Dispatch from Orgiva Spain, June 4, 2006

Our flight for Malaga finally did leave at 1 a.m., which meant we got into Malaga about 2, only to discover that many others on our flight had found the same good deal with “our” car rental company, so we now stood in line at the rental car desk with one poor clerk. We finally dropped into bed at 4 a.m.. When traveling, you just have to learn to take it all in stride—and who are we to complain for a few late night delays anyway.

Next morning (late) we started out for Orgiva. It’s in the mountains between Granada and the ocean in southern Spain. The drive up was spectacular, beginning with a winding road along the coast, and then turning up into the coastal mountains. We were pleasantly surprised when we arrived at our destination; a rather dusty un-touristy little town surrounded by mountains. Our little cottage is about a mile outside of town, a pleasant country Spanish place with beam and plaster ceilings a little kitchen and a deck overlooking an olive grove. Our “landlady,” a sprightly elderly British “expat,” shares her lovely garden and pool with us, and it all has spectacular views of the countryside.

First thing, as usual, we went into town to shop for some food and other essentials. The store hours are typically Spanish, around 10 to 2, and then 4 or 5 to around sundown—except for the bars which are pretty much open all the time. It’s always interesting to try to figure out whether what you’re buying is what you think it is, given our very limited Spanish (and our almost useless phrase book). What we thought was a can of tomatoes turned out to be tomato sauce, so a planned bean dish last night turned into bean soup.

This weekend was the “Fiesta in Honor of the Virgin of Barreras,” which meant lots of fireworks and really big bottle rockets, a beer and sardine picnic, and various competitions, including a foot race between two towns. The whole thing culminates in the evening when the church’s statue of the virgin is brought from the church (on a highly decorated platform) and carried on people’s shoulders from the church to the edge of town. The procession is completed with the town band and what appears to be most of the town. The “bottle rocket man” and 2 little boys go ahead and shoot them off every few minutes or so. This whole fiesta has long historical tradition, and the basic idea seems to be that the virgin and all the noise will push the evil sprits out of town for another year. The problem is that our little cottage is at the edge of this town, the place where the evil spirits are supposedly dumped. It’s a good thing we’ve got our own protection, and apart from lots of music and occasional bottle rocket barrages till about 2 a.m., there were no unusual happenings last night.

I’ve been bit under the weather with a cold the last few days, but things are looking up just in time to keep my nose from becoming completely raw. So, today we plan on hiking between some villages higher in the mountains.

Dispatch from Barcelona, May 31, 2006

I’m sitting at a small kitchen table in our Barcelona apartment looking out at a rooftop “garden” five floors up. An apartment, you ask? Well, in our research we discovered that apartments are often the same rate as mid-priced hotels and you get a kitchen thrown in (and in our case a rooftop garden). It also makes you feel like a real Barcelonan when you walk down the street with a grocery bag. Well, we might feel like Barcelonans, but my tall blonde presence always seems to invite people to talk to me in either English or German. Jeanne, however, gets addressed in the language the country. She easily passes for French or Spanish as long as she doesn’t open her mouth.

We arrived from Geneva yesterday about noon. Let’s see if I can catch you all up in a paragraph or two. Last dispatch was from France. We were about to go to evening prayer at Taize. We did, and it was, again, a very moving experience. The thousands of young people (and a few old ones like us) gathered to sing and pray. At the end of every evening prayer, the monks or brothers all gather in the center of the vast church and bow in prayer in front of a large cross icon laid on the ground with candles on it. It’s hard to convey the power and beauty of this act. It’s meant as a sign of reconciliation and of a way of letting go of all the sufferings and sins of our lives as well as identifying with suffering people everywhere. After a long time of singing, the monks disperse along the edges of the church. They are there to pray or talk to anyone who wishes. This means they each know several languages in order to converse. After the monks leave the cross, visitors quickly take their place to pray. The praying and singing goes on for hours (we stayed only a half hour or so).

The next day (Saturday) we spent mostly in our lovely chateau reading. It was dreary and misty outside anyway. Around 3 in the afternoon, we saw the first rays of sun peak out and quickly got dressed and headed for a historical 13th century chateau in nearby Cormatin. It turned into a warm, sunny, glorious evening as we took a tour and then strolled the formal gardens in the full bloom of spring (which is, we’re told, a month or so late this year).

Sunday morning, we packed up and headed for Taize and the morning Eucharist. The worship was very similar to the Ascension service, with many of the same songs, which helped us become more familiar with them and sing “by heart.” We bought a Taize CD and listened to it much of the day, singing along as we breezed through the French countryside.

We had intended to go to Lyon that day and stay overnight, but on a whim decided to go to the Alps instead. (Why try to familiarize yourself with a big city for a day and a half when you can go hiking in the Alps? It was about a three-hour trip from near Taize to Mont Blanc, which is in France. We accidentally almost entered the Mont Blanc tunnel (miles long) which goes to Italy. But we made an illegal u-turn, and ended up in a little ski town called Les Houches (which we delightedly pronounced as “the hooches”). The next day turned out rainy, and Mont Blanc, which we had glimpsed the evening before, was now lost in the clouds. Rain was predicted for the day, so we hopped in the car and took off over a pass to Lake Geneva and Montreaux. As we went over the pass, the clouds lifted and we had some breathtaking views of the alpine valleys and snow-covered peaks. In Montreaux it started raining again, so we decided to head indoors on a tour of the famous medieval castle of Chillon (immortalized in Byron’s famous poem “The Prisoner of Chillon.” He scratched his name on one of the huge pillars in the dungeon where his “prisoner” was chained.)

We ended up in a hotel near the airport in Geneva by about 6 that night, thus making a complete circuit of Lake Geneva, including Mont Blanc. But then we discovered that I had left a good jacket (my only jacket) in “the Hooches” and decided to make a flying run up to Mont Blanc and back. We broke all French speed limits and ate at an Italian restaurant back in Geneva by 9 p.m.. Not bad! Bu the way, we think we may have set a record in those two days of crossing the Swiss/French border – at least five times. But then it’s harder to get into Canada than to cross any border in Europe—they would just boringly waved us through.

So, that brings us to Tuesday, I think, leaving for Barcelona at 10 a.m. We spent the afternoon getting familiar with the tiny apartment (Our landlord Philippe, looks just like Picasso and thankfully speaks great English), shopping in a super market, which like most European ones looks more like a gourmet food market, with full aisles of only varieties of vinegar, oils, or olives, with half an aisle for, say, cereal. Oh, and we tried unsuccessfully to get money out of countless bank machines in order to pay for our apartment. Philippe was incredibly generous in letting us wait a day. Our agreement had been that we only received the keys after we paid. Our Mishawaka bank was suddenly suspicious and we had to call and tell them where we were.

