Day 15 - School House

Monday, October 21

Oudekloof to Sandvlei Farm

24k/15mi

Sunny, Windy

 

 

 

I was up early, with all my morning routines finished, and with time on my hands, so I went exploring. The morning light was perfect for pictures and for breathing and for adventure. Andrew had mentioned a group of new cabins a distance from ours, so I headed out on the trail that led in that direction. To be alone at sunrise in the countryside is one of my deepest pleasures, and this time did not disappoint. I could have lingered much longer, except for the need to be at the house to start our walk. I ran into Wendy on my way back. She was doing exactly as I had done, and I liked her all the more for it.

 

 

Christine and Andrew were waiting for us in the kitchen, putting together our substantial packed meals. While the wrap, apple, juice, yogurt, dried fruit, and Twix seemed like a lot, it would turn out that we’d be glad for all of it before the day was done. Daniel, our chaperone, arrived while we were still trickling in. He is a horticulturist for Oudekloof as well as a handyman and an all-around interesting person. 

 

 

The day’s walk started with a very steep climb up a paved road that they use for tractor rides for tourists. We leveled out, cut through fynbos for a bit, then headed straight back down. The down part was steep, muddy in spots, rocky in others. Daniel let me go in front since I knew the way (it was down – hard to get lost) so he could stay in the back with A. Cynthia and N. were with me and the three friends somewhere in the middle. It was my favorite part of the day. A beautiful morning. Views forever. Challenging enough to feel satisfying to accomplish. Not slowed or hindered by anyone in front. 

 

 

At some point that morning, N. shared that there had been conflict in the cottage she shared with A. the night before. A. slept in and yelled at N. for not waking her up. N. stood up for herself and told A. to grow up. N. had been talking for days about wanting to walk alone. When she first signed up to walk, her plan had been for it to be a solo walk, but when offered our already established group and calendar, she went with that. I was unclear at that point whether N. wanted to be alone, or just be away from A., but I encouraged her to do what her heart was telling her. She was walking to figure some things in her life out, and the group dynamics were making it very hard for her to focus on herself. 

 

 

From the bottom of the hill, Daniel led us along a canal and through farmland. It was pleasant walking and an easy morning. When we got close to a highway that marked the halfway point, he asked A. if she was going to want a ride the rest of the way, or if she wanted to finish the walk. He needed to call ahead so her ride would be waiting when we got to the highway so that we wouldn’t have to wait. She said she would walk. 

 

We stopped at a farm just before the highway to use the bathroom. It was another example of someone in the group needing to go, there being no good option in the wild, and the chaperone asking a farmer if they could help. In this case the bathroom was one the workers in the farmyard used, so it was a bit rustic, but we were grateful for it nonetheless. While we waited our turn, we marveled at the huge prehistoric looking machinery hulking the yard. 

 

Just as we were getting ready to cross the highway, A. changed her mind. Daniel sent the rest of us across to settle in the shade on the other side and have our lunches while he called for A.’s ride. Because we were out in the middle of the country and there was no good place for A. to wait, Daniel decided he needed to wait with her. Everyone was frustrated, especially since we had many more kilometers to go before our destination and it was getting hot. He eventually told us we could continue on without him, but gave specific directions for where we were to stop and wait for him. 

 

We arrived at the crossroads Daniel had indicated very quickly. There was shade and there were rocks to sit on. N. got on the phone with Peggy from Cape Camino to see about how she might continue her pilgrimage alone. Cynthia and I walked a little farther on to a bridge Daniel had offered as a second option. We were hoping for shade and a river bank from which we might dangle our feet into cold soothing water. That turned out to not be possible. There was no way down to the water, no inviting river bank, and no shade. So, we went back and sat with the rest, and waited. 

 

 

After what seemed a very long time, a bakkie approached from our left. It stopped in front of us and released Daniel from the interior. We saw a driver, and A. smiling smugly at us (at least that’s how I saw the smile) and waving next to him. As we proceeded, finally toward our destination, it was clear Daniel was very upset. His vision for the day was not this. He walked far ahead of us, clearly needing alone time. N. made an effort to catch up with him and they walked together for a long time. 

 

 

We eventually arrived at the school house, hot and tired and so done with the day. A. was sitting inside with a drink, smiling, already having showered and chosen her bed for the night. I couldn’t even look at her, let alone talk to her. It wasn’t just that she wasn’t walking. That might have been okay if she’d done it in a way that was respectful to the group. It’s not unusual for a person to need a lift on a Camino, but she had turned it into, as far as I could see, a power play. I was beginning to have issue, also, with the fact that the least tired person of the group was getting first choice of sleeping accommodations. At that time, I had no idea just how much worse things were going to get. 

 

The schoolhouse is a lovely place, converted into pilgrim’s quarters, but also rented out for other occasions. One big open space, the kitchen, dining and sitting area is on one end, the beds in two rows dormitory style on the other. The two bathrooms were at the far end. There was a stage area that also held a bed. The front porch looked out over farm land. The back porch looked at a watering tank where sheep, and a variety of birds, gathered morning and night.  

 

Isobel, our host, arrived after we’d all settled in, to offer a farm tour later in the afternoon. Sandvlei Farm is huge – thousands of hectares on which are grown canola and wheat. She had a homemade milk tart (a custard pie) warming in the oven for our snack, and would bring dinner later, as well as breakfast the next morning. 

