The Lylo campervan had everything we needed. Photo / Georgia Mackay
Varsha Anjali drives a campervan without using phone maps and lives to tell the tale.
My voice of reason was male and Australian. The voice was reassuring and told me to go straight ahead. His name: Australian Voice 1. I don’t recall consciously choosing him. Alas, he is the one who spoke whenever I used the Maps app on my iPhone. That happened often. In the neighbourhood I live in and in the neighbourhoods faraway.
One sweltering weekend in January, I ditched the Maps app and Australian Voice 1 for a less dashing but steady paper road map and follow-your-nose intuition. The way of my parents. Why? I was constantly plugged in with digital maps, social media, notifications, reminders, prompts – and constantly anxious. I wondered if the two were related. Besides, they say the simpler times were happier times. And I knew how to find out quickly: a Good Old-Fashioned NZ Camping Road Trip.
I took a slide-out bed camper from Lylo, a newish local experience company specialising in everything from hostels to campervans. I thought it would be as big as a large van. It was probably the size of a whale calf. From the Auckland CBD pick-up point, I declared to my long-time friends, Georgia and Philippa, four truths:
They accepted. But 2, 3 and 4 made us nervous.
That week, MetService issued more than a dozen heat alerts across the motu. Some parts of Northland were topping 30°C. Philippa was driving up to the Uretiti Beach Department of Conservation campsite with a tent, and Georgia and I were sharing the double bed inside the campervan. We also have very different temperature tolerances. I run cold while Georgia runs hot.
It was my first time driving such a big campervan. The whale of the roads. Drivers made room though. Except that one guy who made a rude hand gesture after I gave way to traffic. I’ll remember him.
There was a Bluetooth screen that I could connect Maps to, but that would have been sacrilegious this weekend. The problem was that the part of my brain good for directions was missing at birth. Philippa’s wasn’t, though. We named her Chief Navigator and prayed we wouldn’t get lost and be forced to seek help from a Ted Bundy.
Get lost we did. Except I didn’t know it. The Navigator only told me post-trip that we were meant to go through Riverhead instead of Kumeū and not end up in Helensville. The beauty of it was that it didn’t matter. Even though we didn’t know precisely what time we would arrive, either. We knew Uretiti was close to Whangārei, and we knew Whangārei would take around two hours to reach. That was good enough.
In Helensville I bought a paper road map for Northland. It was strange to see it. I hadn’t touched one since before I could drive. Every single street, highway, bridge, and landmark was smooshed in front of you. You were forced to see beyond what you strictly needed to. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, I couldn’t yet tell.
I asked the sales assistant who typically buys them.
“Not really your demographic, they’re usually older tourists,” she said. “And those who like to draw their route.”
It took seconds to find on the map where we were and where we wanted to go. If Australian Voice 1 were a real person, he would have sniggered. Seconds might as well have been hours to him.
Signage for the campsite at Uretiti, which cost us around $36 each for two nights, was obvious. It was a rare full weekend of full sun, and Kiwis were fully damned if they didn’t take full advantage. Getting a good parking spot required learning a new life skill: how to T-bone.
We headed to the beach after setting up camp. The sky colours flattening the ocean were beautiful. My friends did ironic twirls as I took photos.
Naturally, Philippa was our camp mum. She cooked us pasta using the campervan grill I had set up (easily) for dinner on the first night, pancakes for breakfast the next day, and sauteed veges on toast on the second night. Inside the campervan was also an induction cooktop, a full set of cutlery and crockery (including Masterchef-branded knives – chef’s kiss), a toaster, a cute kettle that was well-used for making our bougie filter coffee, cleaning products, and best of all, a 130-litre fridge. Fancy as.
The campervan also had a tap and a sink. It was already topped up with 36 litres of fresh water, which turned out to be enough for our weekend trip. This was important because we could cook, eat, wash and repeat. It was also important because I am a woman in my thirties and I like to smell nice and be clean. Hear me roar.
I was miserable in the morning. Period pain felt like a corkscrew twisting in my lower abdomen. I lay down on the ground. I clutched my belly. I beseeched my friends to go to the beach without me.
Camp mum to the rescue. Philippa ran to an elderly couple’s camp for Panadol. Within 30 minutes of me taking it, we went to the beach together. I sat on the sand reading my book while they swam.
It was at this moment that angry sea lice ravaged Philippa.
At night, we gave each other tarot readings, played cards under fairy lights, and my favourite bit: we stargazed for hours. Philippa then headed to her tent and Georgia and I converted the campervan sofa into our double bed.
I’ll be back in a campervan for road trips in the near future. But the next time I do it, Australian Voice 1 will be coming along for the ride. Because he does no harm. What really lifted my spirits was the absence of internet at the destination. There was no doomscrolling. There was no anxiety. Windows down kept us cool. Moths kept us company. I was light.
Varsha Anjali is a journalist in the lifestyle team at the Herald. Based in Auckland, she covers travel, culture and more.