Western Australia by camper van
Western Australia by camper van 
Words:	Jacob	Wester	|	Photos:	Sofia	Sjöberg	
Wanderlust	
\ˈwɒndəlʌst\	
noun	
							a	strong	desire	to	travel.	
A	vibrant	red,	dusty	highway	stretches	out	before	us	into	what	seems	like	infinity,	at	the	far	
reach	of	our	sights	it	distorts	and	shimmers	from	the	afternoon	heat,	fading	into	the	blue	of	
the	horizon.	For	the	past	hour	the	image	has	stayed	roughly	the	same,	apart	from	the	
occasional	road	train	flying	by,	its	fifty	meters	of	steel	and	rubber	promptly	asking	us	to	give	
way	before	disappearing	in	our	rear	view	mirrors.	The	fuel	gauge	of	our	rented	Toyota	Hiace	
is	well	below	one	third,	and	we	can’t	seem	to	remember	how	far	the	next	gas	station	is…	
Welcome	to	West	Australia!	
Traveling	by	camper	van	is	an	ambiguous	affair	–	while	avoiding	many	of	the	arduous	
preparations	of	a	long	journey,	such	as	carefully	planning	ones	stops,	booking	hotel	nights	
and	deciding	what	to	do	and	see	far	in	advance,	one	instead	deals	with	the	prospect	of	not	
knowing	much	at	all	of	the	itinerary	beforehand.	Not	an	easy	task	for	a	control	freak,	but	an	
oh-so-alluring	potential	of	exploration	for	the	more	adventurous	traveler.	Perhaps	
somewhere	along	the	road	towards	your	destination,	an	enticing	sign	leads	you	to	
something	fantastic	that	you	weren’t	anticipating	at	all,	or	maybe	you	end	up	realizing	that	
the	quaint	romantic	town	described	in	your	guidebook	was	a	total	tourist	trap	and	hardly	
worth	staying	in	for	long.	Just	get	back	in	your	van	and	go	look	for	something	new!	
The	Australian	West	coast	is	a	camper’s	heaven.	Endless	miles	of	desert	roads	leading	to	
secret	beaches,	vast	canyons	and	crystal	clear	rivers,	and	the	very	few	people	you	are	likely	
to	meet	on	your	journey	will	be	some	of	the	most	easy-going	characters	you’ll	find	anywhere	
in	the	world.	And	if	you	think	the	landscape	surrounding	you	is	breathtakingly	beautiful	(and	
it	is),	you	better	prepare	yourself	for	your	first	night	in	the	Australian	desert.	It	begins	hours	
before	the	first	stars	come	out.	As	the	sun	starts	setting,	the	sky	takes	on	a	mesmerizing	
gradient,	ranging	from	the	brightest	orange	on	the	horizon	to	a	dark	purple	above	your	
head,	and	as	you	keep	staring	up	and	behind	you,	nearly	tripping	over,	it	stretches	into	a	
deep	greyish	green,	far	to	the	east.	As	night	slowly	falls,	the	spectrums	of	hues	blend	
together	into	a	thick	impenetrable	black,	as	one	by	one	the	stars	of	the	southern	
hemisphere’s	window	into	space	reveal	themselves.	With	no	cities	around	for	a	thousand	
miles,	light	pollution	is	unheard	of.	At	this	point,	time	ceases	to	exist,	as	you	gaze	into	the	
nothingness	of	the	past,	while	scattered	and	confused	thoughts	of	existentialism	and	the	
meaning	of	it	all	battle	for	your	mind’s	attention.	
“Are	you	sure	we	won’t	get	stuck	in	the	sand	here?”,	Sofia	asks	me	nervously	as	we	trot	in	
two-wheel	drive	down	a	winding	road	through	the	rolling	dunes	of	the	Quobba	station	
outback.	Somewhere	in	the	distance	the	Indian	Ocean	is	calling,	salt	saturating	the	desert	air	
and	flashes	of	blue	horizon	luring	us	closer	to	the	end	of	the	road.	Rumors	of	a	world	class	
pointbreak	has	brought	us	and	our	surfboards	here,	and	my	intuition	tells	me	we’re	getting	
closer,	every	bend	and	rollover	making	me	stretch	my	neck	in	the	hope	of	finally	seeing	what	
I’m	silently	praying	to	discover.	Just	as	our	poor	Toyota	is	about	to	sink	into	the	increasingly	
deeper	sand	for	a	final	resting	place,	we	make	it	over	one	last	knoll	before	our	destination	is	
revealed.	In	front	of	us	a	majestic	bay	stretches	out,	sapphire-blue	waves	crashing	on	
sparkling	sand,	and	a	reeling	lefthand	pointbreak	rolling	down	the	far	end,	the	offshore	
spray	grooming	the	swell	lines	to	perfection.	At	this	point	I’m	having	a	hard	time	focusing	on	
the	road	as	we	roll	into	the	Red	Bluff	camping	community.	In	the	center	of	a	handful	of	
campgrounds	scattered	along	the	beach	is	a	tiny	general	store/surf	shop/pizza	restaurant,	
run	by	a	friendly	local	woman	and	her	five	sons	and	daughters,	all	miniature	replicas	of	
herself,	sun-bleached	hair	and	a	deep	golden	surf	tan	from	countless	hours	spent	in	the	surf.	
