Like many children, I
was unlucky enough to be posted to one of these. At the age of 7, my dad
decided it was time for me to follow the family tradition and be let free to go
to the amazing place that is camp. Of course, the previous years I had always
envied my sisters who used to come back looking very dark, I mean very tanned, and
who would tell endless stories about their time there and how great it was.
So
in preparation for the big day, my dad would take me to his company’s doctor
who used to run multiple tests to make sure it was safe enough for the camp to let me in! Four times, four different camps, one story…
The big day is here, my sister and I would be up early enough to
beat the sunrise, my mum would have prepared our luggage, which would consist of ancient
bags containing our worst clothing, so that it would not get stolen. My mum
always made sure however that a tooth brush was included, for in summer camp
you had to have a toothbrush. My dad would accompany me and my sister who was
two years my senior and was a feisty fighter, so no worries about getting bullied,
I who had always looked younger because of my small stature, was an easy prey
for kids at school and I expected it would be the same in summer camp which had
at least 300 kids (i.e.my child mind estimation).
When it was my first
time, I could not be happier; but, when dad dropped us at the bus station
and I saw all the other kids, I could feel my heart pounding off my chest, fear
took over, and the excitement disappeared.
Kids I did not know; they did not look friendly, and they were all older and
bigger than me was a sight that made me tremble, there was no going back though; dad had already paid the fees. When it was time to leave, dad
would kiss us on the cheeks and wish us a happy holiday and then go to work.
The coach rented by my
dad’s company was always old; it had a horrible smell like old motor vehicles
did in those days. You would be lucky to find a new taxi or a bus in Algeria in
the eighties. We used to be round 30 (always a child’s estimate), accompanied by a few adults whom we would later call moniteur
for male and monitrice for
female. The journey was never dull; as soon as the bus starts moving, singing
would start and the moniteur who would
have a derbouka would make the atmosphere very jovial. Two or three hours
later, we would reach our destination (a coastal town in Algeria).
This is the condition for any summer camp; it had to be in a coastal town, and a
few hundred meters away from the beach.
My first day in the
camp was full of confusion, all these people from different corners of the
country, speaking dialects that sounded foreign to me. Some of them looked very
different to us, they were black; it was the first time I met someone
Algerian who looked so different to us, I later learnt that they were from Tougourt a town in the south East of the country. After
having lunch, it was time to divide us into groups of 11 just like a football squad;
sometimes it was 12, if there were left-overs. The aim was to put people from different towns
in one group, a way of getting people to know one other. Girls were put in
separate groups to boys, which was great relief because as a child, I never
liked boys just like any female. By the
end of the distribution! I realized that would be sharing a tent with another
21 girls, we were two groups per tent. The tents were big enough for 24 beds,
including those of the monitrices. Being
with twenty one girls whom I had never met in my life was enough to bring tears pouring down ; I
started to cry and demanded that my sister would be in the same tent as me. One
moniteur could not stand it, and he decided
to go hunting for my sister, tent by tent,
in that rather big camp. The search had nearly ended when we headed back to
my tent and we realized that there was a tent about 50 cm away from mine, my
sister was there and they decided to put her in the same tent as me.
The beds were older
than time itself, made of metal boards. The mattresses had stains everywhere,
and smelled horrible, but the sheets were thankfully clean. The routine starts
the second day and it was the day all the kids suddenly realize that mum and
dad are not there and it is custom that we all decide to cry our eyes out and
then be comforted by either seniors who enjoyed being there or moniteurs who did make life enjoyable
and were all comedians.
7 o’clock, we all wake up and make our beds, then we would walk in a line, one behind the other…Everyday, down we
marched in a line like ants, to the restaurant, led by the shortest youngest girl
in the group. Before entering the restaurant it was custom to salute the flag
and sing, not just the national anthem but all sorts of nationalist songs and
other meaningless songs. If there was one thing we learnt in camps it was
singing, and sing we did. After the choiring, we finally head to the restaurant
which was made of concrete flooring and sugar canes for walls and roofing, it
was very nice, especially in comparison to the rest of the camp. Breakfast was
always a bowl of milk with chocolate. It was supposed to be hot chocolate, but was
rarely hot, occasionally warm, and mostly tepid; and piece of bread, which is
quarter of a baguette cut in the middle and butter and jam for a filling.
By the time breakfast
is finished, it is around 8:00; we head back to our tents, change into our
swimwear and wear flip-flops and head to the beach, in a line but this time
walking in twos. The beach was usually a few minutes’ walk away from the camp,
we would pass by restaurants and see some tourists mostly French Algerians. Once
at the beach, we also sing all sorts of songs, one of which mocks socialism; (Algeria was ruled by a socialist party, and was very influenced by Russian and
Chinese thinkers-the country was on the brink of collapse but little did we
know at the time). There was also a song about the agricultural revolution of Houari
Boumediene. After all the singing we are finally left to go and swim. Security
was very tight and we were never allowed
to go beyond a line which was a few meters into the sea. This meant that
we never swam but just splashed water. We spent at least three to four hours,
until lunch time. Come mid-day we would be led back to the camp where we are
washed and then dressed and readied for lunch.
Outside the
restaurant, we sing, and sing until lunch is finally served. The food varied
but it was mostly soups and sea food. I had never eaten fish, except for sardines, before going to summer camp. I did not even know the names of the
fish we were served there. Fish for most Algerians who do not live in coastal
towns means sardines. It was the only fish that we saw or ate in my town which
was a two-hour drive away from the sea, it is now one hour after the construction
of the highway, but fish is still scarce.
When lunch finished, it
was time for siesta, a very long punishment, from 2 pm to 4 or 5 pm. We were not
allowed to chat, laugh or play, we had to sleep and if we did not, there was
another form of punishment. Once we decided to defy the system and our
punishment was the cleaning the whole camp. It was harsh. Add to that the
naming and shaming by the director of the camp who would always bring his
family to camp and put his kids in a separate tent.
Following the siesta,
it would be time to go to the forest. Funnily enough, there was always some
sort of woody area near the camp. The best was in Jijel. During our time there,
it is singing again in preparation for the evening galas. I don’t know if it was
part of national strategy in the eighties, but there was so much of it. By the amount
of that tebrah we did in camps, I am quite surprised we do not have a Pavarotti,
or a Charlotte church. Well, it is not like the singing we did was to train us
to be proper singers; it was to fill the rather long hours of summer…
Two weeks, sometimes
three was the length of our stay in the camp.
They seemed like a life time for me. I missed my parents, my hometown
and my street; I missed the freedom of playing outside. During this time, we would get one or two visits by our
parents. Only those who lived nearby had their parents come to visit them. Luckily
I was one of them. I had a lot of pride when my dad used to come and visit me
and my sister. My sister never cared much, I, on the other hand, felt that a
visit from dad meant that I was important, by what logic? I don’t know. When my
name would be called out, to go and see dad, I would stand up and take a long walk
of pride, sometimes I would get applauded! My dad never missed an opportunity
to show us that he loved us as kids. His visits meant a lot to me. I would talk
about them for the few days that followed and would show off the stuffs he bought
me which were chocolates or biscuits.
Two weeks later, a few
shades darker, a bag of dirty clothes heavier and a ton of memories richer; it is time to head back home. The mother would
be waiting with a bar of soap ready to disinfect us at arrival.
Very funny !!!
ReplyDeleteGlad someone finds it funny. There are many aspects of Algerian childhood that are unique and deserve to be chronicled. I wish we had writers dedicating their talent to this.
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