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.”