Carol’s Column

Don't camp if you're a wet, it's only for the foolhardy

Camping is for the hardy. The hardy part, yes, but I'd preface the word with fool as in foolhardy.

True, it is a fine way to explore South Africa, to visit remote, hidden places. Over the years we've camped in some of the most beautiful spots imaginable: Kubu Island in the middle of Botswana's Makgadikgadi salt pan, Zimbabwe, the western coastline of Namibia, the central Kalahari, the deserted beaches of Mozambique. And more often than not, we were the only people there - tranquil in our large frame tent with just the sound of four raucous children and a fish eagle above.

This is the stuff of which memories are made.

So, when my husband said enthusiastically: “Let's go away for a weekend, somewhere quiet and remote. Somewhere peaceful where we can listen to bird song, do a little fishing, go walking in the mountains, find our inner selves,” I was ecstatic.

Our friends were impressed with our spirit of adventure. “Aren't you a little past it?” said my good friend Betty, “Why don't you find a cute little bed and breakfast somewhere?”

“Too tame,” I retorted and prepared for our adventure.

The large tent seemed unnecessary. Instead I borrowed a minimal, no fuss two-person tent and because we were only two, packed light. No tin trunks filled with copious amounts of food, no high-lift jack for the sand and mud of Botswana, no chairs, stretchers, foam mattresses, gas cookers and miscellaneous goodies usual for extended camping holidays. And no four-by-four. There was a 30km sand track passable for standard cars, the guide book said. In the wild with nature, our small tent with minimal equipment would be more than adequate.

“Do you remember all the junk we used to schlepp in the old days,” I remarked smugly to my husband as we set off to a nearby but secret gorge accessible only to those few who'd acquired the necessary permit.

On arrival, we pitched the minuscule tent. “So where are the tent poles?” queried my husband.

Actually, the tent poles were neatly positioned in a corner of the garage back home. Because it isn't the first time this has happened, we resourcefully suspended the tent between two trees. God smiles upon those who use their wits.

God was not in smiling mood. There was a roar and it wasn't a lion. Thunderously the sky split and down fell heaven.

We huddled in the two-person tent built for midgets which within minutes was wetter than the middle of the Atlantic ocean. And colder.

As quick as a pickled cucumber, my husband assembled his fishing rod and began casting from the entrance of the tent. Subtlety has always been his main strength.

It took seconds to dismantle the sodden tent and leap into the car.

Defeat is never easy to swallow. “Okay, I muttered, we'll find a cute little bed and breakfast.”

There's a saying that when disaster strikes, it continues striking. The track leading to the gorge had transformed to a muddy morass and, as if cast in cement, the car was embedded.

Natural optimists, we waited for the rain to cease. By the time we decided to hike for help, it was dark.

You might think there is a certain piquancy to living, eating and sleeping in a small car. There isn't. On Sunday, the flood abated, a pissy sun shone, we dug ourselves out and limped home.

“So where did you spend the weekend?” asked my good friend Betty.

“In my car,” I snapped.

“You're joking,” she said.

Ag, ja, well, no, fine.

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