 

She had to come twice to get us all to the field where her husband and son were harvesting canola. The bakkie, necessary for driving across the field, wouldn’t hold all seven of us at once. I held back to go with Cynthia and N. in the second group. When I had been at the farm on my first walk, Isobel hadn’t been so available, and so I was happily surprised at how chatty and warm and funny she was. She was clearly proud of the farm, but she was also clear about her importance in the running of it. In addition to keeping the books, and the usual running of the household, she managed the school house rentals and made and sold soap. She also sold goose down. That was probably the most interesting thing I learned that afternoon. She had hundreds of white geese that she hand-plucked down from the chests of, as she held them in her arms, only to release them after to go and grow more down and live their goose lives. She talked, too, about various other enterprises she’d engaged in over the years, not only to bring in more money, but also to express her creativity and entrepreneurship. I was in awe of her in a way I hadn’t felt before, but that fit my state of wonder and admiration for farm wives in general. 

 

 

When we arrived in the field where two giant harvesters sat, Isobel’s husband was just leading the first group out of the cab of one. He walked us all around the outside, showing us how it worked to harvest the tiny black specks that were the canola seeds. He answered our questions patiently, but soon said they needed to get to work. The canola wouldn’t harvest itself. He mounted the first beast and lumbered off, setting its course along the edge of the unharvested canola. His son did the same, along a different edge, with the second harvester. We watched them for a few minutes and then headed back toward the farm house.

 

 

Isobel traded the bakkie for a larger vehicle into which we all crammed ourselves. She drove us to what she called their store, which was the large shop where equipment was stored and maintenance was done. She talked about the history of the farm that had been in the family for generations, about her sons and how they were stepping up, about how hard farming was. I was impressed and inspired, and so glad for the afternoon’s tour. 

 

As a group, we were beginning to feel split into camps. Clare and Anna-marie had taken A. under wing and had become her advocates and protectors. It was nice that someone still had the energy to be with A.’s chaos, but it was also hard to watch. They would correct her words and behaviors, telling her that if she was going to live in South Africa (which she was trying to do), she needed to act more South African. On the surface the conversations looked like they might be helpful, and A. seemed to take the words in stride, even as she ignored the advice. What I struggled with, watching from the outside, was that it felt like mean girl activity from junior high. They talked about her behind her back in unkind ways, their tone with her mocking and often cruel, and made it clear she was not quite one of them, but they interacted with her in ways that she saw as being included. 

 

I was aware my approach was no more kind, although in my mind, it was at least honest. I worked to not be in A.’s vicinity at all, and it was successful enough that there are large stretches of time, I don’t remember if she was there or not. 

 

Cynthia by then had stopped trying so hard to connect with A., but her deep politeness kept her engaged on a surface level, and she didn’t try to avoid A. as I did. Wendy was pretty independent of us all, including her group. She was definitely odd man out there, although there was no malice in the separation. Clare and Anna-marie were simply closer friends, and as a last-minute addition, Wendy was always a little separate. She was, however, easy and interesting to talk to and joke with. N. by then was starting to separate from the group, but especially from A. after the conflict of the night before. 

 

While N. was working to find a way to stay back and follow our group a day or two behind so she could be alone, A. was talking about needing to go to Cape Town. Apparently, she had been trying to get an appointment to appeal the denial of her visa renewal. She had moved to South Africa in January and had run out her visa. Her plan was to move to Cape Town, and she was also in the process of trying to buy a house. Being on the pilgrimage was a way for her to avoid immigration people while she tried to get a hearing. It was never clear why she felt she needed to leave Germany, where her father and two children lived, or how she was paying for any of her life on the wages of a piano teacher with one student. 

 

Isobel came with dinner, and food for breakfast, shortly after we returned. The food was amazing, even as the atmosphere around the table felt strained. Leg of lamb, pumpkin fritters, spinach, potatoes, rice, green salad, gravy, with meringues with fruit and cream for dessert. There was not as much alcohol available, so the group was more sober than previously. That may have contributed to the weird energy at the table. 

 

After dinner a game of Skip-bo got started at the table. Clare, Anna-marie, A., and N. played. I wasn’t invited, but would have declined regardless. Cynthia was on her bed. Wendy sat and watched. From a chair in the sitting area, I journaled and watched and eavesdropped. The tension at the table was so thick I wouldn’t have been surprised to see spontaneous combustion. Still, they persisted to the end of the game, after which everyone made their way to bed.

 

I had to laugh a little at my Hafiz inspiration for the day: “You have galaxies inside of you. Express them.” I was very afraid of expressing what was inside of me. The anger and frustration and resentment. The conflict between my commitment to accept whatever the pilgrimage provided as exactly what I needed and my desire be anywhere but in that group was becoming untenable. I knew that venting to N. and Cynthia had limited benefit, and that I didn’t want to contribute to the drama. I wanted to find a way to access a better version of myself in a very difficult situation, but I had no idea how I was going to do that.  

 

 

 

 

 

Day 14 - Oudekloof

Sunday, October 20

Wittedrift to Oudekloof - Tulbagh

20k/12mi 

Sunny, Cool, Windy

 

 

I was surprised to see our chaperones, Jan and Gavin, waiting in the kitchen when I went in a little after 7:00. We had decided to leave late that morning because the walk was designed to be only 11k. They came for breakfast and to visit. Older gentlemen and best friends, they were happy to share their time and their country with us. I was really happy to see Jan. He had been my chaperone before, and we had a really fun walk together despite the fact that it had been a cold and rainy day. He gave me a huge hug, told me how brave he thought I was, and how brave I was two years ago for walking alone. 

