[Ed’s note: I am recapping the journey pre the waylay, back to the first days of my escape from Melbourne’s corona virus lockdown in July 2020 arriving in Byron Bay, buying Terry the VW Transporter (a small stealth campervan) and my attempted conversion into a vanlifer.]
After my vigorous, impulsive and excited gender reassignment efforts of yesterday it seems I have been dragged through the brambles backwards, with a side of Brienne and the Bear.
(see previous blog here)
In Terry the Transporter’s path to spiffiness I have been whacked, bruised, grazed, abraded, dented, scraped and chaffed, my body meeting every sharp angle and bro-built furniture corner, the unforgiving metal lump of the tow ball, the edge of the cabin roof, the shin-height lip of the step. The wound on my ankle from the ped v car incident last Halloween reopens, angry red, swollen, mobility limiting.
I am yet to master the art of small space navigation.
Though lacking the floor area for baby steps, I practice a baby shimmy – triangulation by ass – down the length of the lounge/bed that dominates the cabin, reaching for my current coffee setup on the skateboard rack at the foot of the bed. A mug, teaspoons, tin of Nescafe and bag of raw sugar nestle against my shiny red kettle, my caffeine self-sufficiency.
As the van world lay still sleeping and a few rebel vanguard kookaburras yodelled in the new day ahead of schedule, I took my battered body on an ouch, ouch, hobble, weaving through the dense valleys of Winnebagos that had parked up overnight as I made my way to the central communal area, jauntily swinging my shiny red new kettle to proudly initiate this vanlife morning ritual.
Under the fluoro overhead light in the open BBQ area I am cooking with gas.
Suddenly, alarmingly, my efforts to maintain a low profile during this Festy Town fugitive stage were shattered, along with the pre-dawn REM dreams of every one of my new neighbours as the shiny red kettle on her inaugural boil screams an insanely loud, high pitched whistle that would not be silenced, even when removed from the heat.
Fast fading darkness provided some cover as I slunk back through the shadows of 4WDs and monster campers to my baby bus with the article of shame gripped in one hand and a guilt-ridden mug of Nescafe in the other. Two days and two caffeine fails.
Making matters worse my morning buzz loss doubled as I struggled to find a way, within the close confines of neighbouring campers, to let loose with the AAAs. Though I was now a certified member of several vanlife social media forums, and relied heavily on their advice, the answer to this query (and “is there a secret vanlifer handshake?”) would have to come by experience.
So I was seriously toey and only vaguely caffeinated when cabin lights started popping on in random sequences as the nomad fleet, my fellow fleeing travellers, prepared for their border crossing into Queensland, readying to hit the road early in a convoy of monster campers for the 80 km trip that would take most of the day. The border would be closed to Victorians in less than 24 hours and a 14 day quarantine imposed.
I only needed another 12 days of Victorian pox detox in Byron Bay before I was allowed to cross into Queensland and a plan was forming for the first leg of the road trip with a rural rainforest retreat at Groovedaddy’s acreage near Mt Mee. This was turning into the expat Vic DJs tour of QLD.
Right now, with fingers crossed for open borders, and plenty of time to acquaint myself with the novelty of vanlifing before taking my first real road trip in Terry, it was time to conjure up whatever jujshing materials could be found from the limited options in town.
The looming logic that border closure to New South Wales would rapidly follow the Queensland chaos was creating a palpable urgency in this slow beachy town (Byron Bay pop: 9,000); main streets clogged with stickered vehicles with interstate plates, queues winding past roadworks at the petrol station, the supermarkets bobbing with a carpet of grey and white heads stashing trolleys with supplies for their journey north, to freedom.
My body still bemoaning the beautification bruising and my ankle re-bandaged to stop the sporadic bleeding, with a wad of reusable shopping bags under my arm, I tackled the nomad crowds with a lengthy Terry transformation list in hand. Still in Melbourne black, I hid the headphones and slowed my usual Olympic sprinter walking pace as I passed the little shops, arcades, cafes, tattooists and spiritualists with crystals in the window offering to balance your chakras in half an hour, for $55.00.
Stumbling home late in the day laden with the necessities, and the um probably not so’s, I accept the unfortunate colour scheme dictated by availability. But if the white sateen tablecloths from Aldi are the only option for curtains ….
It’s Saturday night in Byron, the resort has thinned to its pre border rush status quo, with the addition of an old VW Kombi encouraging serious van envy, as the sun settles behind the incredibly verdant, lush grass of the helipad that lay before me on this balmy midwinter evening. Suffering from a case of the long day can’t-be-fuckeds I avoided the BBQ area and headed back into town for food.
Lemon gums lining sections of the footpath were studded with the brilliant fat white bellies of sleeping cockatoos. The scent of the trees heady and thick, the streets lazily quiet. A fine fog dims the stars but carries the beams from the lighthouse in arcs across the night sky.
Small groups of kids with scruffy unbrushed hair are carrying long necks in brown paper bags, gathering in empty carparks; at the few restaurants still open grey haired, boat-shoed locals with jumpers over their shoulders sit in groups at outside tables, drinking wine and talking loudly; dollar conscious international tourists, some forced to remain here after international border closures, are congregating by the cheap takeaway shops splitting the 2 tacos for $6.00 deal.
Uninspired by the choices in town I gathered up as many can-be-fuckeds as I could find, BBQ-ed a steak in the communal area, prepared a salad and sipped on the $13 Giesen from the local bottleo, while chatting to Allergy Man, a mid-20s Aussie, dressed in a beekeepers suit, complete with mesh head covering, his constant mode of attire. He is living in the never-moved Caravan with the blinds permanently down just across the way from Terry.
I was keen for sleep, despite the enlightening conversational prowess of Allergy Man –
Me: “So where are you hoping to go next?”
Allergy Man: “I always wanted to go to Mullumbimby, I want to get a sausage roll there. Great energy.”
Escaping was easy but there was a long tetris battle ahead to remove and rehome the weight of the day’s purchases before I could reach the bed. The end result a cramped though promising space, and one lightly sweaty occupant.
Back through the mainly silent village of campers to the communal area where Allergy Man remained, loud in conversation on the phone, I took sole possession of the cavernous bathroom facilities to shower this productive but strange day away; his voice bouncing off the tiles as he determinedly stated that he wasn’t going to take the antibiotics as he had put tonic water on it. He ended by promising his mum he would pay her back the $1000 for the 45 day meditation course, probably.
Snuggled in the tenuously tarted Terry I banished any curiosity regarding his tonic treated injury, I’m in the heart of Vanland after all where unusual comes with the territory, draped the meh white sateen fabric over the sunfaded remains of the existing blockout curtains, unpacked the incredibly impractical yet gorgeous hand blown blue tumblers from the little boutique-y shop on the hill nearest the beach, placing them on a shelf in the cupboard next to the LED candles and the small silver tray sourced from the Op shop, having said a firm no to the purple jeans, thereby keeping my Melbourne-town black intact, and gave the flourishing basil plant a water.
A new cheap white plastic plug-in kettle from the supermarket (woo hoo!) settled on the skateboard rack coffee station as I banished the red shiny monster to the floor beneath it, drifting off to sleep, loving the randomness of life, hoping for a 3rd time lucky coffee scenario in the morning (and a silent resolution to my single lady requirements).
charlie x
Bustin’ Loose (Original Mix) – Makito
Bay City Lola 