A Humorous Documentary of Natural Helpers Camp
by Elijah Baccus, Paul Van Rossen, Scott Methner
It all began on Nov. 7th 2010 . Around 40-50 kids boarded a long, mustard yellow school bus. We were all leaving for Natural Helpers camp, a long, relaxing weekend at camp with our friends, away from the stress and strife of school. Or so we thought. We arrived around dinner time, and placed our bags in our separate cabins. Then, we returned to the lodge, where we listened to an introduction to this program. We played several games, and then split into groups to make pizzas, and soon were settled in, tearing at our food with the enthusiasm of a pack of wolves. After this filling meal (cheese melted onto dough with the consistency of plastic) we returned to our circle. Here, we talked, and learned about Vulture Talk, and removing our “masks”. This concept was introduced to us after the teachers had dimmed the lights, and closed the shutters, leaving the room felling eerily like a cave, lit only by the light of guttering candles. Then, met by much screaming, a girl jumped out of the shadows wearing a matte black mask, and began miming to an eerie poem. Afterwards, we were handed small, blue books, labeled thoughts and feeling. My entry went something like this: “This poem has made me wonder what to think. For truly, what is anyone without a mask? Does anyone ever wear a mask? I think my feeling are best described by this poem that I have written. What does it truly mean, to remove this fabled mask? This mask that covers, this mask that hides. For truly, what am I, beneath this mask so spoken of? Does anyone ever wear the mask, does this mask even exist, or is the mask just the thousand different faces of an actor? And who is to judge what is the mask, and what is the truth? And if this fabled mask, spoken of in such elaborate tones, immortalized by ancient poets, and feared by all, ever removed, or is the face the mask itself?
Nov. 8th 2010 a.m.
A new day, and maybe a new start. Today, awakening at 6:30 to the blaring alarm of someone’s ill timed alarm clock, I found myself I found myself in a stuffy, wooden cabin that was far to warm. Blearily, pulling on a sweatshirt and sweatpants, I shuffled unsteadily up to the lodge. Two bowls of cereal and several mugs of cider later, I was awake, and found myself once again seated in a circle, my buttocks already aching at the thought the long hours of sitting ahead. We had several long hours of role-playing, learning about limits, and other necessities in this career. We were forced to sit through a lecture about trust, and what it means. We were then told to find our “thumb-buddies” (‘cause everybody needs thumbbuddy, thumbtimes). We were then blindfolded and cheerily led to a maze, where our so called “buddies” were to lead us, barefoot, by verbal direction around the property, and finally through a maze of pins, set mousetraps, and scariest of all, a variety of rubber specimens. (These might not appear to that horrifying to look at, but their true deviousness is hidden by that rubbery cuteness. After having felt their squishy touch once before, I hold firm to the belief that they are only biding their time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to be placed underneath the unsuspecting feet of small children everywhere.) My “buddy” no doubt found it hilarious to lead me to trod upon untold horrors, until , much to his dismay, found that it was now my turn to lead him! Afterwards, we then engaged in a group activity called “Trust Fall”, where we close our eyes and fall over, relying on teammates to keep us from hitting the ground. We then retired to lunch, my buddy remorsefully rubbing his red feet.
Later, we return, and are once again told to remove our blue notebooks, and once again write down our feeling about truth, the maze, and the truth fall. My entry went like this: “What is trust, truly? Is trust a feeling, an emotion, or an action? Is trust when you can fall, or choose to fall into the unseen arms of fate, and who is to tell what truth is? Because, after all, who can judge what is trust, and what is instinct?
Nov. 8th p.m.