We spent the evening strolling the famous “Rambla,” the wonderfully colorful walk from the city center to the harbor, and ended up in a Catalan restaurant which, to my delight and Jeanne’s horror, turns out to specialize in cured meats and sausages.

For tonight , I just got tickets for a Czech orchestra concert in the concert hall, so today it’s Gaudi and Janacek—and the sun is just starting come out after an early morning shower. Time for morning prayers. Today as our Prayer book has it as the "Feast of the Visit of the BVM to Elizabeth,' which calls for at least the first half of the "Hail Mary."

Dispatch from Mont Blanc, May 28, 2006

Just a quick post to say that we’re now in a hotel at the foot of Mt.Blanc. Yes, we thought we were going to spend a day and a half in Lyon, but since we couldn’t expect to make much sense of the second largest city in France in a day in a half, we decided to go the Alps instead. Tomorrow we’ll hike for the day, and then head back to Geneva at night to be ready to fly out to Barcelona Tuesday.

This morning we attended church at Taize again. Having been there a few rimes now it’s become more familiar and we could enter in more readily. They even repeated many of the songs. I’m still amazed at the sight and sound of young people from all over the world singing and praying together. The 10 minutes silence at the center of each service is stunning.

Dispatch from Champagny-sous-Uxelles: Friday May 26

This is not a low-carb culture. Our B and B breakfast consists mainly of various breads and cakes, plain yogurt, washed down with good strong French coffee, and (by my insistence) tomato juice. The Madame of the house is quite pleased to speak no English whatsoever, as is expected among the French aristocracy (this chateau has been in her family for two centuries after all).

Hence we thought it might be a good idea to do some hiking after a morning in Taize yesterday. We bought some food at a local grocery on the way back to the chateau (fruit, cheese, bread, eggs, and some fine air-cured pork sausage, and had a little picnic. Then we set out for some villages not far away recommended to us by a restaurant owner. We figured the hike to be about six or seven miles along narrow country roads. The two towns were build into steep hillsides , with fields and vineyards in checkerboard patterns on the hills around. The towns were medieval in character, and, in act, some of the buildings dated from the 11th and 12th centuries, including some Romanesque churches. Nearly every church is open, so it was fun to look inside. One was so resonant we counted 12 echoes for every sound made. We plan to attend two baroque concerts in nearby churches Saturday afternoon and evening.

At the far end of the hike we settled into a little bar across from a 12th century stone church in the town of Bissy sur Fles.
The owner sat down with us for a chat in his pretty good English. It turns out he’s a German who settled here on a whim 15 years ago when the place was in disrepair and for sale. His claim to fame in this tiny town is that he sells about 100 different beers from all over the Europe—and English tea as well, which was our choice at the moment. We were prepared to blush before the supposed French disdain of everything American. Instead we got an earful of all the woes of being under the thumb of local farmers who run the town and the French government in general. According to him he pays more in taxes than his little bar earns (how he lives I don’t know.) His ex-wife up the street doesn’t work at all and makes more than he does. Plus, he’s a great admirer of America and George Bush. Now there is a place that creates “responsibilite.” Yea, we’re all over the world taking responsibility. Not a word about Iraq, but the idea of lowering taxes seemed “tres bon.” Yet, after all his complaints he proudly showed us the new Ford van he had just bought, so it didn’t quite all add up.

Well, we’ll just take the morning off for some reading, writing, and general catching up. Maybe a hike this afternoon, plus evening prayer at Taize.

We’re having a hard time finding an internet café, or anything like it. We’ll search tonight in Cluny to see if we can get this off. Otherwise it will have to wait for Lyon on Sunday.

Dispatch from Champagny-sous-Uxelles: Thursday May 25

Dispatch from Champagny-sous-Uxelles: Thursday May 25

(This post is actually coming on May 28, since this is my first chance to get to the internet--not very prevalent in rural France.)

Let’s see, it’s Wednesday, no Thursday already. As most travelers experience, at least those first few days, I’ve still got a case of severe dislocation. Not that’s it’s anything but pleasant. I’m disorientated, unplugged, removed from the normal cues that tell me when, where, and what. Which means the sabbatical has really begun.

Our prayer book tells us it’s also Ascension Day, one of my favorite Christian festivals. It’s the day we can breathe a sigh of relief and really believe it when we say that everything will be all right. As the Psalm sings, The Lord reigns, let the earth be glad. Of course, I’m not in Darfur, but in Burgundy on a lovely spring morning, so it must be a little easier to sing that Psalm with confidence. But I hope the Darfurians can sing it too, with perhaps even more conviction.

Let me go back a few days. We arrived in Geneva Tuesday morning (May 23) after a rather pleasant flight on Air France (though Jeanne has a rather different take on that). Geneva is so close to the French border that there’s a Swiss side and a ?French side to the airport, and we were on the Swiss side. Now the Swiss have this idea that some unknown country exists to their west, where people have opinions which they would rather not have anything to do with. So any map you might get at the car rental agency is only for Geneva and Switzerland. What about France? “Well,” the clerk said,” looking down his Swiss nose, “buy one there.”

Which we did, immediately over the border, well after we got lost twice already. The map, however, was of limited use, covering the whole country and not, therefore, pinpointing the exact corner where we were located. We soon discovered at least one reason for Swiss disdain. The roads, while ostensibly numbered, lack any real signage. Hence, there sill be signs pointing you to, say, Aix de Chapelle, but no road numbers that corresponded to anything on the map where the road numbers only show up every five inches or so, which always leaves one wondering. So, we began our journey through the French alps, which are quite lovely, on a great four lane highway. We expected to fly through our expected two-hour journey to our destination. Then, suddenly, to our complete surprise, we were on a two-lane switchback road behind a rather smelly open semi which we suspected was loaded with excess manure, or sewer sludge. And we could not find a road sign. Yet, everyone on a while, like a mirage, this sleek modern highway appeared overhead, sweeping over the deep valleys where we chugged along behind lines of trucks. So we went on, thinking there must be an entrance ramp, a sign, something. Mais non! Finally, or so Jeanne will tell you, we stopped at to ask directions to this Valhalla in the sky. “Bien. Deux kilometres.” And sure enough, there it was.

