Carrie Berg

CARRIE BERG  on why she’s not a happy camper

The last time our family went camping, we took two tents – one for my parents and another for five children including two cousins, which was a bit of a squash. After pitching the tents, we set off for a walk down the beach when all of a sardine run, the wind came up and the rain came down. We hurried back to the camp site to find one tent stuck in a tree and the other flapping off on the wings of a raging gale.

Chaos reigned as my mother snatched up the car keys and drove away with screeching tires to find a hotel for the night. She would not spend another night with ‘your cheapskate father’ although she would, ironically, remain married to him for another 40 years.

We were left to hammer the tent pegs back into the ground lashed by monsoon-like rain. I caught a rotten cold after being soaked to the skin, with ridiculous summer sandals on my feet instead of proper hiking shoes, which would have been so much more sensible.

Of course, these days you can get sturdy eight-man tents that are both waterproof and easy to erect, but at the time, I vowed never to camp again, until my partner who had an overseas friend coming to stay with us, persuaded me with weasel words: We’ll put the tent up, darling, you can just sit in the deck chair’.

Off we drove to a camping site down the south coast near the old Transkei, losing our way several times along the road less travelled due to the inadequate signage. When we finally arrived, we were hard-pressed to find a decent spot as the site turned out to be an apparent favourite of pensioners and families who had brought everything with them including miniature satellite dishes for their TVs sets so as not to miss the rugby. Unlike us.

Having pitched the tent, our friend asked me if I’d like beans on toast, which reminded me I’d forgotten the can opener. No problem, my husband who is never without his trusty swiss army knife, which he uses for everything from tightening screws and stripping wires to making an alcohol stove from a tuna can (don’t ask!) unfolded it and deftly dealt with the tin.

He and his friends sat chatting, beers in hand, long into the evening while I spent a sleepless night thanks to a blaring speaker pumping out Steve Hofmeyer hits at full volume from one side of me and loud alcohol-induced snoring from the other.

The next day, like my mother before me, I took the car, drove to the nearest hotel, booked myself in, and came back for the men two days later.

Did I mention that I’m not a happy camper?