My anxiety started in August when Chika told me she booked a camping trip near Great Ocean Road, right after my birthday.
For me.
As if it was supposed to make me happy.
Because she thought my past annoyances were all for show.
She assumed deep down, I was really happy when we go camping, I just pretended to be not.
Even if I wasn’t, I just need to get used to it, and eventually, I’ll be happy.
*cracks knuckles*
If the genders were reversed, I’m pretty sure I have a really good cause for abuse /separation/divorce in court here.
Is there any good in camping?
Yes. The stars.
The lack of people. The beach all to yourself.
No biker gangs or cars dragging around Lygon Street during bedtime.
I like it when it rains, because camping trips get canceled when it rains.
Other than that, it’s a constant whirlpool of worrying.
So far, we managed to survive camping because we attached ourselves to a very seasoned, high-functioning family, like parasites. They gave us our tent. They have an extra canopy. They bring double burners with gas. Giant jerry cans of water. They have a bigger car, with bigger space, with more emergency supplies. Mum is an experienced ex-lawyer with backup plans the size of Doraemon’s pocket. The dad is a doctor. The three elder daughters took turns entertaining Hana. They bring beach toys, kites, children's books, lollies.
It’s our first time camping alone.
Training wheels, gone.
Without them, I worry that:
We will fight ourselves to death.
Because of the Tan Family, Chika, Hana, and I are forced to be well-behaved. Seriously, the reason your father keeps inviting friends over for dinner is that he knows at least your mother will treat him with respect for a few hours. Camping is a true test of a relationship. Without phones, data, television, distraction, can you really hold a conversation, be nice to each other? In fact, at night, do you dare to face your own thoughts?Hana will get bored, and then we fight ourselves to death.
When asked if she’s looking forward to camping, she shook her head, saying ‘no one will play with me’. When I said I could play with her, she literally snickered and rolled her eyes.Supplies & resources.
As mentioned, the Tan family had tables, chairs, equipment. I’m not sure if we have space to cook. (We don’t have a stand, just a portable stove with butane gas canisters.) Food is my only escape here. If I can’t do it right, well, see points 1 and 2. Did I mention this is hardcore camping with long-drop toilets and no running water?We will literally die.
Australian nature does not fuck around. If this is a forest in Japan, I’d imagine I could use the tree leaves as toilet paper, drink the water from the river, some magical birds will lead me to an onsen pool if I’m lost, paint with all the colours of the wind etc. Not Australia, mate. The Australian outback is simply red earth with creatures designed to kill. It is unfriendly, and it will slit your throat when you’re not looking. Both times, spiders the size of palm attached themselves to our outer tent.
God, I hate camping.
That’s why, before D-day, I loaded my birthday with food.
Pho for breakfast, and lunch, lobster noodles for dinner. Because who knows, they could be my very last meals. I wanted to make them count.
(Honestly though, Pho Chu The and Pho Thin are really good. I’m working on an ultimate Pho map for my paid subscribers, so stay tuned.)
Obviously, the title of this post is a giveaway that things went better than expected. If I were a religious person, I’d say Guanyinma really went through my list and checked everything off, saying: “it’s ok God-son, I got you.”
Surprisingly, Chika really enjoyed setting the tent up. So I simply managed the kitchen. She had a list, so I just focused on prepping. I’m not only a good sous-chef, but also a capable sous-parent.
Now, here comes the creepy part. As we were setting up camp, another family turned up. An Asian couple, with a daughter the exact same age as Hana, plus an all-rounder kaofu (Cantonese for ‘uncle’). Dad - Taiwanese Kiwi - used to be a photographer. Mum’s parents used to run a dried seafood business in Hong Kong.
I recently posted on SAC about the lack of dried scallops in Melbourne, how I resolved to making my own. She told me to hit her up when we return - she’ll give me a box, or even their contacts in Hong Kong.
(Guanyinma, since you’re listening, can you also transfer some bitcoins to my account? Just sayin’)
Everything we’ve forgotten (marshmallows), they have (giant marshmallows!); everything they missed (cooking oil), we offered (olive oil, bacon.)
I did not bring paper filters for my Aeropress, guess what coffee maker they use? Yup.
They brought beach toys, kites, children's books, lollies.
It’s surreal. It’s serendipity.
Or, we’re not as special as we thought.The campsite had picnic tables! It’s supposed to be shared between four sites, but since there were only two families we occupied one each. Also, there was a running tap. I literally washed dishes in a bucket underneath the tap, squatting with my slippers like an Asian uncle. But who cares, I didn’t have to gather muddy water from the river!
Obviously, we did not die.
Get this, as we were setting camp on day 1, an Asian guy walked up from the stairs via the beach with a backpack and trekking poles. He asked if we knew where the common camping ground was and if we saw his friend, and we kinda shrugged. Minutes later, he returned and asked if he could dump his gears on our site while he went to look around. I offered him a bottle of water. Cracked lips = dehydration, a standard Asian SWAT team training.
Eventually, he sorted himself out, and his friend came over.
They’re both Vietnamese, and everytime I meet Vietnamese I ask the important question: where do you go for pho?