The other mistake we had made was to Google the directions from the Geneva airport to the tiny town which was our destination. Don’t every do that in rural France. Either the French have supplied perversely false information, or the Google people got their information from the movements of General Patton’s troops. In any case there was no relationship between the directions and actual highway reality. We took must have taken at least 25 wrong turns, and that’s a conservative estimate. We went through charming towns, busy cities at rush hour, and lovely rural highways, hardly seeing a numbered highway; only the sigh to the next town, which didn’t always appear on our map. Now, here’s the miracle. Never once did Jeanne and I come to blows, or even utter a harsh word. This is what I call the grace of God. It has nothing to do with sanctification, since we were two zoned out people.

We finally did arrive in Champagny-sous-Uxelles around six on a gorgeous late spring evening. After two more wrong turns and asking one old toothless woman, we finally arrived at the B and B of Madame De Bresse. We pulled through the high brick wall, parked under a gigantic chestnut (I haven’t see one of these since I was a child) in front of a 1830 French chateau, a big old rambling mansion with 14 foot ceilings, and a room which made us feel like we ought to be wearing velvet dressing gowns rather than polar tec (it’s still cold at night).

It’s what you would imagine of the French countryside-- set in a wide green valley surrounded by wooded hills in the Burgundy wine-growing region of eastern France, about fifty miles north of Lyon (Macon is the nearest big city). Taize is located about 15 minutes to the south, just north of Cluny (site of the great Cistercian monastery of the 12th century the French mostly dismantled for stones in the 1820s.

This Ascension morning we made sure to make it to Taize. We did make a short visit late yesterday to get the “lay of the land.” There were relative few people, which surprised us. Perhaps, we thought, it was the time of the year. Te surprise was that this Ascension morning, the place was jammed, parking lots full. We mad our way to the “church,” really a polyglot of relatively low flat buildings imaginatively added on over the years with sliding doors between. It’s rather dark inside with low hanging lights, a few stained glass windows along the top. The “front” is decorated with a series of long taught banners of various shapes and lots, lots of candles. The atmosphere is very quiet, meditative—typically Taize.

We made it for the 10 a.m. Eucharist for the Ascension. Every section was open. There must have been at least 2000—mostly young—people spread through the whole series of rooms, all open to the center of worship and the small altar. A leader appeared a few times through the service, but it was mostly led by the singing from the white-robed “monks” who sat (knelt, or lay prone) in the center in front of the altar. A sign with lighted numbers signaled the next chant, as we moved through the rather typical liturgy. It was the worship they had developed at Taize years ago, and continued, a worship of quiet, solemnity, and simplicity that still captures the imagination and the spirit of young and old from allover the world.

The songs and short liturgical responses were sung and said in Latin, German, Spanish, French, English, Swedish (I think), and Russian. Nothing was repeated or translated, but there were translations in the songbook. It made me feel a little like heavenly worship where, as it says in Revelation, God will gather before the throne people of every tribe and tongue and nation.

The only drawbacks for an old guy like me was that I was sitting cross-legged on a hard (concrete) floor for an hour and quarter, and it was hard, the first time at least, to keep up with the songs in so many languages. It’s a little like visiting a strange church for the first time.

One final note to the day. There is nothing, nothing in the US like the quality of a simple country French restaurant. Served with a local wine, even a pizza, as we had last night, turns out to be a gastronomical delight.

Dispatch from South Bend: Thursday, June 8

We’re back home after a long journey in distance and emotion. Thursday morning, June 1, I checked our email at a little hotel that has the only working public computer on the island of Iona, and there were emails from both Jeanne’s mother’s (Virginia Logan) social worker and her Episcopal priest that she had taken a turn for the worse, and that if we wanted to see alive ands talk to her, we needed to return immediately. We knew what we had to do. Within two hours we were on the last ferry off the island to catch the last bus across Mull (the next island0 to catch the last ferry to the Scottish mainland, to catch the last train to Glasgow.
We arrived in Glasgow at 10 p.m. Thursday and crashed at (of all places) the Holiday Inn). The next day we were faced with getting a ticket for our return home (our one way ticket for June 24 could not be exchanged or refunded). A trip to the travel agent convinced us that they are dinosaurs in the age of computers, getting us a $2500 one way ticket each and charging $120 a person to do it. I guess the travel agent business is tough these days.
So we found an Internet café and went to work ourselves on the net, looking up some UK based online travel sites. Our work paid off because we found reasonably priced tickets for returning home Sunday morning, June 4. We already had tickets to London on Saturday to connect for Spain, our next destination, so we got to London Saturday, and had one last hurrah by seeing “The Producers” at London’s west end.
Our flight home Sunday and connection to Grand Rapids (where we had left our car) went very smooth. It was great to see the kids and grandkids again. Monday morning we headed for South Bend with understandably mixed feelings about seeing Jeanne’s parents. Jeanne’s mother has deteriorated quite a bit, having lost lots of weight, experienceing some pain, and being on oxygen. Her dad (Richard Logan) is wheelchair bound after some mini-strokes, and cries a lot, understandably. Thankfully, they are in almost adjoining rooms at Healthwin where they’ve both been since their release from the hospital in late April.
More of that later. On Saturday we had spoken by phone to Andy and Mae about our emergency return home, and said we had a place to stay while they made preparations to leave. At the time it seemed my return to work was the only alternative since Andy and Mae were staying at our house and we couldn’t see how they could continue their interim work without housing. They very graciously emailed that they would be out of the house Sunday night making it available for us (and we know this too a lot of work at short notice). I intended to jump back into work. Monday, however, I met with some of the elders and Paula, and it turned out in God’s grace that there was another alternative with housing provided by the Teeters. We talking it over and decided that it was in the best interests of everyone involved that the Rienstras continue their interim ministry as planned, and which they wanted to do, while I had the time to support Jeanne and do some planning for sermons and worship on my return to work July 5. We see God’s care in all this, and are very grateful for discerning minds and hearts that helped us recognize it.
We hope to keep our plan for the last week of the Sabbatical, which was a week at a cottage up north )June 28- July 3) with all the kids and grandkids. (That’s, of course, dependant on circumstances with Jeanne’s mother at the time.) We also hope to be able to continue the unused three weeks of the sabbatical sometime next year.
Jeanne’s parents were so relieved to have her home, though they would have never asked for it themselves, and felt badly that we had to break off our trip. I should mention that Jeanne’s mother knew she had cancer (though not how serious it was) before we left, but chose not to tell us, not wanting to disrupt what she called our “trip of a lifetime.” This was a wonderful and gracious gift on her part.
Coming home was difficult, but also very good. There has been time for honest conversation and necessary grief. So we feel we’re in God’s care, and he has provided and will provide all that is needed. Virginia is now under hospice care at Healthwin as of yesterday. At first we were told they would have to move from their lovely rooms overlooking the garden, but just yesterday the social worker said they could stay where they are to the end, which was a great relief for all. Jeanne is busy arranging the support her mother needs, working with hospice, planning for her father’s future needs (he will not be physically able to return home alone), and pulling together their financial affairs.
I’m taking the time to help Jeanne is whatever way I can, from keeping house to making necessary phone calls. I am also doing some planning for the next months of preaching and worship. I also plan to continue the “monastery thing” by spending a few days at St Gregory’s Abbey near Three Rivers next week.
We will not be back in church till I return for work on July 5 (that’s best when an interim is present), but be assured we have lots of support both spiritually and emotionally.
When circumstances like this arise Jeanne always tells me, pacing the room, “Well, we just have to dump it in God’s lap and say ‘You take care of it, I can’t.’” And we do. It’s not always easy to surrender like that, but over and over we’ve seen God take our problems into his almighty and merciful hands and make good come out of it. This is another one of those occasions when our faith has been strengthened by God providential care. On the plane home we had Morning Prayer from our prayer book, huddled together in our seats. The reading for the day was that wonderful verse from Proverbs 3: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own insight. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.” We knew we were on the right path.
See you all in early July. Despite the interruption, the sabbatical has been more than we could ever expect, and we’re eager to share it with you.

