Camping with the out-laws

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So we went camping.

In Oudtshoorn, of all places. 

Oudtshoorn, where even the cactuses wear sunglasses.

But you will understand this decision when I tell you that our previous attempt at the ridiculous past-time-that-is-camping was at Storms River.

 Note the first word.

“Storms.”

Who in their right mind would choose to sleep under a thin dome of plastic held up by five flimsy fiberglass poles at a place called 'STORMS River'?

We did.

So our first camping trip got rained out. Nay.  STORMED out.  How unexpected! Our whole five day trip, for which we planned so much special family time sitting around the campfire teaching my children Simon and Garfunkel harmonies whilst idly browning plump pork sausages over the coals, was actually spent bailing out our tent and trying to candle-dry our sleeping bags, whilst simultaneously attempting to entertain two cabin fevered monsters (who were 9 and 7 at the time) with shadow puppet shows and Marie biscuits warmed up on the torch.

Since we have finally recovered  (it only took us eleven years) this time we chose Oudtshoorn, where it doesn't rain on days ending in 'y'.

Actually 'doesn't rain' is not quite strong enough.  “Where the sun bakes your flesh until your skin melts like wax and your brain simmers until a high pitched whistling sound comes out your nasal passages” is probably more appropriate.  But enough about the weather  this is not about how cold or hot or wet or dry our camping trip was… it's about the company.

Our camping partners.

The 'Outlaws'.

You see I've always thought that my side of the family was more than a little odd, despite our exceptionally pure ancestral lines.  From Great Uncle Gertrude (yes), through twelfth cousin Edna, aka the Bearded Lady of Yorkshire, to great great great grandpa Oswald,  who was the last person to be hung in England for sheep-stealing. (Actually they did give him the option of deportation to Australia, which he wisely declined), there's always been a bit of eccentricity going on in our genes. 

I must state right off, though, that being the last born in our immediate family, I fortunately did not inherit any of this one-pothole-short-of-a-full-Sedgefield-intersection madness. Nay,   it all went to my older siblings, where it does anything but lie dormant.

So, though I am 100% absolutely, non-negotiably, bullet proof  sane, you might say that I have always had a mysterious sympathetic affinity for looneys.  Which is probably why I married into Mrs Ed's family. 

Truly.

Whilst their Zimbabwean heritage lacks the nobility of my pure British blood, they have somehow managed to acquire some seriously dodgy DNA, though I would (understandably!) never be brave enough to mention the 'interbreeding' word at any of the family gatherings. 

So now you have the background you will understand that as we were being joined by five of my out... sorry, in-laws on this most recent camping trip, I was expecting a weekend with some difference…. 

So we made arrangements to meet the in-laws on Friday at two.  This was a battle of intents (get it?  Intents?) negotiation in itself.
“Let's leave at four in the morning!” said bro-in-law, who happens to love Oudtshoorn in that special kind of way that I'm sure Barbara Streisand's husband loves her.

 Of course this would be impossible.  Mrs Ed barely does 8am in the morning and her sister (Bro-in-law's wife) battles to catch the 10am out of bed bus.  I also had to show my face at The EDGE  ( it tends to scare the staff into some sort of action reasonably similar to 'work mode'), so eventually we agreed to meet at two o'clock, which threw Mrs Ed into a convulsion of 'I've got nothing to wear' panic - apparently all seven of her favourite Village People t-shirts were in the wash.

Of course we only left at 5pm.  Why?  Because that's what we do.  We plan a time, multiply it by seven, add and subtract the figures of the answer to each other consecutively, divide by four, then stop at the pharmacy for last minute shopping. And an ice-cream because, well , it's that darn hot already, and it may just pacify the one teenager who was forced to leave her nail-bar behind.

We would have left even later if packing hadn't been so darn easy.  Because we had a trailer . (You did ask why didn't you?)   Indeed it was so easy we could apparently take absolutely EVERYTHING with us.  Including a mattress each (not the camping variety, but  fully sprung - with those special memory pocket springs and scientifically designed posture support  foam), a giant 2400 gallon tent (I  realized why they measure tents in gallons on my previous trip)  a 'nother tent , a bicycle, enough  clothing for twenty seven people for twenty seven days, pots and pans, two rifles, a hammock,  a non working remote controlled helicopter, enough food for the same twenty seven people for the same twenty seven days,  a bonsai digging kit (no, this wasn't a pigmy job-creation project), crockery, cutlery, chairs, tables, a laptop computer, a camera for everyone, 400 miles of tarpaulins, shade cloth, a small herd of wildebeests (Wildebi?) and not my toothbrush.

Of course  we had carefully planned to arrive mid afternoon with plenty of daylight hours left to set up camp…. So we got there just as it got dark.  That was when the Paparazzi started..  Apparently when camping with teenagers every single move should be digitally recorded and uploaded  - because Facebook deserves it. 

To continuous flashes from all sides (that's camera flashes - we weren’t in THAT sort of camp-site)   Mrs Ed and I only had to fight each other for an hour and a half  before our smaller tent was set up.  Luckily it was too dark for the poor woman to realize that
a) our tent wasn't exactly north-facing and
b) I was doing a lot more sitting-sipping-and-watching than peg hammering.

On the other hand the in-laws had the huge Family-Wrecker, which involved a lengthy session of unsynchronised pole dancing, numerous foot-piercings with twelve types of pegs,  a hollering session which would have made Jerry Springer twitch nervously and so much spreading of so much canvas that a low pressure zone formed in Oudtshoorn and it almost rained. 

Eventually, just before midnight, we settled down for a braai.  As usual, my bro-in-law cooked, which made sense: He is a ‘braai-master’ of note, whilst my inherent  knowledge only covers ‘barbequeing’ - ie: the total incineration of burger patties, sausages and other horse products.

Whilst we sat around the fire, consuming enough red meat to give a barbarian horde heartburn, we listened to the sounds of the campsite around us.  It had seemed fairly full when we arrived so it was odd that we could still hear a great deal of peg-pounding,  tent pole clinking and grunting of unhappy, canvas-carrying husbands.
“What sort of crazy people set up camp at this time of night?” my bro-in-law chuckled through a mouthful of barely-braaied chuck meat....

Early the next morning I woke to the sound of him chuckling again (I’m convinced he actually gets up 1/2 an hour before he goes to sleep). I staggered out to the fire where he was watching something for breakfast sizzle on the grid.- probably an elephant he had hunted at first light. 

 I must admit, with all the commotion we had heard the night before, I expected to see an impressive population of tents encircling us, but that was not the case at all....

Indeed it seemed that there were no other campers within a 100 metre radius of our site.

“They’ve all gone!” I yawned to Bro-in-law, stretching as I watched my nephew bait a buffalo trap.
“S’funny,” he smiled, after a sneeze that measured 10.9 on the Richterscale (I think it might have been an allergic reaction to the linseed oil he was absent-mindedly rubbing on the stock of his 303 rifle) “I’m not sure why, but it happens every time we go camping....”

(to be continued)