A Humbling Experience

Munyaradzi Nyabonde

Sponsoring Professor: Prof. Steven Bear

ENG 1101, Composition I

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Considering how cheerful and rowdy everyone was, a three-hour trip felt like only mere minutes had gone by. Thabiso, the youngest amongst us, was responsible for this drama. He was a little guy, but very charismatic and loud. He would yell out some popular chants and war cries from school; everyone but me would reciprocate. Honestly, I was just annoyed by the noise.

The only adults with us on the bus were Miss Boshoff, a sixth grade teacher; the principal, Mrs. Starky; and the principal’s husband, Mr. Starkey, the bus driver. I couldn’t believe that teachers as kind and patient as Miss Boshoff existed. A sweet lady in her early 30s, she was the only one who bothered to chat with the students. In contrast, Mrs. Starkey remained unamused by us. She was an elegant British woman, whose voice always fascinated me: it was charming on account of her accent, yet somehow too hoarse for the woman from whom it originated. As for Mr. Starkey, he was a towering man, swiftly driving the bus like a true professional. Looking at him, one couldn’t help but feel small, insignificant, and intimidated. Indeed, I sat far in the back of the bus, secluding myself from others.

I didn’t particularly have anyone I could call a friend, but I somehow never felt lonely or had any need for a companion. I was around 12 years old, then, living in a city called Rustenburg in South Africa. Kidz College Primary School was a charming English speaking private school, one that valued discipline above all. Accordingly, Mrs. Starkey had planned a mandatory leadership camp for all sixth graders. She told us that the camp was to be conducted in a remote resort, a bit far out of the city. Hearing all this excited me: who wouldn’t be interested in traveling to a resort? So that Monday morning, October 12, 2015, I joined all the other sixth graders on the bus with great excitement.

Everyone but me became even more excited when the bus came to a halt in the parking area. While the other students began rocking the bus by jumping up and down, I got off the bus and collected my luggage. Soon enough, our unamused principal briefed us on the details of our stay at the camp. Just after she was done, a tall man with a dark complexion came to address us. His name was Mr. Khumalo, and as our guide, he wanted to give us a tour of the camp, starting with the beautiful sign hanging in the resort’s reception hall: “Konka Camp.”

My experience of the walking tour definitely contrasted with that of my peers. As I took a closer look at some of them, I noticed one boy stood out from the crowd, because he was just taller than the rest of us. His name was Dexter, and he had very long legs. He made walking look so easy because he took long strides, and I would struggle to keep up. It was finally supper time, and everyone had worked up an appetite. After several hours of the walking tour, I was the first to enter the cafeteria. Smelling the kitchen’s impeccable aroma, I rushed over to the open buffet, cheerfully munching on as much food as I could. By the time I was done indulging my taste buds in some savory delights, everyone else finally walked in. They began trying out different dishes together, but I just ignored them and continued sitting alone, while others proceeded in conversation. Immediately after eating, I went to sit outside; gazing at the skyline, I wondered why the stars were much brighter at the camp than in the city.

As I was pondering this, the guide called us to the campfire, at least a mile away from the main buildings, to hear a story. We eagerly gathered there, in the dark, with such low visibility that you couldn’t see anything a few meters away from the fire. The stars were still visible, but away from the main buildings, only the campfire’s light could help us see what was around us, who was around us. Even though the stars were visible, it was not enough to see what was around you, nor who was next to you without any lights. We were all accustomed to the comfort of lights everywhere in the city. Everyone was silent. All you could hear was the crackling of burning logs.

Back in 2007, Mr. Khumalo said, a woman named Dora had worked as a cleaner at the camp. As she had her own home about five kilometers from the main camp, she did not live in the staff quarters. In those days, the camp wasn't as developed; dangerous animals still roamed the woods. One night, after working a late shift, she found that the shortest path home cut through those woods. There, she was attacked by wolves. They tore off her left leg, so that she bled out to death. Her body was discovered some days later. Eight years later, the camp’s employees still told stories about how her ghost haunted those who dare step on her grave: by stealing their left shoe.

We were all accustomed to the comfort of lights everywhere in the city. Everyone was silent. All you could hear was the crackling of burning logs.

I was paralyzed and frozen in fear as I listened. Glancing to my side, I suddenly noticed a glowing skeleton figure approaching. The girls let out deafening screams of terror; everyone leapt into a frenzy of panic and fear when they saw it, including me. I wasn’t the fastest of anyone there, but when my adrenaline started pumping, I was ready to run. But then the figure unmasked itself, and it turned out to be Mr. Starky dressed up in a skeleton costume. It was his attempt to prank us, but he didn’t expect a reaction that intense from us. It’s a human instinct for survival, after all: running out of fear, with no particular thoughts of where to go. A natural reaction, is it not? Like Mrs. Starkey on the bus, my peers and I were unamused.

