Travel
Wheel estate
by Jon Bridges
Freedom doesn’t cost a fortune in a mobile bach.
My partner Gemma and I came to caravanning by accident: an impulsive Trade Me purchase became an all-absorbing renovation project. When the caravan was ready, we had no idea whether we’d even enjoy using it.
About 18 months ago, we visited the Wanaka Transport and Toy Museum. After I had dragged Gemma yawning around all the vintage cars and -aeroplanes (it really is a fantastic place!), we wandered outside. There, sitting in a huge field among dilapidated military vehicles and machinery, we saw an old caravan. Gemma was almost as excited by this little Oxford, with its cute 60s decor, as she had been bored by the vintage cars. It wasn’t for sale, but for the next two weeks we seemed to see caravans every-where. We drove past caravan sales yards we had never noticed before and we inspected a -caravan a friend was using as a spare room. And then one day I caught Gemma searching the word “caravan” on Trade Me. “I’m just looking,” she said.
Neither of us had ever spent the night in a caravan. To me, caravans were always things other families had: the sort you stay with when you were billeted on a hockey trip. In my family, caravans had skipped a generation. Grandad hired caravans and took Mum’s family for holidays all over the South Island. Gran had to feed the family without a fridge or even a chilly-bin. Even today, Mum and Gran recall the time a ham had to be thrown out because it had gone off in the sun. I suppose the challenge of keeping meat fresh was too much for my parents, so we never caravanned.
But Gemma didn’t pause to ask whether we were caravan people. A month after our trip to Wanaka, she heroically held off two other bidders to buy a tiny shell of aluminium on wheels. It cost $900 and inside it looked like it had been used as a P lab by a family of immigrant kunekune.
After eight months of procrastination, two months of furious -renovation and the purchase of a car big enough to tow the thing, we took to the road to annoy our first batch of holiday drivers. Roads look different to a caravan driver. The only thing that -matters is how far it is to the next rest area or bit of shoulder wide enough to pull into so the line of cars behind can pass. I’ve never annoyed so many people so badly for so long. Now I know what it must be like to be Winston Peters. But after our first night in the thing, we knew it was all worth it.
Part of the fascination and satisfaction of caravanning comes from our basic human “hutting” instinct. Being in a cara-van evokes the same feeling you get as a child when you build a hut or a fort. That’s why being inside a caravan feels so right. There are other cosy holiday options but none of them are as good. Tents are moist inside, baches refuse to move to new spots each year and motorhomes aren’t really camping – just parking.
So far, our mobile bach has taken us to two out of about 400 places you can caravan in New Zealand. Both of them were “absolute beachfront” – a term you see proclaimed on real estate signs all around the coast. Tauranga Bay Motor Camp is run by ex-All Black Eric Rush, who rides a bike around the camp, being friendly. We discovered that New Year’s Eve is unofficial caravan tour night at Tauranga Bay. We had many visitors popping their heads in and remarking, “Oh, you’ve got a Waeco”, or “What, is it 12-volt throughout?” I don’t recommend Tauranga Bay, though: I don’t want it to be too full next time we try to book.
It was Easter when we went to Hahei Holiday Resort. “We never fill up at Easter!” was the assurance when I phoned to book. By 7.00pm on Good Friday, they were turning folk away. Luckily for us, we were early and got a beautiful spot. We swam, cooked, kayaked, drank wine, walked to Cathedral Cove, climbed the hill to Te Pare Pa on the southern -headland, and went on day trips. I was among the approximately 0% of the population of New Zealand who had never been to Hot Water Beach; when we arrived by bike on Easter Sunday, I was among the approximately 80% of New Zealand there that day.
We carried our bicycles across the sand and leaned them on the rocks. It was jam-packed. It looked like the Big Day Out with children. Every man carried a child and every child carried a shovel. It was a veritable festival of digging. We shared a little puddle with a couple from America. They were scalded, and so were we. That day, all nationalities were scalded together, and it was beautiful.
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