 

The amazing hospitality we were experiencing continued with a sit-down breakfast of yogurt, fresh fruit salad, muesli, and French press coffee. While we ate, Dorothy made sandwiches for us to take, which she packed with a variety of sweet and salty snacks. Clare came around and collected our tips for Dorothy’s laundry services, even though we usually handled that on an individual level. I did get to find Dorothy just before we left to thank her for her exceptional care of us, and to tell her that Carol would be really happy with how we’d been treated. 

 

When we set out, Jan stayed back to be with A. because he spoke German. While I was sorry to not get more time with him, Gavin was chatty and friendly and easy going. We walked through the historic town, past the restaurant from the night before, and to the organic garden that had made such an impression on me two years before. The same young man welcomed us in and stayed close by as we wandered the grounds that felt like a lost garden in a fairy tale.

 

 

Once we left town behind and entered farm land, Jan and A. went left for the shorter and official route. Gavin led the rest of us to the right on a path that would wind through orchards and fields, giving us more walking and more time outside in what was an absolute poem of a day.  Blue skies and breezy. A blue crane sighting. Nectarines inventing new colors in the salmon and coral family. Espaliered apples, forming rows of tidy hieroglyphics. Francolins bursting from the fields in frenzies of fear and wild squawking.

 

We passed two fishermen, set up for a day of it, and clearly enjoying their time. We watched as one caught a fish and brought it in, while the other helped land it. It was huge and ugly, like a catfish, not something they would eat, but would pass on to other people in the community. We clapped and congratulated, and moved on. 

 

 

Still tender from the day before, I walked at the back a good deal of the morning. The three friends were together, and N. and Cynthia walked together. I used the time to soak up the beauty of the morning, but also to sort through feelings and to try to put things into perspective. 

 

 

Anna-marie had observed in passing how strong my body was. There was an element of surprise and respect in her comment. She was always funny and light-hearted, fun to be around. I found her joined-at-the-hip friendship with Clare to be curious. Wendy had asked me outright if I was “teetotal” too. I knew she wasn’t drinking, but her question made clear her story around alcohol might be related to mine. I was really beginning to appreciate my times with her. Cynthia and N. and I had long interesting conversations both as three and in pairs. While they were never as deep as I hungered for, I felt the possibilities of friendship growing. Clare still clearly didn’t like me, but made efforts to seem friendly. Except when she was needling. A. was the only one I had little connection with, but that seemed true for everyone. With all that taken into consideration, I was as much a part of the group as anyone else. Certainly not in a way I would have chosen, or still wished for, but good enough that I could continue the walk in peace and trust that I could learn and grow. 

 

 

The group stopped at Montpelier, a winery and venue, and met up again with Jan and A. We all scattered in different directions. The grounds are huge and beautiful, with magical corners and shaded trails leading to mysterious destinations. I found a bathroom then sat with Cynthia at an outdoor table to eat our lunch. Somehow it became known that wine tasting was available, and as the rest of our companions, including the chaperones, headed up a path, following a musical beckoning, we followed.

 

 

We ended in the midst of a grove with a long table at the center. Once seated, a server came and orders were taken. With the exception of Wendy, Cynthia, and me, the group decided on a full wine tasting that involved six different wines. I had a Coke, finished my packed lunch, and sat and listened and watched for a while. The woman offering the wine was good at her job, describing each one in literary and olfactory terms. Her pours were generous, one bottle divided five ways. I got up and wandered and took pictures, enjoying the greens and shadows and whimsical art scattered around. 

 

Eventually, the three of us not drinking got restless and asked if we could go on alone. I had walked alone from this place two years ago, so knew it would be safe and relatively straight forward. Jan agreed that would be fine and gave directions for finding our way toward Oudekloof to Wendy. I didn’t pay much attention, practicing letting someone else be in charge. Cynthia didn’t hear the directions because she was busy getting her pack ready. 

 

When we got to the entrance of Montpelier, I asked Wendy which way we were to go. She admitted she hadn’t really listened to the directions. There was a sign, however, and we followed the direction we thought it was indicating. I had the navigation on my phone up, and for a while it looked like we were on course. Except my phone kept telling me our destination was getting farther away. We turned around and when we arrived back at Montpelier, a closer reading of the sign indicated we were to have exited the venue in the opposite direction. We walked back through, following signs that led us to the correct exit. 

 

Unsure about the others, we decided to keep going without checking on them. It wasn’t long before I began to recognize the landscape, and we proceeded with happy energy. Actually, the entire being-lost time was mostly fun. While we didn’t like feeling lost, or dumb, the walk itself was easy and interesting. And once we found our way, we laughed at ourselves, and complimented ourselves on finding a way to make the walk long enough to feel significant.

 

 

There is a creek to cross on the way to Oudekloof. I had to be driven across two years before because it was running strong and high. This time it was friendlier, but still ankle deep. I waded through with my shoes on, knowing there was just a short distance farther to go. Cynthia and Wendy took their shoes off and danced across the water, posing for photos halfway across. When we got to the entrance to the farm, I was satisfied with the day, and feeling light and happy. 

 

It's a steep climb up to the farm itself, one we walked easily, but wondered how A. would manage. Andrew, our host, greeted us at the top, waiting with lavender lemonade on ice and a warm welcome. His wife, Christine, was not there, which surprised me. On my previous walk she was more present than Andrew, although both were consummate hosts. He informed us her cancer had returned and they were at the place where they decided to end medical intervention and rely more on natural remedies. She would see us at dinner, however.

