Wagon Watch... The Search is Over.

This morning we woke up with one thing on our minds, and that was to continue our search for a wagon that’s up to the three-month challenge of carrying us around Australia. We spent much of work last week putting together a lengthy list of promising cars to see. So with the list tucked securely in my pocket we stepped out into the shroud of rain that’s been plaguing Sydney for the past week and headed over to Central Station with a day-tripper pass and a lot to see.

We decided first to check out the local car markets as these are good places to find backpackers selling their cars and camper vans onto other backpackers before catching a flight out of the country, and the largest and best-known of these is the Kings Cross Car Market. I’m the first to admit that I’m a little prone to exaggeration sometimes when describing the scale of our trip, but from what I had read and heard about Kings Cross I couldn’t help but imagine that we were about to enter the ‘Mos Isley Spaceport’ of Australian car markets, with travellers from all over the globe congregating in one spot to buy and sell vehicles for the single purpose of travelling freely around this enormous island continent. So with the wise words of Alec Guinness in mind we entered Kings Cross prepared for a “wretched hive of scum and villainy”. The car market exists on the lowest floor of a multi-storey car park, five levels below ground and is operated solely by travellers who pay a weekly rent to park in a bay there. Excitedly we slipped into the lift, pressed the button and descended into the dark bowels of the car park. A few seconds later the doors parted to reveal an underwhelming sight of vacant-looking travellers huddled around five or six cars, all of whom had probably seen too many nights down there. These people were cold and desperate. We tried to enter as inconspicuously as we could but the ping of the elevator doors closing behind us made our presence known loud and clear. We stood in the doorway for a few seconds as they stared at us like famished dogs outside a butcher’s shop window. But their attention soon shifted. From a distant corner of the car park came the thunderous sound and chocking smell of an ailing 25-year old camper engine being wrestled to life by a traveller who had probably not been born when that Juggernaut of the road first rolled onto tarmac.

We briefly eyed the cars as we walked by but they were overpriced or down to their last few months of rego (Australian M.O.T and insurance), or absolute rust boxes. After a quick circuit we ran into a wide-eyed Irishman brandishing a bottle of beer and listing off in great detail the specifications of every car in the market, but despite my best efforts to look interested my gaze shifted to the column behind him and the names and dates etched into the flaking plaster. I followed countless messages across walls and down other columns, written in many different languages by past travellers. A few dates from the seventies stuck out. How long had some of these travellers lived down here? Ironic, that after months of travelling under the hot desert sun that the fate of so many travellers is to end up as subterranean homesick car park dwellers. As I watched the Irishman run through his sales spiel with Lee the thought suddenly occurred to me, ‘are we peering into our own future?” With that thought we wasted no time in leaving the car market. Next stop was the western suburbs of Sydney followed by the Hume Highway - a main road lined either side with a lot of used car dealerships.

The journey into the western suburbs started out well. Despite the continuous downpour we were relatively dry and in good spirits. I had my shower proof on (secured tightly over my head in very un-cool fashion) and Lee had his umbrella. The first dealership seemed pretty good and offered us a 1994 Ford Falcon for $3000, though it had done over a quarter of a million kilometres and had a reasonable 6 months rego remaining – important if we want a quick sale and avoid living in a car park come January. Cars over here tend to have huge mileage so we weren’t fazed by the odometer reading either. So we agreed to come back later for a test drive and carried on to the next dealership where we found an eclectic mix of super-cheap vans, all had seen better days, and a fleet of expensive executive cars. Not a great selection but we pressed on.

Before we left the house in the morning we’d sketched out a rough route to follow between these two dealerships and the ones along the Hume highway. Unfortunately, in our tired state of mind we’d misread this as a 30-minute walk when it was actually a 30-minute drive. So we walked for nearly two hours sandwiched between the edge of a busy highway and a flooded foot path. An hour on and the wind and rain had finally succeeded in bending Lee’s umbrella over his head and drenching him completely, and my ageing converse trainers soaked up enough water that I could no longer feel my toes inside my sodden socks. The situation deteriorated to a new low when we approached the car dealership that owned most of the station wagons we'd planned to see. What we found was an empty showroom and a deserted forecourt, cracked and desolate apart from a rusty overturned shopping trolley. I turned to Lee unable to resist asking the question “Dude, where’s my car dealership?” So we kicked around the forecourt for a few minutes killing time until Lee suddenly let out a laugh so maniacal it scared us both. So we decided to cut our losses and return to the first dealer to test-drive the Falcon.

It would be an understatement to say we were feeling a little fed up as we walked the two mile stretch of highway to Bankstown to catch a train to Central. As we walked in silence, suffering the occasional soaking by a near-passing taxi, we happened upon one last dealership. We looked through the forecourt gates to see a Holden Commodore Station Wagon parked near the entrance. It was a newer shape model than the ones we had seen at other forecourts and as it sat glistening in the rain it spoke to us and said “buy me”. But the price was too high, at $3,750 before adding the cost of a one-year warranty it was more than a thousand dollars over our budget. But then something finally snapped inside us. Between walking for two hours in the pouring rain and the disappointment of our visit to Kings Cross we decided enough was enough and braved our way to the forecourt cabin. The car dealer emerged looking like a real Swiss Tony. We checked the car over, it looked good. The mileage was a hundred thousand kilometres less than the Falcon. We turned the ignition and brought the huge 4 litre V6 engine to a roar. If it wasn’t for the fact that I once owned a car named ‘The Beast’ (R.I.P Rover 100 that was in no way a metro), this would be a car truly deserving of that moniker. So Lee gingerly accepted the keys and after a five-minute test drive concluded that it felt good too. So we stepped into his cabin to negotiate, the stale odour of tobacco smoke hung thick in the air and his black pleather jacket squeaked whenever he leant forwards to speak. After 20-minutes of applying our Jedi mind tricks to the task he finally agreed to a reduced price of $3000 for the car, and a further $300 for a one-year roadside assistance warranty, a huge drop in price of $750. To top it off Lee asked if he would throw his umbrella into the deal too, and he did. So we paid him the deposit, shook hands and walked back into the rain feeling a little dryer than we had before.

We’ll be picking up the car on Monday evening. It’s still nameless and according to the blog name poll there is currently a tie between ‘Thunder Tank’ and ‘London Gentleman’, so let us know which name you prefer otherwise Lee may get his way and I’ll be forced to live in a wagon named ‘Black Beard’s Delight’ for the next three months.

Below Right - "Dude, where's my car dealership?"

Below - How many roads must a man walk down?

Below - Lee looking more pleased with the umbrella he got out of the deal than the car.



Below - "Buy me..."