Diary of a Trail of storms & light
- healingpaths69
- Apr 30
- 22 min read
Updated: 2 days ago
Guest Blog Bridget Pitt. All photos by Grace Harrison
Below is a diary of the five day trail for local community members, funded by the Alive in the Wilderness project. Read more about this here. Author Bridget Pitt and FIlmmaker Grace Harrison accompanied the trail to document the story.
Day one: Getting there
We head up the N3 towards Mfolozi, through sugarcane fields, pine and black wattle plantations — a landscape utterly transformed from the wilderness and agrarian communities who flourished here before colonialism. We pass a fifteen kilometre long line of stationary coal trucks on the other side of the road, waiting for the weighbridge at Richards Bay. Jabula tells us that they may wait there for a few days. It is a sobering reminder that the extraction and burning of fossil fuel continues to accelerate, even as climate change wreaks exponential devastation on the world.
At Mtubatuba we pick up Mandla Nkosi, one of the trail guides. We travel along the R618 before turning off to Ophondweni. The open caste anthracite Somkhele mine is a dark stain on the landscape. At every turn, another slag heap looms on the horizon. The original gaping excavation is no longer productive, so the mine has extended its tentacles into new territories, eaten up new lands, displaced more families, swallowed more streams and forests. Some homesteads we pass have new buildings, perhaps beneficiaries of the mine’s unequally distributed profits. But most homesteads are not wealthy, their owners eking out a living from hard scrabble farming, made so much harder by constant blasting, air and water pollution, loss of land and fractured community relationships caused by the mine. Anti mining activists have been gunned down, murdered, and threatened.
In Ophondweni, we collect Nqobile (Nqobi), Simangele and Minenhle, whose late father was one of the first to take up the fight against the mine. This cohort was recruited by a local community activist involved in opposing the mine and working with villagers to grow vegetables and learn about environmental threats such as climate change. We go on through the reserve to Hlabisa, and pick up Mbuso, Ntobeko, Nonkululeko, Philisiwe, Sindisiwe (Sindi), Sandiso and Simphiwe. As we drive back to the park, the van is full of chatter. My limited grasp of the language is no match for this rapid isiZulu. I give up trying to follow the conversation, and enjoy the sense of excitement and anticipation.
By the time we reach our starting point for the trail, the sun is dipping to the horizon, and the guides decide to forego the planned lunch and introductions, and press ahead to reach our sleeping spots in time to set up camp before nightfall.
After the intricate business of allocating rucksacks, sleeping bags, tents, and dividing the food among the carriers, we are ready to go, looking like pack ponies with our loads. Sicelo is careful to divide the load according to ability. We all feel as if our pack is a bit heavier than we can manage, but we will manage it - including the heavy camera equipment that Grace is carrying.
We split into two groups: Nqobile, Sandiso, Mbuso, and Simangele with myself, Grace, Sicelo and Jabula. The other community members go with the other two guides, Mandla Buthelezi and Mandla Nkosi. We will camp separately, but meet and walk together during the day.
The first night
We walk in silence in single file as instructed by Sicelo. White backed vultures circle overhead, coming to roost in the huge old Umkhiwane trees down by the river. Waterbuck bound through thick grass ahead of us. I am shocked to see how the river has dropped from the last time I’d been there - now just a broad expanse of dry sand, with a small channel of water running through it. Sicelo says it is lower than usual, due to late rains and extreme heat.
We reach the rocky outcrop that will be home tonight. The rain starts falling as we find sleeping spots, erect our one person tents, and store our bags under cover. Sicelo collects river water in the canvas buckets, and sterilises it for drinking and cooking. I set to work with the other women, cutting vegetables for the night, still shy of each other but falling into the easy rhythm of working together. Jabula is head chef, mixing sauces and ingredients with a flair not dampened by the drizzle. The food is delicious, seasoned with mthombothi woodsmoke and the calls of the nightjars and crickets.
