Pre-Op Terry

I wake on my first day of Vanlife in Terry the Transporter in the post-hippy Vanland that is Byron Bay, pre-dawn per usual, snug, safe, and surprising comfortable in my baby bus.

Underestimating the dimensions of my new home with a decent headwhack (novice van mistake no. 2), the jwoojsh-jwoojsh open and close of the van’s side door breaks the sleeping quiet as I exit, stretch, inhale the unaccustomed air and unfamiliar surrounds.

The moon is huge and low as it heads towards the treetops, the ink black sky a dense backdrop to the stars haloed by the sea mist that rolls in overnight. Dew-damp grass is cold underfoot as I navigate through the silent parked campers and rows of little cabins to the central amenities block comprising showers, toilets, camp kitchen, communal BBQs and coin-operated laundry, only the distant sound of the surf to accompany me.

I have an unrequited need for coffee, the camp kitchen is closed for another two hours and my google quest has yet to disclose the method of operation for Terry’s inbuilt power source, via the deep cycle battery that runs the Waeco fridge and other first world necessities. Everything is strange and new, requiring a van knowledge beyond my current naivety. The coffee conundrum is enough inspiration to get learning, fast.

After the one leg at a time, dry-the-foot hop to put pants on dance in the shower cubicle I wile away the dark before dawn creating van to-do lists until the kookaburras herald in morning and, with craving expectation, hustle to the main street for a strong latte to kickstart the day, failing to consider that Dorothy is a long way from Kansas and this beachy town operates at a slower pace, everything still closed. I pace outside the almost-open Woolies waiting to get my fix, a tin of Nescafe and a bottle of milk. The living pot of Basil also purchased, though entirely impractical, was a nod to the garden I left behind.   

Suitably caffeinated, still lacking the wherewithal to find my power source (for Terry, not me, as I am the solo magic vanlady) I establish my office on a picnic table opposite the industrial clothes dryers while a steady stream of (mainly) international resort residers cruise in and out making breakfast, washing clothes, powering devices, glancing sideways at my tech-heavy set up, until I put work away for the day to give Terry some loving. It is my first chance to explore the site and uncover the mysteries of my automotive home.

Pre-op Terry faces a football field sized helipad of low growing dense tropical grass, bordered on three sides by gums, conifers and mighty palms, the source of the raucous kookaburras’ morning song. My nearest neighbours, a barefoot couple in their mid-thirties are living the full Vanlife with not one but two campers, one for sleeping and transport, the other styled for kitchen/living, decorated with dream catchers, patchwork rugs, patchouli-scented, and not a shoe or hippy sandal in sight. Opposite Terry is a caravan sans car, curtains permanently drawn; to the right is the first of a row of empty cabins for the 4WDers stopping overnight on their way elsewhere. It is a beautiful, semi-private space to spend a few days undertaking the Terry transformation, get my bearings, upskill in vanlifing and consider the next adventure to undertake on my solo no-plan (lay low Melbournian) northern trajectory.

I finally figure out the power situation as the afternoon clouds drift away to reveal a brilliant blue sky and it is time to start de-manning the van.

But  … Terry is tuneless, a radio without antenna, an entirely unsuitable situation, rectified with the UE Boom connected to one of the USB ports in the dc battery. The transformation playlist gets underway to the disco funk of (Out-There) Al’s Mixcloud (The Left Bank – Riverside Sessions V1), and I am ready to operate. Nurse, pass the mega strength rubbish bags.

Ugly ubiquitous bin chickens (native Ibis) fossick just beyond reach as I disgorge a pile of van stuffs – gas stove, gas bottle (circa 1942), mattress parts, lumpy pillows, handleless pot, bottom-rusted frying pan, blunted knives, bungee cords, flyscreens and fly-sprays, scoured, stained mismatched plastic containers and their counterpart ill-fitting lids, tent, batteries, jumper leads, block-out curtains, beach umbrella, sun-eaten camp chairs, cup holders, screws and bolts, tyre iron, spearfishing rod and deep sea diving equipment.  Terry has sand lodged in every crevice, seashells fill the glovebox. The 12 volt fridge has retained its chill and, unfortunately, man-cleaned mustiness.

Hours later big black bags form a haphazard pile and Terry is nude, as I overfill yet another bin with extraneous bits to this new life.

Options to source materials for the makeover are scarce in Byron, a trip back to Ballina, over the bridge and through the sweet little town of Suffolk Park, perched right on the waterfront, deposits me at the only camping store in town and I gaze with uninformed eyes, and ideas, at the plethora of camping goodies, settling on a red whistling camp kettle, collapsible sink and battery operated tap, camp loo (an uber large bucket with a toilet seat and lid), two 10 litre water tanks, and a new butane stove and canisters to replace the WW2 version I inherited. The return journey takes a detour via the only op shop in town and I hand sanitise at the door, obeying the no more than 5 people at a time Covid rules sticky-taped to the front door though there is nothing to be found but Noni B clothes in plus sizes.

Dusk brings a cockatoo cacophony and night falls quickly as the sun drops with scant warning plummeting the temperature instantly. It’s cardy time (the clothing not the pop rot), and I rue my lack of socks.

Border closures to Queensland looming, the resort has morphed through the course of the day from a moderate gathering of foreign travellers to the army of Grey Nomads carting monstrous homes on wheels and the larger-than-buses 4WDs, border passes plastered to the inside of their windscreens; a campertrailer with Victorian plates has a hand written signed attached “From Bendigo No Virus”, an unfortunate reminder of my fugitive status and I am shamelessly grateful Terry is a native Queenslander.

I meet my first local, a flat lifeless cane toad almost imperceptible against the grey bitumen of the narrow road that leads in to the resort.

After a dinner of cheese I ponder the pot potential in town and decide to chance my luck with my Brazilian van vendor, who just so happened to supplement his student income with my requirements. I swap the spear fishing equipment for some average Byron Bay green and fall asleep on the couch (that is my bed), with my red shiny kettle and Basil plant perched on the (wtf am I going to do with) guitar and skateboard rack at my feet, planning to start the Terry tarting tomorrow.

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