How I became a happy camper by visiting a place with dangers lurking in every bush.
Camping, to me, means sleepless nights lying on a shaky cot or a
bouncy air mattress, listening to the rustlings in the night. A flimsy
canvas wall is the only thing separating me from the dangers lurking outside –
and I am always convinced that there are many of them. I am not what
you’d call a “happy camper.”
I have no joyful childhood memories of cooking hotdogs around
the campfire. Because of my father’s work as a geologist, my family
frequently moved around the southwest United States. We explored the
canyons and mesas of Arizona, Colorado, New Mexico, and Utah, the towering
redwoods and rocky shore of the California coast, the bluebonnet-dotted plains
of Texas, and the wide open spaces of Wyoming. But we did our exploring
in the daytime and spent our nighttime hours in the comfort of roadside motels.
When my son was still an infant, my husband and I didn’t yet
have the budget for hotels, so we decided to try our first camping
vacation. I was in my twenties and eager for a new experience, so we went
to the nearest sporting goods store and picked out everything we would need for
a tenting adventure…a little gas stove, tin plates and utensils, sleeping bags,
and a nice roomy tent. The three of us set out in our old car for a
spring trip to Anza Borrego State Park in the desert of southern California.
It did not go well.
With balmy weather and a desert in bloom, the daytime was
lovely, walking the park trails and reading the brochure describing the
resident plants and animals we spotted. I managed to scrape up a dinner
of beans and franks in our little tin pot and all seemed well as we went to
bed.
About midnight, a wild desert wind blew in from over the
mountains. We looked at each other a little nervously as the tent began
to tremble, shaking harder with every gust. Suddenly the tent corners
tore from the spikes. Now nothing except the center pole was holding the
tent to the ground. We bolted from our sleeping bags and spent the next
two hours wrestling with the tent, with hubby barking orders - “Grab the
corner! Hold the canvas down. I’ll hammer the stake back in!”
- and me in tears - “I’m trying! It’s too heavy! Oh, my God, the
whole tent is going to blow away!”
We finally managed to secure the tent corners, but in the midst
of the commotion, baby Brian started to cry and by morning he had a high fever
which we recognized as a symptom of his frequent ear infections.
That was enough for me. On the eight-hour drive home the next
day, I swore that my camping days were over.
But the great outdoors beckoned and, thirty years later, we
decided it was time to give camping another try.
Rob and I set up camp on the shores of Lake George near Mammoth
in the Eastern Sierra mountains of California. From our campsite, we
could look across the lake at the dramatic peak of Crystal Crag. We hiked
for miles and ate a delicious dinner – cooked by a chef in a Mammoth
restaurant. The summer sky was blue and the wind was calm. Surely I
would be able to get a good night’s sleep in this lovely setting.
It did not go well.
Those things that go bump in the night were still out
there. Every thump of a branch, every rustle of the leaves, had me
convinced the brown bears that prowl this mountain could smell the food we had
packed for breakfast and were outside ready to rip through the canvas and
devour us in our sleeping bags. Weren’t rattlesnakes looking for nice
warm beds to curl up in and would those damn crickets ever shut up?
And just as I would feel a little wave of sleepiness overtake me,
my 50-year-old bladder would give me a wake-up call and I would have to venture
out to the camp outhouse, my flashlight sweeping the pathway for the red-eyed
ravenous bears.
In the light of morning, I could laugh at my trials, but I once
again vowed to stick with a nice cozy bed for future trips, so it was with some
trepidation that I learned a few years later that our upcoming trip to Africa
was entitled “Serengeti Tented Safari.”
Africa - Masai Mara, Kenya and Serengeti, Tanzania
“What in the world?” I stared down at the pile of shredded
newspaper on the floor of our tent. Rob and I had just returned from a
day of exploring the zoological wonders of Kenya’s Masai Mara to find this
mess. I picked up the largest pile of newspaper and discovered it was the
wrapping around a carved wooden giraffe we had bought at the Nairobi Giraffe
Center earlier in the trip. I checked around our tent cabin, but nothing
else was out of place.
“This is so weird, Rob. The staff must have thought the
newspaper was trash, then put it back when they figured out it was our
giraffe. But why would they have left the mess on the floor?” We
walked up the wooded path to the reception building to report the
incident. The receptionist chuckled. “Hakuna matata.
No worries! It was not the staff. The baboons have learned to unzip
your tent cover. They come in looking for food.”
Hmph…it might have been nice for them to have told us this when
we checked in, I thought.
I would have been completely freaked out if I’d been awakened by a baboon
rifling through my bags in the middle of the night! We had seen baboons
squabbling out in the bush that morning, mouths wide open, huge fangs bared.
