Camping (Part one)

The last time I slept in a tent back home was during a trip to West Australia’s stunning Ningaloo Reef.

The extravagant set-up featured a double bed, en suite and ocean views.

The tent was so luxurious in tourism circles the experience is known as ‘glamping’, glamorous-camping.

On the other end of the camping scale is what happens in the army, an experience I have coined the term ‘damping’, damned-camping.

I was introduced to it in week three of our basic training period with a one-night camp in the forest of Santahamina island.

The night before we set off we packed the essentials: sleeping bag and mat, clothing, mosquito spray, military and combat sporks.

Anticipating some free time I naively included a book, lollies and writing material inside my giant green backpack a 10 year-old child could hide inside.

The day of the camp arrived and I was excited at the prospect of getting back to nature.

Mother nature had other ideas as it began to pour with rain before we even got out the door.

This prompted a sudden wardrobe change into our plastic overalls and jackets, on top of bulletproof combat vests.

With backpacks and helmets in place we were as tall as we were wide, looking more like sumo wrestlers than soldiers as we waddled outside in our oversized gumboots.

Our first stop was the supply shed to literally pick-up our tent and other supplies.

We slowly set off in the pouring rain, balancing poles, nets, and large camping stoves as best we could.

The children’s song “the ants go marching one by one” sprung to mind as we soldiered on carrying our own body weight on our backs.

The only difference was that we not “trying to get out of the rain” we were marching straight into it.

More than one hour and one km later we arrived at our swampy mosquito plagued campsite and were tasked with setting up our colossal 18-man tent.

With 12 sets of hands on deck one would think tent would almost erect itself.

But 20kg of combat gear restricted our team from meeting the ten-minute deadline to get it up and camouflaged to look like a tree.

And so our day’s activities began.

Up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up down went the tent.

I was wet, weary and never wanted to see another tent pole in my life, by the time we managed the deadline.

But rather than celebrate our achievement we were told to take the tent straight back down and move camp 20m further into the forest.

About fifteen minutes and 37 seconds later, when this task was complete, I was ready to scream.

Instead I was handed an axe and told to chop firewood for the stove that would be kept alight inside the tent all night.

Onlookers were as nervous as I when I took my first swing of the axe, explaining that this cherished Finnish pastime was new to me.

I quickly however got into the swing of things and contributed at least 20 minutes worth of fuel for the fire I questioned for such a hot balmy night.

I was prepared to sweat it out all night however, after it was explained that the smoke would help keep the kamikaze mosquitos at bay.

It was around midnight after we finished supper and an onerous lesson on how to use the foolproof kerosene lamp when it was time for bed.

We crawled into the tent one by one with our bedding, bulletproof vests and guns in hand.

Like a piece of the trivial pursuit pie I took my position and wriggled inside my artic-proof sleeping bag to change out of my wet clothes into more wet clothes.

Unfortunately the announcement over the PA before we set off to pack our belongings into waterproof bags was not translated to me.

In my damp shorts I tried to get as comfortable as possible with my combat vest doubling as my pillow and Mr. Jones by my side.

I was also anxious at the thought of bedding down with 18 men I hardly knew and didn’t think I would manage the four hours sleep on offer.

Thankfully I had been spared from fire toking duties throughout the night and managed a few hours sleep.

I thought I was locked in a recurring nightmare when I was woken and told to pull the tent down as fast as possible and move camp back 20m.

It was no dream; it was our task before breakfast.

Staring into my serve of porridge I contemplated hitching a ride back to base in the van that had brought our grey sloppy oats.

But before I had the chance I was back on my feet, backpack on and handed part of the tent to carry back to base.

In a fatigued silence we marched back to base in soggy socks, hoping to be greeted by a warm shower and bed.

Instead we arrived back in time for a three-hour combat training session in the Sahara desert.

When I unpacked my bag later that day I realized the rain had turned my paperback novel into pulp and the lining of my bag into a sticky lollie residue.

It was official camping had turned into damping, and I was facing three more days of it the following week.

(To be continued)

Alokas Hurme prepares to leave the dorm for our first army camp.

      

Leaving our room, our flushing toilet and warm/dry bunk beds behind!

The tent begins to take shape.

And up ....

Now you see it now you don't, a camouflage job well done!