Cooktown, Qld

I was once told that there is a bit of money in the art of creating names for products, especially pharmaceuticals. Normally a word never seen before, the successful naming of these products appears to lie in the skill of indicating some of what the product can actually do. ‘Panadol’ is often seen as a premier example, as it actually sounds like it dulls pain, a soothing bluntness to the sharp edge of that piercing headache. Meanwhile, ‘Anusol Wipes’ probably gives way a little too much.

It seems that this skill is being applied in strange ways when it comes to the caravan industry and the naming of their particular models. Like cars, caravans generally seem to have a maker name, for instance Jayco, and then a model name. And it’s these model names that are of note.

You can spend a fascinating 30 minutes walking around a caravan park trying to deduce the thinking behind the naming of certain models. But after a while, a certain set of themes emerge.

First, we have what I call the romantic, nostalgic dream style. These include things like ‘Outback, ‘Cruiser’ and ‘Billabong’. The closest bit of ‘outback’ some of these rigs look like they have seen is out back of the very nice five-bedroom home on the north shore of Sydney, but I digress. At least these names give a sense of what may be possible if you choose to hook it to the back of your vehicle. There’s a hint of what lies ahead – not exactly to the level of nicking a sheep and using the waterway to escape conviction, albeit in a fatal way, but at least the idea of pulling up near a river somewhere and having a nice red and that lovely dip Pam makes from celery stalks.

But then things get a bit lateral.

The next theme seems to revolve around the idea of national pride. Examples include ‘Patriot’, complete with an airbrushed Australian flag motif in the background and a sense of you had better fit in or, well, you know the rest. But the winner in this category, in terms of tenuous symbolism, currently goes to the ‘Kokoda’, the word snugly embedded in an almost Anzac insignia on the front of this fearless caravan, bravely trudging through roads of bitumen and into it’s powered site so there’s no missing of Family Feud in the arvo, because, well, it’s silly but Don and I just love it.

Finally, we come to the strangest category of all – the reference to medieval or ancient history category. Starters in this include ‘Knight’, ‘Crusader’ and my favourite of all, ‘Excalibur’.

I mine the deepest tangential word association I can muster, but still come up empty handed as to why these names make any sense whatsoever in terms of being identifiers of small homes on wheels.

Of course, there’s the obvious link to invasion, the stealing of territory, raping, pillaging and destroying, but I am guessing this isn’t exactly the thinking behind it.

I decide the only other explanation is that the occupants of the caravan’s names must have some sort of direct link to the event or people identified. This theory needs to be tested.

I wander over to ‘Crusader’ and knock.

From deep within the shadows of the cavernous domicile, a quiet shuffling emanates, the well oiled door swings gently open, and a older woman appears. She is wearing sensible runners, slacks and a collared t-shirt that has ‘Hells Gate Roadhouse’ embroidered on the upper left.

‘Hello’, she says in a slightly croaky voice, but still grandmotherly sweet.

There’s a pause as I start to think I may be going down a wrong path, but I gamely plough on.

‘I noticed your caravan, and…’ but she interrupts me before I get to the question

‘Oh yes, she’s a beauty isn’t she? Bruce looked high and low and did all sorts of research before settling on this one. It’s been fantastic actually, although a few little screws appeared on the floor the other day and well, Bruce hasn’t got the faintest idea where they came from. But we’ll keep them just in case, I’ve popped them in a bag. But as I was saying, it’s been …’

Now it’s my turn to interrupt.

‘Yep, she’s great. But just quickly, I noticed that it was called the ‘Crusader’ right? So was Bruce actually a Norman Crusader?’

I selected what I thought was the most garden variety of the crusades to maximise the chance of a bullseye. For a second time, there is a pause, but slightly longer. Her face changes from brightly optimistic to deeply suspicious.

Without taking her eyes from me, she leans her head back and moves it slightly to the right, I assume in the general direction of Bruce, and calls in a louder, voice ‘Bruuuuuce, there’s a chap here who wants to know if you go for the Storm or the Crusaders… I think,’ her voice trailing off so that the ‘ink’ finishes on the upward inflective.

‘No, no’, I quickly correct ‘was he a part of the Norman Crusades?’

“Bruuuuuce, he actually wants to know if you were a part of the Norman Crusades?’

I can’t distinguish exactly what Bruce mutters from the glooms of Crusader, but it sounds very much like, ‘he farkin’ what?’

An embarrassed red flashes across the face of grandma, and the heavy, far more determined footfalls of Bruce approach.

Blinking into the sunlight, he stares at me.

‘What?’ he asks.

“Actually, it’s fine,’ I mutter as I chicken out. Maybe my theory needs more work.

However, as I am walking back to our campsite, a bloke sporting a big white cowboy hat walks out of another van. Across the front, in stylised Western script and surrounded by rope, shines ‘Alamo’, so maybe I am onto something after all.