Mandy Herrick, Resource and Content Developer, Te Papa
As a keen tramper, birder and wilder-seeker, I have become somewhat of a connoisseur of all things tent, as most summers it becomes my temporary home.
Having just bought my first house, I have come to realise the simplicity of the tent, sunscreen is only an arm’s length away and your togs can be found underfoot. It’s the best kind of cramped, you have to almost fold yourself into the tent. Its a state where you have to resign yourself to being graceless, sometimes akimbo, as you contort yourself to fit its proportions. I am always surprised that I finish the summer without a noticeable stoop.
It’s wonderfully visceral sleeping in a tent, you wake up to rain lashing the tent, water pooling dangerously over-head or creating an icy lake at your feet. And you wonder about its hasty, lazy construction done in the seemingly perennial blazing sun. You might grumble at the co-builder, happily sleeping beside you, as you contemplate the tent’s imminent time of death.
And then your thoughts wander and come to appreciate the thin piece of fabric separating you from the wilderness. While keeping you sheltered, tents allow the outside in – you can hear ruru calling, waves pounding, kiwi snuffling for grubs. The merits of tents haven’t warranted much print-space, something I would like to resurrect, so here is my ode to tents across the ages.
Home sweet tent
This is the kind of tent that I grew up in as a 70s-80s child, it was fun, airy and in high-winds, prone to lift-off. The sturdy army-green canvas tents of yesteryear were pushed aside for these breezy numbers which no doubt flew off the shelves. This tent was all velcro and zips, somewhat like Japanese fashion, it was full of surprises. I loved these tents, up until the day I decided to become a competitive tanner. I lived up to the motto that vanity is pain, as I waited out sunburn after sunburn in this stuffy recluse. Like a patient with no nurses, I witnessed games of cricket, frisbee tournaments, everything from my cot, when I would have given anything for a dark, cool, private retreat. Though by in large this tent was a gamechanger – open plan, breezy and lightweight, over the weeks, it would become stickier and more fetid. But come summer’s end, you could shake out all the debris, rinse it all off in a nearby river or ocean and then just hang it off a tree. A washable home, brilliant. Its simplicity struck something deep in me, and from a tender age, I vowed to escape the tyranny of things by embracing tent-life every summer.
Tent-chic
This picture perfectly sums up tent-life for me because everything is makeshift, no table – use a chair; no tea-towel holders – use your shoulder; no sink – use a bucket-cum-bathtub-cum-water-collector cum stool. The 1980s were peak-tent for me, the cars were smaller, the tents were smaller too, so each item was selected for its ability to serve many functions. Tent-life demanded number 8 wire thinking.
In my childhood, camping gear was full of family heirlooms, each rugged item contained a story. Perhaps my weirdest memory is bidding my mother good-night as she slept with her head outside a mouldy tent gifted to her by an ex-boyfriend. The camping cups were dented, the tents had missing parts, and the tables always had a dicky leg. The only thing precious about our camping gear was the stories they held. In the age of huge blow-up beds, solar panels and disposable tents, it’s hard not to miss those days.
Survivalist tent
One of my passions is meeting adventurers and then quizzing them on everything from bush-tucker to scrapes with death. It is this curiosity, that broadened my tent-knowledge considerably. Hunters were quick to teach me all about swags, lean-tos, tree-blinds and more. As enthusiasts of the survivalist TV series Alone, a few friends and I decided to test our wits on a survivalist skills course on the edge of Auckland. After whittling sticks and starting small fires, we were instructed to create such a shelter from a tarpaulin sheet and fallen punga branches under the instruction of an ex-Army commander. Sheltering on the outskirts of Tāmaki Mākaurau, we bid each other good-night and settled into our bush beds, and instantly the trees took on a sort of menacing presence as they creaked and groaned in the wind. The shelter kept me dry though I have come to appreciate the presence of four walls, even just from a psychological perspective. It is strange to think this type of tent is probably the most commonly used throughout history, though the least photographed. Fortunately, Kōtuia provides a glimpse into this form of tent-life, holding dozens of photos like this of curiously tidy men, looking bush-worn, camera-ready, and tent-proud.
Tent candy
These festive jaunty houses of joy are like wrapped candy for me. Their windowless exterior means that I always want to know what’s going on inside. I was first introduced to these tents at the electro- hippy music festival The Gathering (1996 - 2001), then later at the Prana, and Splore. During festivals, I like to eat things on sticks and drift about like some 1800s flaneur surveying the tent-cities that have cropped up. Needless to say, I would look on a scene like this with great delight. Festooned with lights and often throbbing with music, these tents provide the perfect tease. As you open the tent’s flaps and commit to entering the space, there’s a moment where you ask yourself, who will I become in this tent? No lock, no key, no door, tents like these provide that wonderful open-door experience for those curious enough to look inside.