Jeanne and Jane Torrance in front of the Torrance's house

SC St A Jane and Jeanne at Janes low,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

Jeanne and Len in "pastoral" roles on Iona

Jeanne and Len in "pastoral" roles on Iona,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

Dispatch from Iona: Wednesday, June 1

We arrived on Iona in a driving rain and howling wind, and the wind and rain are beating against the windows of the Abbey Library again today. (It was so good to put our clothes into drawers again for a longer stay after a week and a half of “one night stands”.) But the three days since have been absolutely gorgeous. Sunday morning was brisk and windy, but the sky gradually cleared to reveal the green hills, jagged rocks, and white sandy beaches of Iona, an awesomely beautiful place. No wonder it’s been experienced by so many over the centuries as one of the world’s sacred places where the earth itself seems to sing God’s praise and the rugged, treeless terrain opens the heart to God.
The Iona experience is quite different from our previous experiences of Christian community. The Iona community is centered here on the island, but it’s mostly a scattered community, its member literally all over the world. The Abbey (and another center on the island) is staffed by members of the community who are here for from one to three years, along with a large number of shorter-term volunteers (one to three months), many of them young people. Each week a new group of guests comes to share in the Iona experience, and therefore each week the community remakes itself by living together, guests and staff, and sharing in the work and worship of the Abbey.
We’re saying in the rebuilt Abbey-- in fact, our room is part of what was originally the monastic dormitory. Just down from our room is the “night stairs” the monks used to go directly to the night offices, as we do to go to evening prayer.
The Iona Community began through the efforts of George MacLeod, a Church of Scotland minister, and his friends, who picked up on the dream others before him had of rebuilding the 12th century Abbey as a place of pilgrimage and worship. The work was begun in the 30’s and is still going on. Gradually the Iona Community was formed, its members devoting some time to work here, and then continue their community life in groups wherever they lived. MacLeod’s dream came to reality as pilgrims came to the Abbey in increasing numbers (today you have to sigh up for week at least a year ahead of time).
In front of the Abbey stands a Celtic Cross about 12 feet high, arms mostly broken off, and carving largely smoothed by the wind and weather. This cross dates from around 800, and marks the goal of the pilgrimage route followed by many people to the humble site of St. Columba’s little community of monks. St. Columba came to Iona from Ireland around AD 500 with a group of 12 monks, and though not much is really known about him, his community grew and brought the gospel to Scotland and northern England. The community grew and flourished over the years, as Iona was always regarded as a special and sacred place. A number of great princely councils were held here and it’s said that dozens of kings of Scotland, Ireland, and even Norway, were buried in the churchyard.
A great abbey was established here around 1300, becoming the center of Christianity in Scotland and beyond, and that’s what was found largely in ruins by Macleod and rebuilt according to its original pattern, using original materials from the ruins and the surrounding countryside. It’s a great accomplishment, and one gets a deep sense of the depth of faith and history worshipping and praying in the abbey whose stones echoed with the chants of monks as they have for centuries. I felt carried back into history at a healing service last night at nine o’clock in the Abbey church. It was lit with candles (though it’s still light till 11 or so way up here), and the chants of “Kyrie eleison” echoed through the nave.
The guests that literally “make up” the community this week come mainly from all over the UK, but there are a few Americans too—one RC priest from Indianapolis (who had just come from Taize, one of our next stops) and a woman (and her young daughter) who is a Methodist pastor in North Carolina (both of them on the same Lilly grant as I have). We form community largely through our common worship each morning and evening and by working together on chores like cooking and cleaning and washing dishes. There are a couple of groups that have come from churches together, as well as folks, like Jeanne and I, who have just come on our own. It’s been enjoyable to get to know these people in little conversations, or deep discussions here and there through the day. There’s not much organized group activity, though various talks and workshops are offered throughout the week which we’re free to take part in or not. (Some weeks have much more of a focus than this one, which is largely unplanned).
One of our best experiences came yesterday with the weekly Iona pilgrimage. It was an unusually glorious day for Iona with a light breath of a breeze and warm sunny skies (now warm here means you can take your windbreaker off). A rather large group (probably 75 or so from kids to an intrepid British woman who must have been 80, an obviously experienced trekker who often strode ahead, passing others by) set out on a seven-mile, mostly off-road, hike around the island which is about 3 1/2 miles long and a mile and a half wide. Some of it was on roads, but most was through boggy fields and climbing over rocks.
The pilgrimage is a meditative hike, and we stop along the way at various sites; some historical, like the ruins of the nunnery down the road, and the foundations of a hermitage; others more parabolic, like the marble quarry and the highest point on the island. At each stopping point the warden (director) gave a brief talk explaining the significance of the historical site or a parable (for example a crossroads, the only one on the island), a time of prayer, and a simple song. In between, as we walked, we had a chance to talk with various fellow pilgrims. For one stretch we walked in silence from the promontory (from which we had an almost 360 degree view of the mountainous islands of Scotland’s west coast), down to the ruins of a hermit cell, and then continued to sit in silence for some time (even the kids felt the meaningfulness of the moment and didn’t utter a sound. We ended the pilgrimage at St. Oren’s chapel, a 12th century chapel largely intact in the Abbey graveyard (St. Oren was the first of St. Columba’s original cenacle to die). At first this dark cold chapel seemed a strange place to end, but became a wonderfully appropriate place to complete the pilgrimage on which many of us had meditated on our own life journey. Just as Jesus our Savior ended in the cold of the tomb so will we. But the door was open, and after a song and a reading we walked into the glorious light again, like a little Easter to the words and rhythm of a delightful South African “Alleluia”.
Worship at the Abbey church is very much a focal point, with morning and evening prayers and other special services. I must say we’ve been a bit disappointed in some aspects of the worship here after what has been for us a very rich experience of monastic life and worship. At times it seems a bit too contrived in its effort to be meaningful for today in its self-conscious “inclusiveness,” and sometimes lacks theological depth, but we both especially like morning prayers that flow with simplicity and quietness.
Today the fog, rain, and even sleet, along with a fierce western isle wind have whipped up again. At morning prayer we were reminded that like the fog and rain that hides the hills and islands, so God somtimes seems hidden from us. But like the beauty we see on a sunny day, God's glory, power, and love, are always present, though they remain hidden for a time.
One more thing. It's always a question how we make the transition from worship in a church to our worship in everyday life. The musician here has a unique way of helping that transition. This morning her "postlude" was "I Got Rythmn" Gershwin. So we all went swinging to our morning chores.

