Two Years Living in a 1977 Nissan E20

Let’s start with the obvious: I didn’t plan to fall in love with a van. It just… happened. A few days after landing in Sydney, still jet-lagged and wide-eyed, I met him — a 1977 Nissan E20. Nineteen years old, painted a kind of faded white that had definitely seen more adventures than I had. But he stood there in the lot like he was waiting just for me. A bit worn, a bit rusty, yet oddly proud. You know that look old travelers have? The one that says, “I’ve been places, kid.” That was him.

We never bothered with names. “Nissan” was enough — old-school, tough, dependable. From the stories his engine whispered, he’d probably already circumnavigated Australia more than once. And somehow, he was still in surprisingly good shape — like an old marathon runner who still jogs every morning out of sheer habit.

Back then, in the mid-to-late ’90s, you didn’t document your life every five minutes. Film was pricey, and the internet was a rumor. So I only have a handful of grainy photos to prove we even existed together — but maybe that’s part of what makes those memories shine brighter in my head

Nissan came fully loaded, though “fully loaded” in van terms means something very different from modern RV luxury. He had a tiny kitchen with a two-burner stove, a sink with a manual hand pump, and a three-way fridge that could chill anything — eventually. Inside, the benches and table folded into a bed, and under the seats was a treasure chest of storage, much of it already filled with pots, pans, and the ghosts of previous road meals. The pop-top roof came with a second sleeping platform, technically enough room for four but realistically comfortable for two adults with an optimistic attitude.

On the Road Together

We hit the road, and he never once complained. Through the south, all the way to the west coast, across dusty red outback tracks and narrow coastal roads, Nissan just kept rolling. Asphalt, sand, water crossings, corrugations — didn’t matter. The old guy ate up kilometers like popcorn. The only thing he asked for in return was a steady diet of gasoline and… oil. A lot of oil. Roughly one liter every 100 kilometers, like a chain smoker demanding his next drag.

But then came Darwin — hot, humid, alive. And that’s where he finally gave out. His heart (well, engine) stopped beating. Just like that. For a few anxious days, I thought it was the end. But with a little mechanical magic — a full engine overhaul and some serious  tender loving care— he came back from the brink. Maybe even younger than before. To celebrate, I treated him to a rust treatment and a fresh coat of white paint, carefully applied by hand with a roller and brush. Let’s call it a DIY spa day for one very deserving old companion.

Life Rolls On

Reborn and gleaming, Nissan carried me all the way over to the east coast, back to Sydney, and up north again to Cairns. By then, we’d shared breakdowns, sunsets, rainstorms, and endless cups of instant coffee brewed beside lonely highways. He wasn’t just transport — he was home. The kind of home that teaches you patience, resourcefulness, and the subtle art of keeping your possessions from rattling themselves to death on corrugated roads.

Eventually, in Cairns, it was time to say goodbye. I sold him to a young Swedish couple, travelers like I once was — nervous, excited, full of plans. Handing over the keys felt strangely final. He’d carried me across a continent, through dust and quiet and wonder, and now he’d start a new chapter without me.

As they drove off, I couldn’t help but smile — and maybe get a little misty-eyed. “Goodbye, old friend,” I thought. “May you live long, burn oil proudly, and keep showing people just how far an old van can still go.”