#vanlife

by Kathi Satchel

Of course, I blame TikTok’s algorithms for the entire thing.

Yes, I know. What’s a 50-year-old woman, even doing on a Gen Z app? Before 2020, I would have wondered the same thing. But when the world shut down, and Queensland headed into a surreal autumn, I found myself flicking through videos of people ‑ kids ‑ lip-syncing and shuffling, dueting and dancing as I lay on my bed too bewildered to be productive, too fidgety to read. TikTok’s algorithms are unerringly good. It didn’t take long for them to stop showing me dancing strangers and instead fill my feed with skating, trivia quizzes and booktok. As the months wore on, Australia opened up, and everyday routines shuddered back into life.

But by then, it was too late. I was hooked on these 60-second videos. They were a break from the monotony of the viscous routines that imprisoned me, trapped me into going through the same motions, day after day. Wake up, put the kettle on, stare out the window until the water boils so I can pour it over the tea bag waiting expectantly in the tannin-stained mug, open up TikTok as I wait for the tea to brew.

And that was when the algorithms dangled #vanlife in front of me. (Oh yes, they really are that good at knowing what you want before you do.) Here were people buying vans of all kinds and converting them into small homes to drive around the country. A project! Something fresh and exciting! And the promise of travel, always moving forward, onto something new. I watched as Fiorella and Zach turned a bus into a cute couple cosy-space (#vanlife, #travel); Danielle wielded tools with ease as she converted her newly bought Hiace into a digital nomad wonderland (#solotravel); Ella included a section in her ex-delivery van conversion so that her cats could travel with her (#travelnz). Watched in short bursts of carefully edited video, it all looked so easy. Cut here, here and here, screw these bits together, slide it in and ta-da, you have a bed, with space underneath to store your beach gear.

I went to the supermarket to buy groceries, the exact same things I got every week: a block of tofu, some wraps, a couple of burger patties, lettuce, tomato, the same honey soy noodle sauce I always get, shower cleaner, toothpaste, frozen broccoli. I paused outside the travel agent to switch on a podcast for my walk home and noticed a wire magazine rack, the kind most people ignore, with their free advertising magazines. A campervan on the front page of the second-hand car magazine shouted: WON’T LAST, TOO MANY EXTRAS TO LIST. I slipped a copy into my bag of mundane samey groceries.

At home, I studied the magazine while the broccoli defrosted at the bottom of the bag. The cars didn’t interest me, but the yellow and red banner of a caravan dealership 50 km down the road did. $109,000 for a VW Motorhome, $56,000 for a Winnebago. That was well outside my price range, so I jumped online to widen my search. For the next few weeks I supplemented my Tiktok #vanlife procrastination with browsing the internet for used vans.

TikTok #vanlife is full of young people handy with drills outfitting a van themselves, and for a while I pictured myself joining them. I could see myself in Bunnings, buying tools with my new DIY knowledge, standing hands on hips as I examined the wood on display before deciding it is, say, the 25mm pine I need, and filling a trolley with various appliances that I (somehow) knew how to install. I would wear my hiking boots, ear protection and safety goggles as I drilled, sawed and created, filming the entire thing for Tiktok of course. @Satchelhitstheroad? @KombiKathi? @Satchmobile? Hmm, this was going to be a tough decision.

But the reality is I am useless with a drill. I have lived with no skirting boards in the lounge and a missing kitchen cupboard door for years due to both lack of skills and the sudden onset of narcolepsy DIY brings. This desire to set off around Australia in a van wasn’t going to change that. So a ready kitted out second-hand campervan became my focus. TikTok sensed the change, and the videos in my feed switched to people already on the road, touring Australia, Europe and North America.

I headed down the Highway in my small Honda Jazz to the dealer who had first caught my eye with their advert in the car magazine. As I pulled into the yard, a man emerged from the office prefab on crutches, his toes sticking out the end of a moon boot, dusty red from the soil. I explained that I’m in the early stages of looking, but am after a campervan. ‘I’ve got a few, they’re over thataway.’ I followed his gaze and spotted a cluster of vans amongst the caravans in the far corner. ‘Have a wander and if you see one you want to look inside, come and grab the key. I’d show you myself but…’ He gestured vaguely at his leg. I wandered over to the cluster of vans. They were mostly big, luxurious grey-nomad style, difficult to park and manoeuvre, and bland, bland, bland.

And then I saw her.

Do you remember the Mr Whippy ice-cream vans from the 80s, with their tall roofs and chunky pink and white bodies, a promise of sweet delights jingling through the streets? Someone had converted one of these into a campervan. I peered through the windows, past the net curtains (net curtains!) and found myself ticking off my checklist: comfy front seats, headspace to walk upright from the back door all the way to the front windscreen; a nifty kitchen area; a door cracked open to show a toilet and shower; two booth seats with a table under the huge rear windows. I pictured the seats converted into their night form of a luxurious double bed, and imagined how I would park facing slightly downhill so that I could fall asleep with my head next to the window, gazing up at the vast Australian stars.

I hit record on my phone to get footage for my first #vanlife Tiktok.