Lost Nights in Nylon

by Elke Nagy (Australia)

I didn't expect to find Australia

Lost Nights in Nylon Before me, the road stretches for 700 kilometres, long, thin, and hazy with heat. I turn off to park by a dry creek bed, my shoulders stiff, my eyes scratchy with the strain of looking out for wandering cattle. I brew coffee, add cream from my tiny fridge, then break open a packet of ginger biscuits. From horizon to horizon is flat red earth, the space limitless, the air fresh and clean. I had travelled this way through the Australian outback ten years ago and loved it — camping in my cosy nylon dome, anchored to sun warmed earth, wind swirling through star-studded mesh, while revelling in the knowledge that I’m free-spirited, hardy and adaptable. This time, however, I’ve already got misgivings. And I’m only three days in. The first night, I had arrived at a large town, rolling into a private caravan park. I paid for a site and the manager enquired about my plans with probing eyes. When I replied I’m travelling west to visit friends, she seemed oddly relieved. I had no idea why. I drove past rows of RVs with heavily tinted windows, spiky with satellite dishes, humming with air con, and then onto the unpowered sites, where there was no one else around bar a shabby caravan. I picked a shady spot, set up my tent, collected wood for a fire, marinated eggplant in honey, soy sauce and spices, rinsed my jars of sprouting greens and uncorked a bottle of chilled Riesling. A woman in her sixties emerged from the caravan with a welcoming smile, her clothes ironed and immaculate, pearls dangling from her ears. And once again, I was asked about my plans, but she seemed unconvinced by my explanation, gently asking if I was okay. “Of course,” I replied abruptly. Why wouldn’t I be? Can’t she see that I’m free-spirited, hardy and adaptable? Then I noticed her carefully raked dirt, the plastic table with a jar of pink blossoms plucked from a nearby bush, and recalled how older women are one of the fastest growing groups of homeless people in Australia. I opened my mouth to apologise for my sharp tone and to offer her a glass of wine but she had already turned away. I don’t see her again. On the second night, I arrived at a community campground; council-run sites where travellers can stay for a small fee, providing a welcome infusion into jaded rural economies. I’m greeted with a roll call of growls from dogs staked outside each RV. And I remember when camping meant easy camaraderie: chatty shower queues and barbecues, circulating bottles of tomato sauce and mosquito spray. Moreover, it seems solo women camping are now perceived as implicitly impoverished. Undesirable neighbours. Even property risks. The sky is bright blue and wedge-tailed eagles soar. I sip coffee while watching emus picking their way through hummocks of grass. It’s beautiful, and normally, I’d linger but I’m already tense about the prospect of finding a decent camp site. I must stop driving by dusk, before the kangaroos converge on the roadsides to graze. At the next town. I refill my tank and enquire about camping options. The man behind the counter tells me the private caravan park is closed for the summer. “Is there a community site?” I pocket my change. “Yep.” His eyes swing to my unencumbered hatchback. “But no tents allowed. Only RVs.” “Oh.” “But,” he adds, “there’s a free site for tents, 30 clicks out of town.” Something in the set of his sunburned jaw lets me know this is a bad idea, as in those who have no other options than to detour to camp for free may not make the best night-time company. I thank him then retreat to weigh up my options. Should I rely on my adored but undeniably flimsy nylon at an uncertain destination or succumb to the flash of green neon across the road? I end up settling on a hotel room reeking of microwaved meals, artificial frangipani and bleach. I’m safe but feel sad and caged, especially when I realise I’m now the one making judgements.