Dispatch from Iona: Monday, May 30

I’m sitting in the library of the Iona Abbey. It’s a quiet lovely room, lined with books and paneled in wood with that musty old-book smell, sun streaming through the little squares of a small Abbey window facing the rocky hills of the nearby isle of Mull. As I have probably said of every place we’ve stopped along the way--this is a stunningly beautiful place. We’ve learned that there’s no use comparing places for beauty for each place has its own quality, and each one is brushed with the kiss of God’s creating love. But Iona, well Iona has for over a millennium a place of pilgrimage and prayer, and has this special quality of being a holy place, a place where one draws near to God. More of that in my next dispatch.
As I think back over the last half week, it could be characterized with the title of that old John Candy movie, “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles”. It was a blur or travel and old friends. We arrived in London after an all-night flight from Cape Town, flew right on to Glasgow, caught a bus almost immediately for downtown, arrived just in time to hop on another bound for Edinburgh (a surprisingly short 45 minute ride), and finally caught a van within 15 minutes to our backpackers hostel at the outskirts of the city. It’s now about noon, and we’ve barely caught our breath, but with only one afternoon and evening for Edinburgh, we ate a quick lunch, and hopped back on the van to Edinburgh’s center city.
Edinburgh is a great gray old city that deserves much more time than we had to give. There’s a walk called the historic “Royal Mile” leading from the Holyrood Palace (a royal palace still in use) on one end to the Edinburgh castle on the other, with some winding side streets to wander down in between. Unfortunately both the palace and the castle were closed for the day for reasons unknown to us and which no one was about to explain, but we had a great time just soaking up the atmosphere of old medieval buildings and churches along the walk. We spent some time in St. Giles, the main church of the city, belonging to the Kirk (church) of Scotland. John Knox, the Scottish reformer, was preacher here for a time right after he came back from Geneva. The guidebook, hopefully not written by the historically Calvinist Church of Scotland, describes Knox coming back from Geneva full of “dour” Calvinism, and bringing the reformation to Scotland. Granted, Knox was not what you’d exactly call a “nice” man, but Calvinism certainly had no monopoly on dour religion in that day. Anyway, he must have been turning over in his grave for all the votive candles and side chapels in St. Giles church. It is a beautiful church, especially its uniquely ornate open steeple.
Edinburgh is also Scotland’s art center, especially with its annual summer festival. We were too early for that, but found lots of posters for various concerts and other events, none of which seemed to be occurring that one evening. But then we visited another old church, The Greyfrair’s church with its huge churchyard. It was closed, a notice on the door informed us, for a rehearsal for a concert that very evening of the Estonian National Philharmonic Choir performing a piece by Arvo Pärt, one of our favorite composers. We decided to have a quick supper at what turned out to be a really greasy Indian restaurant nearby, and rushed back just in time for the concert at 7:45. The church was packed with about 500 people for the performance of a choral text for evening prayer from the Russian Orthodox Church. The composition and the choir were outstanding, and we found ourselves caught up in a powerful performance of a deeply penitential text some six pages long in the English translation and taking 75 minutes. It was done in the choral style of the Orthodox liturgy with lots of droning bass but beautifully modernized by Part to include some dissonant notes and choral counterpoint.
The next morning we set off for St. Andrews (about an hour away by train) and were met by a smiling Jane Torrance at the station. It was so good to see her beaming with health and moving with vigor, sporting short curly hair that was recovering from the last round of chemo. Not having communicated with the Torrances about more than arrival dates and times, though making sure to note that we were aware of Jane’s possibly not feeling well, we were especially grateful to see her looking so well. By the way, as one of Alan’s colleagues remarked, we were part of a crowd of South Bend visitors, the Plantingas and Marsdens having left a few days before.
Jane drove us right to their home, a beautifully proportioned 18th century country house of which they occupy the still very roomy center section. From the windows on the east side you can see all the way to the water of the Firth of Forth. After some tea and catching up, Jane drove us into town (about 4 miles away) and dropped us off to roam for a few hours while she ran some errands. St. Andrews, like Edinburgh, is an historic city with lots of great old university buildings, the ruins of a 12th century Abbey, and some16th century and older churches, but it’s much smaller, and easy to walk in an afternoon. And, as any golfer knows, St. Andrews is the “sacred” home of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club with its “old course” links, the sight of many a British Open (the viewing stands are already partially erected). It all looked so familiar from seeing the view of the 18th fairway and green on TV many times, but no less a thrill for that, though Jeanne couldn’t quite understand my awe and excitement at walking on the grass of the old course. (Yes, any visitor can walk right on the course, or even drive across the first and eighteenth fairways.) I did manage to keep myself from kissing the sod, and Jeanne understood enough to let me watch several groups tee off. I especially enjoyed the obvious fact that some of them were once a week duffers like myself. Unfortunately I didn’t get to play, maybe some other time.
Jane came back to pick us up along with David and Peter from school, and Alan from his office. I wouldn’t have recognized the boys, it was six years since I saw them last, but Allan, bounding to the car, all smiles and breathless with talk, was unmistakably familiar. The man’s a virtual dynamo of intellect, energy and good humor.
We spent an evening of welcome and gracious warmth in their home with a fine dinner, a fine single malt, fine wine (our gift from South Africa) and the finest conversation. We got all caught up on our families and mutual friends, explored memories of their visit, and discussed the state of the church in our various countries. Their guest bedroom ranks with the finest bed and breakfast you could find in Scotland—a spacious room with a warm comforter, and a broad view of the land banking down to the Firth of Forth (or Fifth, or whatever Firth it was—a Firth, we learned, is the estuary of a river as it enters the sea).
After a lazy morning and lunch in town, Jeanne and I were back on the train back to Edinburgh where we caught another bus to Glasgow where we spent the night before heading up to Iona.

