After quite a few questions of late on exactly how on earth we've squeezed our life into what is essentially the size of a large lounge room rug - I thought I would shed a bit of light on what i've been referring to as "living in mini".
Van Morrison is, on the spec sheet - 4.87 metres long and 2.13m wide. By comparison, and there's alot of that going on at caravan parks, it's pretty small.
Not uber small - but not like the full on contraptions of the modern day vans. I don't think they even make our brand of caravan anymore. It's a Millard, and the year it was released, it was Caravan of the Year.
Now it just looks like a piece of old tin amongst all the reinfocred plastic/ metal fabulousness of the Jayco's and Coroma's.
The interior shows his age a little, but everything that is meant to work is working.
What we do have:
1. Lots of power points - so we can charge all of our gadgets, boil the kettle, make toast or blow-dry my hair.
The power also connects us to refregeration and the fridge is pretty much the only thing that is quite obviously designed for hobbits.
2. Hooked up to the gas cylinders - there's an oven, grill and 4-burner stove top. Using this to cook also heats up the van on cold nights. Win.
3. A sink and a tap. Well it's not exactly a tap, it's more of an outlet that you have to pump to bring the cold water up the pipe.
4. Storage - this is where caravans come into their own. There's lots of places to put pots, food and supplies and then if you lift up the couch seats - there's extra storage underneath. They've all got special little catch locks so they don't open when we're moving.
5. Two wardrobes and some drawers. We're not living out suitcases.
6. A roof that pops up - so you can stand up straight (this has been tested by Doni, my tallest friend) and it also lets lots of air in the window flaps, which is good when it's hot.
7. A table that's bolted to the floor - an L-shaped couch surrounding the table.
8. A normal, comfy double bed at one end and a couch that converts into bunk beds at the other end.
9. Flyscreens and a screen-door. Essential.
10. We also have an annex - that stripey canvas contraption that you see attached to a caravan when they're parked. We've not attemped to put ours up yet, it's got a truck load of ropes and pegs and zero instructions. We'll get to that when we have a nice sunny day, some spare time and a good amount of watching grey nomads who won't be able to stop themselves in offering to help us.
What we don't have:
1.There's no microwave - and so far we've not missed it. Because we're living out of a bar sized fridge - there's not really enough room to store leftovers to reheat or additional frozen things to defrost. This of course makes grocery shopping more frequent.
2. No TV. This was an active decision we made cause we're pretty sure that we'll be technologically occupied enough with our laptop, phone, ipod dock and digital radio. If we get desperate to watch TV, we'll go to the pub.
3.We don't have a toilet or shower. This means schlepping it in the dark to amenities blocks in the middle of the night (no matter the temperature or weather) and showering in flip flops.
4. A washing machine - something I only found out yesterday exist in some caravans.
5. Air conditioning. But we do have a portable fan and heater with us to plug on in when we're desperate.
It takes us about 15 minutes to pack it up and attach is to the car for bump out and about 10 minutes to take it off the car and set it up for bump in (not including any reverse parking - that can take from 5 minutes to a half hour depending on how sadistic the caravan park owner is when they allocate you a site).
So living in mini isn't really like camping at all.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Van Morrison: The way young lovers do
By my calculations, we're at day 15.
I would like to point out that I have now driven with Van Morrison in tow... for the first week I was too afraid and left it to husband man. It's not as hard as it seems I am happy to report.
However, I promptly fled from the drivers seat when we came across our first time to reverse park the ensemble.
That is seriously where one looks the most stupid. And I can't possibly have my usually very awesome reversing skills questioned without any practising.
Husband man gets a gold star for pulling that first time reversing off unscathed and backed old Morrie in after just 3 attempts to wrangle at Mallacoota.
And Mallacoota is also our first time in really getting to know some grey nomads.
Obviously being 30 years their junior, husband man and I must look like a fascinating new species....
...Because, these peeps are watching EVERYTHING.
They were watching when we were winding up our back right metal foot into it's metal lock position before leaving Eden and as I struggled to wind it right in with my special metal stick thing.
They were watching when I called in the muscles and got husband man to use force to wind it right in and secure it.
