We’re back at the caravan park—a ramshackle kaleidoscope of humanity, aluminium, and chaos. The regulars are still here, like actors in a dusty, low-budget soap opera. The scarred man, alive and belligerent as ever, announces his survival with a soundtrack of banging and profanity from his sagging tin castle. Kalgoorlie, you dirty old dog, you never disappoint.
Housesitting in suburbia had its charms—clean kitchens, quiet nights—but let’s be honest, it felt like playing dress-up. This is where the real stories are, the unfiltered grit of the road. We’ve snagged a prime spot this time, right in front of the communal kitchen, the heart of this travelling madhouse. A front-row seat to the parade of characters and their daily dramas. No day here is ever the same.
It’s back to the grind for me this week, wrenching myself into a routine of work at the motorcycle shop, sweating it out at the gym, and diving headfirst into this carnivore diet experiment. Eggs, meat, and cheese—it’s primal, it’s satisfying, and it feels like something a lunatic on the edge might dream up. But hell, why not? The results will either be glorious or a complete train wreck. Either way, I’m here for it.
Tonight, though, we unwind. Uno and cheap wine—the true currency of the road. Will’s weekend runs from Sunday to Monday, and his birthday is on Tuesday. His second one spent chasing this nomadic dream. We’ll celebrate like vagabonds do: a bottle of something barely drinkable, a scorching 40c day, and the absurd comfort of knowing that in this messy, unpredictable life, at least we’ve got each other.
Here’s to the circus. Here’s to Kalgoorlie. And here’s to one more spin on the wheel.
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Thanks for rolling by! If this post fueled your van life or travel dreams, hit the like button, share it with your fellow wanderers, or shout a coffee to keep the wheels turning and the journey going! - Adam, Will and Wally.