Archive for September, 2011
Flaming Panthers
One of the things I compromised on when I became nomadic was my car. I used to have an older sports coupe, my darling gas drinker, my Supra. I loved that car, I rebuilt the engine with my own two hands (and a bunch of tools). I loved driving that car thru the mountains, hearing the turbo spool up and feeling the thrust from those six cylinders. I spend time under the hood, finetuning. I spend more time than I should have under the car, fixing! She was a finicky bitch. Money in parts, in gas, time spend in a garage, with all my parts supply close, my network of simply knowledge I had built up.
I loved that deep red beast.
I sold it. I sold it for less than I felt it was worth, because I needed to get rid of it. I couldn’t afford to keep it up, to feed it parts and gas. I used the money to build the bus, my new home. I kept my old truck, the one with power nothing and rust holes everywhere. That ran, and ran simply. Sadly, my truck was not suitable for the summer heat. Good thing I spent the summer on a bus.
Winter passed, and my truck did me proud. Summer came, and I needed something to get me around town in the heat, when I was away from the bus. I began to peruse kijiji. There are many cheap cars on that used site, but you really are rolling the dice, even with some mechanical knowledge. I bought an 89 Civic for about the amount of one month’s payment on a nice new car.
Yesterday, I decided that I had taken the game little car for granted long enough. I had barely even looked on the underside, and that ominous clunking was getting louder. I can only stick my head in the sand so long. Besides, the 300 000 km mark was coming up, and I wanted to give my car a present. And keep it running.
When I got the car, it had scratchy fabric seat covers over the original vinyl. Dog got sick in my car while I was in a store last week, and the seat covers took the brunt of her misfortune. I figured it was a sign. I threw out the old ones and sat on cracked and ripped hot vinyl for a week. I clearly needed new seat covers before my upcoming 2 400 km trip. Too bad I needed to be thrifty, like a mother of six thrifty, in this aftermath of the Burn.
I found myself in Princess Auto, home of cheap tools and surplus. They had two choices for seat covers. Old man “velvet feel” for the wrong sized seat, or Taz for almost the right sized seat.
Then, I spied it. There, for bucket seats with detached head rests, just what I had. It bragged of a snug fit for “custom look”. It was cheap. $20 per seat cover. I debated getting just one. Then I noticed it came with a graphic on the front. Surely not…
Oh yes. A panther. And some words. How could I resist? There might even have been flames in the panthers mouth.
I carried two seat covers up to the register, and received the kind of surprise nomads thrive on, and seem to happen right when I need them to. Both covers cost $20. they had been half off, but not really well marked. I plunked down a ragged $20 and some change for tax, and proudly carried out my score.
They sat in my car for another day before I went to Justin’s shop to work on the frightening suspension noise. I decided to go all out, and vacuum the car even. There might be a noise grinding out from the driver’s front wheel over every bump, but those seat covers just begged to be installed. They demanded. I had no choice but to obey.
Once I cleaned out my car, and vacuumed up the debris left from the previous owner (maybe a little from me as well) I couldn’t wait to peel those “lush” covers out of their protective plastic box. I pulled the first one over the drivers seat, unrolling the graphic as I went. Bit by bit, it was revealed in all it’s glory. Oh yes, there was a panther. And what’s this? There is a banner at his feet, proclaiming his badassed-ness. There are flames. Not coming out of his mouth, but all around him. This panther was rampant on a field of flames. I strapped the flimsy elastic straps around the bottom of the seat, and stood back to admire my work.
The panther reached one mighty paw out, baring his teeth in a display sure to frighten away any would-be thieves. The banner proudly rolled below him, setting off the flames. A skull peeked out, just to leave no doubt. I looked at the new seat covers and I thought “that panther sure does have a defined ass.”
Sure, there might be a towel under the new cover to help cushion the cracked vinyl. There might even be worn spots on the carpet, the steering wheel, the dash… pretty much everywhere, really. But damn, those seats look sharp.
Anyone who doesn’t think so can have some panther. To their face. Flaming claws, watch out!
After a description like that, I know you want a picture. And I will oblige. If only to capture the awesomeness before the cheap print bleaches right off.
Flaming Claws, yo. Fear me!
I did make it around to investigating the noise. I had to replace the upper ball joint on the drivers side. It was about as loose as I have ever seen a ball joint be and not break. Whoops. Also, I did the brakes. They were used up, but not dangerous. Riders, You’re Welcome.
I must say, the civic is a damn sight easier to work on than the supra. I still love you supra, I’m just not in love with you any more.
Enjoy Your Coffee Creation
When I tell people I travel more often than the average person, they usually express envy and astonishment on my idyllic life. They recline with $5 cup of coffee in their hand, keys to their shiny leased or bought new car on the table, and house waiting for them at home.
“I wish I could have your life. I would give anything to do what you do, live how you live!” sometimes they gush, after I relate the latest breathtaking adventure.
