Epic Camping Trip- Day 2

Dear John, 

It’s safe to say that so much as the first day was unexpectedly beautiful, our second was simply unexpected. I reckon the whole trip was a microcosm of life, starting on a sweet unadulterated note, becoming a  bit crap, winding its way back to content comfort, and a period of walking through fire. I often wonder if we had pressed on after that final day, if we wouldn’t have found some euphoric experience awaiting us. Alas. Still, I couldn’t be more pleased with the experiences we did have, including the mosquito and sweaty-kid-on-bike-infested caravan park in Moree. While not ideal, it did have swings and immaculate toilets and really, what more could a girl ask for?

Love and Hugs, 

D. 

P.S. I do actually know how to pronounce Tabouleh…despite having called it TabouLA. *shame*

The thing about camping in the bush or outback is that you are, literally, in the middle of nowhere and sometimes moreso than others.  And yet, still, you might find people living there, say 8000, and the town might be but a notch above a shantytown, for sale signs adorning most of the shop windows, local children skating down the middle of the main road, which is so rarely used, and a good number of the population permanently dwelling in caravan parks. Welcome to Moree, NSW Australia.

It was an abrupt visage to which I awoke,  the stark surroundings coupled with the

The scenery was beautiful, but a bit repetitive after a few hours. Nap time!

pain from my head snapping side to side in the classic car-sleep style.  We all kept looking out the windows, then at one another in a collective panic- Is this where we’re meant to be staying? Indeed, it was. Ever the optimistic bunch, well at least Tom and I, we spurred John to drive on and take a tour of the town, just to determine if any of our accommodation options were slightly less distressing than the others. There were exactly two options, and the one we chose was in fact, only very slightly less distressing.

Sweaty kids on bikes were a threat, it seemed, we would in fact have to endure on this leg of the trip in addition to sweaty older women whose bikinis were stretched to their limits in the fight against gravity. Also, sweaty old men proudly displaying their own slinky bikini bottoms and tufts of hair on the shoulders, back, thighs, and every other imaginable place you wish you’d never imagined. Upon our tour of the first caravan park, it was evident that we were not the only stranded travelers caught off guard. A large white pick-up sat stationary in the drive, hesitant to face the reality which lay but a few feet ahead. And, as we maneuvered around the truck,  we saw the Missus giving the Mister the what for. Now that I think about it, perhaps they had already been inside the caravan park.

We tried to listen to The Grapes of Wrath audio version, but as with most audio books, I found the reader's inflection to be that of a crackhead reading a children's book. Not exactly the tone wanted for this amazing novel. We made it through one paragraph.

At some point in time, someone had a surplus of shipping containers and avocado green paint and I have a theory that it was a backpacker from the 70′s who settled in Moree, and this atrocity is all their doing. You see, there were hundreds of these huts, row after row, with a couple of feet between them, all faded avocado green and reminiscent of shallow, upright graves of the hopes of dreams of hundreds of travelers past, future, and present.  Herein, Tom starts to panic. He was a hard-sell on staying in a caravan park in the first place, let alone this particular caravan park. Suddenly, he revives one of his less practical suggestions to, “Wing it on the side of the road.” Throughout the trip, he implored us to take a random off set road, query a farmer, or literally just stop on the side of the road and pitch a tent. I wholeheartedly respect his adventurism and, some small part of me wanted to jump up and say, “Yes! Let’s go proposition a random farmer to let us stay on their land tonight, as long as I do the talking, of course,” or “Who needs a designated campsite! If I can’t live off the grid in the realms of work and taxes, I’m darn well going to camp where I like!” But then the den mother in me would protest, “How are you going to cook? What if you start a bushfire trying without designated fire traps,” and “What if the boys eat all the food and drink all the water in their munchie binge? We’ll be miles from anything,” and finally, “How will John do his hair?” Indeed, everyone has their quirks. I panic in shopping malls. Tom speaks his own language. John’s farts are noxious. And John is obsessed with his hair.

All that to say, our only option was to check out the only other caravan park in town and hope it wasn’t quite as offensive to our souls.

Yup, it's a caravan park. Exciting...

The BeerNBullshit Corner!

On our way out the white truck was still sitting in the drive, having only moved a few feet over and parked. The Missus was still steeping in her tickos, and we finally understood why. Off to Mehi River Van Park we went. Upon arrival, we were relieved to see the utter absence of green huts. Instead there were friendly signs posted everywhere of little cartoon animals naming a certain part of the park, and of course and welcoming sign telling us to, “Come and see Neil and Diane.” John and I were nominated to go speak to Neil and Diane because we would seem most respectable, and Tom and Jono were stoned, again, as usual. As we drove to our campsite, we passed the “BeerNBullshitCorner,” and I felt nominally better, as if Neil and Diane at least had a sense of humor amidst what felt to be a very grim existence. We also passed a set of swings, and I felt my moral kick for the sky. Maybe Moree wouldn’t be so bad after all?

