April 21, 2006

Living in a Van Down by the [Ocean] (with a side of catastrophe).

“Wisdom is an idiot when chaos is the plan” --Domino's Piano, David Bradstreet

Bugger. Unfortunately my limited understanding of narrative structure is further confused as I write these journals in reverse chronological order, yet spread out over several weeks of intermittent writing. What once began with a triumphant declaration of vehicle ownership, must be preceded with the introduction of events such as, oh I don't know... let's say breaking down in the middle of the outback. But perhaps I can continue where I left off.. perhaps dangle the possibility of isolation in one of the world's harshest climates, with no cell phone reception, to trick you to read the whole journal. Will those who simply skim these journals just search for the juicy bits? Perhaps I'll continue under the pretense that all is well, then surprise the reader with the events that unfolded in the middle of the desert. Maybe the whole thing is a trick? Or was it France......

Finally! A Van.
I can safely, but perhaps prematurely, say that the idea of living and traveling in a camper van has become a reality, and is turning out to be more or less what I was hoping for. I'd recommend it to anyone as a great way to see a new country on the cheap. The nonsense involved in finding a van, however, is not a fun part of the adventure. But I'll get to that later.. First I have to go back three weeks, and try to retrace my steps... (Keep in mind that this is all from the perspective of me pre-breakdown. Things were much happier back then.)

At the close of the last chapter, I had returned from Sydney to my not-so-temporary home in St Kilda. I'm not sure if it came across on the page, but I was extremely anxious to get on the road and see what lay beyond Melbourne. It certainly wasn't any closely guarded secret back at the Bernini as I took every opportunity to poke and jab Dawson off his comfy perch. Our mutual decision to flee came when Kyle's stay at Blue Corn* finally came to it's three month conclusion. One of the terms you agree to when you accept a working holiday visa in Australia, is a maximum of 3 months at any one place of employment. Not sure why it's structured this way, but it happened to work out to my advantage. A well timed call to our roommate Mark, painted a picture of the Gold Coast with perfect weather (300+ days of sunshine a year) and an abundance of jobs. Yesiree, there was a rainbow in Brisbane. So. Right. Destination: Brisbane.

*Mexican Restaraunt on Barkley St, at the end of Acland St. Good food (try the Two Big To Wrap Double Baked Burrito). Good service (with the exception of the bartender). 3.5 Stars.

With a real goal in place, and neither of us working, the hunt for a van was accelerated. We searched every hostel, website, newspaper, dog house and hen house until we came across Bob who was selling a 1982 (?) Toyota Hiace, packed to the gills with everything we could ever need. With the except of a working engine. We found that little detail out after a last minute run to a mechanic who produced a list of grievances a mile long. Seatbelts were no good. Radiator was shot. Third cylinder compression dangerously low. It needed a rear view mirror. I honestly could fill a page with problems that need rectifying before it was deemed a reliable unit, but I'd rather not relive it at this juncture. After a little group huddle back at the Bernini, we regretfully told Bob that we had to pass on the van. I did feel sorry for the guy, as all parties involved figured it was a done deal until we saw junior's report card. Bob had even booked his flight to Singapore for the Thursday of that week. We had heard back from the mechanic on the Tuesday. I do hope Bob found his way to his flight, and managed to sell the van in whatever state it laid. Godspeed lebenskunstler.

Feeling a little discouraged from another failed attempt at outfitting ourselves with a van, we did find distraction at times... To ring in April Fools Day, (a day celebrated religiously in the Bradstreet household), we hit the city and infested several overpriced establishments, pausing to rest with the sunrise. The following Tuesday was Bebe's birthday (Jimmy's girlfriend, and the second piece of the Brazilian puzzle) for which we had a good collection of world travelers assembled at Osaka, a nice little Japanese restaraunt in St Kilda. After sushi, sashimi and saki, we migrated to Cushion Lounge on Fitzroy St to once again watch the idiot masses convulse to Kanye West. And last, but certainly not least, Wednesday, the 5th of April, witnessed the birth of Dan & Erin's little baby boy, Manix*. Wish I could have been around to welcome the little guy to Planet Earth, but perhaps he'll be pleased to learn later in life, that Uncle Jesse celebrated his birth half way across the world, somehow, 8 hours before he was born.

*Sincerest apologies if I got the date or name wrong, but my inability to remember birthdays is far reaching and compounded by the time difference. I'm just as bad with names...but it's the thought that counts right?

