We are an American family living in Australia and we are trying new things. This week, some of us tried walking to school by ourselves, and some of us tried going to work when we were sick. Some of us tried parking in a lot where in order to exit you need to have memorized your license plate number, and if you don’t know your license plate number, you end up angering a woman wearing a hot pink scrunchie.
Last week, the new thing we tried was Band Camp.
My daughter plays the keyboard in a band – less Duran Duran, more Mr. Holland’s Opus. Forty children meet up before school to play a variety of instruments and learn songs by the Beatles and Tchaikovsky. The talented bandleader has an equal amount of gorgeous white curls and schtick-jokes; he is turning these kids into proper musicians, and showing them how fun music can be.
Australia is big into fun. Are you having fun doing it? If not, then why are you doing it? It is a cultural ethos that I love and also struggle with, particularly when it comes to the kids. Don’t we need to teach our children that hard work combined with a healthy dose of dissatisfaction pays off? Don’t they need to suffer in order to succeed? Since moving to Perth, I am constantly reminded that, as it turns out, joy is a critical component to learning. (This no-duh moment was brought to you by Tim Tams, the greatest cookie of all time.)
Every year, the “band mums” coordinate a weekend getaway at Nanga Bush Camp, a well-known destination to Western Australians who did a lot of scouting in their childhoods. Nanga is located about 100 miles south of Perth, near the town of Dwellingup that has an art gallery where you can buy felt brooches and a cat sculpture titled Chairman Meow. While the band members have marathon practice sessions, their families go on long walks and sit around playing Uno and drinking instant coffee.
After almost crashing into a kangaroo (note: do not drive on a curvy, desolate road at dusk), we arrived at Nanga Bush Camp somewhat traumatized in the pouring rain, and discovered that we would be spending two nights in what essentially is a log cabin prison. Imagine a building about the size of a six-bedroom suburban home, but instead of walls there are curtains that haven’t been cleaned since 1968 and instead of beds there are tiny wooden slabs on which you roll out your sleeping bags. There is a basketball hoop in the main room and two fireman’s poles, presumably to encourage loud play at all hours. Seventy-five people snoring, farting, arguing and giggling. All we were missing were Ouija boards and an epic round of Spin the Bottle.
As an aside, to the parents of the boy who was singing the Disney classic “A Whole New World” at midnight: your son is adorable, and I look forward to seeing him on Broadway. But until then, please tell him that his late-night unsolicited singing almost caused an American woman to have a certain kind of breakdown that would have resulted in an arrest.
At Band Camp, we played by the river and walked on a tightrope. There was a Family Cabaret Night with skits and ukuleles and a certain American family singing “Norwegian Wood.” We square danced and tried to drink just enough wine so that we’d fall asleep on our wooden bunks but not get up every three hours to pee. It was fun.
