The Journey...

I took one of those internet tests a couple of days ago and apparently I have an IQ of 196, my future partner’s name is Gertrude Percival-Green, I would make a good paediatric cardiologist, and I’m going to die in a huge fireball at the age of 112 in a spaceship that’s plummeting out of control to earth. The first one I don’t believe; it’s flattering, but really implausible. The second point was distressing, because if I ever met anyone called Gertrude Percival-Green... well, I’d run away. Fast. Another indication of the test’s absurdity is the fact that I can’t stand the sight of blood, and I honestly would not be proud to say that my profession is ‘cutting small children open and messing about with their vital organs,’ so I would not ever be a paediatric cardiologist. But I like the way that they’ve said I’ll kick the bucket. I must say that dying in a plummeting spacecraft does have some kind of ring to it. It must be better than dying in the hospital as a vegetable, connected to very invasive tubes and sensors. I’d like to go out with a bang, and I’m sure you would too. You may wonder why, and the answer is simple. Adventure. You don’t want to be remembered as a shrivelled up potato with a plug in you arse, you want to be remembered as ‘that guy who died fighting off thousands of terrorists on top of Mount Everest.’ Adventure is what led the cavemen out of the caves. Adventure is what led Chris Columbus to go the extra mile and make America known to the rest of the world. Adventure is what led the Wright Brothers to want to fly. And adventure is what Mr Broom wants us all to experience on The Journey...

At first I’m sure anyone would be slightly sceptical about being sent out to spend 23 days in the bush with no technology, no running water, no sanitation, sufficient food for a hummingbird and a spade as a toilet (we called it Doug). But in truth, after a while everyone was... well -although I loath using this word- Gee’d. Most of us, in fact, were looking forward to spending 23 days in the bush with no parents, no running water, no sanitation, no food and no sturdy roof over our heads. Anyway, on the day of out departure, after a boring bag check to make sure no one had brought any “hallucinogenic pharmaceuticals” (as Ma’am Reyburn puts it so nicely) or pornographic magazines (19 were uncovered), we all got lined up next to the bell. There were sobbing mothers and a couple of emotional speeches about “...boys growing into men... a significant time of life... sincerely hope... safe passage...etc” and before we knew it we were past the bell, up the N1 and gathered (again) in the parking lot. There were some more speeches given, the last goodbyes were said and the group flag was handed over to us. This was a rather special moment, even I will admit, because that flag was the flag that defined us as a group, it was our banner, our sign, and it would go with us wherever we went. And so, finally, we left the school.

We had been told that it was easy to get lost on Journey, but not even the most pessimistic cynic could have predicted what happened next. We proudly walked out of the gate, marched to the top of Chapel Hill and got lost. Not 100 meters into the Journey and already there had been a fight about which way to go! And, basically, that set the scene for the entire Journey. “Mr Broom’s Spur Drawn Maps” as we so cunningly referred to them, were utterly useless as any sort of route indicator and as a result, getting lost daily was an absolute guarantee. What varied was how long it took to realise we were lost. There was one day that we actually asked a passing local if we were on the right track and he looked at the map, thought for a while, and then said that we were meant to be “on that mountain, just over there.” Well, “Just over there” turned out to be a very long way away. If you think that’s bad, apparently one of the groups after us didn’t chance upon a helpful local and subsequently reached the border. I asked which border and the reply was “just the border.” I suppose I could go on and talk about the roughest days on Journey, the easiest days on Journey, the most emotionally challenging days on Journey and all that rot, but just in case any unlucky form three happens upon this, I don’t want to ruin any surprises so think I’ll leave that for some other day.

Anyway, breaking off the topic for a while, did you know that Charlie Brown’s father was a barber? And that the Chinese have extended their release dates for the Long March Changzheng rocket designs to April 2014

Oh, yes, just before I leave you, remember that flag that I told you about... well here’s an amusing story: On day 2 someone had left the flag sticking too far out of the truck that was carrying our stuff while we were cycling, and there was a particularly insensitive tree that stuck out over the road and bent our flag. On day 13 our flag got bent a bit more, and then it got torn a bit. By day 18 some of us had forgotten its original shape or colour, because at the time it was a sort of brown-black murky twist of wood and cloth. But it was still our flag, and we cherished it. On day 23, after the 3 hour bus ride back (that’s depressing – 23 days there on foot, 3 hours back... in a bus), we were waiting for Mr Hamilton to call us up the N1. Our group leader for the day (no names mentioned - I promised Janneman I wouldn’t use his name) very astutely pointed out that we couldn’t walk up with a bent flag, so he tried to bend it back. Anyone who’s ever tried to bend hard wood will know that it doesn’t bend so well, but rather snaps. And that’s what happened. After 23 days of rivers, sun, bush, dirt, rain, heat, and cold, we broke our flag in the last 5 minutes of the Journey, waiting in a car park. I almost cried.

James Hosken