Petrina Darrah tried to work remotely from her van. Photo / Supplied
Petrina Darrah thought the pandemic was the perfect opportunity to pack up and travel around New Zealand in her van while working remotely. It wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
If you believe what you see on social media, van life is a constant reel of pristine landscapes and tasteful campervans. The curated feeds of van lifers show serene sunrises and sunsets, campsites framed by mountain peaks or peeling waves, and empty roads unfurling to the horizon. Everything is cast in a warm golden tone. Van life looks like the lifestyle for anyone who loves freedom, the outdoors and a boho aesthetic. Sitting in my home office/living room in Auckland, very much not outdoors or free, it looked like the answer. Why not, I thought, make this my full-time reality?
I started a new job in November and by the end of February had spent only a handful of days in a mostly empty office. I was working from the cramped living room of a creaky old Grey Lynn villa I shared with three others. Staring at the same walls each day, I thought longingly about the two weeks I had spent travelling the South Island in my van over the New Year holidays. I had tacked on an extra week working remotely from a campground in Marahau, then returned to Auckland on January 23 – the day the city went from Orange back into Red. Instead of attending events and spending time with my workmates as planned, I was commuting from my bedroom to the living room and pining for those dreamy days of clocking off work and walking to beaches in Abel Tasman.
I had already owned my van for about 18 months. It was the first vehicle I ever bought, purchased in the middle of 2020 when it became clear I wouldn't be leaving the country for a while. It was a Mazda MPV, converted into a self-contained campervan by a German carpenter based out of a questionable workshop in New Lynn. It came with its quirks. Namely, a window that fell down every time I turned the key in the lock and a mystery whumping noise that occasionally emitted from somewhere under the bonnet.
But, the conversion was a dream. The Mazda MPV was the perfect size for one person – big enough for a double bed in the back, small enough for me to manoeuvre through Grey Lynn's narrow streets. The kitchen was made from upcycled wood, complete with a wooden sink. There was a small bookshelf above the bed. I poured love into decorating the van, scouring op shops collecting cushions, wine glasses, and lots of things made out of jute. I bought bamboo memory foam pillows and Bed Threads linen sheets, I hauled out my mum's old sewing machine and sewed linen curtains.
My little mobile home gave me a beautiful sense of freedom. Being able to drive anywhere I wanted, whenever I wanted, was a revelation. Before buying it, I hadn't been behind the wheel since high school, and even then I had only driven around the rural area where I grew up. At first, my mind boggled at making lane changes on the motorway or slotting a vehicle into a parallel park. I recruited my most patient friend to give me driving lessons. The first time I drove my van alone I was terrified. But by the summer of 2022, I had clocked up 20,000km on weekend trips and short holidays. I still couldn't parallel park, but I was ready, I thought, to feel blissful freedom all the time, instead of just on weekends. Life on the road would be one endless road trip.
My job had a flexible work policy that let me choose when and where I wanted to work. So at the end of March, I moved out of my flat, sold most of my belongings and packed everything left over into the recesses of my van. I put Auckland in my rearview mirror and headed back to the South Island to work remotely while living in my van. I thought it would be like those halcyon days in Marahau.
Instead, I discovered all the realities of van life that don't make it into anyone's Instagram feed.
Van life is messy. The second I tidied things away, I would need to haul everything out again to get to my rain jacket, can opener, spare butane canisters, or myriad other items I tetrised into every square centimetre. During the day, I unceremoniously piled clothes, groceries, my chilly bin, and charging cables onto the bed. At night, I had to pull everything out to make space to sleep – or, just shuffle everything slightly to the side so I could wedge myself somewhere into the middle of it all. I spent many a night curled up next to my worldly belongings, with neither comfort nor dignity. Luckily, I was travelling alone and my standards for myself are pretty low.
Being closer to the elements was nice in theory, but made basic tasks a lot harder. Cooking a meal often involved standing in blustery wind desperately trying to shield my cooker flame to get water to boil in less than 45 minutes. Doing dishes in cold hand-pumped water meant my idea of a good meal was one I could make with nothing more than a knife and a chopping board.
Then there was the basic admin necessary to maintain some semblance of order. I forgot to empty my grey water tank and it smelled like I was driving around with a dead cat in the back. Once I tried to do a load of washing but it didn't dry properly so I had damp clothes strewn all over the van. So safe to say I wasn't good at basic van admin.
But even when I was rattling around with grubby dishes and slowly decaying vegetables in the back, I loved having only a sliding door between me and the outdoors. Weekends were amazing. I camped at French Pass and swam with stingrays. I hiked to Angelus Hut in Nelson Lakes National Park. Explored the farthest reaches of Golden Bay. I hiked into plenty of huts on overnight trips, with the huts making a nice change from sleeping in my van.
Weekdays were another story. My work week flexed around places I could find either Wi-Fi and power sockets, or mobile reception strong enough to hotspot from and a place to open my laptop. Or some combination of both. I worked from the back of my van, sometimes propped against cushions with a view of the Marlborough Sounds or a body of water in Nelson Lakes, but more often folded in next to piles of my belongings while parked on the side of the street in a random town. It's definitely not very ergonomic hunching over a laptop in the back of a van, even if I balanced my laptop on my chilly bin. Dialling into work meetings from my nest on wheels also didn't do a great deal for my sense of professionalism. Taking calls while sitting next to a pile of dirty hiking clothes wasn't a highlight of my career.
To change the scenery and drink something other than instant coffee granules in tepid water, I hunted down cafes. Working from cafes is great if you're in the artsy town of Whanganui where the cafes are lovely. It's less great if you're in Westport and the options for cosy Wi-Fi cafes are slim to none.
When I wasn't looking for a place to work, I was scouting for campsites. I liked DoC campsites, which are always beautiful but most of the time outside of mobile reception. I fell in love with Gentle Annie's campground in Mokihinui on the West Coast. I also parked in freedom camps, where my shabby Mazda was dwarfed by huge motorhomes helmed by retirees. Sometimes, freedom camps were spacious and glamorous enough to feature a long drop. At others, I was woken up at 2am by locals shooting fireworks at my van and doing doughnuts.
No matter how nice – or nonexistent – the campground facilities, weka would destroy anything I left outside. Each night was a battle against sandflies and mosquitoes. When it rained, I just had to resign myself to being constantly damp.
Occasionally I would spend a night in a hostel, for a shower, bed, and proper kitchen. Or, hustled for different types of benefits from friends. In Nelson, I went on a date with a local who offered to let me shower at his place before going for a drink. Modern chivalry at its finest. I made friends in campgrounds who offered to let me park in their driveways and use their washing machines when I passed by their homes.
Eventually, I ended up heading back to Auckland. Constantly searching for campgrounds and a mobile signal was exhausting, and there's a lot to be said for having permanent access to a washing machine and a desk. I've sold my van now, as I try another mode of work and travel overseas. I vetted buyers like I would if I was rehoming a pet. I wanted my van to go to someone who would love it as much as I did. And after handing over the key to the right person and watching my van pull out of the driveway for the last time, I sat down and bawled for hours.
Despite the messy reality of living in a few square metres, my faithful van carried me on more adventures than I can count. I think I will remain a van lifer in the future – even if only on weekends.
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