And they were watching when the power chord snapped between the metal foot and it's lock position.
They saw the spark.
Yes. It was still plugged in.
Yes. That's power between two pieces of metal, touching metal held by husband man.
And they were watching as we cursed ourselves for not having bent down to check what the blockage was and reminded ourselves of how stupid it was to still have the power plugged in.
Add that to the ever growing checklist.
We know they were watching because one friendly chap came over to let us know - smirk on face, as we threw that chord (and fifty bucks) into the bin.
Perhaps from his lofty perch he could have wandered himself over about 2 mintues earlier to report that the chord was indeed postioned inconveniently (as seen below in shot taken day before).
No deal - it seems that we, the new species clearly must not be disturbed, but observed in order to dispense useful advice after the fact.
Thank you helpy smurf.
But that was Eden.
In Mallacoota - husband man got a thumbs up and an invitation to sit under the awning of our neighbouring nomad and swig beer for his first reverse park success.
We met a wonderful couple, Mal and Sue from Melbourne and they had all kinds of actually useful advice having done a tour of Australia. We've got a raft of tips that will no doubt come in handy.
That said, we learnt that we had however given Mal night terrors for the two nights (and probably even still now) with what he deemed as ill-preparation.
Almost everything about the way we went about our trip terrified Mal.
There was a number of concerns, the main being:
1. the fact that we bought a 30 year old caravan on a Sunday and left for our country tour two days later (best to do a short weekend away first to test things out, especially when buying vintage)
2. answered his question to how many litres we get out of the fuel tank with a response that included the fuel light going on (stop at every fuel station, best not to get below half he says)
I am pretty sure that another concern was that I was driving the vehicle.
What i've learnt so far is that blatant sexist comments are not just acceptable, but a basic human right when it comes to caravaning.
When Mal saw us pull up to our site at Mallacoota and me in the drivers seat he later told me that he thought "uh-oh, that bloke's lost his license and so she's doing the driving".
Later that same day while was in the laundry, staking my claim on a washing machine because husband man had to go and get us some gold coins to make it work - another chap wanders in to get his washing out of a machine.
He gives me a look of disdain and says "you've got it the right way around, my wife sent me in here to do the washing - what world is this".
None of this really offends me. I'm not going to burn a bra over it.
I figure that these chaps have stepped right out of an era where subservient wife-ing was acceptable practice.
If anything - I plan to collect these little gems and create a museum of hilarious in my head.
We farewelled Mal and Sue and fishing-man Mick after a few days and headed to Seaspray. This being part of my choosing destination by sound of the name.
It's at the start of 90 Mile Beach and as Mal had fairly accurately described it "too much sand and shit to swim".
But the sunrise was ace.
And it's here I discover 'Carnie of the week'. This guy was a most classic and high quality form of bogan.
Unfortunately, due to fear for my life, I could not attempt to happy-snap the guy for your viewing pleasure. So imagine no teeth, some sort of unkept bearded growth from his chin, cheeks, neck and a boozers incandescent glow.
He appeared to be a part of the permanent site, right next to where we had parked and some kids (presume they're related to him) were playing cricket on the grass outside.
The smallest kid is doing the most running around, he's about six years old, the others are all teenagers.
And I hear old mate say (through his gums) "Nathan, I can see what they're doin to ya, makin ya run round like a little nigga", quickly followed by "Caaarn then, hurry up, I gotta go get another beer".
Awesome role model. Birkby, that one was for you!
Next day we go for a drive along the 90 miles of road behind the sand dune along the 90 miles of beach. We pull into an old dirt road and head through the dunes.
There's nothing and no-one for miles.
And as it turns out, it looks alright for a swim. But i've got no bathers with me.
So we go swimming in the nudes. It was quite possibly the most fun i've had since I was five years old when it was a condoned practice to get about without your togs on.
We left Seaspray and visited Melbourne for a night - staying with my Uncle Ken and cousin Madelyn, my Aunt was out of town.
We feasted and drank wine and stayed up past 9.30pm.
I took pleasure in the simple things like walking down a hallway to the bathroom in the middle of the night and showering without flip-flops on.
