We make our camp around a dwala near a river that feeds the dam, in a valley within the gently hilly terrain of the Park. The slope down to the water is punctuated by rocky outcrops and the ground is generally stony underfoot. I notice these things because I’m always imagining myself riding Induna, so I think things like That would be a nice log to jump or If only I could go for a gallop up that grassy slope or I’d love to ride along that track into those woods to see where it goes or The ground’s a bit stony here for too much trotting and cantering. It’s stony everywhere round this park. On the way over here earlier this afternoon, when we met that other National Parks vehicle coming in the opposite direction and the drivers of our three Land Rovers had to pull the nearside wheels off the tarmac strips to make way, the barrage of stones from the gravel shoulder rattling against the underside was so loud I couldn’t hear what Jess was saying to me. We left clouds of pinkish dust billowing behind us long after we got back onto both strips. I’m glad I was in the front vehicle – those in the one following had to eat our dust, and the last one – well…
It’s a bit – uncivilised. The wardens brought tanks of fresh water to drink straight or use to make hot drinks and wash our hands and faces but there are no loos. I’m not very good at going in the bushes. Too exposed. If someone else comes along you can’t move very fast with your knickers round your ankles and how do you keep them out of the way, for Christ’s sake? Do you have to take them right off? Jess’ll laugh at me and tell me I’m a virgin at this. And so I am.
“What are you grinning at?” she says.
“Just wondering how I’m going to break the news to my darling little sister that we had to pee in the bushes. I think suddenly she won’t be so keen to come.”
“Well it’s a good thing Lauren opted not to come out with us for the sleep-out. I don’t think any of us would’ve wanted that now, would we? Messy.”
She nods wisely and I agree, “Yes, good thing. Poor Lauren.”
I still have no idea what’s wrong with Lauren but there’s no doubt everyone else does. How come, if she’s so ill she’s had to stay at the dorm with Mike’s wife, no-one’s sent for an ambulance or even a doctor? Got to be enteritis or something, surely? Messy. Possibly contagious, even. But no-one’s worried. Mr Barrie’s oblivious and Mrs King’s calm as you like about it after what looked like an initial panic when Lauren went to the toilet in the middle of the ecosystems lecture and didn’t come out for half an hour.
“She was so looking forward to tonight. So unlike her to miss out on outdoors stuff,” I venture. Come on Jess, say something that’ll give me a clue.
“Yeah.” Jess shrugs and starts out back to where Mr Barrie and Mike and Dave are piling up firewood.
I give up and follow her.
“Don’t you reckon these adults of ours are far more relaxed – well, more human actually – now it’s nearly the end of the week?” she asks.
She’s stopped and is watching the wardens, Mr Barrie and the cooks unloading packs of steak and boerewors from the cooler boxes onto the centre of the dwala where it dips a bit into a natural, shallow bowl.
“I mean, Mike and Dave are pretty chilled anyway but take our dear Mr Barrie. Simon. He’s turned out to be way more interesting than he ever was in class. He’s nice, but he’s kind of grey. No personality. And yet, this week, it’s like he’s come alive. And our Fiona King… well in her checked shirts and her shorts she’s really pretty. I hope Mrs Barrie’s okay with her hubby spending a week in Fiona’s company. And likewise I wonder what Mr King thinks? There, look at him. Now Tess, I ask you again, what do you think of the rugby muscles?”
I had no idea Mr Barrie played rugby before Jess pointed this out to me last Sunday. Now I find myself measuring the tightness of each of his T-shirts and watching his thigh muscles tauten as he climbs into and out of the Land Rovers. I don’t tell her though. I’m kind of surprised and a bit embarrassed to find it’s actually quite a pleasant pastime, but I’m not going to admit to it.
It’ll be dark soon. The flat dining rock is filling up now that most of us have selected our sleeping spots and had a bit of an explore. Only the singing group’s still down by the river; the discordant refrains of Yellow River are making Mrs King wince. That’s another thing I’ve found out about her this week – she plays the guitar and is a not-at-all-bad singer.
Good thing Joseph and Sebastian have got the fire going in the lowest point of the natural bowl – it’s noticeable how jumpers and jackets are starting to make an appearance and how everyone’s edging ever closer to the flames. Good thing it’s nearly time to eat. I’m starving.
*
Joseph hauls another sack of logs up to the fire and we make way for him to circle it while he inserts four more of the logs into its base. He dumps the sack next to the pile of plastic plates, cooking pots and the frying pans and hunkers down again between Mike and Sebastian.
“Singalong, people,” Mike announces, clapping his hands. “A cappella. Come along – what shall we start with?”
A cuppa… what?
We’re up for it, anyway. Classic round-the-fire numbers like Ten Green Bottles and One Man went to Mow, moving on to Two Little Boys and I Never Promised You a Rose Garden and Yellow River again and some other pop stuff and then Mike and Dave sing a few ditties none of us have ever heard, but which have repetitive lines we can learn and join in on. When we started off on these, Mrs King looked like she was squirming but now she’s into it, leading on the choruses. Like this one, about this guy whose parachute doesn’t open and he has to be scraped up off the runway. It’s bugging me that I know the tune so well but I can’t remember where I’ve heard it. I’ve no doubt these aren’t the original words. Elizabeth’s looking pretty frigid and shocked and keeps turning to Mrs King and shouting “Hallelujah!” in a very squeaky voice during the chorus but Mrs King’s ignoring her like she doesn’t care.
Mr Barrie doesn’t seem to care very much either. He started off drinking a bottle of Castle every time Mike had one but after a while he slowed down and now I think Mike’s had at least four more. But Mike’s voice is clear and his eyes are still in focus, while I’m not sure Mr Barrie’s seeing anything very well and he’s got some serious problems with word pronunciation. That said, each time there’s a pause, he insists on trying to explain the lyrics to anyone who’ll listen.
“Do you get it? Do you understand?” he quizzes Sebastian, who’s managing to be a picture of politeness even though he’d really rather be sitting somewhere else. “It’s about a… ahem, a… a… guy who… a skydiver, yes, a skydiver, whose parachute doesn’t open.”
I’m sure Sebastian’s got that, but he nods and replies, “Oh yes?”
Mr Barrie takes advantage of the current lull to start up again, bellowing about gore and and how the bloke’s never going to jump again, waving his arms as if he’s conducting a maniac orchestra.
It’s all winding down now anyway.
“C’mon.” Jess nudges me in the ribs. We creep away to our little hollow and cocoon ourselves in our sleeping bags, pillows touching together on the small, flat rock, reliving the day in whispers while others rustle and shuffle and giggle around us in their own little dens. There are other sounds – strange sounds – animal noises I can’t identify. But I’m not bothered. We’ve got Mike, Dave, Joe and Sebastian to look after us, and although they tried very hard to hide them, I saw the guns. I’m sure we won’t get eaten by anything.