 

He walked the three of us past the main house, up a tractor path, to a collection of cottages overlooking the valley. Our group on the previous walk had stayed at a guest house on the other side of the property, so this was entirely new. He dropped Wendy at the cottage that could house all three friends. He said there were three other cottages available and Cynthia and I could choose. We could have each had a cottage to ourselves, leaving N. and A. to share the last one. Knowing how tense things were getting between those two especially, we said we’d share a cottage so they could each have their own. It turned out they shared a cottage anyway; we were never really sure why.

 

Our cottage was so lovely. Two nice bedrooms. Cynthia gave me the one with the bathroom, which meant she’d had to come through to use it, but that was the only inconvenience. A well-stocked kitchen – meaning plenty of coffee and tea supplies, lots of milk, and rusks. A sitting area looking out on a green yard and the valley beyond. Even a table and chairs on the deck, although the wind made sitting out not quite perfect. 

 

 

Once chores and showers were done, we found ourselves at the pool. The view from there was enough to lift a heart from any sadness. I had intended to journal, but ended up just sitting and absorbing and basking. Cynthia was in the sun, I was in the shade, but I joined her at one point, the both of us sharing what felt like an especially sacred time. 

 

The wind joined us and provided quite a show. It came and went like a wild tide, making trees dance and whip and gyrate. The sound was hypnotic, like the ocean, only much much louder. Also like the ocean, it was both fear and awe-inducing, energizing in its wild unharnessed presence. 

 

We heard the others arrive and get settled in. We learned later that A. had actually been the first up the hill, and had managed it just fine. The cottage N. and A. shared had a hot tub which they fired up (literally – it was wood heated), and it became a gathering place. When I went up from the pool to say hi, everyone was very happy. I was happy to let them be, glad for the friendliness and equally glad for the space the grounds offered. 

 

At one point while Cynthia and I were at the pool, A. came down and swam. It was interesting to watch her do endless laps, her facility in the water impressive. I appreciated seeing a side of her that wasn’t helpless or manipulative, glad for an expansion of my knowing of her. Friendly words were exchanged, but no real conversation. 

 

 

The afternoon was as relaxed and soul soothing as the walk had been. I did eventually settle in to journal, outdoors on the patio but out of the wind, while Cynthia worked in her room. We walked back down to the main house for dinner as the wind danced around us. Before we got through the front door, we were greeted by chickens and a cat, all of whom seemed to think they needed to be inside as well. 

 

Christine greeted us with hugs and her signature warmth. She was thinner and had deep shadows under her eyes, but otherwise the same incredible woman I remembered. Andrew offered drinks, including wine they had produced, and got us seated in front of the fireplace where bowls of popcorn were placed around. Their seventeen-year-old son wandered in and out, and offered a polite greeting, but his place at the dinner table remained empty. Christine stamped our passports and told stories. 

 

From my journal: 

 

“When she talked about plants, flowers, fynbos, she lit up. Talked about the beauty of the tiniest of flowers, unseen yet ‘doing her thing.’ I got an image of hope, I see today, a tiny bit of color and light tucked in the fynbos, radiating her bit of light unaware and unconcerned about her size or position. All plants are ‘her’ to Christine from her conversation. She talked about the tiny spider orchid (she had discovered on a walk through the fynbos), found and showed us pictures, pointed out the tiny girl dancing and the purple stripes. As I watched her, I marveled at her grace and dignity. Her focus on living, her continuing to allow people into her home, her ability to express joy.”

 

 

We lined up to serve ourselves at their kitchen island before finding seats at the nicely laid table. The food was delicious: oxtail with naartjies (satsumas) in the sauce, pasta, roasted sweet potato and beet root, with chocolate mousse and more naartjies and whipped cream for dessert. The conversation flowed, a testament to Andrew and Christine’s talents as hosts. Anna-marie and Clare were quieter than usual, although Clare managed to snark about how boring the long straight stretches of walking were. N. was her usual happy and congenial self. Cynthia and I waited to be asked before we tried to jump in. A. was quiet at first, but got herself wound up about her usual topics of complaint about all things German. Andrew gently redirected the conversation to someone else, so skillfully I don’t think A. noticed.

 

As was the case every evening, the conversation turned to what we might expect for the next day. We were to meet at the main house early to collect our packed meals and to meet Daniel, who would be our chaperone. It would be a 24k day, long and hilly and likely hot. Andrew told A. to call at the halfway point if she couldn’t do the whole thing and needed a ride. He made reference to her blisters, which I hadn’t been aware of. Apparently, she had several, and had damaged her big toes. It was hard to understand, how a person who claimed several previous pilgrimages could be so unprepared and poorly shod for this one.

 

We walked back to our cottages in the windy dark. I marveled at the moon and the bright planet keeping it company. I found Orion, looked for but didn’t see the Southern Cross. Yesterday was resolved and mostly healed. Today had been a gift to be savored. Tomorrow would take us to the farmlands, my favorite section of Cape Camino. Hafiz’ words for that day were both lullaby and poetry that whispered frequently in the days after. 

 

“Let your soul bones curl into a soft wonder.”

 

Day 13 - Wittedrift Manor

Saturday, October 19

Gouda to Tulbagh

17k/10.5mi

Sunny, Cool A.M.; Sunny Hot Afternoon

 

Even though I hadn’t slept well, mostly because of the partying outside our gates and the barking dogs inside our gates, I was eager to start the day. Our chaperone, Loedolf’s sister, Mariette, had stopped by after dinner to meet us and to discuss our starting time. She had been my chaperone before, and since it was just the two of us walking then, we had a deep and satisfying conversation that lasted the entire leg. We greeted happily with heartfelt hugs. She told me she had taken the walk just to see me again. I’m pretty sure she’s the only chaperone for that leg, but it was a nice thing for her to say.