Dispatch Cape Town: Tuesday, May 24

It was my mistake, and I take full responsibility, and I’m sorry. That was my speech to Jeanne a few minutes ago. I misread our rental car return time and our ticket a week ago, and I determined that we had to be at the Cape Town airport at 11:30 a.m. when we actually return the car at 2:30 p.m. and the flight is at 7:30 p.m. So here we are at another airport—a really pleasant one though I argued—instead of a few more hours exploring (meaning shopping) in Cape Town.
But let me back up, as usual. Sunday morning we woke up in our Franschhoek cottage, had some breakfast (our newfound really good muesli and yoghurt and boiled eggs), packed up (again), and headed for church in Stellenbosh, just 30 minutes away. We had arranged to meet Al Plantinga’s brother Terry and his wife Jane for church that morning, and lunch at their home afterward. Terry has been living and working in SA since the early 90’s. Jane, a native South African, had fled “(wiping the dust of my feet”) after college, and decided to come back with Terry, who fell in love with the country, when it was clear that apartheid was over, feeling a deep urge to participate in building a new society.
We met then in the beautiful and historical old university town of Stellenbosch in a small United Church just around the corner from the huge Dutch Reformed Church. The United Church is a union of the Bantu Congregational Church and the Presbyterian Church of SA (begun by Scottish immigrants back in the 19th century). In other words, the church is involved in a continuing effort to bring together Reformed Christians across racial and denominational lines. Jane is the Education Director of the congregation, Terry teaches a class, and son Adam plays clarinet in the orchestra.
It was interesting to be back in a Protestant church for the first time in nearly two months of traveling. The service began when an elder brought the Pulpit Bible to the lectern while everyone stood—no question about what’s important here. David, who’s been Pastor there for about the same time I’ve been in South Bend, appeared in a long Presbyterian robe with the distinctive bow at the neck, but all white instead of the typical black. The service began with the hymn “Holy, Holy, Holy,” which warmed our souls to sing on that Trinity Sunday (Holy, holy holy, blessed Trinity.” One difference Jeanne and I both noticed was that the service was very much Pastor led, with very little participation from the congregation apart from the singing. I believe this is typical of Scottish Presbyterians, and David was very well prepared with slow and deeply thoughtful prayers all through the service. He preached on Deuteronomy 5 and Matthew 5, focusing on Jesus’ statement that he had come not to abolish the law and the prophets, but to fulfill them.” The sermon very rightly and evangelically focused on the person of Jesus as the one who keeps the law perfectly on our behalf and enables us to follow, rather than as the one who demands that we keep his new and stricter version of it. It was deeply a thought and deeply felt sermon which we appreciated. Of course, there was a hole in the service, especially after traveling so long among Catholics—you guessed it, the Eucharist. We’ve always loved the weekly Eucharist, and this trip has made that even more important. This trip has also often given us the daily meal of Christ’s presence.
After the service, and a brief tour of the old town, Terry took us to his home up in the foothills above Stellenbosch. What a lovely setting! No matter Terry had invited us to see his little corner of paradise, Not that it was ostentatious at all, but a simple dwelling, surrounded by overgrown gardens, with a view of granite peaks pointing straight up for the valley. There were a few others for lunch, including a woman whose husband had been murdered a couple of months earlier in his office at the University of Cape Town by a disaffected employee.
Jeanne was having trouble keeping up with her folks by phone, and it looked for a little while that she might have to return early. Terry and Jane were so hospitable, sympathetic, and helpful with their advice (it turned out that Jeanne does not have to interrupt the trip early at least at this time). The next day Terry discovered that his own aged mother (and Al’s) was gravely ill.
Sunday afternoon it was off to Cape Town, the third great city of South Africa after Jo’burg and Durban. This remarkable metropolis is built around several very large granite peaked mountains that occupy at least 40% of the city’s land. This, of course, is Cape Town’s most appealing feature, and every visitor must take the cable car (or the four hour hike) up Table Mountain for a spectacular view of the city and all the way down Cape Horn to the tip. That’s true when the weather’s good, which it was not during most of our visit. We did take the cable car up yesterday in the late afternoon when it looked clear at the top. About 15 minutes after we got to the top the cold winds brought in the dark heavy rain clouds that sometimes cover the mountain like a “tablecloth,” and then they parted for a spectacular view complete with rainbow.
We shopped, went sightseeing, just watched people on the street, bought some food for a destitute woman and her baby, and took in the ambience of the city. Like Durban, terrible shanty towns spread out onto the “flats” south and east of the city, which you can see from the highway—miles of them, with “street” lights and miles of wires looping off them to the huts below. One of the biggest of South Africa’s problems is the 40% or so unemployment, and its biggest source is that black South Africans were displaced from their rural homelands to work in the mines by whites, breaking their ties with the land and agriculture. So now they swarm to the cities, trying to get ahead. The conditions are appalling, but the spirit of the people is amazing.
Well, the flight time is finally slowly getting closer, but I’m glad I had the opportunity to reflect and catch up on my blog. We’re off to London and then Scotland, where we’ll spend a day with the Torrances in St. Andrews who many of you remember, and then to Iona on Saturday.

Clouds and mountains from Table Mountain--Cape Town

lowSA Capetown view frm Table Mt 3,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

Len on the Robberg Trail at Plettenberg Bay

lowSA Plet Roberg Len on trail,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