Then we headed on to Queenscliffe for a night. Aside from seeing some fabulous architecture to house the weekend abodes of Melbourne's elite and an awesome view of 'The Rip' that heads out into Bass straight - nothing particularly noteworthy happened there.
Next stop Anglesea.
We convinced my good friends Jamo and the Doni to come down for a weekend out of Melbourne and stay with us for Friday and Saturday night.
With the arrival of Doni, husband man now had new fishing friend and the whining fishing company that I provide was cast aside.
They got up in the 7's to try their luck and when they got back we went for a super long walk at the beach at Point Addis.
I would like to point out that I have now driven with Van Morrison in tow... for the first week I was too afraid and left it to husband man. It's not as hard as it seems I am happy to report.
However, I promptly fled from the drivers seat when we came across our first time to reverse park the ensemble.
That is seriously where one looks the most stupid. And I can't possibly have my usually very awesome reversing skills questioned without any practising.
Husband man gets a gold star for pulling that first time reversing off unscathed and backed old Morrie in after just 3 attempts to wrangle at Mallacoota.
And Mallacoota is also our first time in really getting to know some grey nomads.
Obviously being 30 years their junior, husband man and I must look like a fascinating new species....
...Because, these peeps are watching EVERYTHING.
They were watching when we were winding up our back right metal foot into it's metal lock position before leaving Eden and as I struggled to wind it right in with my special metal stick thing.
They were watching when I called in the muscles and got husband man to use force to wind it right in and secure it.
And they were watching when the power chord snapped between the metal foot and it's lock position.
They saw the spark.
Yes. It was still plugged in.
Yes. That's power between two pieces of metal, touching metal held by husband man.
And they were watching as we cursed ourselves for not having bent down to check what the blockage was and reminded ourselves of how stupid it was to still have the power plugged in.
Add that to the ever growing checklist.
We know they were watching because one friendly chap came over to let us know - smirk on face, as we threw that chord (and fifty bucks) into the bin.
Perhaps from his lofty perch he could have wandered himself over about 2 mintues earlier to report that the chord was indeed postioned inconveniently (as seen below in shot taken day before).
No deal - it seems that we, the new species clearly must not be disturbed, but observed in order to dispense useful advice after the fact.
Thank you helpy smurf.
But that was Eden.
In Mallacoota - husband man got a thumbs up and an invitation to sit under the awning of our neighbouring nomad and swig beer for his first reverse park success.
We met a wonderful couple, Mal and Sue from Melbourne and they had all kinds of actually useful advice having done a tour of Australia. We've got a raft of tips that will no doubt come in handy.
That said, we learnt that we had however given Mal night terrors for the two nights (and probably even still now) with what he deemed as ill-preparation.
Almost everything about the way we went about our trip terrified Mal.
There was a number of concerns, the main being:
1. the fact that we bought a 30 year old caravan on a Sunday and left for our country tour two days later (best to do a short weekend away first to test things out, especially when buying vintage)
2. answered his question to how many litres we get out of the fuel tank with a response that included the fuel light going on (stop at every fuel station, best not to get below half he says)
I am pretty sure that another concern was that I was driving the vehicle.
What i've learnt so far is that blatant sexist comments are not just acceptable, but a basic human right when it comes to caravaning.
When Mal saw us pull up to our site at Mallacoota and me in the drivers seat he later told me that he thought "uh-oh, that bloke's lost his license and so she's doing the driving".
Later that same day while was in the laundry, staking my claim on a washing machine because husband man had to go and get us some gold coins to make it work - another chap wanders in to get his washing out of a machine.
He gives me a look of disdain and says "you've got it the right way around, my wife sent me in here to do the washing - what world is this".
None of this really offends me. I'm not going to burn a bra over it.
I figure that these chaps have stepped right out of an era where subservient wife-ing was acceptable practice.
If anything - I plan to collect these little gems and create a museum of hilarious in my head.
We farewelled Mal and Sue and fishing-man Mick after a few days and headed to Seaspray. This being part of my choosing destination by sound of the name.