After supper Sicelo briefs everyone on night watch. He explains that you can tell when your hour is up by checking when the stars have moved one fist above the horizon, but if, as now, the clouds are hiding the stars, you need to use your innate sense of time. He explains when to wake him and when not. He explains where to shine the torch, and how often, and cautions against leaving it on too long. Everyone stares at the torch with a new respect, realising that this humble tool is essential to our safety. He shows us how to keep the fire going with minimal wood. As he speaks, a firefly glows intermittently in the darkness behind him, seeming to endorse his words.
I crawl into my sleeping bag, grateful for my tent as rain patters on the roof. Outside, the night chorus is a syncopated medley of night birds, insects and frogs, punctuated by the occasional yelp of a hyena or distant roar lion. I sink into sleep, filled with gratitude to be here, again, in the wilderness.
Day Two: Belonging
We wake to a pearly dawn, in a soft misty drizzle. Only four people have done night watch, so two of us were spared. I sit quietly with Jabula, Mbuso and Sicelo, watching the Nyala across the river. A lone hammerkop paces beside the water’s edge, his claw-hammer shaped profile mirrored in the water.
After breakfast and packing up, we cross the trickling river. Multiple tracks crisscross the broad expanse of white sand. The hammerkop has gone, but I can trace his journey amongst the footprints of antelope, baboons, a complex narrative of the night's events.
We meet with the other group, and form a circle. 'At home, the elders will talk, but the youth and women will be condemned if they speak. Here, in this circle, all have an equal voice', Sicelo explains.
Sicelo burns imphepho to bring the blessings of the spirits and ancestors. He speaks of how we are between the two great Mfolozi rivers, in the land that Shaka used as hunting grounds, thus preserving the wilderness for the animals that roamed there. Only the blacksmiths smelting spears were allowed to dwell in this land. Today, it is the most pure wilderness in the reserve, untouched by buildings, roads and vehicles. He speaks of the profound connection of Zulus to this land; of the destruction happening on the doorstep of the park through the coal mines, the violence enacted on rhinos and other species through poaching, the need to reawaken in people their innate connection to the natural world
‘I acknowledge the spirits of those fighting to save this land, and call on the animals, the elephants and butterflies to bless this circle… I call on the spirits of the animals who have died by the barrel of a gun, in particular the spirit of the dead rhino whose wounded carcass stimulated the generosity which enabled this journey. Last night we slept under the stars; today we will immerse ourselves in the wilderness, and the wilderness will bring us into oneness with the land. Our people pray in the wilderness, for they know it will bring them into connection with the spirits, with God and with the earth.
The other guides speak of the privilege of making this wilderness journey with members of their own community, rather than with visitors from other places and overseas; how animals and the Zulu people once roamed freely through these lands, but now fences have blocked this.
Sicelo invites me to share the prompt for the day, which is ‘belonging’. We search for a Zulu word. The words ngivelaphi and imvelaphi are suggested, referring to the place you belong to or where you have come from. As I’m not sure if these words have the same resonance as ‘belonging’, I propose a gesture — belonging is the sensation of being embraced, not belonging is the sense of being pushed away. Trailists are asked to consider as they walk: what is embracing us in this landscape? What is pushing us away?
We set off walking in silence, stopping when Sicelo points out some of the plants - gardenia, wild asparagus and wild jasmine - and describes their medicinal qualities. We come across a wide hollow filled with red mud, over one metre deep and stretching several meters across. Sicelo explains how these mud wallows usually start with the wildebeest, scratching in the dirt. This small beginning is expanded by buffalos, elephants, and rhinos, until a capacious wallow like this is created. It serves all the animals’ need for mud baths, and traps drinking water in summer. ‘This is an example of Ubuntu in the wilderness, all animals working together to create something which serves everyone.’
