Saturday, November 9
Paternoster to Afsaal
17k/10.6mi
Sunny, Breezy, Pleasant
After we went to bed, a huge group of motorcycle riders converged on the hotel. It sounded like they were riding up and down our hallway. I had just drifted off to sleep when the roar began to fill the night, and was not able to fall deeply back asleep when the noise finally ended. I eventually gave up and turned the light on much earlier than usual even for me. I was tired and my body was sore. My feet were tender from all the soft sand walking of the day before. I was grateful to be alone in a room where I could make coffee and journal in peace.
My journaling was full of questioning and sadness. I was acutely aware that this pilgrimage was not turning out the way I’d hoped. The shortness of the remaining time was revealing what was likely not going to happen: time with Gabrielle, Peggy, or Shawn; a nice neat resolution to all my questions; a happily ever after. I was able to recognize that I’d kept my commitment to accept whatever unfolded (however unhappily) and to stay away from Facebook.
“I’ve gotten some huge lessons, sand against my rough edges.”
I gave voice to my disappointment in Cape Camino, and my concern for an enterprise I loved. I felt let down by them, unvalued, unappreciated. Even though I didn’t agree with Clare’s rabid attacks on the organization, she had valid points. Our entire group was struggling with the lack of support and weird communication and our perceived disconnect between what was promised and what we were actually receiving. I felt responsible somehow, like it was my job to advocate for them and support them unconditionally.
I explored the metaphor of walking the wrack line, which we’d done a fair amount of the day before. The wrack line is the high tide line where debris is deposited before the sea starts its ebb. I read a book years before by Barbara Hurd, called Walking the Wrack Line, and its imagery had visited me from time to time afterwards. Including my first Cape Camino. Her exploration of what gets left behind and what can be discovered there felt an important theme for pilgrimage.
In writing this entry, I sought out the book and found it quickly, a small miracle. There are dog-eared pages inviting me to rediscover what caught my heart, and I’m finding the slim volume calling to me to read it again. I want to find, also, what I wrote about the first experience with this same wrack line that felt so important then. It feels now, just days away from the end of this pilgrimage and maybe another week or two of writing it, that the wrack line has answers, or maybe fresh questions that don’t feel like failure.
We had been told by Gabrielle that our chaperones would be meeting us at 6:30. While none of us were thrilled to be told when to leave, I was grateful for the early start: less time to kill in those early hours, and less time in the heat of the day. We discovered the door to the lobby was locked and we couldn’t get to the front door. We had to find a side door and walk around the building. We found what looked like a hundred huge motorcycles locked inside the front of the hotel, the sources of the previous night’s noise.
Our chaperones, James and Divon, were waiting for us. I walked with James as we made our way out of town. It turned out they were from another recovery center like the one in Hopefield, and something in their rules was the reason we had to leave so early. He was easy and interesting to talk to. A former resident, he was now a resident counselor. He was also a surfer. It was fun to listen to his passion about that part of his life, and to witness a successful recovery.
Divon attached himself to Ina and Frikkie so they could take their time. It was obvious that Ina quickly became a mom figure and the three of them made a lovely team to observe. There was a lot of laughter coming from the back of the line.
This walking day, both joyful and exhilarating, was one of my favorites of the entire pilgrimage.
I felt surprisingly well considering the night I’d had, and how I’d felt on waking. My feet were happy and my body was light and pain-free. There was a little bit of everything in terms of terrain. The long stretch of wild walking above the beach was so much fun. Narrow trails wound through brush, up and down and up again. There were moments when I felt like I could sprout wings and soar.
Sometimes I stood breathing it all in while waiting for James to find the best option when the trail faded out. Sometimes I was tickled to get to go ahead while he waited for the group. There was some soft sand walking in which I walked in James’ footsteps so found the way much easier. We made our way cautiously around a deep crevasse at the bottom of which was gemstone blue water. Wildflowers colored the air. A lighthouse in the distance stood sentinel.
