I Bought a Van

I’d be lying if I said buying a van wasn’t my petulant way of saying fuck you to ‘the man’. You know, the man, that geezer that raises the cost of living, makes housing unattainable and keeps you striving for the next rung on the ladder to success, wasting precious hours working a job you don’t enjoy in a place you don’t really like. Of course, there is no man, and those phenomena are just the result of a complex interplay between natural economic forces, greedy politicians, and clever aspirational marketing putting us all out of pocket, but at times it feels like a singular power is conspiring against you. In my mind, his face resembles that of Jacob Rees-Mog, or a sort of slimey, privileged weasel, but I’m sure your man (or woman) will take other forms.

Maybe it’s the type of media I’ve been consuming, or my abstinence from any mainstream news networks, but I’ve developed a vicious distrust of establishment and authority, in its many forms. From the limited news I do consume, all too often it’s uncovering the shady underbelly of a political figure, police force or multi-national corporation. Hidden agendas and political corruption are nothing new, but it’s almost as if, in a post pandemic world, we are numb to it, so bored of hearing it that we simply stopped caring. Pacified by Netflix and Nandos, we’re comfortable enough not to kick up a fuss, standing by idly as the cost of living slowly erodes our freedom, and with it, the ability to do things we previously took for granted. ‘Ordinary’ things like fuelling a car, planning a wedding, buying a house. But what is there to do, besides standing by? Protest in the streets? Abstain from society altogether? Both of those take courage (and I’m yet to muster any), so I chose to buy a van.

My doom and gloom cynicism probably overshoots the mark for a trendy ‘vanlife’ blog post, but I feel it’s necessary to disclose some pretext - the reason I want to live in a van in the first place. Anything that feels like a hack tends to appeal me, possibly because I’m lazy, more likely because I’ve always carried a bit of a chip on my shoulder. Not a harmful chip, which makes you distrustful and reclusive, just one where you revel in finding loopholes and sticking two fingers up to any form of authority or bureaucracy. Becoming intentionally homeless then, refusing to line the pockets of a landlord or lender, and the ability to take your worldly possessions as you travel (the jury’s out on whether the air fryer will make the cut), seemed like quite the win. How often have you been hindered by the extortion of hotels, or the stinginess of Ryanair’s luggage allowance? Van life, my friend, is exploration on your own terms…Except it’s not though, is it?

If you’ve happened to delve into the practicalities of this increasingly sought-after life, for even a couple of minutes, you’ll realise it’s not as carefree as the evangelists would have you think. For a start, you’re going to want a comfortable, reliable setup in a vehicle that’s not totally clapped out. Well these days you’ll be scraping together the equivalent of housing deposit, for anything pre-converted, or with mileage below 100K. Either that, or you’ll cough up in loan repayments what you would have paid for a decent house-share anyway. You may want to stray on to the continent and experience a Mediterranean summer. Don’t be hanging around longer than three months (unless you’ve sorted a visa) cus you know, Brexit and all that. Dreams of taking your morning brew overlooking the ocean or a mountain vista? Hmm, you best consider where you’re going to dig the trench, after that coffee works its magic, or dispose of the disgusting chemical broth from your camping toilet.

Truth be told – and this is probably something you should tell a therapist as opposed to the internet – I’m utterly lost and a bit scared at this stage in my life. Coming out of a relationship, like I just have, is bound to have induced these feelings, granted. But not having the anchor of a tight knit family unit to fall back on, or a strong network of friends to orientate me, has amplified those emotions tenfold. My career as a developer guides me somewhat, but it doesn’t give me identity or connection. And if one thing is certain, not knowing who you are, or what you want from life, can drive a person to despair. That’s how I know that drastic change is necessary, and strangely enough, that starts with shitting in a bucket, living life on the road.

Even as I write this, I realise it’s a pretty rogue way to achieve meaningful connection and purpose. The more nomadic or eccentric a person you become, the more you alienate those around you. I’ve never tried it, but I can imagine asking a girl back to your van is quite the hard sell. Should you be lucky enough to pass that hurdle, expecting them to piss in your porta-potty will be nigh-on impossible. Honestly, I’m yet to think it all through. I don’t really embody the stereotypical, social-outcast van dweller, who can readily drop his ego, his image and his creature comforts. I show signs of him at times yes, but I also own ten pairs of running shoes for Christ’s sake – that’s the whole point of the nearly nomadic concept! So yes, I’m winging it. Experimenting to see if you can release the shackles of modern life and simultaneously mix with the ‘normal’ kids. If you ask me now, I’d say one of those outcomes will almost certainly fall by the wayside, but I’m curious to find out how long I can spin both plates.

The plan, if you can call it that, is to head to Spain and capitalize on the last two years of fumbling through Spanish classes and memorizing cheesy pickup lines. Because what better way to enjoy the height of summer, than sleeping in an un-airconditioned metal box on the Costa Blanca? My step-dad has a flat near Alicante that I could probably use, should I run out of 4G, patience or bottle. There’s a few lads that I follow on Strava living out there, who I met when tagging along to a couple of their Sunday group rides. Maybe I can hook up with them, find a running club, meet a lucky senorita who enjoys conversations that resemble a GCSE Spanish class, you never know.

The past few years of nomadism has taught me a lot, but perhaps most notably to relinquish all expectations. By all means, maintain your over-arching goals and values, and be obsessive in upholding daily standards. But don’t get caught up in a particular blueprint, or a vision for how you see life playing out. It has a funny way of deviating from that course, and your best bet is to, as cringey as it sounds, go with the flow.

So what started out as a ‘fuck you’ to the establishment, has morphed into much needed therapy for the soul. Let’s see how it goes, I’ll probably be back in a month with my tail between my legs, bowing to Rees-Mog and craving the luxury of modern plumbing.