 

For the first time, I put on shorts for the day. Walking in capris had gotten uncomfortably hot in the afternoons, and my ankle tan was starting to look very weird. Except for the rare rainy day, shorts would be my go-to for the rest of the walk. This was also the day I got serious about sun screen, applying it every morning to any skin that might be exposed during the day. It was springtime and while there had been unseasonable cold and rain before I arrived, our days were getting sunnier and hotter. African sun is just enough more intense than what I experience at home that it would have been easy to burn badly without feeling too hot. 

 

 

The group gathered in the kitchen of the main house for breakfast at 6:45. Even though hosts are required to only provide one meal, many offered both a sit-down breakfast and a packed meal. We got both here. Excellent Nescafe coffee with homemade muffins, homemade rusks, and wrapped sandwiches. The sandwiches, made with homemade bread, were unbelievably good. 

 

 

Mariette arrived a half hour later, and after the required group pictures, we set out. The beginning of the walk took us past an informal settlement, one I remembered from before. It’s a huge area full of makeshift dwellings and garbage and people trying to make a life. The residents are all people of color, initially kicked out of their homes because of apartheid. The settlements formed in areas that are unfit for development and exist without municipal services like electricity and water. Someone said that the ANC, the current ruling party of SA, moves people into settlements, promising them better lives, in hopes of garnering votes. 

 

 

Once past the settlement, even as I carried my concerns with me, the walk became fun. Woods, water, fynbos. Some hills. We walked past an enclosure full of goats, one of which had its head stuck through the wire. Several men were sitting nearby, watching us closely, friendly but wary. Anna-marie took a picture of them, and they objected. She promised not to show it to anyone, which seemed to ease them.

 

I had a nice long chat with Mariette, catching up on her family and her life. N. told me later that when she walked with Mariette, she talked about her avid support of our former president running for office again. That Mariette believed the world would be in big trouble if he didn’t get elected. I don’t know why, but I was surprised. I hadn’t been surprised when Clare began declaring him to be a great businessman at every turn. I was glad Mariette hadn’t shared any of that with me, that I’d been able to just enjoy her as an interesting person. 

 

 

 

We came to a large and very busy highway, which we crossed to access the old highway that would be the next part of our walk. There was something out of time feeling, almost post-apocalyptic, about walking on a roadway that used to carry all the cars we could see below on the new highway. Everyone was in good spirits. I walked with Wendy for a while, and then Anna-marie. N., and Cynthia and I were often together. 

 

At one point the road was flooded, so we climbed up a steep bank to the railroad tracks to go around the water. It was a group effort, with lots of laughter and sweat. A. was refusing to even try, but Clare and Mariette were able to talk her into it and helped her up. Walking the tracks brought back childhood memories and the romance of following rails into the unknown world. Before long we arrived at a ladder which would take us back down to the road. The ladder was metal, narrow, and a little daunting, but everyone made it down easily. 

 

 

We found ourselves at a huge nursery, which would be our lunch stop. When I walked before, it had been closed, so I was thrilled as we walked past roses and succulents, into a building full of plants and pots and happy shoppers. I was a little sorry I couldn’t be one of those shoppers. We settled ourselves at a table next to the deli. Some people wandered, some found the bathrooms, some ordered drinks and sweets. I got more of the ginger beer from the night before, for me and for N. and Cynthia. We ate our sandwiches and chatted and relaxed. 

 

When it was time to go, we left A. behind. She was waiting for Loedolf to come get her and take her to our next place. The rest of the walk was sloggy. We were on pavement. It was hot. And again, the walk was 5k longer than the itinerary had promised. The power of disappointed expectations to make a walk harder never seemed to diminish. 

 

 

We finally arrived in Tulbagh, and our home for the night, Wittedrift Manor. The manor house had been bought and restored by an Irishman a couple of decades previously. He filled it with art and antiques, and created a place where ghosts and humans might feel equally at home. Carol is the host, and I had really enjoyed her on my first visit. She went out of her way to make sure everyone under that roof was happy and comfortable, and even drove me around the Tulbagh Valley. She was traveling this time, however, and had send me a message saying she was sorry to have missed me. 

 

In Carol’s stead we got a lovely young woman named Dorothy from Zimbabwe. She was warm and accommodating. When we asked if we could do laundry (the washing machine was visible from the kitchen), she said she’d do it for us. Since it had been days of washing necessities by hand, we all had a lot that needed to be washed. She seemed undaunted by the hugeness of the task she’d taken on. I gave her everything I had, except for the dress I slipped on. Until my shower and clean underthings, that dress was all there was between me and the rest of the world. Our laundry was returned to us that afternoon, tumbled dry and folded. 

 

While waiting for Loedolf to arrive with our luggage and A., Dorothy showed us the rooms available and left us to sort ourselves out. The three friends got the larger room automatically. The four remaining of us had two rooms to share. Cynthia decided she’d room with A., which left me with N. Since returning from the wedding, Cynthia was trying hard to make a connection with A. It wasn’t working well, but sharing a room was meant as an offer of friendship. Because by then everyone was struggling with A. in their own way, we were glad for Cynthia’s kindness. N. and I let Cynthia choose which of the two rooms she wanted as a thank you. 

