Competitive camping.

Stanley, Phiona

Abstract

in New Philosopher, Issue 20, pp.109-111. I recently fell down the social media rabbit hole that is the Vanlife hashtag. In it, girl-next-door models pose casually with expensive coffee pots in reclaimed-wood-lined campervans in front of iconic, North American national park views. Accompanying images depict the same women in bikinis doing yoga on beaches, soulful, woodsy men hunched over guitars, and, often, an aerial drone shot of the entirety of the (young, straight, white, het, cis, educated, beautiful, rich) couple's possessions neatly laid out around the van. These photos depict high-end wetsuits, surfboards, MacBooks, retro kitchen gear, and, always —apparently there is a Vanlife by-law about this— a southwest serape blanket. Ostensibly about minimalism and rejecting wage-slavery, Vanlife as constructed on social media is about yearning for a certain kind of high-end stuff and the financial wherewithal to roam freely. The campervan I recently converted from a former electrician's van looks nothing like the Vanlife images. I built it myself, using YouTube instructional videos, grit and determination, sweat and tears. There are many rough edges. Its look is rather more crafty DIY and rather less Monocle magazine. And, just as my van looks different, I don't resemble the Vanlife models: I'm twice their age and I'm not half of a young, beautiful, straight, white couple. But the differences go beyond aesthetics. My van is smaller than most campervans: I drive and park in a city and I need maneuverability rather than an apartment-like dwelling on wheels. Unlike many Vanlifers, I'm neither 'location independent' nor a trustafarian: I can only get so far on the weekends and I only have so much time off work. One day, one day, I want to take my van overland: around Australia and across Asia. One day, one day. But until then my little van gets me out of town. It gives me space to read, write, and think. It lets me access hiking trails, swim in wild rivers, and camp safely, as a woman alone, when my foot injury is playing up and I can't hike far enough out from a trailhead to feel safe in a tent. Put simply, my van is functional. It lets me be. But when I look at #Vanlife, I feel my van is lacking. Like Diderot's new dressing gown, which caused him to find fault in his shabby old furnishings, my van's fairy lights only highlight how un-Instagrammable the rest of it is. Its walls are cheap marine ply, its floor is the vinyl I could afford, and overall it's really too small for a 'lifestyle interiors' shot. It's basically a bed and a kitchen. (Criminally, also, I don't have a serape.) Luckily, I can look at this lacking lackadaisically. In Australia, there is a strong culture of grey nomads: people my age —as well as those much, much older— who traverse the country in all manner of homespun rigs including cars and tents as well as campervans (and also luxurious caravans and motorhomes, too). Many go alone or with dogs. Most do not care about design-ier-than-thou Instagram aesthetics. Many do not surf. None are bikini-clad Vanlife models.

Citation

Stanley, P. (2018). Competitive camping. New Philosopher, 20, 109-111

• Journal Article Type: Article
• Acceptance Date: Apr 1, 2018
• Publication Date: 2018-04
• Deposit Date: Feb 22, 2019
• Publicly Available Date: Feb 22, 2019
• Journal: New Philosopher
• Print ISSN: 2201-7151
• Publisher: The Bull Publishing Pty Ltd.
• Peer Reviewed: Not Peer Reviewed
• Volume: 20
• Pages: 109-111
• Public URL: http://researchrepository.napier.ac.uk/Output/1608637
• Contract Date: Feb 22, 2019