Dispatch from Franschhoek: Sunday, May 22

It’s early Sunday morning, before dawn, Trinity Sunday. We’re in a cozy little cottage in the town of Franschhoek about 40 miles from Cape Town South Africa. Later this morning we’ll be driving about 15 miles to Stellenbosch to join Terry Plantinga and his wife for church. You probably recognize the name, and sure enough, Terry is Al’s brother, who’s been living here for a number of years. We got acquainted by email at Al’s suggestion when we were planning the South Africa portion of our trip, and Terry offered us some good advice.
That’s where we are, now I need to back up a bit. I should warn you that this is going to be a bit of a travelogue since we’ve been on the road from place to place these last few days. So if that’s not your taste in blogology, skip to the next dispatch.
Flying out of Durban we began the last stage of our African journey, from Port Elizabeth to Cape Town along the Eastern Cape coast. If you look at your map, you will see that traveling from Port Elizabeth to Cape Town involves moving from east to west, which surprised me a bit. I had in my mind that the Cape Town was at the southern tip of the Africa, but, in it’s not, and the whole southern tip of Africa (the Eastern Cape region) is quite wide with Cape Town is at the western end. And the distances are more than we bargained for, which meant that we spent more time yesterday behind the wheel than we like to, though the scenery was magnificent.
We arrived at Port Elizabeth from warm, sunny Durban on a relatively cold and rainy Wednesday afternoon. Port Elizabeth is at the eastern end of what’s called the “Garden Route,” a dramatically rugged section of coastline bordered by mountains on the north and a series of lovely bays and beaches on the coast. After picking up our rental car at the airport, we drove west along the coast an hour or so to Jeffrey’s Bay on a peninsula jutting into the Indian Ocean. It was still cloudy and chilly (I’m talking Mediterranean chilly here not South Bend-- 55 to 60 degrees) when we woke Thursday morning, so we decided to drive on while the skies gradually cleared, as we often do with no specific destination in mind. The “Garden Route” seems an apt name for the coastal road, offering dramatic views of the ocean, craggy mountain peaks, deep rocky gorges where the rivers cut across the land to the sea, with glorious blooming flowers in every town along the way. This particular section of the coast also has sections of virgin coastal forest, and we stopped at one spot that day to take a two-hour hike into the deep forest up a mountainside with tall trees above and huge ferns spread on the forest floor. It reminded us in some ways of the western coast of New Zealand.
Mid afternoon we rounded a corner of the road and saw below us the sandy beach and white-capped waves of Plettenberg Bay, a town called the St. Tropez of the Garden Route, and immediately decided that this was our destination for the day. We didn’t know if that meant St. Tropez expensive, or St. Tropez beautiful. As usual we found an excellent backpackers place in the middle of town, just a walk to the beach. After exploring the town a bit we returned to our great room with a soft duvet and thick white towels, not typical of the backpacker level of accommodations, to settle down for an evening of talking and reading. Not wanting to cook that night, and, believe it or not, getting tired of going out to restaurants, we ordered out for one of those fabulous pizzas we only seem to find outside the U. S., smothered in an unusual and delicious variety of toppings—this one with lots of fresh tuna, blue cheese, and red pepper.
Fortunately, the next morning was sunny and bright, and we had been thinking about hiking the Robberg Peninsula Park , a big rock extending a couple miles out into the Indian Ocean on the tip of the Plettenberg Bay. It turned out to be a great hike, from walking along narrow paths over ocean cliffs to traversing secluded beaches. At one point the waves were so enticing that I stepped behind a rock, stripped down to my BVDs (looks just like the kind of thing the Germans wear on the beach all the time) and jumped into the surf. Water that had seemed quite mild putting my hand in the surf turned out to be numbingly cold—but in a few minutes I was splashing and body surfing in the waves. We ended the hike with a picnic on a cliff overlooking the Indian Ocean with the surf pounding below. What a way to spend the morning.
But that was only the first of our adventures for the day. We had been talking about going into a section of the Eastern Cape over a mountain pass called the “Klein Karoo,” or Little Karoo, a much drier and mountainous landscape than the coast. So over lunch we consulted a map (you see how we carefully plan our routes) and, sure enough, there was a road right up through the Prince Albert Pass (the bonnie prince had once shot an now extinct elephant in the pass). It did appear to be partially unpaved, but it can’t be all that bad, considering the high quality of South African roads we’d seen so far. It wasn’t bad to start, but within a few kilometers it turned into more of a logging road with potholes, stones rather than gravel, and steep drop-offs—in other words, 4-wheel drive road. But through my skillful driving and Jeanne’s warning screams, we made it. And we were so glad we did it. We passed through the most magnificent mountain scenery, with green valleys, waterfalls, and even a couple of trucks whole drivers laughingly shook their heads at out Nissan sedan, which came through unscathed except for a cake of mud.
The Karoo is strikingly different than the coastal region, and certainly different than the Durban area. Geographically, it’s arid, watered by several rivers enriched by little rainfall. It’s mostly cattle and ostrich farms, while farther west, where there’s a lot more water, the valleys have orchards and the beginning of the vineyard region. Culturally it quite different as well—this is Afrikaner territory, and most of the signs are in English and Africans or just Africans. The original Dutch settlers from the 16th century gradually pushed up the Breed River valley and beyond to settle the Karoo.
We stopped for the night in a town called Oudtschoorn. It seemed immediately Dutch, with the white stucco and decorations typical of the cape Dutch, adapted from their homeland way back in the 17th century. As usual, we had no reservation but the info booth in the town pointed us to a wonderful B and B on the outskirts run by a Mr. Meyer (I can’t remember his first name), a liberal middle aged Africaner, who specialized in indigenous plants and did tours with great old Range Rover Discovery 4x4s. He had built a lovely brick guesthouse with a wrap-around veranda overlooking his flowering indigenous garden. We’ve stayed at so many places here that we wished we could just settle in for a few days and enjoy—but we had to push on to Cape Town.
The next day—Saturday we drove the little Karoo, passing through flat deserts surrounded by mountains, lovely passes, and finally down into the wine country for which the Eastern Cape is so famous. Mr. Meyer had directed us on a special route we wouldn’t have known to Franschhoek. It approaches the town over a gorgeous mountain pass, so that you see the town like a jewel in a valley filled with vineyards.
Franschhoek is known as the “gastronomical capital of South Africa.” With 10 of SA’s best restaurants and chefs, and all this for a town of a thousand people. You can only guess why Jeanne, after carefully studying our trusty “Lonely Planet” guidebook slipped this place in as a must-see on our trip. The whole main street is nearly one long line of great restaurants, mostly French, since, as you can guess by the name (Franschhhoek) it was originally settled by French Huguenots. We had a great dinner (and some great Cape wine) in a 17th century building seated near a huge blazing fireplace. From there we settled into our little cottage and couldn’t keep our eyes open after five pages.

