We arrived in The Kingdom of Swaziland at eleven o’clock on a Friday morning in May. Cows wandered over the main highway running through the lovely Ezulwini valley. Having left Australia some twenty four hours earlier, we were eager, excited, but a little frayed. A photo on our daughter’s Facebook page had appealed to me as a fabulous place to stay: people seated on wicker chairs, wine glasses in hand on a verandah overlooking paradise. Despite the only possible option for such a stay being the Friday night of our arrival, I voted for it. On the down side, Rock Lodge was two hours away.
We set off after three, keen not to be travelling “after dark up there”. I thought of the cows. Tracks, referred to erroneously as roads, twisted up a mountain. Although maps existed, the majority of roads were unnamed. Before our arrival Tegan had cheerfully admitted to having not yet found the airport. “But that’s okay Mum”, she had said. “I can just stop and ask someone. They’ll point in the right direction, and I can keep enquiring until I find it.”The winding tracks went on. Occasionally we paused at branches off to right or left listening to Tegan and Myles confer. It was now approaching five o’clock. The thought of turning back and attempting to find the correct path was horrifying. They all looked the same.
At the top of a ridge a group of mud huts enclosed in brush fencing appeared to be our destination.I had packed heavily for the overnight stay. You never know what you might need. No one had informed me I was going to have to carry anything anywhere. Tegan now announced we would be trekking it down the hill with packs and, under each arm, sleeping bags, pillows and a variety of needs such as wine and water. Although I like to walk, that late Friday afternoon of our first day in Africa, I felt completely overwhelmed as I slipped and slid my way down.
Rock Lodge is built under a massive overhang. Two sleeping rooms have rough beds with mattresses which we dragged onto the floor to avoid sleeping like bananas. A tree grows comfortably in the bedroom. Down one section of the rock wall, another large rock had, several hundred years earlier, rolled to a dead stop. Between the two a small aperture and relatively steep steps leads to the bathroom. Severe vertigo had been lingering around the edges of my consciousness. How on earth was I to manage the trip in the middle of the night by torchlight?
At the base of the steps the path led right, passing out of sight and leading to a large rock platform. Here there were no walls or partitions. An open air toilet, a shower rose and a stone basin of mammoth proportions completed the bathroom. An unobstructed one hundred and eighty degree view from the toilet and shower was breathtaking. Three types of people would appreciate these unusual facilities: those who enjoy quiet reflection on the toilet (a largely male occupation I have never been able to comprehend); those seeking long showers whilst not requiring the water to be hot; and those who love the great outdoors and are keen to remove all their clothes becoming completely one with nature. I forgot to mention the small stick which was back a bit. You were encouraged to place it horizontally across the path, thus indicating occupation. I appreciated the freedom and beauty of this bathroom, but the vertigo was intense.
A long and refreshing sleep, punctuated by a midnight trip to the bathroom (and a successful return), led to a day of delight. The vertigo disappeared. The place was spectacular; the weather hot. Life couldn’t get much better than this. A cold shower on the edge of creation cannot be described effectively. You have to go there.
Therapy is somewhat similar. You set off to a strange land where you never suspected you would go and you don’t speak the language. You put yourself in the hands of someone whose navigational skills you have not tested. The only straw to which you can cling is when they act as though they know the way. Often they have not journeyed there themselves, but have merely read the guide book. You do this when you are feeling at your most vulnerable; when the vertigo is intense, and you are certain you will fall off the edge of the world. People have told you it is a worthwhile trip, and it sounded appealing when you made the plan. On setting out you realise you’ve made a major mistake, and you wonder why you didn’t ask more questions about what you were getting into. The path appears to wander along various goat trails which you can’t trust because there are absolutely no road signs. You are exhausted, fearful, miserable, and with strangers who don’t understand your needs. There are not enough walls to help you feel contained. The baggage you carry is too heavy, and no one stops to help. Sure the place is appealing but is it worth the struggle?
Along the journey you reach a plateau and imagine you have arrived. You discuss this with enthusiasm and some sense of triumph. Your guide (if you are fortunate) makes encouraging noises then appears to expect you to move on. Where else is there to go? You have surely arrived. The way ahead is steeper than the first part of the journey. You raise your gaze and discover the mountain goes on. Your pack is heavier now and the essentials seem silly. Perhaps the guide will help carry. The guide seems to think this is a bad idea. You are angry at the thoughtless lack of graciousness.Suddenly you are going down after all that effort to climb up. You have no other choice but to descend because releasing crap requires a journey down the stairs. Somehow you suspect you will need these skills, in the dark, later on. The facilities you discover are unusually challenging of your vulnerabilities, and you fear to make yourself naked there. Others seem to do it without effort.For the therapist, the journey has many similar elements with each and every client. After two sessions the client reports she is feeling much better. The fifth week she is a little uncertain because the road signs have disappeared. She begins to ask for direction at every turn, and as you are unaware of the path ahead you hesitate to reassure. By week ten she has entered a very sticky place; not much room to manoeuver and the depression has deepened. You decide to hold on rather than suggesting a medication review. You remind yourself this has happened before; many times. Three or four sessions later the client has picked up her pack, her pillow, her wine and water and womanfully attempts to control her descent without falling over. She gets to the point where she strips off and tries the outdoor shower. For a moment you are completely at one. You remind yourself this is a station along the way and that none of this is about you. You are only the guide.