T.E.N.T – until recently it hadn’t occurred to me that it was a four-letter word. No, back in the day it had a soothing tone to it. It was a noun used to describe a simple structure, intended for the pursuit of simplicity.
Camping, for me, has always been about ease of movement, being able to pack up and go on a whim, without much cash in my wallet. It was about scorching my pallet on fire-cooked coffee in tin mugs in the morning and straining miggies through clenched teeth over a glass of wine in the evening. A perpetual sense of grubbiness and well-being were also associated with the once loveable word.
Some of my most desirable memories have been associated with my canvas home, but they’ve been ruined and it’s my colleagues in the outdoor-travel game I blame.
Here comes the circus
It started with the seemingly innocuous request that I take a tent along with me on trip to the coast – give it a trial run, take a few pics. Sure, lovely, I thought -imagining falling asleep with only a thin sheet of material between me and the gentle sloosh of the sea.
I wasn’t even that intimidated when I arrived at my office in Sandton to find that someone had squashed an elephant sized pack of canvas into the room, though I admit to murmuring a few expletives as I lugged the beast to my car in the basement, 17 floors below. It was nothing compared to the torrent of Tourretes that would occur when I actually tried to erect that circus.
For my first attempt, I sucked up to some wonderful, friendly folk at the lodge where I was staying and suggested they help me in my quest for the perfect campsite at the neighbouring campsite. “˜Let’s make an event of it,’ they suggested. “˜Have a braai, cook up some crayfish and get some natural shots of folk enjoying themselves.’ Fools! Their enthusiasm soon waned and after about two hours of trying to decipher the confusing mash of material and poles and even more confusing instructions, I could see they were wondering if I was Satan incarnate.
Once the tent was finally erected and tensions had been smoothed by a beer or two while waiting for the evening light, the beast revealed its true purpose – that of rain conductor. All that effort and not a single useable shot.
I tried again further up the coast, determined to not let my bad attitude interfere with the task. We’d figured it out once, so surely it would be second time lucky? This time I had only one person to help me – just as well, I was tired of leeching friends. It took about 5 hours. Perfect timing, the clouds rolled in thick and fast and spewed fat dollops of torrential rain. The beast was up to its evil tricks again.
Oh dear, what’s a girl to do? I went shopping “¦ for props, of course. I now own three paraffin lamps, a beach ball, a rainbow coloured hammock and an inflatable whale (don’t ask). Most importantly I got some pics in the end and ditched that friggin T$@#.
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