk. I unwrapped the small box for the first time as I sat in the Doha airport. The box itself was lovely, slightly larger than a standard deck of cards, with a satisfying magnetic flap and a beautiful hummingbird on the cover. I chuckled a bit at the card I drew: Rest Deeply. Considering how exhausted I was at that point, it felt like a little joke from the universe. Until I read its message: “Now is the time to let go of the plans and pressures of performance and gift yourself a season of stillness. Let your thoughts loosen, your mind wander. Let your soul bones curl into a soft wonder.”

 

When enough time had passed that my gate could be assigned, I checked the arrivals and departures board. I noticed that all flights to Iran had been cancelled, a stark reminder that not all was well with the world. My gate turned out to be a long walk back along a concourse I knew well after all those hours. Too tired by then to do anything but sit, I people-watched until it was time to board. I was surprised to be boarding a bus instead of the plane, having forgotten that it’s a fairly common practice with larger planes to be shuttled out to them. I stood, mostly to stay awake and knowing there was a lot of sitting ahead. The ride seemed to take forever, with many turns as though we were in a maze, but we did finally arrive at the plane. Then there was another long wait on the plane because of a medical emergency which resulted in someone being taken off. That would result in our arriving in Cape Town almost an hour late, and I was deeply grateful to not have a layover to worry about. 

 

I gave myself over to the hours ahead (9 ½ this time) with more movies and food and slipping in and out of sleep. When the lights came up in preparation for landing, the young woman next to me started chatting for the first time. She was amazing. Tall, gorgeous, finishing architecture school, traveling with her family. We shared Morocco stories, golden retriever stories, travel stories. Pilgrimage came up, a topic I’m always more than happy to explore, and one she’s only just beginning to consider. The connection was lovely, but the minute the plane was ready for disembarking, I got swept down the aisle and didn’t see her again. It’s one of the things I love about travel: those short but intense connections that enrich and expand, end without fanfare, and leave me feeling more alive. 

 

The passport control line was long and slow, but without issue. The stamping of my passport brought a smile to my face, as it always does. The wonder and awe of being a person who has a passport with exotic stamps in it never fades. I collected my bag and found my way to the exit. Just on the other side, I spotted Caroline, smiling and waving. I was in a very different country, in a new day (two days later than when I left Portland), about to start a whole new adventure. I walked into her welcoming hug, forgetting my griminess and jet lag, thrilled to be starting this pilgrimage with my friend. 

 

When I walked two years ago, Caroline joined me for the Peninsula leg as a fellow pilgrim. She had been following my story on Facebook, and wrote to ask if I minded if she joined me. Her thoughtfulness intrigued me. I was thrilled for the companionship because everyone else I’d walked with up to that point was gone. Because she lives in Cape Town, she went home every night after we walked, joining me the next morning bright and early. She always made sure I felt settled and safe, alone in my place for the night, before she left. We spent my last full day in Cape Town together, visiting historical churches and then going to Kalk Bay, a beach town we’d walked through before, for shopping and lunch and breathing in the sea air one last time for me. A friendship was born in that week of walking that quietly flourished into something that felt like sisterhood over the two years after.

 

I reached out to her when I knew I was coming back because I knew I wanted to see her and hoped we might walk together again. She offered to collect me at the airport and to let me stay with her my first night and to take me to the guest house from which I’d start my walk this time. I asked that a trip to the top of Table Mountain be a part of our time together because I’d not done that last time, but otherwise was excited just to get to spend time in each other’s company.

 

The drive to her apartment went by in a blur of jet lag and conversation that felt like a continuation of the last time we were together two years ago. I was aware of driving through serious security gates and of the metal gate she unlocked to get to her door. The courtyard was full of vivid flowers and lush grass and giant leafy trees: October in South Africa is comparable to May in the States. The contrast of the two – metal protection and nature’s invitation - felt a little jarring, but also served to remind me where I was.  

 

 

Caroline made lunch for us in her tiny kitchen while I explored the warm and cozy space of the apartment. Her home is a perfect reflection of the person I was still getting to know. Inviting, full of love and the symbols of love. Books everywhere. Comfortable and easy. We ate our pizza and bulgur salad on her balcony overlooking the courtyard, our conversation continuing nonstop in the warm air. Hadedas, the noisy ibises that I loved so much my first walk, flew through announcing their presence in squawky voices full of indignant protest. They shared the sky with a hawk I later identified as a Jackal Buzzard and which became a common sight in the next weeks, and grackles, also common and loud and entertaining. 

 

Caroline’s sister, Andrea, joined us after lunch. She had also become a friend two years ago, accompanying Caroline on a couple of our walks, and taking me to dinner my last day full day in Cape Town. We also had stayed in touch, connecting in ways that always surprised and delighted me. The three of us made our way to the coast and a tidal pool for swimming. Both women swim tidal pools regularly. I had joined them twice on the previous walk. The sea is very cold there, but that’s the point, I think. Being willing to endure discomfort to find the gifts bravery brings on the other side. I was willing to be brave again, and to enjoy the sensation of full aliveness once the shock of cold wears off. This day had grown stormy, however. The water was very rough, waves crashing over the concrete walls of the pool, and very few people were in the water. We waded in and managed to get thoroughly wet, but didn’t linger. 

 

Once back at the apartment, I showered and sorted my gear, shifting from traveler to pilgrim. Andy and I sat on the balcony drinking rooibos tea and catching up, while Caroline fixed dinner. During dinner and the conversation after, I found myself fading in and out, the jet lag and lack of sleep catching up. I finally headed for bed, reluctant to release the day. 

 

My first impulse once alone in my room was to check Facebook. And to share the most amazing day I’d just lived. With a conscious and considerable effort that I would be employing far more than I’d ever expected, I resisted. I grabbed my journal instead. As I settled into the comfortable bed, the music of the South African voices of my friends echoing in my head, in the absolute comfort of feeling safe and loved so far from home, I picked up the gift Caroline had waiting for me on the bed when I arrived. A gold box holding a gorgeous and delicate shell. Written on top of the box: Welcome Home.