The Reluctant Camper

There are probably a thousand reasons I can tell you why I don’t like camping but I will not bore you with such.  But maybe I can tell you some things that happened in my life which will explain my reluctance in roughing it out in the wild.

The idea of camping is not that revolting to me.  I like to commune with nature and have peace and quiet for a change of pace from living in the 7^th largest city in the US.  I also like the idea of disconnecting from the world and exploring my inner chi, but I like to do all of that without the thought of bugs crawling into my pillow or bears attacking me in the middle of the night and waking up in the morning with guts spilled out all over the campsite.   No sir, thank you. 



I think the very first camping trip that I did as a child was when I was in 4^th grade during our infamous scouting years.  It was not really a camping trip, it was more like a sleep over that happened in our school grounds.  To be honest, it was a pretend-camp, wherein you try your best to look rugged but still come out pampered.  Heck, our parents were watching us a few feet away while we were sitting in a bonfire singing songs that we don’t even know the meaning to. 

The only fact that made it look like we camped were the tents that we mounted for sleeping, which was later on destroyed by a strong monsoon rain that poured out in the middle of the night, unusual during Christmastime.  So all of us were wet, cold, and pissed.  Well, most of us.   

Our group had a tent that looked more like mosquito net than an actual shelter so by the time a small drizzle happened, our teacher made the call that our tent was not fit for the pretend-play that we were doing so we ended up spending the night in one of the classrooms.  It worked out in our favor because the other groups were not able to sleep at all because the water seeped through their tents and they had to spend the night either moving stuff at a higher ground or removing water from their tents with a bucket.  On the contrary, our group did not get enough sleep because we were having fun in the comfort of a dry and warm classroom, wasting our time laughing and goofing around like most school boys would do. 

The next day everybody was miserable.  That night at home, I slept like a baby in the comfort of my bed and did not wake up until after lunch the following day. That was my first realization that camping was not for me. 



Camping during our scouting years was different, especially in the rural Philippines.  Camping, basically is non-existent because living in the third world country is really like roughing it out in the wild.  Comfort is a luxury.  Have you slept on a cold floor with only a banig as a layer of protection between the earth and your epidermis?  I have.  And as a skinny kid, I hated it.  I felt like I was going to develop a bed sore the minute I laid down, and the grunting sounds I made were like a soundtrack for me every time I turned over as my femur and scapula hit different parts of the earth. 

The idea of a sleeping bag was just a dream.  More like an American dream.  You would only see it on a TV show or in a plug at Uncle Bob’s Lucky 7 Club, together with the fancy toys and action figures you could only hope your parents would get you if you top the class-which never happened to me. 

Then you also have the canned goods as staple “scouting food”- Spam, sardines, tuna , which would be be considered as luxurious items for a feast for struggling Filipinos.  I remember my grandmother saying that Spam was only meant for special occasions when they were kids.  It’s “ham in a can” intended for Christmas dinner and the likes only.  

My feelings towards outdoorsy stuff never changed even as an adult.  I remember being forced by my friends to join them in trekking a mountain with a hidden waterfall in its heart, with the intention of kidnapping me overnight and not allowing me to go home to sleep in my comfortable bed.  I was gullible enough to believe them that they would allow me to go home, or at least take me to the nearest bus station that would take me back to the civilization after we reached our intended destination (that was a lot of tion in one sentence). 

I was not prepared for that trip.  I was wearing loose baggy jeans and shirts with flip flops ready to bust out of my feet with every step.  I was also wearing a baseball cap as my sunscreen.  I thought my natural melanin was enough to shoo away skin cancer. 

I was bitching the whole time during our drive to the foot of the mountain.  I kept complaining that I won’t be able to sleep well because it will be uncomfortable (me and my issues with sleeping gear), that I could not use nature as my toilet and I needed a proper “throne” to dump my “business” in (and I would require a tabo- forchrissake’s, so I would feel clean like any typical Filipino would feel after pooping).  Then there was also this whole paranoia about spirits roaming in the forest that would suddenly decide to manifest itself in front of us while grilling our fish- maybe to join us in our buffet.   To be honest with you, I was more scared of the white lady than being attacked by any force of nature.  The Panday White Lady haunts my dreams to this day.  So when we were out there in the dark, I never looked in a far direction so I would not see any ghostly manifestations in the wild.  What I couldn’t see won’t hurt me and I preferred it that way, tenkyuberimatz.   