 

 

Eventually we all found our way outside around the pool. The yard was partially shaded at that point, the pool surrounded by trees and comfortable furniture. At one end was a huge tree full of weavers and their nests, making a delightful ruckus as the males worked hard to create something the females would find acceptable. We sat with our feet in the cold water, relaxing and happy. The day’s drinking began, as it did most afternoons, with a round of beers. Dorothy came out and took a group picture that Carol had asked for. The wind picked up and we got cool, so people started to drift away for naps or work or other diversions. 

 

 

Clare wanted to watch some motorcycle race on television. The main living room had a huge big screen television, which she turned on and settled into a couch to watch. Cynthia was settled in a shady area on the deck to work. N. was swimming. I lost track of the others as I wandered, trying to find a comfortable place to be, trying to figure out what to do with myself. Anna-marie and I played in the yard for a while. For a long time, Cynthia and N. and I sat together and chatted amiably about everything and nothing. A. was a topic as we tried to figure out why she was even walking and how best to be comfortable with her. 

 

We all ended up inside to wait for 6:00 when we could walk into town for dinner. Clare was still occupying the living room and enjoying her races. I didn’t want to watch television and was going to go to my room, the only other comfortable place to be. Clare turned the sound down as concession, and we all sat chatting with motorcycles racing on the big screen. Just before it was time to leave for dinner, it was decided that a glass of wine before dinner was a good idea. It took time to get the bottle, to pour, and then to drink, so we were much later leaving than I was comfortable with. 

 

Wendy and Cynthia, the other two not drinking, seemed not too concerned or too put out by being delayed so more alcohol could be consumed. I breathed, and kept my impatience to myself, but was really unhappy that one more time alcohol was a huge factor in the social fabric of our group. I have been sober for decades now, and have no problem being with people who drink. Like a special occasion drink. I do struggle with being in a group where what I consider to be excess alcohol consumption has a huge impact on group dynamics. I was already feeling a little outside the circle because of the language thing. The more people drink, the more the tenor of the group changes, and the more not included I feel. 

 

I was aware this was a gift in a way, although a gift I would gladly have foregone. Not feeling connected to the group gave me a huge opportunity (I started to write, “forced me to” and thought better) to do the thing I had set out to do on this pilgrimage. To not be swayed by group energy. To look inward. To examine my own addictions and seek to end my reliance on them – Facebook specifically. I think it made things harder to be newly sober in the midst of people who were indulging in their substances without hesitation. 

 

Dinner was a huge gift. 

 

Carol had arranged for us to have dinner at the restaurant she owned in town, called Readers Restaurant & Grill. A very cute and historical building with cat décor (and a real cat) on the inside, the restaurant was empty when we arrived. After several minutes of us calling out, a large woman of color emerged from what turned out to be the kitchen. She didn’t smile or greet us, and actually seemed to wish we hadn’t appeared.  She brusquely told us where to sit, and disappeared back into the kitchen. A comparison was made to Johan. 

 

When she came back out, the group asked about wine. It took a long time for decisions to be made about what kind and how much. Once that was done, she told us the menu for the night.  She listed several items, so many we thought we were going to have to choose. It turned out it was a tasting menu and we would be served everything she mentioned. 

 

The food was pretty amazing: a pureed soup of root vegetables, home baked bread, asparagus and carpaccio, green salad, sirloin, chicken skewers, ostrich, hamburger with cheese and bacon, mash, chips, sweet potatoes, roasted greens, and malva pudding with ice cream for dessert. Wine glasses never seemed to empty and the group grew louder and more boisterous as the evening wore on. They worked to engage our host, and she was drawn in and thawed quite a bit. She smiled and joked and answered questions equably. 

 

At one point another party entered the restaurant and were seated at the opposite end. An old man with huge caterpillar eyebrows came to visit with us, telling us they were there to celebrate his 87^th birthday. He stood and chatted with us for a long time, soaking in our good wishes and enjoyment of his company. He came over a second time just before they left, and bid us farewell as if we were long lost friends.

 

We left the restaurant for the short walk home three hours from our arrival. I was exhausted, soul sore, and near tears. The worst kind of alone is in a group of people. I longed for an alone that gave me space to be myself, without the struggle of what had become for me toxic group dynamics. I fell into bed hoping that a good night’s sleep in clean pajamas would carry me to a new day full of gifts that weren’t quite so painful. 

 

 

 

Day 12 - Gouda

Friday, October 18

Riebeek Kasteel to Gouda

20k/12mi

Cool, Partly Cloudy A.M.; Hot Afternoon

 

 

We had been instructed to start as late as possible on this morning. In part because the place we were stopping for breakfast (the main Deli-Co plant and deli) wouldn’t open until 8:00, and it would take us about an hour to walk there. In part because Shawn was bringing Cynthia to us, and wanted to be able to meet us at the breakfast place. Whether that set the tone, or whether it was just one of those things, it turned out to be a day of waiting. And so, for me, a day that tested my resolve and my patience. 

 

I was up in time to watch the sunrise beyond our balcony. N. joined me and we sat in companionable silence, absorbing the morning air, the rising light, and the chorus of birdsong that was beginning to sound familiar. 

 

We hauled our luggage, and Cynthia’s downstairs at 7:00 to meet the others in the lower courtyard. Willem, our chaperone for the day, was already there. He had walked with me before and it had been just the two of us because I was walking solo for that first week of my pilgrimage. I remembered him as serious, focused, humble. We talked, in English, for most of the walk as I learned about his life in Riebeek Kasteel, his wife, his art (which is amazing). This was a different Willem than I remembered. He was joking and smiling and seemed really happy with the ladies. They were also speaking in Afrikaans. He hardly noticed me and made no effort to connect.

