Out of the Wild

(Some of) you will be glad to know that Crabmommy survived—nay, enjoyed even— her first camping trip en famille.

A few things did go slightly awry. They involved maps and directions and the usual gendered conversations on the subject and in the car. There was also an event with a spilled can of condensed milk in the cooler (condensed milk bought to make instant coffee into Vietnamese-style delight). And yes, I said instant coffee. Because, people, I am from Sarf Effrica, and a child born in the 1970s, so I can survive a cup of instant joe when in the wild. Such a thing is sacrilege where we live (in the Coffee is Very Important belt; I also call it the Teva Sandals belt...so, yes, we're narrowing things down to Pacific and north and west...one might also call it the I Always Carry a Yoga Mat belt where pedestrians can oft be spotted tromping around with a yoga mat. In short, where I live it is practically mandatory to do the following:
a) go camping
b) enjoy dogs
c) drink coffee all the time from your giant thermie
d) work your day around a Bhakti class
e) and then go to the community garden

Okay, so maybe I live in Northern California!? I WILL NEVER TELL.

No, seriously, now. There is nothing wrong with yoga, coffee, and certainly nothing wrong with community gardens and giant thermoses. Crabmommy in fact sought out these very things when scouting possible relocations for the Crabfamily, having done my time with rodeos and prefabricated houses (sorry, too lazy to do links tonight but those of you who have been here a while know what I'm talking about).

Anyhoo. Camping. We stayed in a lush primeval forest beside a plashing brook. While the rest of the state boiled in heat, we spent two days watching weak beams of sunlight shifting through the trees. The campground was busy but the stands (or whatever you call them in camping language) were large. So you only saw the people en route to the loo, and what people they were. Some very typical of the region: bandannas, poised upon balancing ropes strung taut between trees (is this a rock climbing thing?); some also typical but of a lower echelon (2 giant ladies with giant RV and 2 giant babies and a giant cook stove and 2 giant playpens [one for the dogs and one, I presume, for the babies]). Some people take this camping thing dang seriously and set up entire villages and kitchens complete with racks from which you can dangle the pans. Still others had a festive approach with hula-themed oil cloth, and fringed grass table decorations and matching paper lanterns strung from beneath a mammoth RV with the word "Fleetwood" on it.

Crabtot liked camping but also did a lot of hovering close to my leg even after I had given carte blanche for her to set up her own camp in a fairy glade with her dolls, Lucy and Luly (she was allowed to bring them of course, but I drew the line at bringing a feeble balloon she has lying around her room; she calls it her baby brother and its name is Ballucy). Fairy glades abounded with ample green frondy Transcendentalist landscapes for children to frolic in, but of course that's always the moment when they want a cookie or ask for a straw or want to find a tiny bead at the bottom of the car seat.

I forced Crabtot to run and play like a fairy, under threat of I-can't-remember-what-but-it-was-probably-pretty-scary. I showed her how to use the flashlight and commanded her to look for magic mini-folk in the magnificent hollow trees. She sulked, then enjoyed, then sulked. "I hate camping," she said, and "I love camping," she said, sometimes within a minute of each other. In short, we did not leave our real selves entirely behind. But we all enjoyed the fire (when we could light it), the tent (though not the leaning ground beneath), and Nature's magnificent Nature sounds (though not that of the crow who got into our garbage).

I will report with pride that I did not purchase a head lamp, though I will admit lingering near the head lamps at REI for a while. I will also report that I did not miss the head lamp one iota in the bush. People, there is this thing called a flashlight? Why do Americans always have to one-up the rest of us mere mortals!! Nobody else would ever have thought of headlamps for camping were it not for the Americans telling us all to do it. The world uses flashlights and there's the USA: headlamps all round. Well, America, I resisted the lure of the headlamp. This time.

I did buy some useless luminescent stick but threw away the packaging before I had time to read the directions. What was it meant to have done? And how? We may never learn and therefore a piece of wisdom that I could have passed on to you is nonexistent. Whatever that meant.

To Tony Park who asked me about Crocs: I am embarrassed to say that unfortunately Crabhubby has two pairs and (DOUBLE-CRINGE) Crabtot has one, and I think he thinks he is ironically commenting on the trend while enjoying it at the same time, and blah-di-blah yakkity-yak. I have nothing to do with the Crocs in my family. In this life, there is this thing called marriage, and in marriage there are these things you have to let go of and some of them are light and airy and have holes in the top to aerate the toes.

Also noteworthy on this trip: this camping business in America, it is organized. At least in this state it is. Who knew how organized!? I mean, you BOOK. In ADVANCE. On the INTERNET. And then when you get there your NAME is on a CARD at your camping spot. And there was even a WELL for drawing water. And it took me forever to work it and longer still to pump it with my nonexistent muscles, but then PRESTO two completely gigantic dykes (different ones from those in above list) appeared and showed me how and we were all filled with the camaraderie of camping. And I thought of Africa, my motherland and how there is like, NO WAY anyone would ever set up a card for you in a camp site. You would sooner be murdered than find a card with your name on it on stick in a piece of dirt. And I felt that strange sense of longing for home and relief to not be home that is the special province of those who chucked their homeland in favor of some other.

Right. Boring post it was. I camped, I returned, and basically I am a kickass tentchick. Of course I had to do all the tough stuff (except setting up tent, cooking, making fires and so on). I mean, I did all the disciplining and decided who should be shouted at when. I also packed the car, and dang it that was a mighty big pain in the neck. All that said, I pronounce the event a riproaring success. And I have every intention of not going camping this weekend.