If it wasn’t for a snap decision of mine one dreary night, I might never have went. I was lying down on my bed, pondering on various confidential things. With the sole exception of my Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu classes twice a week, I wasn’t doing anything worth noting, other than the fact that I slept 16 hours a day and read books the rest of the time. I was inexorably slipping into a state of vegetation, as my mother loved to repeat without end. One of her friends had mentioned a camp of sorts during a chitchat session, and perhaps I might be interested in attending it.
I visited their site, but my Internet connection died before I could click on any links. I don’t usually go for those sorts of happy camper things but a steely voice within me hollered, "This is your chance to snap out of your stupor!" I rolled off my bed with a bump that resounded throughout the room, rushed to the computer, hurriedly composed an e-mail to the camp facilitator stating that I was interested in participating and could you please save me a slot, and realized I couldn’t send it since my Internet connection was still dead. I stormed back to my room in a rage. I sent that e-mail in the end. Hell, I didn’t even know where I was going. I only found out that the camp was in Antipolo when I asked my all-knowing driver where we were headed. It was at the Eugenio Lopez Center, a place where one could live if the rest of the world was ravaged by nuclear warfare. It has a basketball court, a swimming pool, a paintball field, hotel-like accommodations, and an army of servants. But they still managed to misplace the bag containing my clothes.
One of our first tasks was to forge an agreement of confidentiality. Things that happened in the camp, stay among the campers. However, I’m pretty sure that I’m allowed to talk about some of my own experiences. If any of the staff think I’m breaking our pact in twain, too bad. Seeing as seven action-packed days is relatively difficult to fit in one article, I’ll only write about the three experiences I see most vividly in my head, not necessarily in chronological order. I’ll try not to mention the other campers, in accordance with the agreement.
The first of my memories is not as traumatic as my second. The campers and staff took an excursion into a juvenile detention center in Tanay, Rizal, where convicted boys aged 17 and below are being held for various misdeeds and other unsavory actions possible for humans to commit. It is named the Jose Fabella National Training School for Boys. The unofficial dress code was anything down to earth, and electronic gadgetry was not to be used. After a bus ride that lasted quite a while, we arrived at our destination. The location was abundant with trees and grass, with a basketball court and plenty of running room for little boys. When the detainees came out, I was surprised. These unfortunate dregs of society were indeed pitiful. Many were thin, and according to the person in charge they lived in horrific conditions, often sleeping sixty to a cottage. Some of them had pleading looks in their bleary eyes, begging for salvation, redemption, and a life. Some of these kids were younger than my sisters, and it makes one wonder how they got there in the first place. Despite all this, some of the younger boys performed a traditional coconut dance, and an older group called the Boyz Unlimited showed their streetdancing prowess. In return, we hastily organized ourselves and sang a few ditties. Lunch was an interesting affair. Long, narrow tables were blanketed with banana leaves, and tilapia, adobo, and white rice were heaped on top of it. No utensils and plates, you had to eat with your hands. Basically you grab food and place it on your portion of the table, then squash some of it into a mush, and proceed to place the mush into your mouth. It took me forever to eat, since food kept plummeting from my hand on the way to my mouth, and I had to try and catch it with my other hand before it hit the ground. I can’t remember doing anything like that since I was three. Perhaps it’s a skill that I haven’t yet mastered. A bunch of campers, including myself, wanted to play some street ball with these prison boys. We mixed up the teams so it wouldn’t look like we came to kick their ass in basketball, and had a really great time. These guys weren’t rough at all, no blows to the noggin or anything remotely resembling an action that could injure someone. Tree planting was next on our agenda. Each of us were instructed to plant one tree each, with the aid of a number little kids who also were convicts. We walked to the back of the complex, where the actual tree planting was to take place, and I found myself chatting with one of the young ‘uns. As I set my tree down in a pre-dug hole and covered it up, I asked him what his favorite games were. Apparently, near the area we were at was a clearing where the kiddies would camp. They’d divide themselves into two teams, and set up bivouacs at opposite sides of the clearing. Flags would be set up, and the object of the game would be to capture the opponent’s flag. The fun would go on until the wee hours of the morning, when the first rays of sun would peek over the treetops and it would be time to hit the sack. The look in the boy’s eyes was priceless; it burned with the radiance of someone reliving moments of glory, a snatch at immortality. I played games similar to this when I was his age, and I realized that even though we come from different worlds, we did more or less the same things before we were introduced to reality. For a moment, I actually forgot that he was, you know, an inmate.
