Ok, so this may be another revelation that completely astounds you - I have never been a happy camper. Literally or figuratively speaking. I am grumpy, lazy and to me nature is best enjoyed from afar and preferably above – taking in a lovely view with a bottle of something bubbly and a few nibbles. Or walking a gentle meander along a river or in park. Preferably en route to a table where there’s a bottle of something bubbly and a few nibbles. That’s how my nature intended. I have never had the slightest inclination to sleep on the floor, squat in the bush and eat all food groups that come out of a packet. It is less about creepy crawlies. I’m surprisingly unfazed about those. It’s the smell of smoke, the absence of any luxury comforts and the notion that this suffering must somehow all be part of an amazing experience. I derive more pleasure from having my head massaged at the hairdresser quite frankly. Or sitting in my car while I go through one of those carwash drive-throughs watching those massive foam flappers rub up against my car.
My two previous camping experiences may have shaped this
After that I managed to avoid camping for another five years before I caved in a weak moment. This time I roped in my sister. We camped for one night on New Year’s at Midmar Dam. Again there was rain. Ablutions were slightly better in that there were actual ablutions. Half a kilometre from our camp and shared between 300 odd strangers of course, but campers can’t be choosers. Clearly. Or they’d choose a guest lodge in Camps Bay. Clearly. The night was marginally better than my teenage hillside trauma, bar one massive exception. After midnight, after all the New Year’s drunken revelry and it was time to retire for the four hours before daylight, my sister and I were treated to the sounds of a couple having excruciatingly protracted and very enthusiastic sex in the tent alongside ours. Joy of all joys. In the morning, we donned our smoky clothes, packed our tent and were out of there before that first piece of bacon hit the Cadac skottel braai. We have never spoken of it since.
It’s no wonder then that every time my husband has suggested camping. I’ve said, “Awesome. Go for it. I’m happy to stay at home. Seriously.” In SA, it was not something I’d have associated with fun or a holiday. Lugging everything you need and more to sleep, cook and sit to a field where you set it all up and then you have to pack it all away, haul it back home and then pack it all away again. Seems like a blady mission. It’s bad enough having kids and going to stay a night with friends or your parents. You virtually need a trailer for all that paraphernalia. And that’s without having to take a structure to sleep under and your own bed/chair/stove/table. Also, the security aspect of camping has always worried me. There’s no exposure quite like being in the middle of a bush in the dark with no cellphone reception or armed response. So we never did it. Not once. Not even in our garden. And my long-suffering husband tried. Boy did he try.
Patience pays off it seems. Especially when combined with the emotional blackmail of a five year old little boy. The shrewdest move my husband has made has been to encourage our son to join in his camping crusade. His new recruit. A boy who swims in the Thames River, climbs any tree he can find and who asks me often if he can bring snails, worms and weird little insects to share his bed. He is also desperate to put anything on a stick and roast it on a fire. Added to this a 2.5 year old little girl who copies every move her brother makes, mimics his every request and will eat hot coal if he so much as suggests it. I never stood a bloody chance.
So in three weeks time, we are going camping. For two whole nights. With our British mates and their offspring. There will be 10 adults and as many children. My husband can’t stop smiling. We’re staying at the edge of the New Forest in Wiltshire on a farm. We need to take a tent, sleeping bags and all the stuff that one needs to be one with the elements. A list longer than what appears natural to me. I am begging and borrowing all the gear I possibly can. My husband can’t stop smiling. He of course wants to buy everything. I have asked him to restrain himself until at least the dust has settled on our maiden camping voyage and we can take stock, count the mosquito bites and wash the smoke out of our clothes. Have I mentioned that my husband hasn’t stopped smiling?
I have never been more outvoted in my life. Except for when I confessed at work that I believed Justin Bieber deserved his success because he worked for it. It is for this reason – the outvoted one – not the little lost boy singer - I am going camping with as open-mind as my bigoted and sarcastic soul will allow. May the force of all good camping karma be with me. Please. Especially between the hours of darkness. Daylight I can handle. I’m not a complete wuss.