 

 

This was my first reminder that even though English is one of South Africa’s twelve official languages, and the language of government and the media, Afrikaans is the language of preference for most in the Western Cape, especially outside of the cities. It was easy to forget that the people I talked to were not using their primary language, and that it was a harder way for them to communicate. In our group, the three friends preferred Afrikaans, and they engaged each other and the people we came into contact with in that language often, and just as often switching back and forth with English within the same conversation. Cynthia and N. both preferred English, but were able to switch to Afrikaans, and able to understand much more than they could speak. A. barely spoke English, German being her primary language, but she dominated whatever conversation she was a part of, and so the lack of Afrikaans didn’t seem to impact her much. 

 

 

 

Wendy and A. were slow getting ready, and Wendy lost a contact, so our wait got extended. After unsuccessfully trying to help her find it, we left her to finish packing. I wandered Anniki’s garden, found gorgeous flowers to marvel at, and then found a weaver nest in a tree on the side of her house. I entertained myself for a long time watching the male adding what looked like finishing touches to his nest. 

 

 

The short walk to Deli-Co was beautiful and easy, on a wide dirt road. Traffic was sparse, and we were grateful that most people slowed when they passed us to diminish the size of the clouds of dust that arose behind them. As we walked up the drive to the deli, we walked past pens of sheep, a reminder of the purpose of the place. We walked through the doors, well past opening time, and enjoyed the displays of meats and cheeses and other interesting products, along with carcasses of sheep hanging on the back wall. We found the manager that Shawn had told us to look for, and he took us back to a table that was set just for us, and surrounded by large windows giving us great views and abundant light. 

 

 

It took a long time to order, and then for the food to arrive. People came and went from the table, exploring the store or finding the restroom. The food turned out to be delicious, and I savored the excellent cappuccino. Clare, Wendy, and A. sat at one end of the table. Willem, Anna-marie, and N. sat at the other. I was in between, with an empty spot for Cynthia across from me. At one point the three to my left were engaged in a serious conversation with A. at the center. The others to my right were laughing hysterically, with Willem at the center. I would have been inclined to join that group, but their use of Afrikaans left me on the outside. 

 

I sat and absorbed. Reminded myself that I’d asked to be challenged and stretched. Smiled at the laughing group. Smiled at the Clare group. Started taking pictures, so at least I wasn’t just sitting there unincluded. 

 

I was thrilled to see Shawn’s van pull into the parking lot, and to watch both him and Cynthia make their way through the store to our table. I got up to hug them both, so glad to see friendly faces. Cynthia was glowing from her trip. She hadn’t eaten, so even though the rest of us had finished, they brought her a breakfast. More waiting. She and I got to chat a bit, but it wasn’t long before she got drawn into the laugh fest that had started earlier. I got up to go to the bathroom and ran into Shawn on the way back. He was doing some sort of work for A. and her immigration thing, and anxious to get back to Cape Town to be with his family. Still, he stopped to chat. 

 

From my journal: 

 

“In the deli yesterday Shawn asked if I was okay. He’s seeing me quieter. When I said yes, just quiet, he said something about still seeing the glow. What I heard was it’s still there but harder to find. That is validated in the pictures that I’m still having a hard time looking at. My smiles are not radiant, my hair is awful, my body shapeless, blobby. Like I’m in a cocoon, which may be an apt analogy. Actually maybe more the caterpillar than the cocoon. Brown, grubby, almost invisible, with only one job, to eat.”

 

 

Shawn left shortly after, promising he’d find me some time in the weeks ahead so we could finally have a real conversation. When the rest of us finally set out, after a two-hour breakfast, I was bursting with energy, not all of it positive. It felt unbelievably good to stride out into the sunshine. If the walk had been the 15k the itinerary promised, it might have been a perfect walking day. But it turned out to be at least 5k more, so we were walking in the heat of the day, something we’d been trying to avoid. 

 

 

Still, we were surrounded by beauty and I was enjoying the company. Wendy and I walked together for a long time and I enjoyed her stories. She talked about being around during apartheid, called Mandela a criminal (not the first time I’d heard someone say that), told me about a wild time in Madagascar. Eventually Cynthia and I found ourselves together so I got to hear all the wedding stories, and to fill her in on what she’d missed. She folded herself back into the group as though she’d never been gone, and I was so glad to have her back. I had a nice conversation with Willem toward the end of the walk in which he brought up specific memories from our walk together. It was nice to know I hadn’t been forgotten entirely.

 

As was her habit, A. stayed in the back of the group, often far enough back we lost sight of her. Whoever else was at the back would always stop or slow until she came into sight. A couple of times, we told Willem he needed to go back and be with her, but he seemed reluctant to leave the fun of the group. Sometime past the midpoint, A., who had gotten ahead of us after a rest stop, flagged down a passing car and got in. The group got Willem’s attention and he ran up to the car. We could see him talking and then the car drove away with A. still in it. He said they would take her into Gouda, and that she was safe.

 

 

After A. left, the group couldn’t quite get over that she was hitchhiking in this country. Someone started joking about the best ways to hitchhike, and Willem turned it into a very funny comic sketch in which he demonstrated the best technique. Interestingly, he did the whole thing in English. We were all laughing hard, I think partly because it was funny and partly because we were all also more than a little worried about A.