We walk on under the gathering clouds. The day is warm and humid, and my pack weighs me down. Four giraffes are visible on a distant ridge, their outlines so distinctive even far away. We are followed by the haunting call of the mourning dove, the musical babble of the burchell’s coucals. Thunder rumbles through the clouds, soft but menacing. The blanket of clouds seems to intensify the quality of sound, accentuating each rustle of vegetation, each bird call, the shrill hum of a passing cicada.
I think about belonging. I realise that the reason my ancestors did not belong here was not because they came from somewhere else. The Nguni people had come from the north only a few centuries before. By that measure, only descendants of the San people truly belong here. My ancestors did not belong because they came to steal land and cattle, to chop forests, to kill animals and impoverish people to force them into labour. This legacy makes it hard for me to feel I belong, but this is also the only land I know and the only land I want to know.
I think about my heavy pack, about how the more you take, the more you must carry with you. Even if you make someone else carry for you, the load still crushes your soul.
We join the other group for bread and cheese and tomatoes under acacia thorn trees, hurrying to finish as the thunder gathers and the clouds roll in. We move quickly to our next camping spots: Mandla’s group on top of a steep hill over the river, ours on a rocky outcrop a few metres below.
We slither down a steep slope and set up tents as the first drops start falling. We retreat into the tents as the downpour intensifies. I hear the women calling from one tent to another, laughing at interjections from the men. I lie watching the heavy drops running down my fly sheet, grateful for its shelter, and flooded with a sudden, sweet simple happiness.
We eat supper early and fast, dodging the rain — another elaborate stew with many vegetables and flavourful additions. The women are shy to engage with Grace and myself, but always willing to offer a helping hand, to lift a pack or cut vegetables or put up a tent. Jabula gives up his sleeping mat for Grace, whose mat was accidentally left behind. He insists that his sleeping bag is thick, and he is used to sleeping on hard floors.
I sit under dripping trees as we eat, dipping into the rushing stream of isiZulu, wishing I could dive in and swim along. I fall asleep to the pounding rain, and am woken after midnight by Sandiso. He offers me the huge raincoat that Sicelo has made available for those on night watch. I accept gratefully, but the rain soon dries up. It’s an exquisite rain-softened night. The night chorus of creatures is muted, as if retreating to allow the rain its own music. But the frogs are in full voice, harmonising with the trickling streams and the patter of raindrops as the wind rustles the trees. Too wet to sit or make notes in my journal, I count my way through my stretch, guided by the rhythmic chirp of a nearby insect
Day Three: Ubuntu
We wake to welcome sunshine, and wind down to the river for a much needed bath — men in one part, women around a bend up stream — directed by the delightfully droll Mandla Buthelezi who is watching out for approaching animals. We strip off and wallow in the shallows, relishing the simple blessing of water on grubby sweaty skin. My small bottle of biodegradable ‘wilderness wash’ is eagerly passed around.
As we will be returning to our camp for a second night, we are liberated from our heavy packs for the day’s walk. We meet the other group for our second circle under the trees. The damp earth steams as the sun moves higher, and we huddle in the sparse shade. Sicelo calls on the ancestors, the wild spirits, the creatures to bless the circle. He chooses a golden wild hibiscus to be our ‘Speaking stick’.
‘The hibiscus is very sensitive to acid rain, so that when the plant is blooming and healthy we know that the rain is just beautiful natural rain. We humans also are very sensitive to negative energy, to the toxicity in the world. We carry the weight of the world on our shoulders, we carry the troubles of the world, of our own families .’
He reminds us that the circle is sacred, no one may speak if not holding the flower. He invites us to speak from the heart, not the brain. ‘Don’t prepare your speech, or try to impress the facilitators or each other. You will know when you feel a shiver, or your heart beats harder, that you are ready to speak’
One by one people speak about what the prompt of ‘belonging’ has sparked in them. Most people speak in isiZulu, with Mbuso translating into English. Simangele says she was terrified at first. 'But over time, I have come to feel that this is my home. It is good to learn that these were Shaka’s hunting grounds, and to walk in this place of my ancestors. Everyone is helping us to feel at ease.'
