It’s 5:25am and I awake to a THUD and hushed whispers in the corridor, my unconventional wake-up call and sign to begin my day at work. The sounds linger then diffuse through the floor boards of the late 18th century house. I pull on a pair of track pants and a fleece and emerge to the corridor with a smile and forced animated face. This brings Monday-itis to a whole new level. It is day one of camp for the youths, but week five for me.
After the British chills shake me to sobriety from the grog of sleep, I supervise youths playing ping pong until breakfast reminding myself that I actually get paid for this! The kitchen has outdone it’s self again with a smorgasbord of pouched and fried eggs, bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms and hash browns, there is also yoghurt, cereals and fruit to choose from. The belief that camp food is unfavourable is definitely not the case here and I am grateful as today my group are going on the mountain walk. I attempt to inspire them and make believe the walk is going to be a blast. I do everything short of jumping on my chair and declaring my love of the mountain before they look at me, then out the window to the pelting rain. I sigh.
I am working at Camp Castlehead in the Lake District, UK for the YHA, an added layer to my Gap year and way to top up my travel funds. Each week we have children from single parent to two parent homes, the wealthy to the not so well off, from adoptive homes and foster care, children who have been abused, children who are gifted to those who have disabilities all who arrive on Sunday and leave on the following Friday for a week of action.
The day drags on as we march troop-like through the muddy English countryside. No man is left behind, though the weaker try to sacrifice themselves with loud affirmations of hate and weakness. However it is the quiet ones you have to watch out for. I keep an eye one young man as he slows and lags. I walk with him for a while trying to pry from him what was the matter, its moments like this that we are trained for. Was he being bullied? Was he ill? Was he homesick? After an hour of light-hearted conversation and carefully constructed questions, he admits to blisters on his feet and it’s obvious he comes from a household where it is not acceptable to admit to pain. On closer inspection his feet were blistered red and raw and as we walked, the rain and gritty mud were getting into his shoes and causing further trauma to the seeping, open wounds. We called it lunch time for the troops while we cleaned, bandaged and strapped our damaged man.
I would be tough to get everyone going again. Motivational speeches don’t really work on angry, stubborn youths. So I bribed them with promises of hot chocolates. My work partner pulled her pants up to her armpits, put her cap on it’s side, pulled on an amusing face and led the way up that mountain, marching and belting out all the chants and war cries we knew. Our man “Blisters,” sung and skipped with the best of them, forgetting his ailments and succumbing to the endorphins, mountain air, and idiocy of my partner.
Later as the bus pulls back into camp and I say a silent prayer that we got back in one piece after the cold, the rain and the tears. It was a hell of a day, though I relish in the fact that I now get about 10 minutes to myself for a hot shower, before I am back to work until the last youth is asleep tonight. As we disembark my fellow team mates also roll back into camp from their activities like rock-climbing, canoeing and the obstacle course. They walk with a heavy step and a look in their weary eyes that says, “You’ll never guess what happened to ME today!”
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