Open Writing

I give the school full marks for marketing. The brochure entitled "Options for Thrive and Survive school camp" was sent home last term with glossy, front page photos of tanned and toned young ladies riding surfboards.

The teenage boys ' mobile phones instantly lit up with SMS's."Mate, girls in bikinis! How awesome is that? Count me in for the five day Murramarang coastal hike." Within days most of them had returned their forms, were signed up and fully committed.

Those who dilly dallied had to choose between the alternatives, community service helping worm and mungbean farmers stubble mulch their fields down Bermagui way or an animal husbandry elective, tail docking sheep to prevent blowfly strike on an outback farm at Koolyanobbing.

But the hiking group were duped, the whole lot of them. It was only when the students were safely strapped in on the beach bound coach that the headmaster announced that upon arrival the girls and boys would be separated, with the girls being sent to the far distant corner of the national park, safely out of pedestrian commuting distance from the eager young men. Sensibly, the teachers would not be taking their chances with a volatile soup of raging hormones.

In their infinite wisdom, Australian schools tend to hold their annual school camps in February which, in a country renowned for its soaring temperatures and extreme bushfire danger, is the most hellishly hot month of all. The dangers of dehydration and sunburn are very real and ever present. The idea of these camps is, in part, to foster in the schoolchildren an appreciation of their natural environment but some would argue that by making them slog through it at this unbearable time of year it is having the exact opposite effect and putting them off the Australian bush for life.

The week of camp dawned with warnings on the television news that temperatures would be soaring up in the high thirties (35-40 Celsius or 95-104 Fahrenheit) for the next seven days and nights. It was to be a heatwave to smash all records and the indicator arrows on the roadside fire danger rating signs shot up to the ominous 'Total Fire Ban'. My maternal heart was heavy as I dropped my already grumpy, reluctant son and his 25kg (55lbs) pack off at the departure point. As the coach pulled away, he gave me a slit throat gesture through the window. I knew what he meant. I was the one who had signed the permission papers.

Well, despite parental misgivings, the whole mob survived and returned safely, albeit a few shades darker than when they left. How much of this was from sun exposure and how much was from pure filth we weren't immediately able to ascertain. One mother was overheard insisting that her son decontaminate himself in the chlorinated swimming pool before she was going to allow him inside the house for a much needed shower. The foul backpacks smelt as if they'd either been harbouring dead bodies or been peed on by passing wombats. The hastily bundled sleeping bags were growing so much mould in places that we could have shaved it off and smoked it had we been so inclined.

Slowly the stories came out as to how some boys had been attacked by 'hoppy joes' which are a species of jumping, bulldog ant with vicious pincers. The bite is excruciatingly painful and the ants hang on to the skin with such determination that they are almost impossible to flick off. Other boys had been chased down a river by a snake which was swimming to cool off and still others had awoken under their tarpaulins to find kangaroos stealing food from their packs.

There was much hilarity and many graphic accounts of mishaps whilst trying to use 'the poop tube' - a portable latrine which consists of a piece of PVC tubing and a black garbage bag. So traumatic was this experience that there were those who preferred to clamp up entirely and simply not go at all for five days.

But it was the camp "cuisine" which the students complained about the most. Because of the total fire ban, they had been unable to light a camp fire and therefore had been forced to eat their meals uncooked and cold. Most of them had taken along pre-packaged mountaineering meals to which they added water. Normally one allows these freeze dried foodstuffs to absorb the water, swell up and then one heats them over the fire. They had also been unable to make their staple foodstuff - damper. Damper is traditional Australian bread which is made by mixing flour and water into dough, wrapping it around a stick and cooking it by holding it over the coals. In an effort to cheer them up, an enterprising teacher tried his hand at making Strawberry Surprise from a packet. Apparently it was a surprise. It was brown, runny and tasted like cough mixture.

An hour after returning from camp, when my noticeably thinner son was ravenously tucking into an enormous helping of homemade curry, I mentioned to him that, while he was away, a shocking story had been in the newspapers about three Melbourne schoolboys who had, whilst on school camp, bashed a kangaroo to death with a metal pole.

Since my son is fond of animals, I was expecting some sort of sympathetic reply involving defenceless creatures and the ethics of animal cruelty. But no. All I heard between gulps of him ganneting down his food was, "I can so relate to that right now. The poor buggers were probably STAAARVING!"