Sindi was skeptical of the guides, at first, and didn’t believe they could protect us against wild animals, but now she trusts them. 'It was a huge thing for me to come to this place with big and dangerous animals, for even the cows and bullocks at home frighten me.’
Philisiwe speaks about the peace she feels when at home, gardening and working with bees. ‘I feel the same peace here, as if I am part of a family. I appreciate the guides, they are very helpful and informative.'
Mandla Buthelezi says ‘This experience feeds my soul, it is so important to bring black people here and not just white people. Being here with you I feel like I am coming home.' Grace says: ‘Growing up in Johannesburg I never felt as if I belonged...Here, I do feel that I belong… I felt this most strongly when I was in the river washing with the other women, all of us naked, engaged in this simple ritual. But I am also mindful that my ancestors were colonisers, this pushes me from the land.’
MIninhle says that he initially struggled with the weight of his pack. But now he is happy to be here and wishes that the time here could be extended. Simpiwe feels pulled onto the landscape, but struggles with the nightwatch which is very frightening. She was interested to hear how the wildebeest create wallows for other animals. Nonkululeko feels a sense of freedom in the space, and feels more able to embrace new ideas. ‘I have always been set on becoming a nurse or a doctor, but now I feel open to other possibilities. I feel as if I can find meaning in my life here.’ Nqobi thought she was coming to a hotel, so it is an adjustment! Her load is heavy and nightwatch is scary but others are helping her and she is feeling more part of the landscape. Mbuso, who is still recovering from a serious car accident, had been worried about holding the group back because walking is difficult for him. ‘But being here feels like home. There is no judgement, I feel welcome and accepted even though I am limping.’
Sandiso is concerned that rhinos and people are dying because of rhino poaching, and hopes to work in the reserve. For Ntobeko, the wilderness feels like home, the group is like family. ‘It is a good space to work things out. I am learning a lot here.’
I speak about the complexity of belonging in a land as descendents of colonialists, how it is the only land I connect with, but, like Grace, my history pushes us away.
Sicelo says ‘What pushes me away is the knowledge that my own people are sent here to poach, and sometimes get killed…. Seeing a rhino butchered by poachers is a terrible experience. But you all give me hope, when I hear Gugu saying she can find the true meaning of life here. I can see Sandiso can take up my journey and become a guide. I admire the way we can look through pain and the ancestral legacy of apartheid. This place gives us the power to look through fear and tears. All these layers are awakening wisdom. The wind is blowing, taking our thoughts because we are willing to acknowledge our fears.’
When people finish sharing, I give the prompt for that day: ubuntu, the Nguni belief that we realise our humanness through community.. Sicelo reminds us that ubuntu is not just between humans, but is also present in the animal world. He encourages people to open their minds and senses to seeing this.
As we walk away, I spot two beetles manoeuvring a dung ball, their emerald green carapaces flashing in the sun like bright jewels. Their ball is perfectly spherical, about the size of a ping pong ball. How miraculous that these busy insects can create a geometric masterpiece just with their rolling action.
We walk on in sultry heat, pausing to laugh at a warthog turning circles, to admire herds of impala and kudu leaping gracefully through the long grass like dolphins diving through the waves. We stop by a burrow, originally created by aardvark digging into termite mounds, and now a possible home for many creatures: a whelping burrow for wild dogs, shelter for warthogs and hyenas. Sicelo explains that sometimes nocturnal and diurnal animals will share a burrow like this, one using it by day and the other by night — a good example of ubuntu. Fresh spoor indicates that the burrow is in use, and Sicelo cautions us not to approach lest we disturb its occupant!
The rolling clouds and threat of flash floods leads to a change in route. We eat hurriedly under an umkhiwane tree, as the call of coucals in the undergrowth and the rolling thunder portend another storm. We walk back briskly, pausing to load up with firewood for the night. As we reach base camp, fat drops begin pelting. Grace has an umbrella to shield her camera from rain while filming the fire making. Everyone tries to cram under the umbrella, laughing at the rain.
