The first real camping I ever did was on a student expedition to Persia. There I
learned the principle of inessential necessities. We were travelling by truck and
could therefore pile on board everything we might possibly need. The truck could
transport it all and we only had the problem of sorting through the excess
whenever we needed something. Later we travelled by donkey and, miraculously,
the number of necessities diminished as we realised the indisputable truth that
donkeys carry less than trucks. Later still, after the donkey drivers had failed to
coerce higher rates of pay from very empty student pockets, we continued on foot.
Travelling light
Amazingly, the number of necessities decreased yet again as a bunch of humans
realised they could carry far less than donkeys and much, much less than trucks.
The important lesson learned was that happiness, welfare and the ability to work
did not lessen one iota as the wherewithal for camping decreased in quantity. It
could even have been argued that these three blessings increased as less time
was spent in making and breaking camp.
This lesson had to be learned several times over. Some time later I was about to
travel from Cape Town to England by motorbike. As I wished to sleep out, provide
my own meals and experience a road network that was largely corrugated dirt, I
found no difficulty in compiling a considerable list of necessities. We must all have
made these lists (of corkscrews, tin openers, self-heating soup) and they are great
fun, with a momentum that is hard to resist. "Why not a spare
tin opener?""And more medicine and
another inner tube?""Isn't
it wise to take more shirts and stave off prickly heat?"
Fortunately the garage that sold me the bike put a stop to such idiotic thinking. I
had just strapped on a sack containing the real essentials (passport, documents,
maps, money and address book) when a passing mechanic told me that any more
weight would break the machine's back. (It was a modest
machine.) Thus it was that I proceeded up the length of Africa without a sleeping
bag, tent, groundsheet, spare petrol, oil, tools, food or even water, and never had
cause for regret concerning this lack of wealth. Indeed I blessed the freedom it
gave me. I could arrive anywhere, remove my one essential sack and know that
nothing, save the bike itself, could be stolen. To have possessions is to be in
danger of losing them. Better by far to save the robbers their trouble and start with
nothing.
Kippered hammock
A sound tip is to do what the locals do. If they sleep out with nothing more than a
blanket, it is probable that you can do likewise. If they can get by with a handful of
dates at sunset, it is quite likely that you too can dispense with half a
hundredweight of dried egg, cocoa, vitamin tablets, corned beef, chocolate
- and self-heating soup. To follow local practice and then try to
improve on it can, however, be disastrous. Having learned the knack of sleeping in
a Brazilian hammock as if it were a bed, I decided one thunderous night to bring
modern technology to my aid. I covered myself with a space blanket to keep out
the inevitable downpour.
Unfortunately, while I was asleep the wretched thing slipped round beneath me and I
awoke to find my body afloat in the pool of water it had collected. Being the first
man to drown in a hammock is a poor way of achieving immortality. I looked over
at my Indian travelling companion. Instead of fooling around with sub-lethal
blankets, he had built a fire longitudinally beneath his hammock. Doubtless
kippered by the smoke but certainly dry, he slept the whole night through.
Planning and adventure
One trouble with our camping notions is that we are confused by a lingering memory
of childhood expeditions. I camp with my children every year, and half the fun is not
quite getting it right. As all adventure is said to be bad planning, so is a memorable
camping holiday one in which the guys act as trip wires, the air mattress farts into
nothingness and even the tent itself falls victim to the first wind above a breeze.
Adults are therefore imbued with an expectation that camping is a slightly comic
caper, rich with potential mishap. Those who camp a lot, such as wildlife
photographers, have got over this teething stage. They expect camping to be
(almost) as smooth and straightforward a business as living in a house. They do
their best to make cooking, eating, washing and sleeping no more time-consuming
than it is back home. The joy of finding grass in the soup or ants in the pants wears
off for them on about the second day. It is only the temporary camper, knowing he
will be back in a hotel (thank God) within a week, who does not bother to set things
up properly.
Surviving natural hazards
I like the camping set-up to be as modest as possible. I have noticed, though, that
others disagree, welcoming every kind of extra. A night spent beneath the stars
that finishes with the first bright shafts of dawn is hardly a punishment, but some
seem to think it so, and concentrate on removing as much of the natural
environment as possible.
I remember a valley in the Zagros mountains where I had to stay with some
colleagues. I had thought a sleeping bag would be sufficient and placed mine in a
dried-up stream which had piles of sand for additional comfort. Certain others of
the party erected large tents with yet larger fly sheets (however improbable rain
might have been at that time of year). They also started up a considerable
generator which bathed the area in sound and light. As electricity was not a
predominant feature of those wild regions, large numbers of moths and other
insects, idling their way between the Persian Gulf and the Caspian Sea, were
astonished at such a quantity of illumination and flew down to investigate. To
counter their invasion, one camper set fire to several of those insect repellent coils
and the whole campsite was shrouded in noxious gases. Over in the dried-up
stream I and two fellow spirits were amazed at the camping travesty down the way.
We were even more astonished when, after a peaceful night, we awoke to hear
complaints that a strong wind had so flapped at the fly sheets that no one inside
the tent had managed to get a wink of sleep.
The most civilised camping I have ever experienced was in the Himalayas. The
season was spring and tents are then most necessary both at the lower altitudes
(where it rains a lot) and at the higher ones (where it freezes quite considerably).
Major refreshment is also necessary because walking in those mountains is
exhausting work, being "always up", as the
locals put it, "except when it's
down." We slept inside sleeping bags on foam rubber within
thick tents. We ate hot meals three times a day. We did very well
- but we did not carry a thing. There were 36 porters for the six of
us, the numbers falling as we ate into the provisions the men carried for us. I
laboured up and down mighty valleys, longing for the next refreshment point and
always delighted to see the ready-erected tents at each night's
stopping place.
Personally, I was burdened with one camera, the smallest of notebooks and nothing
more. The living conditions, as I have said, were excellent but what would they
have become if I had been asked to carry everything I needed myself? It is at this
point, when neither donkeys nor incredibly hardy mountain men are available, that
the camper's true necessities are clarified. For myself, I am
happy even to dispense with a toothbrush if I have to carry the thing all day long.