Day 7 - Chapman's Peak

Sunday, October 13

Noordhoek to Hout Bay

12k/7.5mi + 4k/2.5mi

Sunny & Pleasant, evening Cold & Rainy

 

 

It speaks to the nature of pilgrimage that from this point onward I did not keep track of how long each day’s walk took. Time had stopped mattering much at all, and certainly stretched and curled differently than it does in non-pilgrim life. Add to that the South African casual relationship with timeliness, which would grow even stronger in the countryside, and my western-teacher-keeping-things-on-track-always-being-on-time-responsible-oldest-child  approach to life had to be adjusted. At first it was hard and distressing, and then it became a freedom and a relief (most of the time). 

 

Today was our last full day on the Peninsula, and tonight would be our last night. I was ready to move on, my best memories of the previous pilgrimage formed in Winelands and Farmlands. I was also still struggling a bit with disappointment in the itinerary – the unevenness of the mileage mostly – and especially with this day being more of a tourist day than a pilgrimage day. That it was the second tourist day, Muizenberg being the first, in a week of what was supposed to be a serious pilgrimage was hard to get okay with. 

 

Waking up after a night of listening to wedding revelry, I was feeling off before the day had even started. This morning, I found my journal time to be a good place to get grounded, but it took an hour and four pages of different ways of reminding myself of my pilgrim status and what that meant. Reminding myself that I don’t have to like what’s happening. Reminding myself that my emotions were not in charge. I reflected how much I was missing the ego hit of Facebook posts and feedback, and how that validation made it so much easier to discount the bubbling uneasiness I was living with more and more every day. The glow and the feeling of aliveness and rightness with life that I found in previous walks was not here. Even when I could feel glimpses of magic, there was a heaviness woven through. I recognized that the physical discomforts were nothing compared to the mental and emotional discomforts.

 

From my journal: This is what I came for. It’s why no Facebook or games – to clear the space for clearer vision. That I’m not enjoying this, that the pull to Facebook continues unabated or dimmed, that I keep looking to my phone for comfort and distraction – I’m in withdrawal. I’m experiencing pilgrimage the way Pat (my counselor) envisioned. I don’t have to like this. It’s okay that it feels hard and that I feel out of sorts. . . . It is not necessary for me to offer suggestions or judgement or criticism or even to share with anyone at all, except here, how I’m feeling. . . . Otherwise, I breathe and look for miracles and try to embrace all the parts of me, all the parts of the people in my life. Embrace and love.

 

John O’Donohue’s words from my morning’s Anam Cara reading set me on course for the day. “This work of freedom is slow and unpredictable; yet it is precisely at this threshold that each individual is the custodian and subject of their own transfiguration. Outside us, society functions in an external way; its collective eye does not know interiority but sees only through the lens of image, impression and function.”

 

By the time Faizel knocked on our door and we made him coffee while we finished getting ready, I was much more settled and ready to receive whatever the day had to offer. It had been decided we’d all ride together to the toll gates on Chapman’s Peak Drive, and then walk into Hout Bay. Cynthia’s friend Zunaid would meet us at the toll area and spend the day with us as a way to support her and her cause. 

 

 

I had learned that morning that Marius wasn’t our driver, and had not been our driver the whole week. He worked from the office. Our driver, he said, was Peter.  When Peter arrived with big smiles and hearty welcomes, he informed us he preferred Pierre. It turned out he’d been our luggage guy the whole time, and had been hoping to meet us. He was a garrulous Congolese man who told us his entire life story on the drive to the Chapman’s Peak toll area. Because we arrived 45 minutes before Zunaid, Pierre shared even more of his story while we waited.

 

After living in South Africa for 18 years, he was returning to Congo to help with his aging parents. He knew that when he left, he might not be able to return (visa restrictions I didn’t quite understand), which might not have been a problem except for the wife and four daughters who wouldn’t be going with him. His was not the first story like that I’d heard, but it made me really sad for everyone involved. It also made me even more aware of the deep privilege of my own life.

 

 

Zunaid arrived at 9:00. We said a reluctant goodbye to Pierre and exchanged WhatsApp numbers, promising to stay in touch. The obligatory pictures were taken. Then Cythia, Zunaid and I followed Faizel on a path down the hill into Hout Bay. It was a lovely walk with glorious views. We ran into Brent and Donita who would be our chaperones the next day. Brent said they had the day off together because they had thought we were with them on this day. Everyone laughed, like getting a date wrong like that was no big deal. Brent told us where to meet them in the morning and they headed up the hill for a Sunday picnic.

 

 

All too soon we were at the bottom of the hill and in a regular town. Busy street, stores, and a coffee shop that called us in. That it was named after a city at home famous for coffee made me smile. Zunaid treated us all, and we settled into a table outside to enjoy both the caffeine and a great conversation. I mostly listened as the other three talked about their country both historically and politically, as well as the state of the world. The subject of the upcoming American election was raised. I said, as I would dozens of times in the coming weeks, that I had voted before I left, and that I was afraid.

 

 

We eventually, and a little reluctantly, started out again. It was hard to walk away from the richness of that conversation. There was a long stretch of sidewalk walking before we arrived at The World of Birds Wildlife Sanctuary and Monkey Park. I happily paid for Faizel’s entry, while at the same time wondering why Cape Camino hadn’t covered it if this was a part of the itinerary. He knew his way around, clearly having been there before. When I asked, he said he brings pilgrims there regularly. When I asked if he’d brought his girls there, he said no. So often in my travels I meet local people, there to help guide me, who don’t get to experience the wonders of their own countries because they can’t afford them. I’m never sure what to do with that beyond giving whatever generosity I have to offer.