It's at the start of 90 Mile Beach and as Mal had fairly accurately described it "too much sand and shit to swim".
But the sunrise was ace.
And it's here I discover 'Carnie of the week'. This guy was a most classic and high quality form of bogan.
Unfortunately, due to fear for my life, I could not attempt to happy-snap the guy for your viewing pleasure. So imagine no teeth, some sort of unkept bearded growth from his chin, cheeks, neck and a boozers incandescent glow.
He appeared to be a part of the permanent site, right next to where we had parked and some kids (presume they're related to him) were playing cricket on the grass outside.
The smallest kid is doing the most running around, he's about six years old, the others are all teenagers.
And I hear old mate say (through his gums) "Nathan, I can see what they're doin to ya, makin ya run round like a little nigga", quickly followed by "Caaarn then, hurry up, I gotta go get another beer".
Awesome role model. Birkby, that one was for you!
Next day we go for a drive along the 90 miles of road behind the sand dune along the 90 miles of beach. We pull into an old dirt road and head through the dunes.
There's nothing and no-one for miles.
And as it turns out, it looks alright for a swim. But i've got no bathers with me.
So we go swimming in the nudes. It was quite possibly the most fun i've had since I was five years old when it was a condoned practice to get about without your togs on.
We left Seaspray and visited Melbourne for a night - staying with my Uncle Ken and cousin Madelyn, my Aunt was out of town.
We feasted and drank wine and stayed up past 9.30pm.
I took pleasure in the simple things like walking down a hallway to the bathroom in the middle of the night and showering without flip-flops on.
Then we headed on to Queenscliffe for a night. Aside from seeing some fabulous architecture to house the weekend abodes of Melbourne's elite and an awesome view of 'The Rip' that heads out into Bass straight - nothing particularly noteworthy happened there.
Next stop Anglesea.
We convinced my good friends Jamo and the Doni to come down for a weekend out of Melbourne and stay with us for Friday and Saturday night.
With the arrival of Doni, husband man now had new fishing friend and the whining fishing company that I provide was cast aside.
They got up in the 7's to try their luck and when they got back we went for a super long walk at the beach at Point Addis.
Doni was obsessed with picking up everything on the sand, expect for the dead penguins, of which there was about 7. Exhausted after lunch, Jamo and I chilled with Morrie and the boys headed off for more fishing.
Some hours later Jamo and I found ourselves on some huge bouncing floor in the childrens playground at the caravan park.
This was the most fun ever.
Except for all the crying kids that had stacked it and were littered around the edges.
Only glee for me though.
Boys bring home some fish (from the takeaway shop) and then announce that they'll be heading back out at 9.30pm, down the road to Lorne because it's a full moon (the biggest full moon in 18 years) and that means that there will be truckloads of sharks to catch.
Again, I am thankful for Doni and his fishing company for the husband man.
We send them off into the cold cold night. They fish until 2am.
Nutters.
We bid our friends farewell and head to Marengo, near Apollo Bay on the Great Ocean Road.
We went for some bushwalking and saw the oldest lighthouse in Australia in the Otway National Park. It was our first encounter with overpriced tourist payment scams. But the view was pretty good.
I was totally thrilled when able to purue my ever growing obsession with photographing wildlife. We discovered two sleepy koala's in a tree and a wallaby very nearly jumped us off a path to a beach.
And now we find ourselves at Port Fairy. Chosen specifically because I believe in fairies and I am hoping this is where they come to hang out.
It's very beautiful and it's very cold here. And I just heard some kind of warning siren without knowing what the warning is for.
My only regret this week is that we never gave Mal and Sue our contact details, so they could check in on us.
I really hope that Mal isn't losing anymore sleep worrying about this new species of caravaner he's discovered. Cause we're fine - vintage caravan and all.
Monday, March 21, 2011
fishing: a complex sport
Fishing perplexes me.
I totally get all the meditative, calm benefits of being on the water and the idea of being able to catch your own dinner. I get all that and i've even been convinced to throw out a line. I've spent an hour or so attempting to master the sea and bring in the fish.
And while I am sure I will find myself doing it again, it really is an odd thing to participate in.