Prior to reaching our camp site, we stopped over at a local market.  My friends were sticking out like sore thumbs in that very rural place.  They had their camping gears and radiant fair complexion, and they all looked like from the city complete with the Manila accent.  I refused to go down from the van to join them in buying goods as a protest for being dragged against my will.  Little did I know, one of the vendors warned them to be careful about rebels in the forest that could camp in the same ground as we were, and there may be a chance for us to get abducted.  Well, that information was withheld from me until the next day when we got back alive from our trip otherwise I would have nagged my way into going home come hell or high water.  My ransom would not be stiff but it would still be a ransom, so nobody said a word about rebels and abduction that evening.  

Once we were at camp, I was able to help out building the tent- surprise, surprise; and set up fire for cooking our dinner.  The place was magnificent- untouched and all rustic.  Hardly any bugs at all and we found a good spot for relaxation.  I even took a swim at the foot of the water fall which was probably several feet deep, I did not feel the bottom at all, and at one point, wearing my jeans and t-shirt and let it all air-dry.  
  

When we started cooking, we forgot a vital piece of equipment- a stupid can opener.  One of my friends volunteered to go back and knock at the houses by the foot of the mountain for a can opener, or at least a knife so we could open and eat our canned sardines.  To our delight, he came back with a knife and a story of how nice and welcoming strangers could be. 



The night was very uneventful.  There were no ghostly manifestations, no bed bugs that bit us, no abduction of sorts whatsoever.  And guess who fell asleep first- with snores and REM- yours truly.  And I faintly heard their laughter in my semi-awake state on how much I complained the whole time about things that was contrary to what I complained about. 



The next day, we returned the knife to the household and made friends with the family.  We made fun of ourselves (well mostly me) on our walk back to the van-which was parked come-what-may near a mango tree.  At the back of our minds, we were hoping that it was still in one piece, or better yet, it would still be there.  To our relief, it was, but with one small caveat.  One window was cracked open allowing a branch of the tree into the van, which led a herd of big red fire ants into our ride. 

We were flabbergasted at the sight of it.  And then my bitching started again.  My friends were not disappointed but instead found the whole ordeal funny and worthy of an anecdote like this.  We spent about an hour getting rid of the ants and about two more hours with me irritating the crap out of them.  Mind you, we did not have any bug spray at the time.  We were doing it with towels or anything that we could lay our hands on.  In turn, some ants got back at us with the most fiery sting you could ever feel in your lifetime.  

Now that we are older, we look back at this experience laughing, and me being embarrassed.  I cannot lie that I had fun.  My protests were not really genuine, now that I think about it, because it was one of a kind experience that cannot probably happen again.  That camp site that we found is now converted into a resort with a fee to get into, plus a zipline as one of its attraction.  It is hardly a camp site anymore. 

When we found that place, it was pristine and remote, full of mystery.  The water from that lake and the waterfall was clean and enigmatic.  The night was crisp and calm.  The sounds that the crickets made were like songs calling the spirits of the forest. 

The whole experience was free and did not come with an entrance fee. 



I was “apparently” wretched.  I kept cursing and telling the story time and time again with some variations that evolved during the years, which eventually turned from a story that was so miserable I could hire Kathy Bates to crush my legs rather than camp in the wild, into a wonderful somewhat-existential excursion with nature like Julia Roberts in Eat, Pray, Love.   

My friends still laugh at this anecdote.  Somehow, we survived an overnight ordeal of a non-existent adventure with high expectations that fulfilled its promise.  But they did not survive me.  I am still their friend.  And will still be the reluctant camper.  

June 24, 2020