Farewell, Starwagon!

This week, with heavy hearts we bid farewell to our beloved van - the Starwagon. We have owned this iconic little adventure bus for the last three years and have become unreasonably attached to what is essentially just a massive lump of metal and plastic (you can read the heartwarming story of how we acquired it here). This particular van, a Japanese 4x4 from 1995 that we turned into a micro camper captured something of who we are, or perhaps who we think we are or who we want to be. As simple living, anti-consumerists, we know it is wrong to see ourselves through the lens of material goods, yet in a way our van embodied our choice to live simply and to do things differently. Oh yeah, and it looks super rad.

I love the chunky tyres, the ridiculous proportions that tread an uncomfortable line between rugged and cute, the two-tone metallic paint, the way the tinted windows reflect the sunset, the ground clearance that makes it clear it can go anywhere and the ladder and expedition roof-rack that says we are heading out on an adventure. The aesthetic evokes a time and place where things were fun and life was good.

Whenever we got back to the van after a hike it would make me smile to see it parked there waiting for us. People recognise us locally as the owners of the Starwagon. It has been the catalyst for many conversations at petrol stations and campsites. It’s even been featured in articles, like this interview we did for The Field Mag.

But we do not love the miles per gallon. And the high emissions were a burden on our conscious, so it had to go.

As we watched the van disappear into the distance, we wished we could change our minds. Had we made the wrong choice? It felt like it.

Were we upset to see the van itself go, or was it something else? Had we given up on part of ourselves? Maybe we lamented that we hadn’t actually been able to go on as many adventures as we wanted. Maybe we were disappointed in ourselves for choosing to do something sensible. Maybe, deep down, we knew that the time and place where this van belonged didn’t exist. It didn’t fit with the current reality. Do we fit with the current reality ourselves? It often doesn’t feel like it as we struggle against the flow to build a life of small joys. The current reality quite frankly sucks.

Perhaps that’s the nub of it - we mourn not the loss of a vehicle but are confronted with the harsh truth of modern living.

A few things trouble me - did I care about the way the van looked for myself, or because of how I wanted other people to perceive us? And, if our sense of identity can be shaken by selling something we own, what does that say about our belief in who we are? As always, I have more questions than answers.

All is not lost. We will hopefully buy another van and slowly make it our own. It will probably not be as characterful, nor will it outwardly express who we are from a distance. But maybe none of that matters, we are not who we are because of the van we drive, or the clothes we wear but because of how we think and feel about things. We are sad to see our van go, but perhaps it does not mean the end of van adventures - who knows, maybe it will be the start of many more…