Carol’s Column

Frostbite can be fun

"IT'S the big freeze," screamed the headlines in the newspaper.

That was the week my husband decided to break away.

"Let's go camping in the Magaliesberg this weekend," he said one foolish morning at breakfast. "We haven't been away for simply ages."

Carried away in a burst of enthusiasm, I agreed.

Which just shows how low a person's resistance is first thing in the morning. It's something to do with blood-sugar levels they say.

I retrieved Horace, our ancient but sturdy army tent from the storeroom, together with all the other paraphernalia that makes a camping trip such fun.

It wasn't easy finding a truck to transport us and our camping equipment to the mountains.

"Emmigrating are you?" said the furniture-removals contractor we eventually hired.

"We'll leave at the crack of dawn," said my spouse, "to ensure we get a good site this time."

During the last camping trip, while making a private trip into the bush, a tick, offended at being disturbed and mesmerised by the two white orbs descending on him, took a spiteful nip.

Which resulted in a nasty dose of tick bite fever.

This time I insisted on an ablution block.

"Don't worry," my husband assured me airily.

"I'll find you the best ablution block in the Magaliesberg."

We set off as planned at the crack of dawn. "What a lovely day," said my husband, chipping the ice from the tyres in an attempt to prise them from the driveway.

I couldn't answer, my vocal cords were frozen together.

"Don't you think you've overdone things," said my oldest son as he loaded the ninth cardboard box of provisions into the back of the truck.

"We've got to eat," I muttered grimly, as I tried to fit the roasted sheep into the cooler bag.

We eventually got away, singing raucously in a typical we're-a-family-together way as Jamie hit Nicky on the head with his tennis racket.

Tennis racket?

"Why do you need a tennis racket for a weekend in the Magaliesberg?" I asked.

"You've got to be prepared for everything," replied my third-oldest son.

Somehow we lost the Magaliesberg and landed up in Pretoria.

Church Square was somewhat crowded, otherwise it could have made a rather pleasant camping site I thought.

As an alternative, we could have pitched our tent beneath the inverted tea cup that covers the late JG Strydom's head. However the scenery was drab.

"Don't lose heart," said my husband as we drove out of Pretoria leaving the merry Pretorians slumbering away, dreaming pure, pornography-free thoughts.

That night, we camped in a ditch at the side of the road, ignoring the stares and dust from passing cars.

"There's nothing quite like fresh air," said my husband, breathing in the diesel fumes of a coal truck.

That night, the temperature was well below freezing point and there was nowhere to plug in my electric blanket.

The following morning — Sunday, dawned bright and clear. We struck camp and repacked the truck.

After taking many compass bearings and driving for several hours, we saw the tips of the mountains in the distance.

And then we were there. Happily established in a camp site with ablution blocks, dustbins, taps, parking bays for the cars and 10 000 other people.

"I promised you an ablution block," said my husband triumphantly as he tried to squeeze his canvas stool between the tent pegs — the only free place in which to sit.

"This is the life," said my husband loudly. Having to shout over the babble and the music blaring from the transistor radios that were as plentiful as rabbits in the mating season.

That night, after standing in a queue for an hour, I enjoyed the sheer luxury of a hot shower.

Feeling warm and refreshed, I made my way back to our tent.

The lights were out and I could hear the sounds of my happy little family snoring away.

Feeling lonely, I crept quietly into my husband's sleeping bag.

He put his arms around me and squeezed tight. I could feel the warmth of his beard against my icy cheek.

"When did you grow a beard?" I murmured in his ear.

"Ten years ago," he replied.

Good grief, I thought to myself.

What is worse, spending the night in a stranger's sleeping bag or getting frostbite trying to find the right tent?

Who said frostbite was fun?

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