We retreat to our tents as the downpour intensifies. I lie cocooned under the water pounding on the fly sheet. Lightning crackles, flashing an eerie glow in the darkened landscape, accompanied by simultaneous deafening claps of thunder. My tent seems a flimsy bulwark against the power of the storm, and yet it holds up.
My tent is blocking the path of the water rushing off the cliff towards the river, and a small pool soon forms. The water is rising fast, threatening to flood the tent. I brave the rain to bale the water out with a plate. Mbuso and Jabula help. It must have been hurting Mbuso’s back but he does not complain or stop until the water is cleared — true ubuntu! When the downpour lessens I retreat to my tent to get into my only dry clothes. Sicelo brings me a steaming cup of rooibos tea, tasting of woodsmoke and kindness.
We eat a hurried wet supper. I chat to Mbuso, who tells me about his accident, his fears that he will not be able to fulfill his dreams to complete his training to be a guide. The rain drives us back to our tents, but this does not dampen the enthusiasm, and there is much laughter and banter until late in the night. Because of the late start, not many people do night watch, and I am spared. again
There is another fierce thunderstorm in the night, with lightning flashes and cracking thunder. I sleep fitfully, with strange dreams of being flooded out.
Day Four: Healing
I wake to sunshine flooding my tent and the liquid trill of the coucals in the wet vegetation. The morning is slow, as we put out sleeping bags, tents and clothes to dry.
After a swim, we break camp, shoulder our full packs, and gather for a circle on the cliff.
Sicelo welcomes the group.
‘We have been walking with the beautiful scent of rain meeting earth, we have been baptised by this thunder and lightning. When I saw you guys bathing, you seemed such a natural part of the landscape, unlike the white tourists I bring here. As we lose our fears, we ignite the wild fire in our soul, the knowledge that we belong here, we are the sons and daughters of this soil, we carry this in the deepness of our bones.
‘I’ve seen a lot of flying ants being dragged into burrows by the pugnacious ants. The flying ants fly to find mates, but if they don’t make it they become food for many other creatures. In their death, they give life. This is Ubuntu in the natural world.
‘I open this circle by inviting the ancestors of this land, the water spirits, the sun. .’
He invites people to speak on yesterday’s theme of ubuntu.
Mandla Buthelezi begins. ‘The rain is ubuntu, it brings a time of giving. The sacrifice of the flying ants too. Last night I was tired and needed to sleep, my community did everyone for me. I want to thank all in this circle, for you are all people of the earth. Philisiwe says she felt ubuntu during the thunderstorm because she knew her ancestors would keep her safe.
Simangele feels grateful for the gifts of the wilderness, for the guides for leading us, for Sicelo for showing us how the animals practice ubuntu, such as the porcupines and warthog sharing a burrow.
Sicelo sees ubuntu in the bones of the rhino that was poached, for they have given birth to this circle here today. ‘The death of the rhino shook us to our bones, but through this darkness we are able now to sit together under this tree.’
Mininhle is grateful to Jabulu for helping her to fill out the forms, and all the guides for always being here for us. Jabulu says, ‘It takes a village to raise a child. When I first came here I knew nothing. I was so grateful to Mandla and Sicelo. They are my fathers and fathers, I will take what they have taught us and always treat others with kindness.'
Nqobi says that thanks to ubuntu she has gained a mother and cousin on the trail in Simangele, who wakes her up with her clan names. ‘I am grateful to Grace and Bridget, who see no difference between black and white and shared their soap.’