We	get	allotted	a	private	space	on	the	far	end	of	the	beach	where	we	set	up	camp	for	the	
next	two	nights,	unknowing	that	they	will	turn	to	three,	then	four	and	eventually	five,	in	this	
little	slice	of	paradise.	The	following	days	turn	into	a	timeless	blur	of	surfing,	sleeping,	
drinking	beer	around	the	fire,	and	watching	the	humpback	whales	migrate	in	the	hundreds	
on	their	way	north	along	the	coast.	These	majestic	creatures	are	constantly	present,	
sometimes	breaching	the	surface	just	outside	the	surf	line-up,	providing	delightful	
entertainment	in	between	waves.	
Then	there’s	the	surf.		
A	pointbreak	breaking	for	300	meters	down	a	shallow	coral	shelf,	producing	immaculate	
almond-shaped	barrels,	grinding	down	the	reef	at	a	barely	makeable	speed.	Even	though	
many	of	the	waves	race	past	me	on	my	struggling	backhand,	the	few	that	I	make	it	to	the	
end	of	are	some	of	the	best	I’ve	ever	experienced,	and	I	have	a	hard	time	containing	my	
excitement,	hooting	and	hollering	to	Sofia	on	the	cliffs,	with	her	Canon	5D	in	hand.	The	line-
up	out	back	is	an	eclectic	mix	of	old	salty	men	on	oversized	gun	surfboards,	young	semi-pros	
with	stickered	boards,	girlfriends	on	longboards	and	hippies	with	dreadlocks	and	big	smiles.	
Nothing	of	the	notorious	localism	I	have	read	about	online,	even	though	I	quickly	learn	to	
respect	the	noticeable	pecking	order,	letting	the	obviously	more	skilled	crowd	get	the	
biggest	set	waves.	There	are	still	plenty	of	action	for	everyone,	and	a	friendly	smile	opens	up	
even	the	grumpiest	old-timer.	After	the	sun	has	set,	the	same	faces	are	seen	around	
campfires	and	tailgate	barbeques	all	over	the	campground,	where	many	seem	to	have	
gotten	stuck	for	the	season,	ignoring	distant	calls	of	civilization	urging	them	to	return	to	
normal	lives.	As	the	stars	come	out,	we	set	up	our	cameras	for	timelapses,	hoping	to	capture	
some	of	the	magic	that	is	happening	above	us,	all	the	while	our	heads	turn	heavy	from	the	
five	hours	in	the	water	and	the	beverages	that	followed.	
Three	weeks	of	Australian	outback	living	have	come	to	an	end	as	we	once	again	cross	the	
Perth	city	limit.	The	tan	on	our	faces,	salt	in	our	hair	and	smell	from	our	armpits	tell	the	story	
of	the	past	month,	along	with	the	hundreds	of	gigabytes	of	data	captured,	two-dimensional	
slices	of	memories,	inscribed	on	our	hard	drives	for	future	reminiscing.	Traveling	without	a	
camera	would	be	such	a	waste	of	time,	we	both	agree.	Or	would	it?	While	on	a	journey,	time	
becomes	a	countdown	to	the	return	home,	every	day	is	relished	and	remembered	because	
tomorrow	you’re	one	day	closer	to	the	end.	Did	our	incessant	documenting	make	time	slow	
down,	and	will	the	photos	and	videos	make	us	remember	the	trip	better?	It’s	impossible	to	
ever	capture	the	true	feeling	of	being	somewhere	far	from	home	without	a	single	worry	in	
the	world,	and	photo	albums	will	always	only	show	one	side	of	the	story.	It	is	our	hope	that	
they	can	inspire	others	to	get	out	of	their	comfort	zone,	and	awake	the	curious	spirit	inside	
of	us	all.	Maybe	your	journey	doesn’t	take	you	to	the	other	side	of	the	planet,	but	maybe	
just	to	a	neighboring	town.	So	get	the	world	atlas	out,	throw	some	darts	and	look	for	a	
camper	van.	No	matter	what	you’re	searching	for,	it’s	all	out	there	waiting	to	be	found,	
behind	the	wheel	on	a	dusty	road	lined	with	dead	kangaroos!	
