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By now, most people have heard of tiny homes. But lately, there’s a niche group of nomads who are taking small-scale living one step further – they’re trading in their apartments and houses for vans.
Simon Stiles is one of them. He’s been living out of his 1992 Dodge B350 camper van for the past year. He’s part of a growing number of people joining the “van life” movement – where people ditch their “traditional” homes and mortgages for the fluid, free lifestyle van dwelling offers.
Stiles, 26, purged most of his belongings and left his 400-square-foot Ottawa apartment to travel and work within a 100-square-foot home-on-wheels – equipped with solar power, Wi-Fi antenna, stove, shower, bed and kitchen table doubling as a workspace.
Stiles purchased the van for $4,000 and sunk $8,000 for repairs and upgrades – including an external shower to fit his six-foot-plus, 240-pound frame.
After the massive downsize and investment in minimal living, Stiles doesn’t think he’ll ever need much more.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be a person who’ll live in over 1,000 square feet. (Having more space) messes with you in a bad way,” he said.
Simon Stiles is photographed with his 1992 Dodge B350 he calls home at Bate Island on the Ottawa River. (Darren Brown/Postmedia)
For Stiles, the van life isn’t about the van at all – it’s about the lifestyle the van lets you lead.
“It’s what you’re doing with your day, not where you’re sleeping at night,” he said.
Stiles rises and sleeps with the sun’s rhythms. He said he’s more in tune with nature and more productive when Netflix and Wi-Fi aren’t as readily available.
“It’s like my day is twice as long,” he said.
On a recent visit, Postmedia found Stiles at Bate Island while he was in town for a short while (he never stays anywhere too long).
“I go where the work is,” said Stiles. He travels from city to city and is frequently contacted by followers on his YouTube channel, Finding Simon, for jobs and interesting projects as a freelance photographer and videographer.
Stiles has documented his lifestyle shift on YouTube since the beginning and now has more than 8,000 subscribers.
His plan for the foreseeable future is to go out east this fall with just his motorcycle, then jet off to Southeast Asia when he decides it’s time to sell his van.
Van life isn’t a completely novel concept.
Previous generations have had their own versions of it: Hippies in the ’60s and ’70s also lived, partied and travelled with free love and wind in their hair in the famous VW shaggin’ wagons and caravans. The trend died down when Gen-Xers decided to join the rat race – get a job, a mortgage and have some kids.
Only in the past few years has the “van life” movement become more mainstream, with an influx of YouTubers and bloggers documenting their minimalist lifestyles online. For many van dwellers, the decision to downsize is a reaction to the struggles of balancing work, life, finances and travel goals in one fixed location.
“The only way I could do what I do is by living in a van,” said Stiles.
Stiles’ house-on-wheels allows him to work and achieve his travel goals. He’ll park in a new place, work, meet new people and do it all again in a new location. And in his mid-20s, he said he’s escaped the chains of student debt by living a cheaper lifestyle.
Stiles isn’t alone in his choice to opt for downsized, freelanced living – he estimates about 100 people in Ottawa are living and working in their vans. He even pointed to one couple who wrestled through an Ottawa winter living in their van, all while holding down government jobs.
Mat Dube and Danielle Chabassol hang out in their camper van. (Photo provided by Exploring Alternatives)
Former Ottawa-area residents Mat Dubé, 39, and Danielle Chabassol, 32, have been living out of their 5×19-foot van for the past two years. Dubé and Chabassol owned a four-bedroom house together in Hull, but after some extreme downsizing, the self-identified minimalist nomads ditched their house, travelled for two years and finally moved into their 2002 Ford E-150 in 2014.
Though they got approved for a mortgage, all the while thinking the purchase was manageable, it turned out to be a big financial stress — something the couple wanted to ditch to pursue their artistic and travel dreams.
They decided buying a van would be the perfect way to have the comforts of home while travelling – something Dubé and Chabassol live for.
The pair have been documenting their journey on YouTube, like Stiles and many other van dwellers. Currently, the couple is living off their social media channel Exploring Alternatives, something made possible only through the van life. The couple has more than 100,000 subscribers and is trying to grow an online community of people living outside traditional housing norms.
Since downsizing, Dubé and Chabassol said their expenses have dropped by nearly $3,000, and they spend on average between $1,100 to $1,500 every month – much more reasonable than the money they were sinking into a traditional house.
Housing prices are out of control and a lot of people simply can’t afford it, said Dubé.
The average cost of a “residential-class” property sold in the Ottawa area in July was $398,608, according to the Ottawa Real Estate Board. That’s up approximately $100,000 in the span of around nine years, according to numbers collected by the Canadian Real Estate Association.
Vans, tiny houses and trailers have become more viable alternatives for many in North America. But what’s frustrating, said Chabassol, is that most of the alternatives to traditional housing are highly regulated.
“It’s fine if people want to have a house and a mortgage, I don’t care, but it’s frustrating if you want an alternative, it’s illegal,” said Chabassol. “That’s one thing we don’t like about our lifestyle – we’re kind of relegated to campgrounds or public land, staying in friends’ driveways or Walmart parking lots.”
Cities across North America have bylaws which regulate alternative living, such as parking restrictions and bylaws limiting trailer or van dwelling on land at certain times of the year.
Bylaws in the City of Ottawa limit where and when you can park on the street, as well as laws which ban people from sleeping in cars. However, most van dwellers say city bylaws that could impact them are rarely enforced.