Before this disconcerting incident, our trip had gone
well. In fact, our first stop at the Karen Country Lodge in Nairobi had
been downright luxurious – a huge bedroom with a fireplace, comfy couches, and
a modern bathroom.
And here in the Masai Mara, our first “tent” experience at
Sentrim Mara Lodge was not at all what I thought of as tent camping. Yes,
our room had canvas walls, but it was huge, with a high ceiling attached to a
strong wooden frame, and an adjoining stone building containing a dressing room
and bathroom with a modern shower. I could definitely get into this “glamping”
– until I learned that baboons knew how to open the zippered exit to our
balcony!
With this new knowledge, my second night was once again filled
with my old camping fears. I was alert for any strange noise – and sure
enough, I heard one. A loud rustling sound kept up for hours just outside
the front door. Too scared to go investigate, I lay awake in the pitch
black, imagining huge baboon fangs scraping away at the canvas. In the
morning, I called a passing staff member to report the noise. He poked a
stick into the rafters, then roared with laughter at my startled scream as a
large bird flew out of the thatching under the porch roof.
But by our third night, I was beginning to get into this unique
experience. The safari drive memories were blotting out my silly fears,
and I slept like a lion cub, curled up in my mosquito-netted den.
The gorgeous Moivaru Lodge in a jungle setting outside of Arusha, Tanzania had us back in the lap of luxury for one night on our way to Tarangire National Park. No baboons here – just adorable blue vervet monkeys swinging through the trees outside of the lodge’s restaurant. The “scariest” creatures on the grounds were the busy army ants that marched across the path leading to our cabin.
Moivaru Lodge, Arusha, Tanzania - Can you spot the line of army ants across the path? |
We were back to tented camping at our next stop, the Burunge
Tent Camp Lodge. Once again, one could hardly call this “tent camping,”
as we sat on our wooden porch enjoying the view of Lake Burunge and its large
flock of pink flamingos. This tent was also on a high platform, with real
beds, bathroom, and shower. But our tent was the furthest away from
the lodge restaurant. The long path back was poorly lit and lined with
thick bushes on both sides. On our walk back after dinner in the dark, I
clutched Rob’s arm tightly, sure that our flashlight would suddenly illuminate
the eyes of the predatory beasts waiting in those bushes to devour us.
But once we were inside, it felt as comfortable and safe as any hotel
room. The only sounds here were the sleepy birds twittering in the
forest.
Our last stop of this trip was Serengeti National Park in
Tanzania, and our first day was like stepping into a wildlife documentary -
lions, elephants, zebras, giraffes, wildebeest, warthogs, colorful birds, all
within a few meters of our Land Cruiser.
But I knew there was one final tenting experience awaiting
us – and Cosmas, our guide, had warned us this last tent camp would be a more
primitive experience. I fretted internally about this final camp
throughout the entire trip, remembering the unpleasant camping experiences from
the past. My nerves were on edge as we approached our camp in the hills
overlooking the Serengeti plains. Tour companies are not allowed to
create permanent lodges here. The tents must be moved periodically to protect
this important national park’s environment, so it was no surprise to find a campground
of ten small canvas tents, stretching out in two lines from the large dining
tent. I was not happy to learn that, once again, our tent was the
farthest one from the center.
Our “beds” were cots, and the windows were zippered flaps.
There was a canvas wall inside separating the sleeping area from a real toilet
on a wooden platform, and another canvas chamber with a make-shift
shower. When we wanted a shower, we notified a staff member who would
fill the 4-liter bucket outside with hot water. We pulled a handle
inside the tent to release the water, and soon discovered that it lasted long
enough to get an adequate shower.
“Please do not leave your tents at night,” warned Cosmas at our
dinner meeting. “The animals roam right through the camp after
dark. You will find a whistle on the table in your tent. If you
blow it, a staff member will come to your aid.” We campers stared
back at him, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. “Don’t worry,” he laughed.
“The only animals who might come in your tent are the mice. Just be sure
you don’t have any food in your tent and you’ll be fine.”
After dinner, Rob and I walked down the dark path to our tent, once
again swinging our lanterns back and forth to warn off any lurking
beasts. But here’s the thing. Africa was working its magic on this
reluctant camper. I climbed into my shaky cot, snuggled under the thick
blanket, and thought back on the wonders of the day. A tree with seven
lions napping on its branches. A mother cheetah teaching her cub how to
hunt. Elephant families parading across our path. A pair of
secretary birds building a nest in a tree. Huge herds of impala and
Thompson’s gazelles. Monkeys that hopped on our vehicle hoping for a
hand-out.
Smiling at the images dancing in my head, I drifted off to
sleep, listening with delight to the sound of a lion huffing in the
distance. I had, at last, become a happy
camper.