That being said, two minutes into setting up camp, John received two wasp stings, one to his elbow and another on his back. Turns out we’d set up camp right next to a developing wasp colony. Whoops. Albeit, I’ve never been stung by a wasp, but I’m going to conclude that in general, the male threshold for pain is somewhat lacking. Still, I acted the part of den mother and did what I could to aid the stings, waiting until we returned home to begin an epic mock fest of his whinging. I don’t think he appreciates the affront to his manhood but what can I say? As an “honorary man,” on the trip, it was my duty to only show affection through merciless teasing. It’s like the “man hug,” the harder you hit, the more you love. Back on point, mother nature soon released her wrath upon me, twofold. The first having been a plight nursed for 24 years. That is, birthing hips and er, a very high density. Basically, I broke our second 5$ camping chair from Kmart. Worse yet, the fashion in which it broke meant that I was rather stuck in it, trying to upright myself but finding the chair wedged about my ample assets. The boys very wisely opted to blame faulty manufacturing. John even sympathized with the scrape on my leg, but I couldn’t help but laugh. It was very reminiscent of the time I got stuck in a toilet bowl. That boys, is why we like for you to put the seat down. Pee free is an added bonus. The second form of wrath came in the form of monster mosquitoes who ravaged my body. Apparently Aussie mossies love the Korean bbq. I had welts the size of golf balls up and down my legs for days. I said I looked like a lepor. John said that was a bit of exaggeration. I replied that it was actually hyperbole. Oh English majors.

John, sweltering in the heat and pain of his stings and Tom taking advantage.

So there we all sat, wounded, sweaty, confused by the campers who had big screen tvs with them, when along comes a spindly old man in a rusted, white hatchback. We were all sure that he was trying to sell us drugs, until we heard him say, “Want to buy some honey from the back of my car?” Then we were still thinking he might be trying to sell us drugs. His eyes were beady, his voice nasal, hair recessed to the lower remnants of a mullet, and I’m fairly sure he was licking his lips. Hmm, let me see…what after school special covers this situation? A polite, “No thanks,” deflected gaze, and careful consideration of where the nearest means of self-defense were positioned, and he was gone. It’s likely that he was just trying to sell some honey, but it was still creepy.

Early in the evening, the boys had asked me if I believed in Heaven and Hell, and if so, if non-Christians are going to Hell. Well, that night, pretty sure we were all in the netherworld as we basted in our own sweat and, probably that of our tent mates. It was the one time on the trip I wished I was with girls, simply so I could strip and suffer in the nude. Alas, I remained covered, cloaked in clothes and morality.

The morning came and we were rewarded for our suffering with some seriously classy amenities. Rows and rows of sparkling toilet bowls, vanities, and shower stalls. I turned round and round like a dog chasing after its tail, partially in rapture for these little slice of lavatorial heaven, and partially trying to find the mysterious “women’s restroom couch,” I was sure would be present, as in any 5-star restroom. (Please note, I, as a woman, do not know why we have couches in our restrooms either. The toilet is the last place I’d like to sit and breathe in deeply for any amount of time).  After a refreshing, non-dubious, shower, I skipped over to the swings, encountering a young boy. There were two swings, and he was on neither but he watched me approach with an eye of apprehension. Easy kid, I’m not trying to sell you honey. I’m going to swing and you can either sit on the other swing or walk away. He walked away. Good, I like to swing in solitude. For some reason, the other residents of the caravan park looked at me a bit oddly. What’s so strange about a full-grown, half-Asian, tattooed woman on a swing early in the morning? Oh, and I was wearing a dress, but I had shorts on underneath! I always wear shorts under dresses…just in case I need to climb a tree, ride a bike, do a round-house kick. You know, the usual.

I appreciate the effort, Neil and Diane. Has anyone actually taken a photo with this?

I returned to the campsite, fulfilling my den mother duties by supplying soap and shampoo to all the boys. Boys, sigh. Squeaky clean and utterly ready to get the heck out of dodge, we packed up and hit the road. Moree, you were not the adventure of a lifetime. In fact, you kind of sucked, but in the best way possible. I’ll remember you fondly, with a touch of disgust, every time I see the hundreds of bug bite scars on my legs.

Next time: Our encounter with a rang-er ranger and Australia’s wildlife at its best.

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