Annual Camp Court Rap 2011 - by Seb Remmelzwaal

 Four weeks into the school year and the house is really starting to come to terms that the holidays are well and truly over. Thankfully, White House has a solution to this dilemma. Instead of blocking out our desires to take a well deserved break from campus, a handful of boys and staff confronted the problem head-on.

The White House Camp has developed over the years. Founded by Mr Court over 20 years ago, the current White House seniors will still remember that the camp was a compulsory outing in their newboy year, but nowadays it’s open to any White House boy who’s keen to escape the hustle and bustle of city life for a weekend.

At noon on Saturday, armed with packed lunches, rugby balls, fishing net, two banjos and tanning oil, a total of nine White House lads (ranging from Grade 8 – 12) boarded the kombis that would take us to ‘Africa’ – a nature reserve near Citrusdal. Mr Court, his family and former Bishops science teacher and legend, Kenny Williams made up the rest of the party. It was immediately clear to the rest of the group that the level of intelligence of Chris Rossouw and Remy Miller would be a heatedly debated topic over the next 24 hours.

Mom said don't get the guitars wet....

To keep with tradition, the boys were keen to jog the last few kilometres to our final campsite. Our eager anticipation soon turned into a sweaty reluctance as the devilish sun punished our skin. By halfway the pack had broken up into pathetic clusters of hallucinating boys; all apart from George Bartlett whose strict diet of apple juice and HP Sauce had given him immunity to stitches and granted him with calves of steel.


The ones who made it to the campsite were greeted with cooldrinks and paradise in the form of a cool river running alongside the campsite. And although nobody seemed particularly concerned, both of our newboys appeared not to have made it to camp.

As sun set, so too did the fire start. The excited chatter mixed in with the splash of the swimmers, the entrancing strumming of the banjos (conducted by Seb Remmelzwaal and Andrew Earl) and the sensational sizzling with the boerewors made our school work and responsibilities seem like part of another life. Under the moon’s bright rays we ravenously chowed our boerie rolls and braaied our marshmallows.


By this time the newboys had stumbled into camp, much to the dismay of the Grade 10s, who had already called ‘shotgun’ on their lamb chops and Cokes had they deceased during the jog down.

We slept like babies – all apart from Pooch, who as well as being able to speak Italian, was also fluent in Baboon language and spent the evening listening intently a distant baboon conversation, occasionally giving the rest of the boys a detailed breakdown of their discussions.

Notice - no beard Kenny chatting to Seb

In the morning we woke to find that Mr Court had arrived back from an epic 51km run. Mr Court – as modest as always – explained that this was nothing compared to the 178km sprint that Mr Williams had set off on at 2.30am that morning.


Managing to share the last few drops of sunblock amongst the entire group, we set out for a magnificent pool, just minutes down river. As not to take any risks, we decide to put the newboys in front this time.


The pool is most famous for its nail-biting 7 metre jump and although many of the boys had conquered the jump on previous trips, there were still a few moments of hesitation before leaping into the depths of the refreshing water below.

While the hooligans flung themselves mindlessly off the jump, the more sophisticated members of the group (namely the newboys) constructed a fishing apparatus from twigs, climbing rope and coke cans. Contrary to the rest of the group’s belief that they had less of a chance catching a fish that Jean Truter had of celebrating his 17th birthday this year, they managed to successfully reel in a decent number of respectably sized fish.


The afternoon ended with a violent game that has no real name... nor real rules either. After this we were well and truly boxed! We returned to camp, loaded the kombis and headed out.


The camp ended, as it does every year at the Spur where the boys filled their stomachs and rediscovered something called a ‘toilet’. Although last 24 hours in the bush hadn’t quite turned us into animals, no one was really surprised when Andrew Earl was nearly busted by the Spur Staff for smuggling out bottomless Coke.

Well stuffed George Bartlett doing what he does best
'a dassie pose'

One could argue that the meal at the Spur was the primary motivation for some of the boys to have agreed to embark on this adventure in the first place, but this would only be partly true. No, the camp had done its magic and although we were extremely relieved to find a hot shower and a comfy bed waiting for us when we got back, we were also ready to face the wildness of boarding house life once again!


Seb Remmelzwaal