Bootcamp

When I saw the advertisement in the newspaper, I knew it was for me. "Boot camp in desolate place has cured many addictions" it read. The accompanying photo depicted a luxurious hotel with sauna and a hairdresser. The rooms were spacious with silk curtains. Exactly the place where I wanted to kick off the many unhealthy habits that I seem to have developed over the years. I quickly read the article. "Yes, it is a mixture between Survival and Club Med" the owner said. "But we don't have dangerous animals here". Well, that was reassuring. If you also had to cope with snakes while fighting the shivers with a coconut-drink in your hand things were getting out of hand.

The boot camp was in a country previously teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, somewhere in Eastern Europe. If I alone paid the fee for the privilege they would be well on their way to be capitalists and be included in the EU. So after mortgaging the house(again) I decided to go. When I stumbled out of the plane I was picked up by a minivan. When the doors closed I nodded off; I was in for the long haul here and as they say in the Army: sleep when you can.

The sign said: Welcome to Camp Tomahawk. I looked around me. Several other miserable looking people were huddling in a group. The tundra stretched out to the horizon. We were herded into a barn. I Lit a cigarette, and about time too after hours of non-smoking in the plane. I settled at one of the tables and set up my gear, like my I-Pod, laptop, camera, chocolate pudding and a thermos with coffee. Also my slippers, hairdryer and fluffy towel. So puffing away I settled in until someone could point us to that wonderful hotel, where a Swedish masseur would take care of my aching muscles.

This, alas, was not going to happen. A guy dressed in Army-fatigues came marching through the barn-doors, slapping a stick on his thigh as he walked. I kept a close eye on that stick. If he dared to hit me with it he wouldn't know what was coming to him. He yelled at us, and motioned to leave all that junk on the tables and line up in front of him. As I was hastily trying to write my latest article I was hesitant. I have been known to lose articles halfway or put strange photo's in front of them.

When I finally hit the Publish-button and stood up, still holding my cigarette and coffee, he started yelling at me. I am a tall person and he was small so I don't know why he wanted to try and make me so angry that this would result in a bar-room brawl. I looked down at his contorted face, now bright red. "But-I-don't-know-what-you-are-saying!" I yelled back. He closed his mouth at this, and turned around. We followed.

After hours in the minivan it became apparent the hotel didn't exist. And we were at the mercy of a bunch of lunatics, in the middle of nowhere. When we were dropped off at the camping-site we looked at the bundles, that were to be our "homes" for a couple of weeks. I took off my high heels and sat down. My cellphone wasn't working, my laptop wasn't working, I ran out of cigarettes and my coffee was stone-cold. I decided to complain to the psychologist. He looked nice, with a small beard and a cap. "Look," I started,"I'm not much of an outdoorsy person, actually the City Park is scary enough for me, can I go home now?"
He smiled as he gazed around the empty tundra, to the spot where the minivan was disappearing on the far horizon

"Ah, no, you are here to heal and you'll feel much better in a while". This I couldn't believe because I'd never felt so bad in my whole life. "And I don't know how to set up a tent, or to kill an animal. Will somebody bring us some food later on, like Mac Donald's?" I asked hopefully. This, according to the psychologist was not going to happen either.

As I drew the coarse blanket around me that night I shivered. Since I had no tent I had to sleep out in the open. Deprived from my communication with the outside world, cigarettes and coffee I didn't sleep. Instead I made friends with a field mouse and an ant-colony that had decided to move in with me under the blanket. The last thing I saw was that an owl joined our little company, which was bad news for the mouse, probably.

At dawn we did get breakfast. No chocolate pudding or pancakes, not even toast, but food was food and we were very hungry. I can't even remember what it was, but it made us talkative. And so the group-session began. The idea was to give your name and tell the group what your addiction was. People have the weirdest habits and addictions and to me it was a real eye-opener. "I am X and I am addicted to driving a car." "I am Y and addicted to watching Dr.Phil"."I am B and addicted to clipping coupons". "I am Z and I sleep with a teddy bear". "I am S and collect perfumes and stamps" "I am Picasso and I'm addicted to smoking,coffee,chocolate pudding, my I-Pod,cellphone, shopping and writing articles on the computer". The group fell silent. This was going to be a complex problem. The psychologist looked panicked and sweat started to trickle down his shirt. "Are you going to write about this experience with us here Picasso?" he asked in his soft voice. "Sure I will, it's what I do and that's why I'm here. You have to cure me. " I said. I burst out in tears. The pull was so strong.

As we trudged through the wilderness for weeks on end, getting filthier, hungrier,depressed and healthier from the pure unpolluted air and outdoor-life we weren't even sure if we were living a hallucination or not. The psychologist wanted us to sing while we were putting one foot in front of the other but we couldn't from pure exhaustion and he was singing alone. Looking around me at my companions he was the only one who was happy.

Finally the last day came, and the minivan arrived. I put on my high heels again and hopped in. Back at the barn I found an electricity-outlet and plugged everything in. I looked down at my legs. They did have a nice sun-tan, and looked good with my mini-skirt. I lit up a cigarette while I was waiting. Then I retrieved the brochure and smiled.

On the way to the airport I saw a hotel very similar to the one in the brochure. I asked the cap driver to stop the car and I booked myself in. "Hi, my name is Picasso and I wonder if you happen to have a Swedish masseur here? And a hairdresser..."