There were a number of fences and gates to climb. We all had our own way of getting through or over. James and Divon were particularly helpful, but by this time in the walk, none of us really needed a hand. We laughed at ourselves and each other as we contorted our bodies, or got stuck awkwardly straddling, a rare time of shared humor and unity.
Everyone seemed happy, which made the day even lighter. If there was complaining, I didn’t hear it. The addition of Nicole and Ina and Frikkie to the group tipped the energy balance from grumbly to gratitude. The weather helped as well. The temperature was moderated by the sea breezes, but the sun kept us gentle company the entire morning.
Our lunch stop was at a place called Titties Bay. It took me a while to understand that’s what the word was, and I was a little surprised not one single person thought it odd, or giggled when saying it. When I asked where the name came from, no one knew for sure. The spot was stunning, overlooking huge rounded boulders (perhaps the source of the name?) and the sea. There was a campground nearby, but we sat on a bench and the rocks above everything.
When we finally, reluctantly, moved away from our perch to continue the walk, it was hard to leave the magic of the place and the moment. I was fascinated walking past the campground to see the Western Cape version of camping. The campers themselves were huge metal things, looking like something from a post-apocalyptic movie. Some sites had several structures, most had generators, everything was neat and efficient and organized looking. There was little space between people’s sites. Everyone was friendly as we passed.
I was a little sad when we left the beach and turned inland. The rest of the walk, all on washboard dirt road, was both less scenic and more of a slog. Without the sea breezes to cool us, the sun grew less and less friendly. Even that wasn’t enough to end the magic of the morning, but we were all glad when James pointed out our destination at the top of a very long hill.
Asfaal Padstal. I hadn’t been quite able to figure out what this place was ahead of time. I knew padstaal was a farm store, so expected a shop of some kind. Our itinerary called it a guest cottage, and the picture showed a dormitory under slanting eaves. Our host was a woman called Alta.
When we approached the front of the place, I discovered it was much much more than the itinerary described. There was a huge covered porch dotted with tables and chairs and a weird assortment of old things and signs. The garden in front of it was vivid with flowers and lush green lawn.
We plopped ourselves into the chairs, grateful for shade and the anticipation of a chance to order food and cool drinks. I sat with Cynthia and Nicole, Clare and Anna-marie sat on the other side of the porch. Ina and Frikkie came in last, but were whole and happy when they did. They seemed pleased when everyone applauded their arrival. Alta came out, a stout gruff woman whose baby this padstal was, and told us to relax for a bit. Our luggage had not yet arrived, so there was no urgency to do anything.
We ordered food. I had an incredibly delicious toasty (grilled bacon and cheese on homemade wheat bread) and ginger beer. I wasn’t even that hungry – our lunch had been substantial and not that long ago – but couldn’t resist an ordered and served meal. Everyone else enjoyed our time on the porch, and the amazing food.
Clare and Anna-marie left the porch first, disappearing inside. When I walked into the store a bit later to pay for my lunch and find a bathroom, I had to stop for a minute and take it all in. To my left was a counter with the cash register. Behind that was a kitchen, taking up nearly half of the room. Straight ahead were a doorway and huge refrigerators. My eyes landed on cool drinks, giant containers of milk and condiments, and one entire fridge of cheese, one of Alta’s many specialties. To my right were tables and chairs, surrounded by walls of shelves full of jams and souvenirs. I noticed a very steep stairway in the far corner, but didn’t think much of it.
Since Alta was busy in the kitchen, I asked Anna-marie where the bathroom was, and where we were sleeping. I didn’t quite believe her answer to either question. The bathroom was downstairs through the middle doorway, with the shower next door off the storage room. There was only a curtain separating the shower from the room. We were sleeping in the dorm upstairs, up the very narrow and steep set of stairs in the corner of the room.
Of course, my first thought was about getting to the bathroom in the middle of the night. But by then, and with only a few days left, I was only moderately distressed. After everything else I’d gotten through, this was just a blip. The stairs were so steep, we were all super careful going up and down, hanging onto the side rail for dear life.
