Images of the wild desert were driven from my memory that evening. It was the last night I would voluntarily pass in a caravan park.

Things were already pretty miserable. The wool blankets were soggy because the trunk had leaked during days of rain. The propane lantern was nearly out of gas and put off no heat. I had just snuggled into my swag when a little girl paused outside.

"Mummy, whose tent is that?" she shouted across the compound. "Why is that tent in our space? Who would sleep in there?  It's so small!"

The girl belonged to a caravan of four SUVs that had arrived earlier. Two of the vehicles were hauling trailers that had unfolded into enormous bivouac tents. Tables, chairs, two-burner stoves, five-gallon cook pots, a gas-powered mini refrigerator, an entire box of spices, wash buckets and folding cots had come out of the cabs in a mind-boggling train. Darkness fell but only in other parts of Australia; their section of the caravan park was lit up like Times Square.

They had also brought along a cassette player. After a few beers they whipped out a recording of their favorite camp tunes.

"Put anothah log on the fi-ya," they howled for an interminable time. "Put a la la na, la-da la da," they fizzled out for the next line.

Then relative quiet while one or two people who actually knew the words sang tentatively. Followed by a roaring, "PUT ANOTHAH LOG ON THE FI-YA!"

I distinctly remember thinking, I'm in hell. Americans may be "ugly" but Aussies are loud.

Things seemed to be dying down when more footsteps approached. Two voices conversed about the wooden fuse box. The fellow on the powered site was having trouble. The park owner showed him which fuse to flip if it blew again.

"I don't understand why I should be having a problem," the camper complained. "The fuse shouldn't be blowing, right?"

"The lines aren't set up for a high load. If you draw too much power it'll trip off."

With complete sincerity the man said, "But I only have a light, a heater and a black-and-white TV."