The first guy said the best pho is his mum’s pho.
That’s just useless information.
The second guy though, he’s in the food industry. Just opened a new restaurant, Yum Sing in the CBD. Eat downstairs(yum); karaoke upstairs(sing).
So he told me when it comes to pho, there are three camps for the Vietnamese. (Notice I bolded ‘he’. This is according to him, not me.)
Pho Hung Vuong, Pho Chu The, and Saigon Pho.
There’s this new place everyone is raving about that serves Northen style pho too, Pho Thin.
I don’t know if you’re paying attention, but I just ate all of them recently.
Oh, but wait there’s more, he said.
Let me tell you this secret place the locals really go to. Don’t tell anyone, I don’t want people to know. He whispered.
Chika and I leaned in, only to learn that it’s the very first pho shop we ate in Footscray. (I’ll include it in the ultimate pho list, don’t worry, subscribers.)
Like an RPG side quest, these Vietnamese travelers just appeared to verify my quest for pho, saying the best pho was the one the starting point.
So cliche, Guanyinma.
He told me how Pho Thin is exciting because not many places (in Melbourne, at least) stir-fry the protein before adding it into the pho. I told him, Saigon Pho along Lygon, my local favourite, adds grilled pork/ chicken in their pho.
His eyes widened.
I taught the traveler something too.
Chika wanted to bake bread.
We HAD bread, sliced ones.
But she wanted to bake using the campfire, like the Japanese YouTubers.
So the trick is you mix up the flour, yeast, salt, and sugar, into a ziplock bag. Then when you arrive at camp, add warm water, knead in the bag and let it ferment. Bake in a cast iron pan/pot with the campfire for 40 minutes, give or take.
I kind of eyeballed the amount of water and screwed up the hydration.
It was too sticky to knead.
And we did not bring additional flour.
As Hana woke up to a cold war, I gave her an oat bar for breakfast. And some crackers.
Crackers! I yelled at Chika.
Crackers are made of flour!
She had a better idea.
Oat bars have oats, and also wheat flour, raising agent, and citric acid.
So we crumbled three bars of oaty slices, and the dough became easier to work with.
And Chika managed to bake bread.
In fact, I’m not sure if it’d be as successful if I did not screw up in the first place.
If you squint hard enough, you can probably make out Guanyinma’s face on the surface of the bread, over the rings of holy light.
Things Chika also managed to do: fishing. She did not catch any, but she managed to do it without distraction.
And collecting giant kelp to bring home to make dashi.
As for me, I managed to laze around in the tent with a packet of chips.
That’s right, the exact same thing I’d be doing if we were not camping.
One morning, it suddenly occurred to me, that Hana and I were having a conversation.
In front of the campfire.
I joked, she laughed.
When did this happen?
I remember not long ago, she was having difficulty sitting up straight.
Is this the new normal?
One day, will she wake up to this memory?
Will I be able to keep this, until the very end?
Thanks to Guanyinma, everything we wanted to do, we did.
As Chika and I were heading into the camp the final night, I saw this shadow on her backside. Even our eight-legged freak made a comeback. Who knows what’d have happened if she were to walk behind me. But at this point of the story, we basically had plot armor. We just flicked Peter Parker away.
Camping is great.
When everything goes according to plan.
Duh. LIFE is great when everything goes according to plan.
Hana even said this was her favourite camping trip out of the three because ‘I did not expect to have anyone to play with.’
BAM.
The secret to happiness, according to my daughter:
The underpromise, then over-delivery of life.
Camping is also a constant challenge to your baseline.
How many days can you go without showering?
How long does it take for you to stop caring about bugs in your face?
Why wash more dishes when you can share cutlery and plates?
Is it that big a deal to have some sand in your toast?
To smell like smokey ash?
In the middle of the night, do you hold it in, walk to the toilet, find the closest bush?
And when you finally drive back to civilisation, you start appreciating the minute things in life.
I’m Tom Hanks with his lighter during the end scene of Castaway.
Thank you, electricity.
Thank you, gas stove.
Thank you, concrete walls.
Thank you, clean tap water.
Thank you, Guanyinma.
The only way for me to appreciate my small apartment, is to sleep in a smaller tent. To appreciate my bed, I need to shock my spine with the air mattress. You want a good night’s sleep? Try having a few not-so-good night's sleep. Compared to random shuffling and grunts from outside the tent, biker gangs aren’t that bad.
Hana went straight to her room and started doing her Japanese exercise.
And did not suspect her parents were simply too cheap to take her to a 5-star resort in Mornington.
Substack notified me that I made my first $1k within 24 hours of launch.
Thank you, kind strangers. I’m still trying to get used to the idea of getting paid for my writing.
I’m in a birthday mood, so I’m opening this post to all.
(Don’t worry VIPs, you have a private virtual pho tour coming up, and also some camping recipes for people outside of Melbourne. One is already on Instagram.)
I know you’re expecting food.
But food revolves around life, not the other way.
Camping is a hard reset, like your mac’s NVRAM or PRAM.
Now that it’s over, I can feel the knot in my stomach slowly untangling.
Who knows, maybe Guanyinma will also help with my writing.