SIndi finds ubuntu in togetherness and being able to help each other as if we are family. Nonkululeko says, ‘I have seen ubuntu in everyone who is here helping to carry the wood and the other tasks. I have always tried to open my heart and my hands to people who need ubuntu’
Ntobeko says that from the first day he experienced ubuntu. ‘I have seen animals that have died, but know that in their death they are giving life to others.’ Simphiwe thanks the guides for being very patient, even when she wakes them because she is afraid during nightwatch. ‘I am very grateful to everyone. I hope the guides will be patient if they get someone as scared as I am in the future.’
Sandiso is grateful to be connected to his forefathers, and to the team for working together. ‘I was scared to wake Bridget for night watch because it was raining, but she did not mind.’
Grace is grateful for the way the women have accepted us as one of them. Mbuso is grateful to all those who helped him through difficult times after his accident. I reflect on how Jabulu and Mbuso helped to save my tent from flooding.
Sicelo thanks everyone for their comments. ‘Some of you have said you are afraid. It is never a weakness to admit to being afraid, it is a strength to recognise what we can’t do. I used to ask Bridget to help me do the zoom sessions, now I can do them easily. ‘
I give them the prompt for the day, which is healing. I speak about how sometimes we need to lose something to heal, and ask them to think about what they need to let go of in order to heal. Grace suggests giving everyone a slip of paper and pen at nightwatch. They can write whatever it is that they think they need to let go of and burn the paper in the fire. Sicelo says that this is a powerful ritual, he has done it in the Drakensberg and it helped him let go of his sadness and anger.
Sicleo thanks the water, the sun, the elements, the ancient ones, and closes the circle.
We walk on through the heat, feeling the weight of our packs as the sun warms us. We see a young mole snake. Sicelo tells Mbuso to pick it up and tie it in a loose knot. The snake quickly frees itself and slithers away. Sicelo explains that it is a tradition to do this with the first young mole snake you see in the summer. If the snake can free itself easily, it is an omen that you too will succeed in overcoming the difficulties in your life.
The air is stifling, with heavy humidity. The shrill calls of the cicadas emanate from every tree; the calls of our constant companions, the emerald spotted wood dove and burchell’s coucal accompany our walk. I think a bit about healing and much about my pack. We come across the fresh spoor of a white rhino — Sicelo points out the three toes, the distinctive w of the foot pad. We feel reassured to know that rhinos are still flourishing in the park. Later we walk past the mud wallow we’d seen on Monday, now filled with rain to form a small pond. We see buffalo on the far side of the river, running up the hill. Before we leave the other group, I give Mandla Buthelezi the papers and a pen for people to write on during night watch. I encourage him and Mandla Nkosi to also perform the ritual. He laughs, and says they don’t usually do these things.
We reach the river, a completely different sight from three days before. Swollen by the heavy downpours, it fills the river bed and is running fast. We wade through the water — up to my thighs in parts. Sicelo later tells us that he spotted a small crocodile at the point where we had crossed.
We reach our old campsite, which feels like home now. Huge zebra striped millipedes cruise over the rocks, seeking shelter as we invade their home. We get the fire going, smear the pots, gather water, chop vegetables, already working seamlessly together to complete the tasks. We drink tea, watching an exquisite post storm sunset, and an elephant and rhino on the far bank. We are hoping for a night under the stars, but the clouds are gathering, and a few drops of rain make us hurriedly set up the tents.
By the time Jabula has finished preparing the meal of tinned tuna and rice, the rain is falling steadily. We eat quickly and retire.
Sandiso wakes me in the early hours for night watch. The rain had stopped, and a few stars are visible through gaps in the clouds. I even spot the curl of Scorpio’s tail — my old friend which has marked passing time in so many night watches before. The river is rising, running fast, carrying much debris.. I see a small animal foraging on the far bank, perhaps a genet or mongoose; hyenas laugh in the darkness, somewhere far away a lion roars. I write my piece — hard to write, because there are things in my life I need to let go of, but don’t feel quite ready. I write judgement and fear, for these always impede healing, and offer my paper to the fire and the gods.
