The familiar crackle of the fire kindled a new day. I added some thicker logs, rearranged the damp things on the makeshift drying rack so they'd dry out, and sat down by the fire. I enjoyed the warmth it gave off in every direction. A fire adds atmosphere to an evening, a morning, or a cold or rainy day. And the time spent beside it is perfect for reflection.
"Instead of a bathroom there's a pond, you'll find drinking water in a barrel, the only place to warm up is by the fire, meals are cooked in a makeshift kitchen, and you can bed down in a tent or under a tarp. Oh, and there's no electricity, so you've definitely got to come!" ran my friend's invitation.
So, comfort and freedom, I thought – completely seriously, without irony or a sigh.
What appealed to me most, though, was the fact that parents take part in this rather unusual event together with their children. Everyone becomes part not only of the programme but also of running the camp. Just think about it, reader: the children spend most of the day actively – and I stress actively – with their parents. Which, at least in my eyes, is the best thing that can happen to either of them. They work, plan, play and compete – and all of it together. I should add that this isn't a camp for a group that's already geared that way, like the Scouts. Here people from towns and villages come together, some more handy and used to life outside their comfort zone, some less.
For a week I had the chance to watch it all unfold. And it was as if I'd gone back in time. Preparing firewood, working in the kitchen, including washing up, cleaning the living area, which included the makeshift washrooms, the latrines and the area around the compost pit. All these jobs had one thing in common: cooperation. And the added value of it all was parents and children working together.
What today's would-be modern society lacks are the basics of living together and the need to cooperate. Our shared worlds are often split into separate rooms in our homes; we shut ourselves away in rooms and social media groups and share our experiences through data networks. We have dozens, hundreds and sometimes even thousands of virtual friends who, however, vanish the moment the screen goes dark. At the camp, though, there are people of flesh and blood. They stand on the other side of the log you're hauling out of the forest together, just as they pull on the other end of the saw. They split wood so that everyone stays warm and everyone else can eat food that wouldn't cook without a fire – a fire that keeps burning only as long as there's wood to feed it.
A thought, or rather a question, comes to mind: "Have we gone back in time, or just back to a place where we'll have to start all over again?"
Contests, races, games, lessons in bushcraft skills, rehearsing short plays, guitars, singing. I can still see the swarm of sparks that flew up when wood was thrown on the fire, joining the stars in the night sky that bore witness to it all. How many of us would like to experience this, and how many of us should?
You think it's impossible? That you wouldn't last even a day there, reader? I believe you. But you, in turn, should believe that resilience isn't built by watching films, experience isn't gathered from handbooks and other people's stories won't turn into your own experiences. All of that has to be lived and felt, until you finally discover what a life-changing win good boots that keep out water and mud can be – because mud on your boots is no problem; mud in your boots is.
I wish you a lovely autumn – not only in good boots and clothing, but with a positive welcome for everything it offers you, and for everything you're able to take on.