The second of my memories is a brief one. We had spent much of the day in the conference room, being given a lecture on goal setting and achieving them. One of the points that were talked about was to never lose sight of your goal, regardless of the obstacles. All of us drew a picture of a goal that we wanted to accomplish. Our next assignment was to put any obstacles we had onto a wooden board, prop the board up on a few cardboard blocks, set our goals under it, and break the board with our bare hands. I assumed the boards would be thin. I also assumed the boards would have cracks in them so that they could be broken easily. I was wrong on both counts. These boards were an inch-and-a-half thick, and as solid as a door. It was daunting. I went first. According to our instructor, karate chopping it or punching it might result in injury to our hands, so the heel of the palm was recommended. I smashed it with two blows. Maybe I should move on to blocks of ice in the future.
The third memory is the most terrifying one. Some of my relatives from my mother’s family have an innate fear of heights. A few even have vertigo. Sadly, I myself am afflicted by this malady, to a certain extent. I avoid railings in malls like the plague. I was on my knees on top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, with my elbows glued to the ground, crawling forth inch-by-inch to take a swift peek over the side. My cousin Mikey still ridicules me for this. This memory of mine was very similar to the Paris incident. The activity consisted of climbing to the top of an oddly shaped structure. Two concrete pillars, stuck in the ground, rise fifty feet into the sky. They are about twenty feet from each other. A single Meralco post is affixed near the top of both pillars horizontally, thus creating a catwalk. Incidentally, this structure is also called "The Catwalk". If you had difficulty understanding my description of "The Catwalk", you may choose to do one of two things.
Learn how to speak English, idiot.
Refer to the picture.
B is the suggested course of action. My course of action was to get into a safety harness, ascend one of the pillars, balance across the salvaged Meralco post, and get to the other side. After achieving those goals, I would then proceed back to the middle of the Meralco post, and jump off. Despite my foolproof plan, things didn’t go exactly as I expected. I committed my first error when I was climbing up one of the pillars. I couldn’t relax, and my body was as taut as a board. Thus I had to catch my breath when I reached the top. There, I committed my second mistake. Someone shouted, "Don’t look down!" and like an ass, I looked down. People were about three inches tall. The world spun. I desperately clung onto the pillar.
I spent 15 minutes hugging that pillar, not budging an inch. I can’t remember what I was thinking at that point. From what I was able to piece together, based on what observers saw and heard and my own vague memories, I froze, swore, got bitten by some fire ants that crawled up my pant leg, swore some more, closed my eyes, took a few steps, retreated back to the post, swore yet again, heard some voices, swore at them, opened my eyes, and leaped off the post. It was a puny leap. It wasn’t so much of a leap as an intentional fall. There’s no scientific explanation for this unnatural aversion of mine to high places. It’s not fear of falling, since I happen to like the feeling of falling very much. Ride the Anchor‘s Away in Enchanted Kingdom and you’ll know what I mean. It’s not fear of death either, because I know there’s no way in hell that I could have died unless my harness somehow wrapped itself around one of my highly prized testicles and applied pressure to the point of destruction. Man was not meant to possess the knowledge of everything, lest he fall into a frenzied state of dementedness due to boredom and lack of things to do.
I have so many other things to write about, but if I wrote any more I’d be a novelist. I also did my best to stick with the confidentiality agreement, which hampered me a lot. It’s probably best that way; otherwise I’d use up all the newsprint at the STAR. These three memories are only a taste of the grand buffet that is Team Explore Adventure. If you’re interested in joining next summer, you can visit the website at http://www.karinawebsolutions.net/teencamp/index.htm and www.karinawebsolutions.net/teencamp/index.htm or e-mail center_self@yahoo.com.