How's the serenity of your summer camping expedition? Photo / Richard Robinson
Every summer, like clockwork, New Zealanders pack up their entire lives, wedge them into a car boot with the overflow jammed into a roof box, and head off to a campsite.
It is a tradition that predates sunscreen, insect repellent and every Kiwi dad’s firm belief that he can reverse a trailer in one smooth move.
Some call it relaxing. Some call it character building.
American humorist and author Dave Barry once said camping is nature’s way of promoting the motel business, and you have to admit the man has a point.
Still, there is something wonderfully Kiwi about heading into the outdoors armed with chilly bins, mismatched deck chairs and a confidence in your own survival skills that is absolutely not backed by reality.
Let’s start with the best parts.
The pure joy of waking up to birdsong, which is lovely unless the birds decide that dawn is at 5am and start shrieking like the world’s most determined iPhone alarm.
The smell of bacon frying on a camp stove is another highlight, the kind of aroma that makes every other breakfast you eat for the rest of the year feel underwhelming.
And of course, there is the freedom of kids running completely wild.
No screens, no homework, just endless games involving sticks, dirt, imagination and the occasional minor injury.
Then there is the beach or lake.
Every Kiwi campsite seems to be located exactly a seven-minute walk from the water, according to the campsite marketing, no matter what Google Maps might say.
Campsite owners must operate under some secret nationwide rule. Any further and it feels like a full-on expedition. Any closer and the gentle lapping of waves will signal to your bladder that it’s GO time.
Once you finally reach the water, you stand proudly on the shore, chest out, ready to dive in.
The water will, of course, be colder than our garage freezer that hasn’t seen a defrost in five years, but you are committed.
This is summer. This is tradition. You will get hypothermia before you admit defeat.
But camping is not all bliss.
The downsides are the sort of things we pretend not to mind, even though we absolutely do.
For example, setting up a tent.
No one has ever assembled a tent calmly. It is not possible.
There is always a fight with the poles if they are all there, a moment where the tent looks like a broken trampoline and the inevitable argument between the people doing the set-up.
Every family has had this conversation:
“We should read the instructions.”
“We don’t need the instructions.”
“You say that every year.”
“And yet the tent is always standing.”
“Yes, but last year it sagged so much it looked like a hammock.”
Thirty minutes of silence...
Then there is the weather, which seems to hold a personal vendetta against camping.
Again, Dave Barry captured the truth perfectly when he said rainstorms will travel thousands of kilometres, against prevailing winds, for the opportunity to rain on a tent.
Kiwis do not need Jim Hickey to know when it is going to rain.
All we need to do is unzip the front flap of the tent, smile confidently at the sky and say, “day for it”.
Within minutes, the clouds roll in like they have been waiting in the wings for their cue.
The only time rain arrives faster is during a cricket test match.
When it rains at a campsite, the entire world becomes damp.
Clothes are damp. Sleeping bags are damp. Even towels are damp, which is ironic because instead of drying you off, they mostly moisten, like wet wipes.
The deck chair you forgot to bring inside becomes a tiny outdoor swimming pool.
You spend the whole night lying awake listening to raindrops hitting the tent fly, knowing that if the fly touches the main tent fabric, gravity and capillary action will turn it into a slow leak straight on to your sleeping bag.
Science, as they say, is not always your friend.
But even on the good weather days, the sun can be a villain of its own.
You apply sunscreen. You reapply sunscreen. You cover yourself like a responsible adult. And still, at the end of the day, you look like half-cooked bacon.
And we don’t need reminding that your pup tent turns into a sauna in extreme heat, where warm air meets cooler tent fabric, condenses and drips back on to you in a not-so-refreshing cycle of indoor rain, also known as tent sweats.
Let’s not forget the campsite communal kitchen, which should be studied by anthropologists.
On one side, you have a highly organised family with colour-coded containers.
On the other, you have a group of teenagers attempting to boil pasta using a pot the size of a cereal bowl.
Someone is frantically trying to find a tea towel. And there is always one person who insists on washing their dishes with cold water because “hot water is how they get you”.
Yet for all the chaos, discomfort and mild suffering, there is something magical about camping.
There are the long evenings playing cards under a lantern that is slowly attracting every bug in the Southern Hemisphere.
There are the stories told around the barbecue, where even the dullest anecdotes become masterpieces.
The quiet moment at night when you step outside the tent and look up to see more stars than seems reasonable.
So, here’s to another season of sand in the sleeping bag, mystery insects in your food, tent pegs that vanish into thin air and memories that only make sense to people who have battled a camp loo at three in the morning.
Camping might be nature’s way of promoting the motel business, but it is also one of the great Kiwi traditions that keeps us grounded, connected and proudly Kiwi.