There was no time.
Borders were rapidly shuttered to pandemic-ravaged Melbournians when I caught the last quarantine-free flight to Sydney and onward to Ballina, headed further north on the first leg of my epic adventure, to Byron Bay at the heart of Van Land to buy a campervan.
Shedding decades of the same-sameness of every day, with my Bearchild now fully grown, independent, army bound on his own quest, I was throwing myself into the adventure ever planned and always deferred. For there may be no tomorrow. I was leaving the inner bayside 2 bed apartment with balcony garden and (pre-covid) social life, for an off-grid baby bus on a solo journey with no immediate destination, just north.
I was planning to feed my wanderlust, and do justice to my mid-mid life crisis as a novice Vanlifer, without a clue in the world, just a folder of google how-to videos.
As the last thing I’d driven had been up the wall, not vehicular, and it had been seven-ish years since I sat in the driver’s seat, the rapidity of the decision (though background-brewing) to go gypsy in a van was just as much a surprise to me as those I pained to leave behind and apologetically, swiftly, farewelled, from an appropriate social distance, hauling my hastily packed oversized suitcase and bag of tech (the means to maintain my work, and connection, throughout this adventure) onto a plane twelve hours later, into the future.
Clad in Melbourne black – jeans, leather jacket, Raybans, boots – the taxi driver at Ballina airport calls me glamorous. He underestimates the weight of the world I am transporting and a wheel of the bulging suitcase shatters as he drops it from the curb.
On the first night on the floor of the room in the motel opposite the RSL I review the suitcase contents, it’s mainly stigma-inducing Virus Town black or unsuitable for purpose. Instead of socks I find suspenders, a pair of (regrettably too big) blunnies and a pair of strappy heels, three perfumes, four hats, the lavender scented sachet from the knicker drawer yet a deficit of knickers, six pairs of jeans (4 black), two cardigans, three pairs of shorts, a bag of stockings, assorted t-shirts, bikini and a serious collection of date night frocks.
Cull concluded, the tiny motel bin in the kitchen spills over with frilly bits, winter warmth stockings, empty coffee sachets. I am not yet travelling light. My wardrobe-on-(broken)-wheels will need jzujshing to un-Melbourne, blend in, match the weather, while avoiding the everywhere animal prints and multicoloured florals (god forbid I should ever aspire to that level of acclimatisation commitment).
It is Tuesday night and there is a country-town quiet to the wide main thoroughfare, with a kebab shop, fried chicken and Thai takeaway packing up for the night, muffled TVs and distant cars the only soundscape. Dinner is toast and peanut butter, purchased from the Woolies just off main street, prepared with the motel’s mini toaster in the windowless kitchenette.
This first night of the great escape, the first night in a strange bed far from home, still reeling from the big-girl-panties bravery required to pull off this life-changing event extraordinaire, exhaustion carries me to sleep and I wake pre-dawn, dusting off the toast crumbs, to earn my keep before pursuing the vanlife options on marketplace in nearby Byron Bay.
My second night in Ballina I struggle with late night fish and chips and a virtual trivia round, staring at imminent homelessness as my hometown tars me with surging Persona Non Gratis status and all accommodation avenues are closed. Despite this moment portending a potentially catastrophic, and early, end to my adventures there was no doubt in my mind that I was where I was supposed to be, doing what I was supposed to be doing, and whatever path this weird random journey took, it was the right one. It had been so long since I had lived in the moment, in the present, I had forgotten that freedom. Though it was a restless sleep that night
On the third day of my escape, perched on a palm planted hill in Byron, Jonatas the Brazilian Vanlifer on a student visa takes me on a tour and test drive of Terry the Transporter. I was sold when he flicked on the fairy lights strung high around the cabin roof. Moments, and international dollars later, I bounced my new home into the tropical torrential rain in the late afternoon pledging to de-man the van and transform him to her with gratuitous sparkles and gypsy extravagance for our new existence.
Running on fumes we make it to a petrol station and I resort to google to find the petrol cap, though, obviously, the Pikachu sticker sun-welded to the bodywork should have given it away, just one of Terry’s many little embellishments, added to the transformation to-do list.
After a few laps of this beachy tourist town, initially reminiscent of a hippied version of Rosebud, but with better beaches and more blondes, and another google (where is …?) I make it to the only homewares store for a doona, pillows and linen at exorbitant prices, the bottle shop provides Oyster Bay Merlot and from the Reject Shop a sustainable bamboo tumbler before I’m ready to hit the road to find a temporary home for my home.
100kms later, travelling in circles lost on unlit dirt roads, stuck on high beam in my unfamiliar new ride, I end up where I started, five minutes from the main street of Byron Bay, catching the weary campsite attendant just before close, unfazed by my providence, I have found a place to lay low in my baby bus.
I park the wrong way (novice van mistake 1) on a deep grassy boulevard on a powered site at the resort. It is getting late and I am cold and tired, exhilarated and spent. I made it.
The central shower block is empty, the water is scalding hot, and it takes a while to de-sticky from the misty rain humidity of the day. My shampoo doesn’t lather and my toothpaste explodes in foam, the water is different here.
The night is fresh and stars arrive handfuls at a time in a brilliant endless sky, a sight denied in my prior life, a reason to be alive.
In another strange place, in another strange bed, I lay my head down as the rain starts to tip tap on the roof of my new home on my first night of vanlife.
Charlie x
Bay City Lola 