With distractions running thin, and money dwindling, our search finally came to an end on Thursday, the 13th of April. We found our van when we met Brian who had a 1986 Toyota Hiace Long Wheel Base converted camper for sale. After a quick drive and a thorough inspection we were sold. It had the cleanest interior of any van we had seen (original parts right down to the borderline nauseating '80s carpeting), drove flawlessly (briefly, mind you), and was roughly within our budget. We called Brian later that day and offered him $5000 cash. It even looked like we'd be able to have her for Friday. A plan to celebrate Jimmy's birthday, and serve as our first port of departure, was crafted around the surfing competition in Torquay that weekend. Jimmy and Marty would head out on their bikes, A handful of other friends in their respective cars, and Kyle and I at the helm of our '86 Hiace. As the hours ticked by, Thursday became Saturday, and with no van, and shite weather, the surf comp was called off. In it's stead, we spent our last weekend revisiting some of the familiar spots in St Kilda. After a nutritious meal of squid, steak and Asahi at Za'ba we met the British trio: Dianne (affectionately referred to as Mom, much to our amusement, by Marty), Lucie and Princess Becki. And by Princess, I really do mean Royalty. Supposedly, Becki was actually 2nd cousin thrice removed, or something along those lines, to Queeny. A statement I couldn't vary well leave alone. Probably not the reaction she was looking for, but I found great comedy in this and went about to poke holes in her story (cough, cough) as often as possible. That night came to a close with Marty trying to teach me the proper way to perform a burnout on a 998cc R1 in the basement of the Bernini. An experiment that yielded near catastrophic results*. As our last weekend in St Kilda came to an end, and Easter Monday passed with little activity, we finally took ownership of our van, named temporarily by the mechanic's scrawl on the window, “Reliable Unit #8”. Arguments over names have resulted in no proper moniker, although we are leaning towards “Klankety” considering the events that have just unfolded....

*The persons and property depicted in this story were not harmed during filming.

Tuesday, April 18th 8:00pm, we hit the open road, with little aim, but aspirations of greatness. I spent the hour and a half drive to Torquay in a double clutching, shifter shoving fit of frustration trying everything I could to find 5th gear. “Hey Brian sorry to bug you, and this is sort of an embarrassing question, but does this van have a 5th gear?” Of course it does. Just double clutch around 3,000 in fourth and it should slide right in. Yeah I tried that. Shove, push, punch. No siree Bob. Another attempt at a gas station outside of Melbourne only resulting in getting the column shift transmission temporarily stuck in some position it never intended to be. Racing at blinding speeds in access of 80km/h, we made it to Jan Juc, and found our first spot overlooking (well, almost overlooking) the Southern Ocean. Giddy with our impending journey, we were Christmas morning children exploring the nooks and crannies of our new toy. I spent that night wondering at Kyle superhuman snoring ability, finally slipping into sleep only to be jarred back to consciousness by surfers who were catching waves, sitting on top of the world, at five o'clock in the bloody morning.

As complete cosmetically and mechanically (or so it seemed) it was, our van needed a handful of pieces to make it functional as a camper. Included in the purchase price were a fold down bed behind the front seats (comfortably, and heterosexually, sleeping two.); Three, count 'em, three stoves (one propane, one butane, and one electric hot plate thingamer); a three way fridge (in theory capable of running on 12V, 240V and propane, but in practice a glorified storage cabinet); and a hand pump sink with a your-guess-is-as-good-as-mine liter water tank. The stereo in old Reliable Unit #8 came only in the AM radio variety, so a new sound system topped the list of things to blow money on. Second down the line came boards for the top berth (pop-top my good man). And then a bucket full of dollar store brik-a-brak to personalize our van with with inflatable palm trees, and our adorn our heads with $3 straw hats. Several hundred dollars later, spread amongst K-Marts and Sally Annes, got us tunes (a little trickery of computer speakers running off an inverter from a second battery), and enough food to carry on for a couple days. Ultimately this exercise took two and a half days, spent back and forth between the beaches of Torquay and the waterfront of Geelong. For all intents and purposes, our trip officially started on Thursday, April 20th. With everything finally resolved from insurance to seat covers, we finally made it to the surf competition just in time to catch every one leave. We had literally missed it by an hour. Some tough guy named Kelly Slater had taken the trophy. Thank god for that. We did however make it in time to pick up some cheap wetsuits at the Rip Curl outlet sale. I'm almost positive these will get zero use. But hey man... we're living the dream....

