The kids left for school camp today which brought back not so fond memories of the school camp I endured in 1987.
I was in Grade 9, or Fourth Form as it was known in New Zealand where I lived until I was 15, and while I can’t remember where we went for camp, I can confirm that it was right up there as being some of the worst 3-5 days of my life.
Sounds dramatic I know, but when you’re 14 years old and some random outdoorsy type yells at you from a grassy knoll that she needs a volunteer to abseil down the fairly small hole that is behind her, which also happens to be a waterfall situation and when the volunteer gets to the bottom she will be in a cave that is full of water but “we’re not really sure how deep it is” and that’s why they need a volunteer, you’d probably nod in agreement that yeah, maybe that school camp was a little bit terrifying.
I remember not wanting to go down that hole/waterfall at all, but it was the beginning of the school year and I’d been moved into a new class that was full of girls who I didn’t know very well, so a) I was already feeling awkward and b) I didn’t want to be known as the girl who was too scared to abseil down a dark hole into a pitch black cave full of water and bats, so down I went!
Turns out when I reached the bottom the freezing cold water was only waist deep, so that wasn’t quite as bad as it being up to my arm pits.
I waded through the water with my classmates, trying to remember not to look up and startle the bats with the torch that was conveniently attached to my helmet, all the while wondering what the point of this ridiculous caving exercise was.
I think it took about 15 minutes to get to the end of the cave and when we emerged, the outdoorsy instructor was waiting for us IN DRY PANTS. It was 1987 – teachers and instructors actually participating in camp activities wasn’t a thing.
The next day we went white water rafting. After a quick info session which had me absolutely shitting myself (“Girls, hold the paddle this way” “If the raft tips over, you will fall out. Try not to scream. It’s not very ladylike.” “If you can’t get back in the raft, float down the river with your feet in front of you until someone finds you”) we were told to put on our life jackets, form groups of six and jump in a raft.
I remember getting into a yellow raft with my five friends when some bloke pushed us off into the river. “Wait!” I yelled, “Don’t we need an instructor with us?!”
At that moment, as if out of nowhere, the outdoorsy instructor paddled up beside us IN HER OWN LITTLE CANOE. “I’m your instructor” she said, “Just follow me down the river. You’ll be ok.”
I mean, can you even imagine that happening on a school camp now?! So the six of us completely clueless, fourteen year old, first time white water rafters tried our best to follow the outdoorsy instructor down the river.
Except the instructor was obviously training for some sort of competitive sport because she was out of there quicker than you could say, “Do you think this is a good idea?”
We couldn’t keep up with her, or even see her. So we just paddled along the river and told each other we’d be ok.
I can’t remember how long we were on that river for, but I do remember going through rapids and being genuinely terrified of falling out while also trying not to scream (didn’t want to get into trouble for not being ladylike). When we finally made it to the river bank, the outdoorsy instructor asked us what took us so long before telling us that we’d better not dawdle like that on TOMORROW’S 20KM HIKE.
So to round off the Trifecta Of Torture, the next day we got up, put on our hiking gear (although we would’ve called it tramping) and spent the entire day walking up an enormous hill.
When we finally reached the top, the outdoorsy instructor gave us a green bag, a couple of packets of two-minute noodles, a few sausages, a fry pan, some cooking utensils, a small gas burner and a roll of toilet paper.
She pointed to a massive overhanging rock, told us that’s where we would be sleeping and that we’d better hurry up and get our dinner cooked and roll out our sleeping bags before it got dark.
“Any questions?” she asked.
Someone asked what the green bag was for.
“That’s in case you have to do a poo. You can wee anywhere but poos have to be done in that bag. You’ll have to carry it with you until the next person needs to do one and then they get to carry the bag. When we get back to camp tomorrow, the last person holding the bag can throw it in the bin. Ok?”
Um, no. That is not ok.
I’m fairly sure we were all in a state of shock about the whole green bag situation, when someone asked where the instructor was going.
“Oh, I don’t sleep under rocks. I’ll be about a kilometre that way, sleeping in a tent. If you need me just yell out. If you’re lucky I’ll hear you over this howling wind. Have a good night girls! I’ll see you in the morning.”
And with that she was off and we were left to poo in a bag, play with matches, cook sausages on a bunsen burner and sleep under a rock. And people wonder why I don’t like camping!
What was school camp like when you were a kid? Are you still traumatised by it or is sleeping under a rock on the edge of a mountain your kind of thing?
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