Primary School Confidential (10 page)

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SCHOOL CAMP: CLOGS, CORDIAL AND CULTURE

Camps always loomed large on the school calendar, though the reality very rarely lived up to the promise. When I recall the school camps I attended, one in particular always springs to mind . . .

We were on an ‘adventure' camp. At least, it was called an ‘adventure' camp, but really it was more like a povvo camp for the privileged. I was going to a posh private school by then and, along with a dozen others, we were to spend a week living in the bush, testing our survival skills. This involved variety of mind-numbingly boring activities, such as erecting tents, building fire and eating really disgusting food that came in packages. Food like Deb mashed potato and sliced Spam that was warmed up in a dodgy-looking pan. Is it any wonder that I abhor camping to this day?

As if the food wasn't bad enough, there were the physical activities designed to test our endurance and strength and to promote teamwork. Naturally, it was one of these activities that saw my self-esteem plummet, my social standing collapse and my humiliation levels rise to heights never seen before.

It all began with this bastard fucking obstacle course that we had to complete. And, oh yes, there was mud and a light sprinkle of rain that we would just have to suck up, because we were not the special snowflakes that we thought we were.

So I started the course. Jumped in ditches, swung across a creek, ran up a hill, ran back down the hill, hauled my arse over a wall, crawled under a menacing layer of barbed-wire fencing and navigated my way through a maze of tyres while crawling through the mud.

And it was at this point that it all went pear-shaped. And being pear-shaped was the whole problem, as my newly acquired hips just didn't want to go through that first tyre.

My arms went through easily enough, followed by my head and shoulders. But then either the tyre magically shrank five centimetres or my hips suddenly exploded in deference to my impending womanhood. Either way, I was wedged in tight. There was no going forward, and no going back.

I am hysterical by nature, so rather than trying calmly to extricate myself, I wriggled and thrashed around in a desperate attempt to shake myself free. Needless to say, my increasingly frantic motions had the opposite effect. If anything, I was now wedged tighter.

Fuckety fuckety fuck!

Exhausted, both mentally and physically, I lay there. The rain grew heavier. I shut my eyes.

Eventually the girl doing the course behind me caught up and, correctly assessing my sticky (as in stuck) situation, alerted the authorities. Loudly. This, of course, drew a crowd.

Now, I can honestly say that teenage girls are bitches. Someone produced a camera (thank GOD there were no iPhones and Facebook back then) and started snapping away as if I was some sort of freak show. By this point I was screaming like a banshee at the girl with the camera to stop. And you can guess what effect swelling with rage had on my predicament.

The teachers went completely mental, shouting at everyone to calm down while clearly panicking as they wondered how the fuck they were going to explain to my parents that I now came with a spare.

The rest of the audience was relocated back to the main camp while the teachers tried to work out the physics required to free me. It took a very long time, but they finally managed to dig out the part of the tyre that was buried in the mud and pull me up to a standing position—still with the tyre around my hips.

The teachers were trying to decide the best way to cut through rubber when I realised that my spare tyre seemed a little looser.

Gingerly, gingerly, gingerly, the teachers rotated the tyre over my gargantuan hips and down to the ground.

I stepped out. I was free! I told my saviours that, after the stress of my ordeal, I wanted to go home. They replied, ‘Tough luck.' I started to cry.

Then we made our way back to the main camp, where I was greeted with a welcome normally reserved for astronauts returning from a space mission. I quickly found the photographer and told her what I thought of her. She promised to give me the photos once she'd had the film developed and swore she would show no one.

Which was complete bullshit, as the photos were subsequently used in a slide show presented to the rest of the year level, who had gone on different camps. IT WAS THE FIRST SLIDE. That girl is lucky I am so nice, as I am very tempted to write her name right here on this page, so everyone can know what a double-crossing bitch she is. But I won't.

But we'd better move on quickly before I change my mind.

Another popular school trip back then, and one that is still popular now, was the Canberra/Snowy Mountains haul. Accompanied by the Year 5 and 6 teachers, we travelled by bus from the outskirts of Sydney and down the Hume Highway to Goulburn. Here we stopped so the bus driver could have a smoke and we could run madly around the park in the middle of town. In this we were encouraged by the teachers, who hoped that this burst of physical exertion would tire us out sufficiently that we would shut the fuck up for the rest of the trip.