Firstly, fish eat fish. You lure a fish with a fish. Or something pretending to be a fish.
That's canibalism, yes?
It's weird.
But I figure that if they're happy to eat themselves, then there's no harm in me eating them.
Secondly, people (mostly men) can participate in this sport for hours.
Actually do one thing for hours and hours.
They're just throwing string into the sea. Or the river.
And they sit there and obsess over what they're 'feeling' on the line. It requires patience and time. It's akin to some sort of gambling addiction given the fact that people willingly throw money and hours staring at something and are spurred on by the slightest of hints towards a win.
We met a guy that had 'a couple of nibbles yesterday' and then spent all of today in the hopes of 'hooked him' rather than a nibble.
All day.
I saw his sunburnt face at 5pm.
Thirdly, if I put my pessemistic hat on (just for a moment please) in just 2 minutes I can list of all the shitty things that happen 90% of the time that someone is out fishing.
The list is:
1. Line snags on rock
2. Line snaps cause you got over-zealous with your yanking on what might have been a fish
3. Bait not secured well, falls off hook
4. Fishy too clever for dumb human, eats bait and doesn't get hooked
5. Sinker not heavy enough, waves wash line ashore
6. Current too strong, other humans too close, line gets tangled with someone else
7. Get fish in, slippery little sucker gets away
8. Get fish in, is not 'good tastin' or too small and have to throw back (surely this is torture)
9. Think you've got something awesome hooked on, find out it's seaweed
10. Wind too strong and you can't feel anything with a bow in your line
That literally took me 2 minutes to list, yet, despite this list of clearly annoying things that generally mean one has to spend eleventy-seven hours re-casting and re-tying sinkers, hooks and baits to the line - people still do it.
For fun.
Fourthly, it stinks. Nuff said.
So to recap - condoned canibalism and hours spent working against a list of annoyances for FUN that leaves you with stinky clothes.
Talk me through that three times slowly.
I totally get all the meditative, calm benefits of being on the water and the idea of being able to catch your own dinner. I get all that and i've even been convinced to throw out a line. I've spent an hour or so attempting to master the sea and bring in the fish.
And while I am sure I will find myself doing it again, it really is an odd thing to participate in.
Firstly, fish eat fish. You lure a fish with a fish. Or something pretending to be a fish.
That's canibalism, yes?
It's weird.
But I figure that if they're happy to eat themselves, then there's no harm in me eating them.
Secondly, people (mostly men) can participate in this sport for hours.
Actually do one thing for hours and hours.
They're just throwing string into the sea. Or the river.
And they sit there and obsess over what they're 'feeling' on the line. It requires patience and time. It's akin to some sort of gambling addiction given the fact that people willingly throw money and hours staring at something and are spurred on by the slightest of hints towards a win.
We met a guy that had 'a couple of nibbles yesterday' and then spent all of today in the hopes of 'hooked him' rather than a nibble.
All day.
I saw his sunburnt face at 5pm.
Thirdly, if I put my pessemistic hat on (just for a moment please) in just 2 minutes I can list of all the shitty things that happen 90% of the time that someone is out fishing.
The list is:
1. Line snags on rock
2. Line snaps cause you got over-zealous with your yanking on what might have been a fish
3. Bait not secured well, falls off hook
4. Fishy too clever for dumb human, eats bait and doesn't get hooked
5. Sinker not heavy enough, waves wash line ashore
6. Current too strong, other humans too close, line gets tangled with someone else
7. Get fish in, slippery little sucker gets away
8. Get fish in, is not 'good tastin' or too small and have to throw back (surely this is torture)
9. Think you've got something awesome hooked on, find out it's seaweed
10. Wind too strong and you can't feel anything with a bow in your line
That literally took me 2 minutes to list, yet, despite this list of clearly annoying things that generally mean one has to spend eleventy-seven hours re-casting and re-tying sinkers, hooks and baits to the line - people still do it.
For fun.
Fourthly, it stinks. Nuff said.
So to recap - condoned canibalism and hours spent working against a list of annoyances for FUN that leaves you with stinky clothes.
Talk me through that three times slowly.
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