I just got back from a three-day camping trip. The possibility of camping with Bolivians interested me. Would it be very different? And would any of the boys die, considering that I had been placed as a leader, alongside fellow adult-aged, child-minded friends Samuel and Matthew?
Setting up camp
It started out normal. We hurriedly packed the night before, stuffing too much clothing and not enough bug repellent into duffle bags and backpacks. I slept the entire drive to the campsite, apparently missing beautiful scenery and several near-death experiences. Unloading was the same as always – the eleven boys each carried one small bag the entire 100 yards from the car to the site, then started playing around with a large rock, which they insisted they must move to make room for the tent. Meanwhile, the adults (I flatter myself with that title) made five or six trips, carrying the gear that would eventually be put to use by the boys. I was upset at this for several minutes, but then remembered the time that I pretended to get lost to avoid setting up the fifteen-man teepee that my Scoutmaster had brought. I appeared suddenly in the camp just in time to say, “Hey, it looks great! Sorry I got lost,” before I was pelted with pine cones by my peers. In honor of “What Goes Around Comes Around,” I let the boys’ offense slide.
Men's camp
The camp looked terrible. We had branches strewn everywhere, hauled to the site by independent groups of boys intent on preparing for the fire of the decade. The tents had no tarps beneath them, and threatening clouds promised to make us pay. The bishop (blue words found on “Brief Explanations” page) started to make a table of tree limbs lashed together with twine, but couldn’t maintain the interest of the boys, so abandoned that idea. I could tell this half table was destined to remain incomplete the duration of the trip. In setting up their tents, most of them required help, in the form of my taking over completely. In short, these kids were excellent Boy Scouts, exhibiting all the qualities that I developed in my days as a scout.
A castle, complete with flying buttresses and a gate.
After getting our camp set up – mostly – I went to check out the campsite of the girls. I was impressed to the point of hysterical laughter. The tents were symmetrically placed. Some were garnished with tree boughs. Each ward marked their turf with rope fences, sometimes decorated with balloons and tree branches. They even made signs designating their ward. They took these boundaries fairly seriously – I overheard one woman chastise a girl for crossing into her campsite without permission. I also heard a leader explain to her group that “we have doors for a reason, and you can’t just step over the fence.” It was intense.
A heart-balloon decorated, fully-operational portcullis. At a campsite. Women.
Cooking was an adventure, as it always is with a group of boys. We had trouble controlling the level of gas in the camp stove, so either there wasn’t enough to light the match, or the flame was so big that it burned off some of Samuel’s hair. Eventually we decided that it was a danger to have such an unpredictable fire, so we decided to cook on the stove that the sisters had. Which meant that after they looked over our shoulders for a few minutes and corrected every move we made, they eventually took over and did all the cooking for the next three days. I saw boys in other camps trying to sabotage their stoves to get the same result, but unsuccessfully.
The women cook for us. Samuel supervises.
Latins make better lovers, even while camping. At midnight, six or seven of the boys snuck off with a guitar, crossed the forbidden bridge between the boys’ and girls’ camps, and serenaded the young ladies with a few choice ballads. Twenty minutes later, after warming up their voices and their courage, the girls returned the favor to our camp. This time, because of their large numbers, the girls didn’t dare cross The Bridge, instead singing across the river. For the next hour, the two groups of starry-eyed romantics traded songs, the boys clapping when the girls sang, the girl screaming for the boys like they were the Beatles. Samuel, Matthew, and I
The dance hall.
languished in our tent, alternating between shouting insults at the boys and begging them to go to bed. Again, I was angry, but like before, I remembered what it was like to be young. I looked down the long hallway of my distinguished 26 years and remembered several late night serenades through open windows, followed by fathers telling me to “Get the hell outta here!” I decided to again forgive their youthful enthusiasm.
Bolivians never dance in groups, always in pairs. They tend to form lines facing each other.
A few nights later we had a dance. I suppose it’s my limited experience, but I don’t think I’m alone in imagining that a Latin dance is never dull, everyone participates with vigor and skill, and somewhere in there there’s a mariachi band. To the contrary, these youngsters provided a scene that resembled every high school dance I ever attended. 20 danced at a time, while the other hundred sat in a circle and complained about how bored they were. The adults parked a few cars near the dance floor, a small pit lined with cement, opened the doors, put together a risky wiring job, and soon had the place bumping with Shakira, Jay-Z, and Lady Gaga. It was a great cauldron of youthful hormonal exhibition. Apparently word had spread about my amazing dancing skills, because I had to turn down several offers from pretty young girls who didn’t know how old I was (my turning down pretty girls was one of the only new thing I saw that night).
The three days ended long after I was ready to go home. Again, I played the dutiful, responsible adult leader, packing and hauling and cleaning up, while the kids enjoyed a game of soccer. Nobody died (although Samuel lost a few eyebrows and eyelashes), I held my patience, and the kids had a lot of fun. Camping with Bolivians wasn’t so different after all.