We woke up that next morning at the side of the ocean, and the tank was full. I don't know who did it.. and I never got to thank them. (Sorry for the obscure Seinfeld reference, but I'm going through withdrawal over here. I haven't seen it once since I got here two months ago.) Our first trip, which comes recommended by many who've driven it, was the Great Ocean Road, some 240 of kilometers of brilliant twisted concrete. I could try to explain it in words and pictures, but it's only possible to understand first hand. The only two roads that I could compare it to are the Sea to Sky Highway from Vancouver to Whistler, and Highway 1 down the American west coast. As we struggled up the steep roads that squeezed their way between mountain and surf, we confirmed previous allegations that our new van suffered from a minor diesel leak. Still unable to find that mystical 5th gear (a serious blow to any man's ego), we sucked down copious amounts of diesel before reaching our first tourist trap. Standing upwards of 50 meters, the Twelve Apostles are a stunning set of rocks jutting from the Southern Ocean. Unfortunately over time, several have of the Apostles have been reduced to rubbled stumps, but I was in heaven watching the sun set over the remaining eight with my camera in my hand. For the first time in ages, I felt that rush that I had felt when I first fell in love with photography. We spent that night enjoying the finest that the Warnabal caravan park had to offer. No shortage of people living in a van down by the river here. We were just another face in the crowd.

The next morning it was painfully obvious, as it was the night before, and others to follow, that we were not in the sub-tropical weather of Queensland. Don't let the boob tube fool you. It is bloody cold in parts of Australia in winter. During the first week of our tour of Victoria and South Australia, you'll be hard pressed to find a picture of us without a sweater or jacket, and the nights were reminiscent of camping in Algonquin in October. Not that it was uncomfortable, in fact I'd take it over 45 degree weather any day, but it's not usually the weather you'd expect to see a kangaroo. But there they were. Everywhere. Unfortunately you're likely to see your first 'roo in the wild “sleeping” on the side of the road, but come night fall they are all too happy to bound carelessly across the highways as you shit your pants behind the wheel of your 1986 Toyota Hiace. At the border of Victoria and South Australia our resident navigator and chef Kyle spotted a dirt road leading to the Princess Margaret Rose Caves, so we pulled off to call it a night. As we came to a rest underneath a grove of trees, a curious 'roo stopped six feet from our van before bounding into the bush. We had finally found the Australian wilderness we had set out to find. We spent the evening setting up our awning for the first time (an over sized, smelly, silver tarp that kept out as much water as a spaghetti strainer) and tried in vain to get a fire going. We settled instead for our dollar store tiki torches, which ended up falling over, meeting their demise in a river of kerosene fueled fire.

Waking early, we broke down camp in record time (de-popped the top and folded up the bed) and did the tourist thang at the Caves. Our tour started off with the tale of Mr S. McEachern who first found the entrance to the cave, a hole five feet wide descending into darkness, and contemplated exploration over the course of 16 years, before finally lowering himself into the abyss armed with a candle, match and a length of string. The cave he discovered remains relatively untouched ever since he and J. Hutchesson carved an opening into the rock by hand. I'm sure there are more impressive caves out there, but as this was my first, it was a unique experience. I had no problems at all with the restricted space until our guide explained how some woman freaked out on her last tour, which in turn got me to thinking. Would I freak out? How restricted are we talking here? Is this like those national geographic specials where those idiots squeeze themselves through impossibly small spaces in complete darkness? What about those poisonous cave crickets that everyone's talking about these days!? I don't want to do this. I want out. I want out!! Of course this was what went through my mind in a split second, but ultimately the image of me blinding flailing my arms, barelling towards the strangers behind me screaming at the top of my lungs, kept me amused enough to stay calm. Luckily, before we left, the tour guide let us stay behind to take pictures without Jane and John Public wandering into frame to stare at the rock as if they were expecting a new stalagmite to spring from the ground. She even shut down all the lights for us so we could experience what it was like when McEachern first ventured into the unknown. I realize now why I have never been inclined to lower myself into random dark holes. That shit is scary. No seriously. There's no need for that. Just leave it as a hole in ground and move on.

By the time we emerged back into daylight, it was noon, and we had hoped to cover a lot of ground, so we hit the road. With helpful directions from some lady in her garden, we managed to go 40km out of our way only to return to the same place, and realize our next destination, Mt Gambier, was only 2km away. We filled up on pizza and picked up a couple of cheap movies (The Island (no comment) and Spinal Tap). Having seen everything Mt Gambier had to offer, we pointed ourselves toward Adelaide, anxious to get a mechanic to look at our diesel leak and help us find that mischievous 5th gear. Our only stop that day was an awful flat white (made by frothing the coffee, then adding 2% milk) enjoyed in the shadow of a 50 foot fiberglass lobster. Easily the best 50 foot fiberglass lobster I have ever seen. Sure, there's probably more impressive ones out there, but seeing as this was my first... As we neared Adelaide we ran into what we figured was wisps of smoke or low laying clouds, until we realized it was little flies. I had witnessed something similar years ago driving through a shadfly infestation in north Ontario with Sarah, but where the shadflies seemed mostly content mating on any and every surface available, these Aussie flies took to the sky and choreographed themselves into distinct funnels of bug. They were so dense that our next gas stop revealed evidence of our slaughter in the tens, if not hundreds, of thousands. Poor little buggers.