Would you? Would you give anything? More to the point, would you give everything? Cuz that is what it takes. Anyone can live like this. Few have the peculiar brand of crazy that makes it possible. Most people like stability, things they can count on. Hell, so do I, just in little doses. Why do you think I have so many settled friends? Not just because they let me use the washing machine, but that is part of it. For a little stability in this part of my life, this time of wandering.
So yeah, you can do it. But enjoy what you have. Everyone ends up where they want to be, and it your life looks a certain way, there are parts of you that want it just how it is. Stability, in one form or another, is key to human thriving.
So, can I come over and use your washing machine?
Of Borders and Snakes
Posted by Nadia in Getting There on September 6, 2011
We rolled up to the border crossing of Coutts at about two in the morning. Out of five lanes, only one was open. A big rig and a truck were ahead of us. It only took about ten minutes for it to be our turn. We rolled up to the passage, facing the bank of cameras and sensors. Ahead, the guard peered out of his booth, more of a door in the hulking building we crept around. There were warning signs everywhere, alerting you to the very serious business of crossing. As we inched forward, the cameras flashed, the sensors no doubt sensed, probing our vehicle and trailer for everything, anything. People stowing away, large stashes of cash or drugs, weapons…. goat milk. I blinked in the afterglow of the camera flash.
This would be a bad time to remember you needed a passport to cross the border.
Fortunately, this idea had occurred to me in Edmonton. After I had found and stashed mine, I had asked Justin about his, prompting a sudden look of thankfulness. On one of the subsequent trips to load the truck, he had asked if I thought we should bring the tickets off the fridge, where they had been hanging since March. Long enough to become part of the scenery. I shot him a look of pure gratitude. I might very well have forgotten, and with no tickets for sale at the gate, that would have been disasterous. And embarrassing.
As it was, we had both had our tickets safely stashed, and our documents in order. Though we were making a most respectable crossing, I had some supporting papers as well. A couple crossing over with a trailer pulled by a nice new truck is a great deal more reputable than a bus pulling up filled with long haired hippies. Still, I had grabbed a tax document proving I had a place to come back to in Canada. You never know when a border god is going to be rather… enthusiastic about his job, and decide to make life a little challenging for a while.
We pulled up to the booth and came to a stop. A younger and dare I say rather cute border guard stared back at us. I had the passports ready, both open to the picture and bar code pages like Europe had taught me. At this, the guard actually smiled.
“Hey there folks, how’s it going to today?” he said, surprisingly chipper. Maybe he had just gotten on shift. Or just gotten engaged. Something.
We exchanged pleasantries with the man, confirming our cities of origin and occupations. Then the big question.
“So where are you headed?” he smiled, eyes craving our answer.
Now, there are many schools of thought on this one. I have heard of some guards with a real chip on their shoulder responding with a major search to the news you are going to Burning Man. I have heard the thread of a rumor that one person had their tickets found and taken, no explanation, no recourse. This is just the shadow of a rumor however, and I don’t put too much faith in it until I have actually spoken to a person it happened to. Still, I had our tickets out of sight. Many people think this is best, to simply say you are going camping, or going to Nevada, or anything but the actual event. Not lying, but not coming to the point either. You may not want to try this one if you have a bike rack of blinking fun fur with handlebars and pedals however. Or a big duct tape Man symbol on the side of your rv. Guards usually catch on. They are good at that, and there is a damn lot of us who flock across the border the same weekend, every year.
So, we took the direct approach.
“We are off to Burning Man.” Justin replied, giving good eye contact, a hint of a smile on his face.
The guard mimed shock, rocking back in his chair.
“Well, someone who tells the truth! Despite the websites advising you to lie!” He grinned at us, no malice in his words. We laughed with him, and told him about some of our costumes, in response to his next question. He expressed amazement at what we had cooked up, and wished us a good festival. With that, we drove into Montana.
It only took another hundred kilometers before we both began to feel the late nights and early-ish mornings we had been keeping. At the next rest stop, we pulled in. Nestling next to a dormant big rig under the dim yellow lights, we came to a stop. I hopped out, intent on the washrooms. Padding down the walkway, I noticed a sign, half obscured by shadow.
There have been rattlesnakes observed here…
Rattlesnakes? My goodness! Not in Canada anymore, are we? I tiptoed down the cement walkway, eyeing every shadow suspiciously. I had no idea how rattlesnakes behaved, other than the rattling and biting part. Did they hang out on cement, absorbing the last heat of the sun? Did they lurk in restrooms, to be near the water?
After a wary bathroom break, I made it safely back to the trailer. Needless to say, my sleep was sound indeed. The bed was comfortable as usual, and the rest stop was not too busy. We slept late into the next day, only rousing at about ten. I shuffled about the small trailer for a bit, then decided to brave the outdoors. I had remembered to bring my sunglasses the night before (for a change) and put them on to make my way to the restrooms. Time to watch out for ankle biters…
I crossed the parking lot, eyes open for sinuous shapes on the ground. I glanced up at the sign which had started the fuss, and saw it fully in the light for the first time.
Rattlesnakes have been observed here in the grass. Please stay on path.
Well then, I guess cement dwelling fang snakes are just the figment of an over tired mind.
Wherever you are, Be There 