After a slow and cautious ascent of the stairs, I discovered that Clare and Anna-marie had already moved in. They claimed the end of the attic nearest an outside door where there were racks for hanging clothes, and a couch for sitting. When I walked to their end and mentioned it might be nice to share one of the racks, I was met with silence. The energy was this is our end, that is your end. I chose a bed next to the stairs, and claimed the bed next to that for my stuff. When Cynthia and Nicole came up, they claimed beds across from me. The three of us hung our gear on the stair rail and other beds.
I wondered later why Clare and Anna-marie had set themselves up so far away from the stairs to the bathroom. When I asked Clare what they did for a bathroom in the middle of the night, she talked about the staircase on their end of the attic room. On the other side of their door, it had a much more reasonable width and slope. It ended in lawn at the side of the house, which would have been completely private at night.
Exploring the upstairs revealed a small room under the eaves. It held a small chemical toilet, that looked brand new. There was a door. But it also felt like it wasn’t really a functional bathroom. I thought about someone having to carry the full toilet down those stairs. Talking to Alta much later, she revealed she had added that because of feedback she’d received about the stairs, but that no one had used it.
Ina and Frikkie were given a separate house, what they jokingly called the honeymoon suite. When I went over to visit them later, noticing their gorgeous modern bathroom directly across from a spacious and light bedroom, I had a moment of envy. But it didn’t last long. By then I was feeling like nothing was going to derail me. The worst had already happened and I’d walked through it. This pilgrimage was almost over, and I wasn’t going to let another not ideal sleeping situation get to me. Besides, it was Ina and Frikkie, and I was never going to begrudge them anything.
I was more upset by the fact that it didn’t look like there was any way for me to make my coffee in the morning. By the end of the afternoon, however, I’d asked for help making tea, and discovered a hot water source and all the supplies I’d need for my morning ritual. Alta, it turned out, was very relaxed about our use of the restaurant and the store and the entire space of the building.
The wonder and magic of the morning slowly drained away in the boredom and loneliness of a long afternoon stretched out for hours. Clare and Anna-marie went into town with Alta. None of the rest of us were invited, or told until they got back. Cynthia and Nicole were working. Ina and Frikkie were in their house resting. Afrikaans was the primary language, and no one seemed concerned I had no idea what was being said, even when there was information I might need. I had to ask frequently for an English summary.
I journaled, and enjoyed the garden. I did legs up the wall, rested, and read, but was still restless and feeling left out. I did finally wander over to visit with Ina and Frikkie, and hung out with them until it was time for dinner. They said I could come stay in the extra bedroom in their house, but I’d already showered in the primitive storage space, and I didn’t want to haul my gear. It was nice that they asked.
When we got back to the main house, I found that the other four had been playing Skip-bo, and had to interrupt their game for dinner. All the small tables had been pulled together to make one long table that was set nicely and inviting. Alta brought out cheeses and crackers, and wine, for appetizers. Her cheeses were truly wonderful.
When those plates were bare, we all sat, chattering away, the day starting to dim outside, the air through the open door soft and fragrant. Alta put dish after dish on the table: chicken, rice, potato salad, sliced carrots, green salad, roasted vegs. She sat and ate with us, and for the first time that day I got more of a sense of what an amazing woman she was. She talked about her business, trying to stick to English as she sat across from me – the store, the rooms, the foods she produced for sale. I was seriously impressed and aware that I was getting one last gift of farm wife entrepreneurship on this pilgrimage.
As the meal progressed, I found myself slipping into frustration. So much of the conversation was in Afrikaans, including planning for the next day and discussion of our last day. I asked for translations, and got them. But every time I found a break in the conversation to ask for English, it felt like I was interrupting the flow. I looked at my nearly full plate, unable to eat what I’d taken, and feeling bad for leaving food. I was aware of my fatigue, and knew at some level that all I was feeling grew from that.
We stood on the porch to watch the sunset, Nicole on one side of me, Clare and Anna-marie on the other. I worked hard to focus on the beauty in front of me, to breathe in the sweet air, to imprint the scene knowing it could be my last African sunset. Three days to go.
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