René Roberts

There’s a secret sisterhood lurking in the shadows. They don’t gather to discuss defacing inanimate objects such as outdated statues that are covered in pigeon shit. They also don’t gather around the bronze feet of the fallen Paul Kruger. It’s the sisterhood of unbroken horses. The lesbian camping virgins. They’re in hiding, because the queer authorities will hunt them down and revoke their licences once their secret is out. A lesbian who hasn’t gone camping is like a fifty year old virgin. If it’s not because of religious beliefs, it’s frowned upon and discussed behind closed doors like the scandal that it is.

If you really want to be an outcast in the lesbian community, admit that you haven’t gone camping. If you want to experience total abandon, add the fact that you can’t make a fire if your life depended on it. Your gay flag will be confiscated and your belt buckle burned beyond recognition. You’ll crawl back to the straight friends you abandoned when Pink got married to a man and we lost Angelina to Brad.

I used to be one of them until very recently.

Now, contrary to popular belief, I can be such a girl sometimes. I am terrified of anything that can fly. I’ve sprained ankles running away from moths. What is up with those Kamikaze fuckers? They’re not drawn to flames, people. They’re programmed to attack human beings. They’ll look you up. Fuck the flame (yes, the candle has made a huge comeback, thank you Eskom), I’ll just rub my ass against that girl’s face. You know? The girl sitting on her bed, minding her own business. The fun part is that they have Leprosy, so their skin comes off. Let me tell you something. Usain Bolt has nothing on me when these things attack me.

I was built for comfort. Warm water and nice spacious showers are my buddies. I don’t like getting my feet dirty and I can’t go out if my hair haven’t been washed and blow dried. I don’t like paper plates or polystyrene cups and I’d much rather lie down than sit up. If watching television becomes a competitive sport I’ll wipe you bitches out. I’m really good at it. I don’t mind spraining a muscle by trying to reach for something if it means I don’t have to get up. It’s a chance I’m willing to take.

I’m also all about broadening my horizons. My girlfriend taught me that the world is my oyster and she never lies. Camping? Scares the living shit out of me. I can’t imagine feeling safe enough to get in a tent, zip it up and fall asleep. How are we going to have breakfast? Sitting in camping chairs? How am I going to make it through two days without DSTV? Where do I run to if the moths start attacking me? I’ll be in their territory after all.

We buy a tent and inflatable bed and head off. Traffic is quite backed up so when we get close to the site we’re bumper to bumper. The scenery is just lovely. Trees all around and the sound of speedboats cruising on the dam. I calmly point out the cobwebs spanning from one tree to the next. Then we see the spiders and I feel like dialling the queer cops and turning myself in. Come fetch my flag and buckle, I’m out. I don’t. I stay strong and keep my pose. I’m among fellow Lesbos and I won’t be that girl. In my mind, I’m calculating what two nights in the nearby chalets would cost, but I come to the conclusion that it would cost me my pride. I reserve that currency for moments that I’ve pissed my girlfriend off and I have to grovel.

We finally get there and we drive through the camp site. I keep looking for the levelled, cordoned areas where we’re expected to put up our tents. There are no such things. The rest of the group parks their cars in the middle of nowhere and starts unpacking. Being the only couple of virgin campers, we shut up and unpack. I’m somewhat intimidated and slightly humiliated when we can’t set up our own tent. So, I stand around and watch as our tent is erected right next to a heap of shit. Did I mention that they have wild animals just roaming around? Eventually I offer to go and look for a spot where we can plug our extension cords in for electricity. I find the box.

My heart sinks when I open the cover and the entire grid is covered in cobwebs. Granted, most of the spiders seem to be dead. The point is I turn into Michael Jackson when I walk through a spider web. I put his Moonwalk to shame. I stare at the plug in my hand and I start motivating myself. I need this. This gives me freedom to dry my hair in the morning. I can do this. I close my eyes and plug it in. I’m the hero. I saved the day.

Later, we head to the swimming pool. I haven’t been brave enough to put on a bikini top since I lost my battle with Anorexia and gained thirteen kilograms in two years, but it’s damn hot and nobody here knows me. So I slip of my shirt and into the pool in two seconds flat. I close my eyes because if I don’t see them, they don’t see me. Not true. Somebody makes a comment about my boobs having grown a few sizes since they met me. I smile and swim to the other side of the pool. I’m met by three little girls with chunks of snot running down their noses, so I make my way back to the other side. I keep my huge boobies under the water until we finally leave to make dinner.

I keep checking my watch as it gets darker and darker. I reckon I have about two hours to get drunk so I won’t notice the newly spun webs across the flap serving as the door to our tent. It works to a certain degree. I only remember about the webs when I lie down in the cramped little space. I ask my girlfriend if the people outside really can see our every move while our lamp is on. She convinces me that they can, so I behave. Before I have time to wonder about our safety, I’m fast asleep.

We wake up to the sounds of birds chirping. People are already fishing and I spot an air balloon up high as I step outside. It’s deathly quiet and I realise that we slept in a tent. No door. No locks. No security guard. I stretch out lazily and pat myself on the back. I have this camping thing down.

Then we head to the showers. I mean shower. One shower. My eyes grow bigger as screams emanate from the shower. I consider not taking a shower, but I have to weigh up the pros and cons. The problem is that I turn into a monster when I feel dirty. So, if I don’t shower, there’s a real chance that friendships will be destroyed. And then there’s also the matter of my pride. The door swings open and it’s my turn. I step inside and look around. I undress quickly, hanging my PJ’s on a rusted hook that I’m almost certain won’t hold. I keep my flip-flops on and open the water. I have no time to compose myself. My breath hitches and I cry out. I look down to make sure no part of the floor is touching my toes. There’s enough hair on the floor to make weaves for a small village and I vow not to look down again. I step out from under the water and wash myself, only using the icy water to rinse. I bend a little forward and yelp as my ass touches the wall. I can hear my girlfriend and the rest of the crowd laughing and I remind myself that they’re next. I step outside, feeling violated and fragile. And a little proud. I survived.

The rest of the day is a breeze. We prepare a nice breakfast on the CADAC and we alternate between playing 30 Seconds and cricket. We walk down to the other side of the dam and we eat and drink everything we shouldn’t.  By the time we went to bed the second night I merely swiped my arm through the webs as I got inside the tent and I didn’t care about the other people seeing my every move. Let them watch. Did I mention we had copious amounts of alcohol?

It was with a tremendous sense of accomplishment that we packed up the last day. We were well rested and looking forward to a nice long, hot shower. Nothing makes you appreciate your luxuries more than being without them for a while.

I escaped with my pride intact.

And my flag.

And my buckle.