After splitting us evenly into two groups, Mr. Kumalo walked each group, beyond the campsite, into different parts of the bushveld, South Africa’s thorny ecosystem. Our objective as a group was to find a single lit candle in the middle of the bushveld. After hearing a whistle blow, we were supposed to search for it, and could only go back to the dorms after we had found it. The use of any flashlights (“torches,” we called them) for illuminating the path was not allowed and could result in disqualification. Then Mr. Khumalo left, taking the only source of light we had. One of my peers assumed leadership, reassuring us of safety; meanwhile, I started noticing just how dark it really was, which just added to my anxiety. I heard the whistle blow after some minutes, but no one dared to move. As others gathered and clung closely to each other, I remained too embarrassed, too proud, to admit that I was also scared. Instead, I decided to follow the group by the sound of their voices, as they moved in the direction of the whistle, without relying on them too much.

Walking the path that way was anything but easy. I wasn’t confident with the direction the group was going, because we were walking for what felt like an eternity. It was pitch black and I couldn’t even tell if someone was next to me, unless they spoke. I was constantly surrounded by thorn bushes. I was cut around my arms because of occasionally walking into some bushes. I wouldn’t lift my feet too high while I was walking to avoid stepping on the thorns. Attempting to lighten the mood, Thabiso would often crack a joke; still, I felt like I was truly fighting against nature, against the sounds of bugs and strange birds I heard in the distance. Frequently I’d hear mumbling and sounds of discontent coming from the boys and high-pitched shrieks from girls, whenever branches broke or something touched them.

Eventually, I could finally see an area in the distance with a very dim light flickering slightly. I was slightly relieved because I knew that this was our destination. I thought that we were going to be stuck in the bushes, and this would only build up more frustration. We all got together around the candle and shouted “Victory!” The first group to arrive, we’d earned the right to go back to our dorms. I noticed that the candle was erected on top of a very flat, smooth rock, similar to that of a headstone, but I chose to ignore these thoughts. Before we left, Mr. Khumalo intoned, “I hope that none of you stepped on Dora’s grave because she will come and visit you at night and steal your left shoes. She is jealous of those that still have their left feet.” Immediately my anxiety and paranoia shot up. I knew that some of the boys and I had stepped on the grave unintentionally.

Back at the dorm, I collapsed on my pillow from exhaustion, while the boys started discussing whether what Mr. Khumalo said was real or not. This went on until the boys from the other group finally arrived. Mr. Khumalo had told them the same thing; some of them had also accidentally stepped on the grave. Upon hearing this, I realized I’d reached my limit. I swallowed my pride and joined the others for safety, feeling the fear pushing me closer to them. We joined our beds together to make one giant bed in the center of the room and slept in one giant pile. Some drifted off to sleep immediately, but I was still wide awake. I hid under my bed sheets, hoping to fall asleep faster and just wake up to a new day.

But sleep wouldn’t come for me that night. I was tossing and turning, too nervous to sleep, and wondered if I would wake up again if I slept. Soon enough, it started raining, and the power went out. Once again, I was surrounded by darkness, and something was banging loudly on the windows. I immediately felt goosebumps all over my body, and it suddenly got colder and colder. A concerned boy who was sleeping next to me whispered, “We will be fine.”

Somehow, hearing those words comforted me, even though I didn’t know the person who had said them, since we weren’t in the same class. I asked his name, and I told him mine; Shawn, a very kind and considerate person, then talked with me for quite some time. As he did, I felt my mind freed from thought. I realized that the more I talked to him, I could actually relate, and he clearly understood the emotions I was hiding. The adrenaline rushing through my body subsided and soon the fatigue and mental stress caught up to me. I slowly drifted off to sleep.

When I woke up in the morning, no one was missing any shoes. All that was missing was my reluctance to rely on or depend on others. The principal, I thought, had cooked up quite the elaborate plan by bringing us to this camp; feeling powerless and humbled, I’d formed bonds with others who shared a fear of ghosts and the unknown. I came out of this experience with a ton of friends due to my new found willingness to communicate. Though at the cost of my pride, I was now more comfortable and willing to converse with others. I went in a diamond in the rough, but came out a polished and refined gem.

As we were about to leave, I got to see Dora’s infamous tree of dangling left shoes: creepy and disturbing. When the bus almost refused to start, I briefly wondered if we were cursed. Nonetheless, I made it out of the camp alive.

BIO

Munyaradzi Nyabonde.mp3

Munyaradzi Nyabonde is a student at City Tech and City tech Honor's Scholars program. While a civil engineering technology major, he also enjoys writing descriptive essays. Munyaradzi is a focused individual, driven and passionate about any task he sets his mind to accomplish.

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