Day 39: 33 Degrees South

I found myself on a three-day stroll through the Swartberge. Avoiding the famous pass I opted for the road that meanders lazily beneath it instead. In the shadow of this mountain everything was as it should be. The giant exuded comfort and I felt as though it stood tall just for me. It was breathing in all that was unwell and exhaling the essence of life for my benefit. Never before had I been so acutely aware of my powerful link with nature.

On the first afternoon of my multi-day mountain walk, a farm worker by the name of Piet picks up a slightly drenched and cold me. He cannot offer me accommodation, because he lives alone and his larnie isn’t at home.

The best way to describe Carolyn would be her invitation to her home, after she listens to my explanation about the journey: ‘I believe in giving back.’ We sit on the stoep and our tongues are at ease as we get to know one another. Sometimes women have a way of sharing big information in a casual way while feeling totally comfortable. She lights a fire in the outside hearth and fetches a bottle of wine. I cannot stop myself from laughing. ‘Carolyn, my poncho can only cover so much. It took a couple of hours for the water to work its way up my sleeves, but eventually a chill set in my bones and I kept picturing myself sitting next to a fire, with a glass of red wine, next to a Greek God!’ She apologises for the lack of and unlikeliness of the latter.

Day 41 finds me hot and bothered from having eaten too much of Charmaine’s home-made apricot jam the day before. It turns into an interesting trek through remote terrain with few houses and – thankfully – lots of bushes. I don’t want to dehydrate, so I collect stream water and use purification drops. Eventually, weak from fluid loss, feeling ill and in great discomfort I reach Calitzdorp.

I see her as I stumble into town. Her spirit beckons to me, but my reserves are running on empty and I can’t really respond. Not now. And then my inner voice protests, ‘Sonja, the past three days have been the best of your life. You’ve just walked in the shadows of and breathed the air exhaled by the most graceful mountain range. You know that everything is connected.’ So I wave at her. She smiles and waves back – we know we’ll meet again.

Feeling feeble I ask the first person I see to direct me to the clinic. There I am given tablets and sachets filled with rehydration salts. I hope they will pep me up enough to approach someone for a place to stay. My mind is tired. I need water. That is when I spot the pizza place.

Slowly sipping my glass of water, surrounded by the comforting smell of food, I begin to recover a little. The staff are intrigued. This woman is walking all over the country? Without a man? Sjoe!

One guy continues to look at me. Big eyes. Blink. Blink. Unspoken words in his mouth as he almost asks me a question. Then almost another. And then eventually he comes up to me. ‘I want to help you. But I’m going to make a call first.’

In the end, Anthony and his wife, Sam, put me up in the flatlet of the house they are supervising in the owner’s absence. This arrangement could not be more perfect and I didn’t even have to ask. I have the space, time and privacy to recover. I sleep until noon the next day.

I feel much restored and want to explore the town. That’s when I see her again. Town is busy. I overhear somebody saying that it is AllPay, the day on which pensioners receive their money and the grants are paid out. The day when the whole town is jolly. The day the bottle store is busiest.

She is sitting in the gutter and raises her hand, calling for me to come and speak with her. We need to meet. It is just that simple. I see her need to be seen, and she sees my need to see. Second-hand liquor vapours ooze from her pores and the alcohol is strong on her breath – her eyes, however, tell that this is not the furthest she’s been. There are many miles behind her. Many ahead. I sit down next to her and she turns to me, ‘Niemand sal jou op hierdie pad pla nie.’

This is the second time I am hearing this strange message. Two days before, halfway between Kruisrivier and Calitzdorp I heard shouting. I saw a figure on the hill ahead but was too far away to discern words. And then, as I got closer, I heard, ‘Niemand sal jou op hierdie pad pla nie.’ I was dumbstruck. The strange man had started yelling when I was still a distant speck. He could have had no idea who I was, or where I was heading.

And now, after she has spoken, she looks at my form next to her and breaks into one long sob, coming from a place that hurts. Much. Never before has a white person come to her when she called, she tells me. Never could she have imagined that one would sit here in the gutter with her. And with that our floodgates open.

Afterwards we sit and chat for perhaps two hours or so. She knows God well. She knows herself well, too. Knows her errors. I find her honesty honourable and promise myself to try it more.

The smell of this woman’s spirits stayed with me for a little while, but her spirit has infused mine for the longer haul.