Day five: Laying down our sorrows
We wake again to sunshine. Grace, Nqubi, Simangele and I help each other shower in a rocky nook — no ways we can we bathe in the raging river now. The wilderness wash is passed around — somehow we have made this tiny bottle last, even sharing it amongst all the women for three baths and one bath for the men. It seems to hold a lesson, to contradict the old story of the tragedy of the commons of how people will always take more than their share of communal resources. This demonstrates how a shared resource can expand to serve everyone, if it is treated with communal respect.
Just before we leave, I spot a stripy millipede on a rocky ledge. I step up on the rock to take a photo.In stepping down, I fall back, the camera flips over my head, rolls down the rocky slopes, and into the river below. All my photos and videos are gone.
We walk away from the camp. My camera bag is light without the camera, but heavy with regret for my clumsiness - a hard lesson in letting go. We walk along the river, watching the vultures rise from their roost in the umkhiwane trees, to ride the thermals on their outstretched wings. A lone elephant moves through the trees some distance off. I remember how Simangele told me that she wished to see an elephant, as it was linked to her mother’s clan name. We meet the other group and gather for our last circle under the spreading umkhiwane tree.
Before the circle is opened, I tell the group about my camera. I apologise for letting them down, for my work on the trail was to capture this story, and photography was a huge part of that. I am so grateful that Grace is there, so all is not lost.
Sicelo opens the circle, thanking the ancestors and the wild creatures around us. He says, ‘I am glad we have all had the opportunity of this ritual to help us heal.’
It is an emotional session. Trailists share their stories, and it's clear there much healing is needed. Many of them feel frustrated or trapped because of the lack of opportunities to further their studies or pursue careers that they have chosen. Some feel limited by injuries or illnesses. Young men comment on how they can not speak before the elders, and feel that no one listens to them. Some feel shame that they have not achieved what they had hoped for, they feel ‘left behind’ by their peers, or that they have let down family members. Some are carrying heavy responsibilities as their parents are absent or unable. One woman is mourning because she has been unable to fall pregnant. It becomes clear that they face much judgement, from others or from themselves; that they carry shame and regret; that there is little opportunity for reflection in their day to day lives. Many say that the ritual of burning has helped ease their burden, for others just the process of reflecting on healing is in itself healing. The guides all took up our invitation to do the ritual, and comment that they were glad for the opportunity to participate.
As we sit under the spreading umkhiwane, I can feel the deep sadness in the group. Tears flow freely, mirroring the rain that has engulfed us on the trail, the ubiquitous spotted emerald doves in the trees echo the sadness with their haunting calls. I sense how closely guarded this sadness is, how being immersed in the landscape has softened the hard shell guarding their vulnerabilities.
Sicelo closes the circle, saying, ‘we all have different problems but there is a link to all our sadnesses. The pain you speak of goes straight to my heart. But sometimes if we look into the eyes of the pain we can find true courage. When you weep here, it brings so much courage. I hope that you may go home with power, that you may go home with light.’
I hope that, as Sicelo puts it, they found courage in looking into the eyes of pain, just as they found courage to brave nightwatch and the heavy packs and the wild animals. I hope they have found some healing, or at least a path that may lead to healing. The whole time people are speaking, the lone elephant is moving around in the bushes some distance away, as if to give the group the courage they need.
Grace invites us to take a few deep breaths, and as we breathe out we imagine releasing some of the heaviness of the session.
Leaving the wilderness
The rest of the day passes in a blur of arrangements. As soon as people are back at the van and switching on their cellphones, the whole dynamic changes. Suddenly people are tuned into their outside issues, no longer the intimate and cohesive group which had literally weathered the storms together. It highlights how rare and precious these few days have been, without the toxicity of social media and news, the burden of daily lives. After lunch at the visitor's centre, we drop everyone off. They wave goodbye, and walk back into their lives, into the embrace of all that complexity and hardship, but we know that we are all carrying the light and healing from by our wilderness journey.
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