‘Where’s the toilet?’ What it’s really like to be on TVNZ’s Celebrity Treasure Island – NZ Herald

OPINION:

What is it really like spending a night on camp Celebrity Treasure Island? Do celebs get whisked away to hotel rooms in the evening? What’s the deal with soaking the beans? And surely there’s a hidden toilet? Herald Entertainment Editor Jenni Mortimer travelled to the show’s set in Te Waipounamu to find out on an overnight stay with nothing but her wits, a bag of contraband and enough bug spray to destroy the ozone layer.

As Celebrity Treasure Island producers searched me for contraband, the contents of my backpack were stripped bare and my underwear lay exposed on a grassy knoll in the breathtaking Te Waipounamu, I giggled with joy. The game had begun.

Instant noodles, a bottle of wine, stock flavour sachets, muesli bars and chocolate were stripped from my sleeping bag, socks, a pant leg and the lining of my toiletries bag. “Not the face wipes!” I screamed as the multi-purpose micellar heroes were taken from me through fears I would use them as toilet paper.

As the contents of my overnight bag were haphazardly stuffed back together, I was issued with my camp role from a producer who clearly didn’t enjoy last season’s recaps: “No surprise who the rule breaker in this team is going to be.” I felt alive.

Once sufficiently searched and scolded, we were whisked away to take part in the first challenge with four Oxo cubes still stuffed in my bra and stabbing my chest with tinfoil points. “Guys, they didn’t get these ones,” I said to my team, patting my chest to reveal the location of the chicken-flavoured sensations that were growing increasingly warm.

But with nowhere to unload the goods, I was forced to compete with them still attached to my person. And as host Jordan Daniels laid out the rules – getting as many steps as possible on your pedometer, attached to your head via headband, using only your head – I started to wonder if four Oxos were too many.

As I stepped up to the mark, all inhibitions vanished, I viciously threw my head side to side, front to back in a chicken pecking style that was equal parts useful and a feast for the eyes. But to the victor go the spoils, and Daniels declared that the winner of an opened pack of Salt & Vinegar chips he had been munching through the challenge and the ability to choose their camp bed first was me.

What I didn’t realise as I punched the air with my firsts in a scene that truly could have been from the movie Rocky, was that I had also given myself whiplash. But more on that later.

The bed I selected sat in the middle of a somewhat exposed, tree-tucked camp. The idea of something landing on my face during the night, or being rained on was simply not on brand, so I picked a bottom bunk, flanked by three single beds on either side, with my new media pals and TVNZ publicity filling them and my personal armour. Should there be an intruder in the night from any angle, they would die first.

The purpose-built camp was comfortable enough, hessian sack bunk beds proved fine for a quick relax and there was a mutual agreement that “they are comfier than they look”. But in the middle of the night, as the bunkbed creaked above me and the hessian looked slightly too taut, I wondered just how much I could trust a fabric that holds Brazilian single-origin coffee beans with the weight of the strapping gym-going publicist above me.

But the most pressing issue remained – where does one pee? Surely the well-used shovel and roll of toilet paper we were handed were just part of an elaborate production joke? So sure of the magic of television, we all proceeded to search for said hidden toilet as if we also were in the treasure hunt – the prize, a private ablution. But there was no toilet. The communal spade was instantly hated and I gave it a little kick like a sand-slinging toddler being told it was time to come inside for dinner.

As the evening chill began to set in, it was time for rice meal prep – the provided dry beans required a full day of soaking and wouldn’t soften in time. As Mayor of Flavour Town – aka the keeper of the stock – I handed over my now misshaped cubes and the rice-making began. Quickly losing interest in watching rice cook very slowly, I went for a walk along the rocky lakeside.

“What a view to wake up to,” I thought to myself, staring into the strikingly attractive lake surrounded by mountains, some still peaked with a hint of snow and views so clean they would have you questioning your recycling practices.

But these thoughts quickly vanished as an entire fleet (the technical term for a group of bugs as big as an Olympic swimming pool) of mosquitos surrounded me. Keen to not become a victim to the deadliest horde of insects since the movie My Girl, I ran back to camp, ankles questioning my choices on every rocky step.

“Guys! Guys, there are so many mosquitos down there!” I screamed as if I had spotted a boat on the horizon that could save us from our shipwrecked fate.

And as we enjoyed our delicious flavour-packed rice, which was generously more of a risotto, the horde of mosquitos found their way to us, and the tone was set for the night.

After washing the dishes and hanging rubbish in the trees at the request of set managers in order to “not attract wild-life” – which I instantly assumed were bears – we all tucked into our hessian havens for a chit chat that became more muffled as the mosquitos honed in and sleeping bag draw cords tightened, becoming a shield around our faces.

Sleep didn’t come easy. The bed became uncomfortable, I found a rogue chicken noodle flavour packed in my sock and I was forced to make a choice between breathing, or hot boxing my sleeping bag with so much bug spray that my death would be imminent. At midnight I chose the latter.

But it was when I awoke at 4am with a neck so sore and a feeling of nausea so bad that I knew mistakes had been made. All my chicken pecking and pedometer manipulating had in fact not paid off.

Having watched my fair share of shipwreck movies, I knew as the injured comrade I would be the first one eaten should my team turn to cannibalism. Would they remember the chips I provided for the team as they all voted in favour of killing me first? I could only hope.

But at 7am as my head began to viciously spin, our rescuers came. We had made it through the night and were allowed the keys to the truck in order to head back to the hotel.

As I held in my chunder and we drove along arguably the bumpiest, longest and wildest driveway in New Zealand I questioned a lot of my choices. Maybe a bag of chips wasn’t worth throwing up into a hotel toilet and questioning how I could make a neck brace look on trend? Maybe the levels of sodium I consumed in making the rice appetising were in fact going to do long-term damage to my heart? And maybe, just maybe, all the mosquito bites weren’t worth an overnight stay in the name of research?

“So, would you ever go on the show?” asked my savvy publicity pals once we had a moment to reflect on the New Zealand reality TV gold we had just been allowed to be part of.

The cursed shovel, Oxo stab wounds, hessian itch, digestion issues, neck pain and nausea all hit me at once as I carefully considered my answer.

“I just don’t see how I could ever say no?”

Jenni Mortimer is the New Zealand Herald’s lifestyle and entertainment editor. Jenni started at the Herald in 2017 and previously worked as an education publication editor. She’s also the host of The Herald’s parenting podcast One Day You’ll Thank Me, mum to Knox and semi-professional stock smuggler.