Camping, for reals.
I was called into the school counselor’s office one day during my first year of middle school. So, twelve years old, going on thirteen.
For forty-five minutes, she drilled me for cheating on a test. I was shocked. I denied it, I cried as a twelve-year-old boy would. She offered me tissues, silently waiting for my confession.
What broke the stalemate was the class monitor, who realised she gave the counselor the wrong student number.
So I learned a few things from that experience.
One, innocent and guilty kids react the same.
Two, teachers don’t know shit.
Anyway, bear with me, everything will make sense in a minute.
Over the long Easter weekend, we went camping, and there was a major hiccup. I can’t be bothered retelling the story, so here’s a screen grab of my complaint to Parks Victoria:
I may or may not have exaggerated the whole incident, but the general gist was someone took our campsites, and it sucked.
Thanks to all the adults being adults, we found a public campsite not too far away.
In fact, the new campsite was better, more space and privacy than the previous one. We had our own river, our own space for a bush wee, and away from the other camping carnivals.
I’m not sure if we dodged a bullet, or are just really good at adapting. A little bit of column A, a little bit of column B, perhaps.
For me, the first day had a nasty aftertaste of my childhood trauma of not doing anything wrong but left thinking we were the intruder. Like a group of monkeys beating their chests, chanting, and urinating everywhere to claim territory.
Then again, isn’t that all part of nature, the core concept of camping?
Adapt, survive, overcome.
I have to say, everything went uphill after we set up base.
There’s a thirty-minute walk to the waterfalls to trick us into thinking we were healthy.
In reality, we had bolognese for dinner, instant ramen for breakfast, tortillas, dumplings, snacks, nama choco, local beer, coconut water … the car trunks were basically buffet stations.
And we had a hack this trip. It was to have friends visiting from the city with slow cooked pulled pork for the tortillas and frozen dumplings from Shanghai Street for dinner.
The campfire, usually reserved for nighttime marshmallows, was lit day and night for apple crumbles, hot cross buns, and toasts.
This was the first time we camped with tall trees around us, and with lights peeking through the trees it was really like a page from a magazine.
And the girls, sure, some of them were bitten by bull ants, I think all they’d remember from this trip is the morning they saw Easter bunnies and eggs scattered everywhere at the campsite.
Some of you have heard of my camping rant over a piccolo latte.
I hate it for its hypocrisy - people trying to enjoy nature by buying more non-biodegradable materials and burning fuels for hours to get there, only to make fire and release more greenhouse gas.
It’s true you know, we saw people with chainsaws at this campsite. Power generators for their hot showers.
Rave music at night.
Camping has gone from ‘nature appreciation’ to ‘can’t afford to party in the city so we go where there’re no cops and curfew’.
But I slept really well this trip.
Maybe because for me, camping is really not about nature, but the lack of possession.
It’s a hard reset.
You can’t bring your television, your furniture, your Netflix subscription with you. It’s not a part of you; you’re a part of all these.
Adaptation and acceptance of the imperfection of life, that’s camping.
Which I think that’s what we did this trip.
We made great lemonades.
Or maybe, I slept well because I managed to bury that repressed trauma of mine in the hole I dug next to the river, together with my fecal matter.
Once again, the full gallery is available here.