Silly Old Farts in Caravan Parks

First he watches one of those fishing programs on the telly. They make it all look so easy, relaxing and almost a metaphysical experience. He gets motivated to go out and buy all that expensive tackle - one rod for surf, one for boat, one for brim, one for snapper and all kinds of tackle. The list is endless.

He has to choose one rod to fit in a car. It just fits only dangling in her ear occasionally. When he gets there, he finds he should have brought the surf rod--better for beach and rock fishing.

The holiday begins with optimism and delight at a sun-drenched little spot that is hard to find on the map. He has to find a spot to camp, not just any spot. This spot must have good access to fishing areas, protected from wind, away from other campers, not too far from toilets, be able to catch the early morning sun, away from flowering trees that might be home to birds that might perch and excrete the night away. Deliberation, deliberation and finally there is a decision that takes them right to the back of the Park.
Where will he fish? The beach. The jetty. The lake. The river. What does it matter? He tries them all to no avail.

There is camaraderie amongst fishing people. You may find out the best bait to use. Better still, why the young bloke is going to dump his Dutch girlfriend that has been camping with him for the last month. How is the old bloke with leukaemia going to complete his trip up the coast before the "white ants" get him? There is the girl catching tiny fish, releasing them and crying if she kills one.

Maybe it is the bait at $5.00 a pop. He tries the prawns, white bait, pilchard, pipis, squid, and abalone gut. At this rate he could buy a beautiful fish dinner and a bottle of wine at the local pub, sit back and enjoy the colours of the sky.

No, he must be out at the crack of dawn or wait for the mosquito-drenched sunset, losing his bait to the crabs or toadies and his tackle in the rocks. Or maybe the tides and the moon are not quite right.

"Have you caught any fish yet?" his son asks on the phone.

How can he catch fish when it is too windy and besides, the trawlers have netted all the fish. Salt is rubbed into the wounds when his friend was able to catch three nice sized fish a little further up the river. Despondent, depressed but doggedly determined, he dangles his line off the breakwater wall.

There is light at the end of the tunnel.
One eight inch Trevally.
Shimmering in the sunlight.
The gods have smiled on him today.

He drove into the park with his quaint old caravan, which was kind of egg-shaped. Ross connected with his van like a dog and its owner. He was old but spruced up and his eyes were keenly focused on the task at hand. At first he tried to back into the site. After four tries, he put that in the too hard basket. Feeling frustrated, he put the old Austin into forward gear and circled our van, thinking he could make this into a drive through site. He drove intently, looking only straight ahead, missing our open windows by a centimetre. "You get that!!" My son would say.

"Somewhere over the rainbow", Maggie warbled. She had quite a powerful, clear voice but not what I wanted to hear come bursting through my window from the next caravan. I am trying to write but I can't escape the recital. I guess I could take a walk. I step one foot outside of my territory and two yappy little dogs frighten the life out of me. I take my eyes off the track for a moment and something yuck has stuck to my shoe. I relax and enjoy the performance. Soon, husband Alf returns. Maggie stops the singing because Alf will not know what to do next if he does not have "She who must be obeyed" to tell him what and how to do the things to upkeep a caravan.

I do not hear a cross word between Clare, Gary and their three children. Every thing is sweetness and light. They have the answers to all of life's twists and turns, not interested in my points of view. Things are simply black or white and set in concrete. I wonder would their children dare to go outside the square. "We are doing God's work now. We don't belong to any religious faith." They are being super friendly and helpful, to the point that it is sickly. They have come to the wrong camp looking for converts. "Tomorrow we have to baptize a child." I wonder to which faith, when they proclaim no allegiances. There are plenty of vulnerable people out there.

"You could murder someone down south and hide out here very easily." So Mary says, in this extremely remote spot in the north. It just so happened that a suspect for a recent murder was sighted by a resident and an old biddy told the man that he looked like the man police were after. He took off of course. Interesting she did not tell the police. Only three or four resident families stay through the wet season. The flood can come right up to the campsites. "Take a stick when you go out in your rubber boots, to frighten the crocs and snakes. Always carry a bottle of Rum in case of a bite. If you drink it you won't feel the bite." A corrupt president of the fishing club was making a nice profit from over charging the tourists and pocketing the difference. He had two warrants out for his arrest. Reg spoke up but when he returned to his site, he found his boat upturned in the water.

"You have to have a motor home to camp here. How do we know that you really are members of the club if you can't just put your finger on your membership number at that moment? No, a simple phone call will not fix the problem." Red shirts and blue shorts is the uniform of the Nazi happy campers group. They banish us to a spot on the perimeter of the camp at a days march from the facilities. When we are set up, we find our tap is waterless. "That is not our problem. You must contact the city council." Say the Nazi redshirts. The country music wafts across the stifling air, soothing our senses only to be jarred by, "We are short of money. In the kafuffle about your membership, you did not pay for the site." Thankfully we had the receipt on hand. When we returned, at a later date, with a brand new fifth wheeler the Nazi redshirts had reincarnated into laughing friendly campers group. You learn a lot about prejudice on the road.

They meet at sunset, when sky is rose-coloured and the sea and horizon merge into a blue haze. Not everyone can join the set. You must be up yourself and travel with a "nice" van and modern 4WD. You wear tailored shorts and a pressed shirt or blouse and a dash of perfume. You carry your chair along with an elegant glass from which to sip your red or white wine - there is always a choice. There is always a superior being amongst the stylish group. He demands their attention with answers to all things, the longest stories to tell and is easily recognized as the small one with the biggest ego. One would think that he does not have a reverse gear in his spotless vehicle, by the way he drives -- only forward, even when the kids' towels and pencils happen to be in his path.

"Half-a-house" has the smallest of living quarters on top of her ute. We worry that we stop her view, but no, we shield her from the wind.

Erin is a fit 78 year old. She tows a van with an 80's Buick, backs up and sets up her own van. She travels with her 95 year old mother and Jessica, a stately black poodle.

"Stare bear" sits all day with a can of beer in his hand on his huge stomach. He watches, listens and wants to know everybody's business. Just ask the newspaper if you want to know anything.