I recall being very excited as we crossed the border into the Australian Capital Territory. What a novel idea! One second you were in New South Wales, the next you were in a whole new world. A world of wide, clean streets and signs pointing out the many attractions that Canberra has to offer.

We took in the sights of Cockington Green, a miniature village created in 1979 by a gentleman named Doug. Its purpose? Well, I am not really sure of its educational merit, but it did have a free barbeque area, if you felt like cooking a steak.

Next we visited Parliament House, which was about as interesting to a group of eleven-year-olds as you would assume. We learnt why our capital ended up smack bang in the middle of
nowhere. (Because Sydney and Melbourne could not get their shit together and agree which should be the capital city, so they created a new city between the two.) Meanwhile, construction was underway on the
real
Parliament House. The government-appointed tour guide could not get us enthused about any of it.

Bob Hawke was the prime minister at the time. ‘Advance Australia Fair' had just been voted the country's national anthem and, despite the hues on our flag, our national colours had just been announced as green and gold. These were years of great change. Medicare was established. The Australian dollar was floated. We had won the America's Cup. Sir Ninian Stephen formally handed the title deeds to Uluru back to the traditional landowners. But none of these significant milestones in our nation's history could compare to the excitement of discovering that there was a vending machine at Parliament House.

Then we were herded back onto the bus. Next stop: Cooma, a bitterly cold town where we would spend the night in large dormitories run by a local religious cult that was keen to cash in on the passing school-excursion trade. The number-one tourist attraction at the time was a shop that sold traditional Dutch clogs. While we hadn't been able to muster any enthusiasm during our tour of Parliament House, this little shop of clogs was a huge hit. We learnt the history of clogs and were treated to an excellent demonstration of how they were carved from a single block of wood. Finally, we were let loose in the gift shop. I recall the glee with which I bought a key ring for my mother that had a miniature clog hanging from it.

That evening at the cult hotel, we were given dinner along with jugs of green cordial. Of course, no one slept that night
after the heady mix of clogs and cordial and the anticipation of seeing snow the next day.

As we drove out of Cooma, the bus driver made a lame attempt to interest us in the Snowy Mountains Hydro-Electric Scheme, but we weren't having a bar of it; we were too busy competing to be the first person to spy a snow-covered peak.

‘I see it!' someone squawked and the bus erupted into cheers.

As we drew closer to our destination, snow began to appear in little clumps by the side of the road. We arrived at a place called Dead Horse Gap, which was a nod to all the brumbies that had frozen to death over the years. The doors of the bus were opened and a group of tired and cranky teachers basically told us to go and knock ourselves out.

Now, we were a group of Western Sydney kids, most of whom had never seen snow before. For some reason—most likely an excess of high spirits, exhaustion and green cordial, the snow ignited something feral in us. The boys basically beat the shit out of each other in the snow, while the girls ran shrieking as a flurry of snowballs rained down on us. Here is a little something about snowballs: when packed down very hard, they have very little give. Like none at all. You might as well be throwing a brick at someone.

After an hour, one of the teachers appeared at the door of the bus and yelled that our time was up. The lads made sure that they left as much yellow snow as possible, and we drove away from Dead Horse Gap nursing a plethora of injuries.

So . . . that was our trip to the snow.

The bus travelled back to Canberra, where, because our teachers had not self-flagellated enough on this trip, we visited the art gallery. Now, having taken groups of students to art
galleries myself, I know that kids have zero interest in looking at paintings and sculptures—unless the subjects are naked. Naked art is like gold.

When you find a picture of a nude, you immediately alert your fellow pupils. You then gather around it to laugh and point. This will cause your teacher to come running in from another room and scold you all in a very vicious whisper.

You disperse, still giggling. Then one of you happens upon a huge bronze statue of a naked lady. So you alert your fellow pupils—and so on and so forth until your teacher cracks the shits and you leave.

Has every primary school kid on the east coast of Australia done a similar camp? Canberra? Clog factory? Dead Horse Gap?

From what I can tell, the Canberra/Snowy Mountains trip is a rite of passage, as generations of teachers attempt to introduce students to our political system and our artistic heritage. Thank God for clogs and penises, I say!

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