Our safari tent camp at Imfolozi Game Reserve

SA Imf camp bedrmlow,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

Mother and kid giraffe at Imfolozi Game Reserve

SA low Imf Giraffes,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

Dispatch from Mtubatuba: Tuesday, May 18

I’m not sure I can pronounce it yet either, but it’s a wild west sort of town located in northern Kwa Zulu Natal Province. Strangely enough, we’re staying at what is without a doubt the best “backpackers” place yet—a garden-like place with a pool, and our room was the size of half a house. Of course it was also spotlighted, patrolled by two dogs and razor wired, but that’s “normal” here.
What brought us here is the real story. We just got done with two and a half days of the most thrilling and memorable part of our trip so far, a visit to the Hluweluwe/Imfolozi Game Reserve (I can do the Imfolozi but I’ve given up on a real Zulu pronunciation of Hluweluwe, except that it begins with a “Shah” sound. This is the oldest gamed reserve in South African dating from 1895, located in the heart of what used to be the hunting reserve of the Zulu kings. Hundreds of square miles of bush, most of it very hilly, even mountainous, with a breathtaking concentration of animals and birds in their natural habitat.
We had read all about the park, but were overwhelmed by it’s vast beauty and teeming wildlife. We had driven about three kilometers into the park when, having seen nothing yet, I jokingly said to Jeanne, “Well, let’s just turn around a get our money back.” Before the words were out of my mouth we rounded a corner in the narrow paved road and a giraffe, mother and baby, stood tall and serene no more than 10 feet off the road. The mother was tending her young one, actually cleaning her butt after a dump. We sat there for ten minutes or so before we could bring ourselves to move on. Both of us had tears in our eyes. We had, of course, seen giraffe in zoos, but it’s an entirely different experience to watch them close up in their natural habitat. And that was only the beginning. That afternoon we spotted elephant, baboon, zebra, and the beautiful impala (who became so common as to be utterly unremarkable) most at very close range.
We headed first to the northern part of the park for a Sunday buffet at the Hilltop Camp, the high end place to stay in the park with lots of facilities, including a full restaurant that served an excellent buffet, including curried crocodile (of course it tasted like chicken). Then we turned south to the Mpila camp, in the more primitive southern part of the reserve where the roads were mostly dirt (we remarked how many people were driving Land Rovers and other 4x4s but learned why when we had to turn around because our Nissan couldn’t negotiate the rocks on one of the “loop” roads). Back in Durban we had reserved what’s called a “safari tent” lodging at Mpila. The safari tent is literally a tent, at least on top, built on a wood platform off the ground, consisting of two parts, a sleeping tent, with good beds all made up (with mosquito netting), and a complete bath on the back with hot shower. Walking a wood deck around a corner is our private kitchen tent with stove, fridge (with a lock to keep the monkeys out of it), and sink. There was a picnic table on the deck between the two areas. It was primitive and luxurious at the same time. We sat out on the deck after a simple meal watching the sun set through the low bush trees with an orange and pink glow, amid the grunts of monkeys and the grass chewing impala, and just thanked God, Lilly, and all of you for our being able to be there.
We had electricity till 9 pm, so there was light to wash dishes and read a bit before bed. Our evening prayers that Pentecost night included Psalm 104 with its vivid images of God caring for the teeming wildlife:
You make the darkness and it is night,
when all the animals of the forest come creeping out.
The young lions roar for their prey,
seeking their food from God.
When the sun rises they withdraw
And lie in the dens.
Then the lights went out and it was DARK, with hardly any moon, the canopy of stars splashed brightly across the sky like a Van Gogh.
The next day we spent driving the mostly dirt roads of the southern half of the reserve. The big rule was that you never left your car, as tempting as it was, because many of the animals could be dangerous if humans got too close. But it mattered little. From our open car windows we saw all the animals above, and that day added white rhino sloshing in a mud pool twenty feel from the car a couple of elephants on the road, with us driving slowly at a respectable distance behind. Elephants are the most destructive animals in the park just ripping at tree limbs for food, and even pushing down whole trees to eat a little of the sweet roots, taking up a huge range of habitat for their destructive ways. We also frequently spotted wart hog, wildebeest, buffalo, and a wide range of antelope. It was so exciting because you never knew what sort of wildlife might be around the next bend in the road.
The next morning, our last in the park, we had booked a guided walk with a ranger at 6am. We rose at 5, got dressed in the cold and dark (electricity didn’t go on till 8am), and felt our way around the kitchen tent for the matches to light the stove to make some instant coffee and have a boiled egg. We were a little punchy since we had been wrenched awake at 3 am by the sound of an elephant near the tent ripping trees apart right on top of the tent, or so it sounded (we didn’t get out to investigate). We drove up to the office, joining two young men from the Netherlands for our hike. Our guide, an older Zulu man walked up (we could tell he was the guide from the rifle slung over his shoulder. We drove down to a nearby parking area off the road, and set out in the bush just at sunrise.
It was a completely different kind of experience to actually walk the bush rather than drive the roads, as exciting as that was. We set out into the tall dewy grass (sometimes up to our armpits) and along trails made by animals. Before we left, the guide, in what I call “Zuleng” (a mixture of Zulu and English, but mostly Zulu, with lots of gestures) gave us the rules. “Rule no. 1: follow me closely in a straight line. Rule No 2 follow me in a straight line….” All the way to rule no. 5, which began to include animals. If a rhino charged we were to climb the nearest tree, which caused us all to keep an eye out for climbing trees on our walk. If an Elephant charged me were to run a zigzag line away (they don’t see well). If a sleeping lion was awakened, we were to bow in respect and slowly back away as though he/she were an oriental potentate. As we set out, trying to keep the rules straight in our head, I noticed for the first time that the guide’s rifle was a single shot bolt action, and wondered how long it took to reload. We didn’t need any of that, however. Still the walk was very exciting, as he had us walking slowly up to grazing Rhino, buffalo and a huge herd of wildebeest, while interpreting animal prints in the dirt and dung piles (the bush is full of so many animals the ground sometimes resembled a barn yard) along the way. He was an extremely knowledgeable bushman, often perfectly mimicking the sounds of various animals and birds. Once, before we could actually see them he interpreted the grunting sounds we heard as white rhino, huge beasts in mating season, and therefore somewhat edgy. In Zulu accompanied by colorful gestures he explained that the sound we heard was a male rhino with a female making another sound, which meant she was not cooperating, making the male a bit cranky. We should stay our distance so we watched them from behind a few large bushes.
The three hours of our hike in the bush flew by like minutes. Actually we didn’t get as close to the animals as in a car, they being more skittish of humans on foot, which was novel for them. Still, the nearly silent walk through this wild and beautiful bush land, over hills and into dry streambeds, expecting to see anything at any time, was totally absorbing. One of the so-called “big five” (rhino, buffalo, elephant, wildebeest and lion) we missed seeing was the lion, not because they aren’t numerous, but because they have such a wide range and are much more secretive than the others. But we did see a recent lion kill on our hike, a giraffe carcass, mostly bones picked clean by hyena and vultures, but still buzzing with flies.
The whole experience was nothing less than thrilling, and a memory we will carry with us for a lifetime. We’re headed back to Durban tomorrow to fly on our favorite cheap African airline, Kulula.com, to Port Elizabeth for a ride through the “garden route” along the southern cape to Capetown. Going south will mean it will be a bit colder so we’ll put all those lightweight cottons