We return to lunch, and play several more, rather unimportant games. We learn the steps to helping somebody, and our forced to perform rather embarrassing plays in front of the group, depicting scenes of Natural Helpers helping people with problems. My own group’s play trundled boringly along until I, tired of the same old thing, leapt from my seat, and placing one hand upon my forehead, spoke: “O woe is me, life means no more to me, I shall take my own, for this world once of color has become drab, and painted in shades of grey,” and returned to my seat. (You may be able to tell that I was supposed to be suicidal.) Once firmly positioned in my ever-so hard chair, I waited expectantly for a no doubt equally dramatic come back, but was met instead with the hissed reply of one of the overly bossy girls in my group. “Hey, that wasn’t in the script, what are you doing?” she hissed. I replied, saying I was merely trying to make things more interesting, but was shut down, and made to redo but new and improved seen, mumbling things like “I’m going to die”, and “Materiel means nothing to me”.
The accompanying teacher, maybe sensing the infinite boredom of the actors, recalled the group, and handed marshmallows to everyone, telling us to juggle them. I, diligent, and trying to be responsible, began to juggle, innocent and unknowing of the true deviousness of this plan. Several servants, forming a rambunctious crowd, grasped the true point of this exercise. Carnage, pain, and DEATH. BY. MARSHMALLOWS. Fate had it in for me today, and forgot to tell me to stop juggling, so I diligently juggled, flying white missiles ricocheting off my head, only to be scooped up by other grubby hands and sent spiraling through the air to seek more victims. Mere seconds later, disaster struck, as four marshmallows came at me, one striking my nose, one my forehead, and one to each eye. Stumbling, blinded, and barraged by missiles, I soon found myself crouched behind a cloth divider. It was then I became aware of a burning feeling in my eye. Rising and rushing to the sink, I desperately flushed out my eye, and much to my surprise, a chunk of marshmallow, about the size of my index finger’s first knuckle, dropped out, leaving me with slightly fuzzy vision for several hours. After seeing this, the teachers stopped the carnage and told us to write in our journals. My entry went like this: “Yet another in this mindless, ill-timed, and soft skirmish. I fell with two soft ones to the left eye, and 1 large white to the right. It was not until later that I realized that the order to “Juggle” our ammo had been false, a mere distracting ploy, to draw us away from the true threat. Shortly after taking cover, and then retiring to the lodge’s infirmary or so called “living room”, I became aware of a growing burning sensation in my left eye and slightly fuzzy vision. After visiting the operating room (a.k.a. the kitchen sink), I discovered a large chunk of large white in my eye. Shamed beyond belief, I must admit that I may very well be the only man in history to be felled these fiendish, soft, and white missiles bearing destruction. The shame is everlasting, and already the jeers of the others begin to fill my ears. Bah, they know nothing of pain.”*. After this, we eat dinner, and are up late, working more.
Nov. 8th 2010 Edit.
This part of this essay should not exist, and should not be here. The rule is “What was in the cabin, stays in the cabin”, but this event was important to include. The time was in the morning, and Michael and I awoke to a cacophony of sound, most prominent of all, the snoring of our cabin mates. Slowly, we became aware of the stifling heat, and found the heater turned up all the way. After turning it off, Michael struggled to find a flashlight, while I opened the window, lost my balance, and plummeted 14 feet to the ground. This left Michael with a puzzling dilemma, as his bunk mate was now gone. I myself was left outside, bare-chested and barefoot, with only my sweatpants and a hat for company. Maybe 20 minutes later, Michael figured things out, and let a shivering me in, and I dove directly into my sleeping bag.
Nov. 9th
After breakfast, we packed, and put all of our stuff into the parking lot, and returned, playing several games to get rid of the time. The boys and some girls retired, and played Frisbee. Then, after lunch, the long bus appeared again, and we boarded, ready to leave our “relaxing” weekend. On the ride home, most of the crowd grew bored and tired, so we began to sing. Alas, it was no Christmas carol that left our mouths, but a rousing round of Ke$ha’s Tik Tok, which, after the second line, was shut down by the teachers. And so the ride continued, the children choosing some inappropriate song, the teachers vetoing it, until at long last, the bricks of Stevens became evident from the bus windows. At long last, we were home.
*This is translated from my writing, which slanted and tilted every which way, no doubt from my vision, and thus may not be exact.
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