A COVID Camping Trip

The COVID-19 pandemic has frustrated many a traveller in 2020, not least the Glorified Gypsy, who had grand plans of escaping Australia’s mild winter and decamping to its native region of Europe for the duration. As a hardened backpacker, the coronavirus has been detrimental to my health and identity as the world’s foremost traveller. It’s like denying a sex change to a transperson - preventing a glorified gypsy from crossing international borders is one thing, but to close state borders, as they have done in Australia, is a slap to the face.[1] There are, after all, only so many times I can regale the dwindling residents of The Big Galah about the time Castro’s goons pointed their guns at me, after I rode too close to Fidel’s Havana hide-out on a Yamaha rental scooter. Any traveller worth their salt is only as good as their last anecdote, and without the ability to travel, I was concerned at the prospect of having to dive deeper in to my much discussed travel journals of yore.

When the borders shut, I improvised and planned to hire a Kombi to do the east coast of Australia - a feat that would have broken my own record of 41 times. Of course, the Queensland government put an end that. All that was left, then, was the state of New South Wales. I toyed with the idea of doing the Great North Walk in a pair of flip-flops, but when that didn’t garner the interest I expected when I floated the idea in the communal laundry room of the Ghala, I then considered campervanning around the state, taking in the outback town of Broken Hill. But I decided that was probably just a bit too far to bother going. In the end, then, I managed to convince Catalina, one of only two remaining backpackers at the hostel, to accompany me on a two-week sojourn around the remotest parts of NSW, with just a few concessions on my part to get her on board: instead of driving for hours through the scorched earth wasteland of the Australian outback, we agreed to travel 200 kilometres north of Sydney to Port Stephens, and then improvise from there.

Cabin Fever

Though Catalina was technically roughing it already by staying at the Galah, she wasn’t too keen on camping, reasoning that in her country[2] she spent her childhood in squalor and so, rather than viewing camping as an opportunity to get back to nature, she saw it as dredging up some disturbing memories. Never mind. I was prepared to give a little more ground by agreeing to stay in some eco cabins for the first three nights. Avid readers of The Glorified Gypsy will know already that I can’t abide hotels, motels, and cabins because they emit the stench of tourism. I’ve proudly never stayed in a hotel in my life, and I was not about to break the Gypsy code for the sake of the sultry - and sulking - Catalina. No way. No matter how attractive she is. That’s why I booked a cabin at Wanderer’s Retreat, located in Anna Bay, which is directly opposite Malaleuca Backpackers. My plan was that while Catalina enjoyed the comfort of her eco cabin, I’d pitch my swag on the grounds of the backpackers and stay true to the GG ethos.[3]

When we pulled into to Koala Place, however, I was mortified to learn Malaleuca Backpackers was shut, meaning I had no other option than to pitch my swag on Catalina’s veranda.[4] Of course, it then felt silly of me to sleep there when Catalina was just inside. Plus it was unseasonably cold as well. So, for one time only - and doing it only to appease Catalina because I sensed she was frightened - I stayed in the cabin.[5]

In terms of the trip, however, it goes without saying that I didn’t count those first three days in the cabin, even though we spotted a male koala hanging out in the grounds of Wanderer’s Retreat. No, as far I was concerned the trip only began once one (or both) of us got gastroenteritis, or had a sleepless night due to a leaky tent or wildlife invasion.

Camping

Catalina wasn’t the first person I’d invited into my company to complain at the prospect of camping. If I were on my own I would have happily camped for the duration of the trip, most likely in my swag, and with a satisfyingly decreasing level of personal hygiene as the days and weeks went on. Essentially, I know I’ve earned my camping spurs if on the last day I have a thick beard, can etch my name into the accumulated grime on my arms, and feel slightly woozy from malnutrition.

To accommodate the Catalinas of this world, however, I accepted long ago that concessions must to be made, and that is why I’ve got my ‘couples’ camping equipment which I use when wooing the ladies. I’ll give you a quick breakdown of the equipment now:

1 x Black Wolf Turbo 210 canvas tent
1 x self-inflating double mattress
2 x Black Wolf single sleeping bags (which can be joined to make one oversize bag)
1 x 250 lumens head torch (mine)
1 x 50 lumens head torch (hers)

Essentially, the above equipment offers headroom, moderate comfort, warmth, and light.

In Catalina’s case, she refused to camp anywhere without proper toilets and showers, which limited me to only a couple of campsites in the Port Stephens area. The best I could find was Fingal Bay Holiday Park, located in Fingal Bay. It had just enough trees to make it feel as though we were with nature, rather than against it, and had the kind of toilet blocks that would make even a germaphobe feel comfortable standing at the urinals in bare feet. Also, in early September it’s empty of other campers, meaning you only have to be on your guard for those strange people who call the holiday park their permanent place of residence.

So we rolled into Fingal Bay on day three with mixed emotions, with me overjoyed at leaving the comfortable cabins, and Catalina in a right huff and close to tears (also because of leaving the comfortable cabins).[6]

You know what though? Once the tent was pitched, the mattress inflated, and she’d poured boiling water down a nearby ant nest, she soon appreciated that I’d at least supplied her with a level of comfort on a par with her childhood home, and certainly better than that of The Big Galah’s dorm rooms and bedding.

That first night we bunkered down for the evening with her clinging to me,[7] and listened to the gentle roll of the waves as we drifted off into a pleasant sleep. I could swear from her heavy snoring that I’d managed to change Catalina’s mind about camping in just one night.

Alas, the next day changed that. The camp site, as mentioned above, was empty bar us, so even if a few more campers turned up there was plenty of space for it to still feel isolated. And by 18:00 hrs the next day - a Friday - it remained empty and peaceful. But at 18:01 hrs a family turned up as dusk was setting in and, of all the available sites, broke camping etiquette by pitching up on the site diagonally behind us. Worse was soon to follow. Their friend turned up half an hour later in a giant RV, two kids in tow, and backed it into the site directly behind us. Diesel fumes enveloped the old Turbo 210

I was seething and massively on edge. The father of the family thought nothing or running a hose through the middle of our site so he could do the washing up on-site, rather than walk the 50 metres to the camp kitchen. When his young overweight son inquired why his feckless father didn’t wash up in the kitchen, the parent - setting the standards by which the son will no doubt live his life - said:

“You don’t want to walk all the way over there to wash up, do you?”

As we settled down for our second night, Catalina was starting to crack and the good work of the tranquil first evening under the stars began to unravel. These two families were just too close for comfort, and when one of the father’s snored his way through to the early hours of the morning, the only solace was in imagining we were on safari and that we were observing a pod of flatulent hippos, rather than sleeping metres away from an overweight middle aged Australian male.

[1] Exactly like the bird Maya Angelou wrote about in ‘I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings’.

[2] I won’t name the country for fear of reprisals from stereotyping all South American countries as backwards. You know what they’re like.

[3] I told myself I’d only go over to the cabin when it got cold, when I needed a shower, a cup of tea, or to watch Law & Order UK.

[4] The last time I asked a woman if I could pitch my swag on her veranda, she slapped me.

[5] An old gypsy dies hard though and I made sure the air-conditioning was set to no higher than 24 degrees, and that it was turned off at night.

[6] And because her shifts at Le Paris Go had been cut back so she had no money to catch the sporadic public transport back to Sydney.

[7] Fear, cold