 

 

We were hot and tired and dusty when we finally arrived at our guest house on the main street of the very tiny town. A. was waiting for us, beer in hand, smile on face. Marloes and Loedolf, our hosts were not there, and neither was our luggage, so we sat in the grass, explored our room for the night, and played with the dogs. Waiting. N. and Willem walked up the street to get drinks and brought back a ginger beer for me that was one of the most delicious things I’d ever had. 

 

Our hosts finally came over from the butcher shop that is their business around the same time the luggage arrived. Loedolf greeted me by name, but Marloes didn’t make contact before they went back to finish their day. Willem left reluctantly, sad, I think, to be losing such an appreciative audience. 

 

 

Our room turned out to be both unique and a surprisingly peaceful place to stay. The downstairs was a museum of motor bikes, more than a dozen displayed around the floor space. There was a sitting area with a refreshment counter and a bathroom with one shower and one toilet. Upstairs was a dorm with single beds in a row under windows, overlooking the room below. We all found spots among the bikes on the lower level to put our luggage. By the end of the afternoon most bikes were covered in drying laundry or airing clothes. 

 

The three friends made sure they were in the showers first, with A. right behind. N. and Cynthia put me in the lineup right after A. While I waited, I visited with Kai, a pomegranate farmer who is usually the breakfast host for that leg. I had enjoyed not only breakfast with him on the first walk, but also he joined us for dinner with Marloes and Loedolf that night. He was glad to see me, had happy memories of our first visit, and we chatted for a long time. I asked if he was joining us for dinner again, and when he said no, I realized he hadn’t been invited, likely because we were such a large group. Still, I would miss his stories at the dinner table.

 

Two years before, I hadn’t walked the town except for coming and going. Gouda is very small – one main street and few enough side streets the entire town could be walked in 15 minutes or so. Two small grocery shops and the butcher shop were all it had to offer. Most of the faces of the mostly younger people hanging around town were of color, and none of them were friendly. This time, in the safety of numbers, several of us wandered out in the late afternoon just to see what was there. We found the railroad, and a couple of peaceful streets with cute and well-kept houses in addition to the growing number of young people gathering for Friday night festivities. 

 

In the writing of this story, I got curious about just how small Gouda is. Both times I’ve been there I’ve wondered that Marloes and Loedolf seemed to be the only white people in town. Their family has been in Gouda for generations and while they expressed that it would be nice to live somewhere with more of everything, they weren’t moving away. When I looked at a map of the settlement (as it’s called officially), I discovered a whole other part of town on the other side of the highway. If we’d kept walking past the railroad, we would have found it. It turns out where we were staying was a very small part of the town. It’s made me think about how our picture changes when we have more information. On a pilgrimage the view is by definition small – only what can be seen on foot. And that’s important, to get that close. It’s also risky because it’s very easy to forget anything else exists. The same can be said of human relationships.

 

Dinner was meant to be at half past 6:00, but it was 8:00 before we ate. When Loedolf invited us into their living space, wine flowed and we had nice visits while waiting for the food. Loedolf told great and funny stories and kept us entertained. Marloes, came out and chatted with us in between cooking duties, a shy contrast to her husband’s big personality. We had a chance to connect, and I enjoyed being reminded how lovely and caring she is. 

 

Once dinner was served and we were all seated, Loedolf said grace in Afrikaans. I think nearly every grace going forward on the walk was in Afrikaans. I didn’t mind that. The curry was abundant and very flavorful. Wine glasses were filled and refilled. A. was seated next to me and drank throughout dinner, getting louder and more obnoxious as the evening wore on. I was very frustrated because she was so loud that I was having a hard time participating in the conversation on the other side. At one point I heard her make a weird noise as a description of taking a shower quickly in cold water. Anna-marie asked her to repeat it for the entire table, which she did several times, complete with full-body motions. 

 

I’m pretty sure I was the only one not laughing. I sat with my head down, breathing, praying for the day to end. Wanting to speak up, but not wanting to bring drama, or expose my anger. I was in full judgement mode by then. The noise was disgusting and not okay at the dinner table. That A. was being egged on to repeat it felt disrespectful and a little mean. Now A. was the center of attention and there was no conversation except hers. This seemed an appropriate, if completely irritating, end to a very challenging day.  

 

From my journal the next morning:

 

“She’s (A.) become a project for some, a toy for others. I can’t stand being near her. I need to find a way to be with her. Dinner was very late – almost 8:00 – and then I was the last one served. I had to breathe through that. I am not special here. Nothing like the first time felt. When I walked alone. I felt like a valued guest in this country. Even in a group. I was the first American and operating on the glow of my solo time. This time, first Cynthia with her huge project, and then the 3 with their S.A., East London, determination to run the show, I’m barely a blip. Last night at dinner, deciding what time to leave (the next morning), everyone looked to Clare. All because of her fit the first night. Someone suggested she is our leader, which very clearly pleased her. Anna-marie has become the group photographer. So my usual roles are filled. No one here cares that I’m American, or that this is my second time, or that I’m 72 walking on two prosthetic hips. Everyone here is so into their own thing they have no room for anything else. There is freedom in this as well as a sense of loss. As was beginning at home, I’m losing my roles, the framework upon which I’ve built my identity. I need to be able to release those, and grieve them in order to find what’s next. I need to pay attention to my irritations and this new feeling of uncertainty and out-of-sortness. Not judge them or try to change the circumstances of them, but listen to what they’re saying.”