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.