 

 

 

All of that faded to the background once we were on the path in the midst of birds in enormous enclosures. There is little I enjoy more than being surrounded by birds, and getting to be in the presence of what for me were exotic birds was a thrill. Huge birds of prey. A flamingo enclosure where there was no barrier between us and the birds. Walking through enclosures with bright birds nesting and going about their bird business. A prehistoric-looking cassowary, considered the world’s deadliest bird. An encounter with a huge white pelican where we stood above the enclosure and he came up so that his head was level with mine. We had a long conversation while I admired his beauty and he apparently found me fascinating. There were also small wild cats, guinea pigs, meerkats, and so many monkeys. 

 

 

We walked the entire sanctuary and were satisfied and ready to go when we found ourselves back at the entrance. It was another hour of sidewalk walking before we arrived at Brightwater Lodge, our stop for the night. I remembered the old couple who had hosted me two years previously as kind but tired. The new owner, Alex, was waiting outside talking to neighbors as we arrived. He greeted us warmly and energetically, showed us to our room, then spent a long time orienting us to town. I was reminded what we had to look forward to in the weeks to come. The hosts of Cape Camino are its heart and soul, what brought me back a second time. While our hosts on the Peninsula had taken good care of us, and Alex was one of the best, the hospitality awaiting us was more personal and homey. 

 

Zunaid and Cynthia wanted to go to lunch, and Faizel would join them. I wanted to find the market at the waterfront that I remembered fondly from before. I said my goodbyes to Faizel then. Our parting hug felt full of friendship, despite my frustrations throughout our week together. I was grateful for my time with him, for his work and character and story. I knew I wouldn’t be seeing him again, but also that we would stay in contact. 

 

They headed out, and I headed upstairs to clean up for my adventure. When I set out toward the waterfront, walking solo, I got that sense of joy and excitement that always comes when I’m heading into the world on my own. Alex had given good directions so I quickly found myself at a pier full of shops and people enjoying a Sunday afternoon with fish and chips and ice cream. I got my own ice cream and enjoyed being a tourist among tourists for a while. I couldn’t find the market I remembered and after wandering for a bit, I asked tour guides on a double-deckered bus. I was directed farther down the street than I’d gone before, told it was a ten-minute walk from there. 

 

I began walking, a little uncertainly. Nothing looked familiar or remotely like a market, even as I looked ahead. There were no other tourists, only an occasional man walking in the other direction. I kept going as clouds covered the sun and rain started to spit a little and the temperature dropped. I decided to get myself to the next landmark, and then would turn around if the market or an indication of the market hadn’t appeared. I was startled by a woman appearing at my elbow who looked familiar. She said she was going to walk me the rest of the way because this street didn’t look safe for me to be walking alone.

 

Her name was Rosalyn. She was one of the guides I’d spoken to just a few minutes before. When she saw me walking up the street, on the wrong side of a wall that separated the waterfront from where I was, she made the bus drop her off to help me. She’d just started working for the company, and was discouraged from what she was doing, but said she was taking her break and could do what she wanted with the break. We walked together for another five minutes or so, getting wet in the just more than misty air, until the sign for the market, and lots of shoppers, appeared in front of us. I hugged her fiercely and gratefully, full of awe and wonder at what had just happened. 

 

The market was familiar and crowded and not as appealing as I’d remembered. The same booths were offering the same merchandise. While there were some items, pottery in particular, that I might have wanted, I didn’t want to carry anything big over the next few weeks. So, I wandered a while and then headed back. On the way, I was happy to see the restaurant where we were to meet Brent and Donita the next morning, so I knew how to get us there from the guest house. I made sure I stayed inside the wall, finally understanding my mistake earlier, and found myself back at the pier without incident. I traveled the stretch of beach and street that took me to the guest house quickly, by then cold and damp and tired, ready to settle in.

 

 

However, the day was not yet done. Caroline picked us up a short while later to drive us to dinner at a seaside restaurant called The Dune. We were joined by Andy, and later by Caroline’s friend, Linda. Linda is a writer who had just begun publishing a newsletter. We sat next to one another and enjoyed sharing writer stories. For the first time in a very long time, I found myself describing myself as a writer and growing excited at the prospect of nurturing that part of my soul once more. As I described my Facebook withdrawal, I was encouraged by her understanding. I began to really believe there might be a great gift waiting for me behind my sacrifice of social media. 

 

There were moments of that evening as it grew dark outside and the windows became mirrors when I sat back and marveled at the amazing company around me. Strong courageous women, my tribe. As we parted, we offered doors of possibility for seeing each other again. Cynthia and Caroline were going to work together after the pilgrimage. Linda was going to contact me to do an interview for her newsletter. Caroline said she’d try to join us to walk another leg a bit later. Andy and I just said it wasn’t possible we wouldn’t see each other again, so we trusted something would manifest so we could. Cynthia and I would move across the Western Cape the next day to continue our pilgrimage, while the others would stay on the Peninsula and get on with their lives of quiet world-changing action. I felt so connected to them all that it felt impossible that we would ever end. 

 

I was completely exhausted when we got to our room, but could not get to sleep. I was so excited by the evening’s conversations and what they might mean for me going forward. I kept thinking about the very long day this had been, a tourist day that turned out to be full of meaning and spirit and fun and magic. A day so chock full of gifts it would be a long time before I could absorb them all. A day that ended with a WhatsApp from Caroline sharing a Facebook post from my dearest Shawn, the driver and host and friend from two years ago who would be picking us up the next day to take us to the Winelands.