Mat Dube and Danielle Chabassol’s van is parked on Prince Edward Island. (Photo provided by Exploring Alternatives)
From the outside, van life might appear to be a type of homelessness since it doesn’t follow the traditional norm of living within four walls.
But Dubé and Chabassol said you don’t need a house to have a home, and in many ways they say the movement is an exploration of how society perceives homelessness more broadly.
“There’s an element of shame with being homeless and judgment towards homeless people and I feel like living in a van has really forced us to let go of that,” said Chabassol. “It’s forced us to be more aware of how serious it is, and how uncomfortable it would be to be homeless.”
In North America after the 2008 financial crisis, many people who experienced foreclosure and layoffs were forced, not by choice, to live in their cars and in some cases, inside vans. Some media in the U.S. identified vehicle dwellers as the “hidden homeless.”
For Dubé and Chabassol, homelessness is not as it’s traditionally defined – as a person without a four-walled home – but rather an alternative space to call home.
“I think the van life movement is helping to demystify what is acceptable and what is shameful and give ideas (to homeless people) about how to create a comfortable home and I feel like they’re not alone and it’s not embarrassing to live in your vehicle.”
Some people who are homeless have no choice but to live in their vehicles. Knowing there is a community of people who believe living in a van or car is not shameful can help build confidence and reduce stigma, Chabassol argues.
The couple, as part of their work with their project Exploring Alternatives, are travelling across the continent to interview people living sustainably in alternative spaces to show what is possible with less. They’ve even produced a book, The Exploring Alternatives Guide to Van Life.
Dubé and Chabassol, veterans of the movement, don’t sugarcoat the lifestyle and caution would-be van dwellers to get their feet wet before committing to pint-sized mobile living. At the end of the day, they said, living in a van is fun but also extremely challenging — especially at the beginning.
Social media is peppered with fun images of people living the van life, but the pictures often don’t expose the day-to-day realities and struggles that life presents.
“The heat, the cold, the humidity, rain, bugs, finding water – everything was challenging,” said Dubé. “Van life is extreme, and it’s not for everyone.”
Chabassol recalls the first (and only) winter the couple spent in their van. Chabassol said they would hang around in coffee shops until closing before running into the van and trying to get warm under the covers.
“Everything is a little bit more intense when you’re in the van,” she said. “It’s really hard.”
The tight quarters and challenging times means tensions can rise – though Chabassol admits, not for long.
“We have micro-fights,” she said. “It’s like we’re mad and (then) it’s like, ‘Can you pass me the water jug?'”
The couple knows the van life isn’t for everybody.
“There are moments when you’re peeing into a funnel when you’re like, ‘This isn’t normal,'” she said.
查看原文...
Simon Stiles is one of them. He’s been living out of his 1992 Dodge B350 camper van for the past year. He’s part of a growing number of people joining the “van life” movement – where people ditch their “traditional” homes and mortgages for the fluid, free lifestyle van dwelling offers.
Stiles, 26, purged most of his belongings and left his 400-square-foot Ottawa apartment to travel and work within a 100-square-foot home-on-wheels – equipped with solar power, Wi-Fi antenna, stove, shower, bed and kitchen table doubling as a workspace.
Stiles purchased the van for $4,000 and sunk $8,000 for repairs and upgrades – including an external shower to fit his six-foot-plus, 240-pound frame.
After the massive downsize and investment in minimal living, Stiles doesn’t think he’ll ever need much more.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be a person who’ll live in over 1,000 square feet. (Having more space) messes with you in a bad way,” he said.
Simon Stiles is photographed with his 1992 Dodge B350 he calls home at Bate Island on the Ottawa River. (Darren Brown/Postmedia)
For Stiles, the van life isn’t about the van at all – it’s about the lifestyle the van lets you lead.
“It’s what you’re doing with your day, not where you’re sleeping at night,” he said.
Stiles rises and sleeps with the sun’s rhythms. He said he’s more in tune with nature and more productive when Netflix and Wi-Fi aren’t as readily available.
“It’s like my day is twice as long,” he said.
On a recent visit, Postmedia found Stiles at Bate Island while he was in town for a short while (he never stays anywhere too long).
“I go where the work is,” said Stiles. He travels from city to city and is frequently contacted by followers on his YouTube channel, Finding Simon, for jobs and interesting projects as a freelance photographer and videographer.
Stiles has documented his lifestyle shift on YouTube since the beginning and now has more than 8,000 subscribers.
His plan for the foreseeable future is to go out east this fall with just his motorcycle, then jet off to Southeast Asia when he decides it’s time to sell his van.
Van life isn’t a completely novel concept.
Previous generations have had their own versions of it: Hippies in the ’60s and ’70s also lived, partied and travelled with free love and wind in their hair in the famous VW shaggin’ wagons and caravans. The trend died down when Gen-Xers decided to join the rat race – get a job, a mortgage and have some kids.
Only in the past few years has the “van life” movement become more mainstream, with an influx of YouTubers and bloggers documenting their minimalist lifestyles online. For many van dwellers, the decision to downsize is a reaction to the struggles of balancing work, life, finances and travel goals in one fixed location.
“The only way I could do what I do is by living in a van,” said Stiles.
Stiles’ house-on-wheels allows him to work and achieve his travel goals. He’ll park in a new place, work, meet new people and do it all again in a new location. And in his mid-20s, he said he’s escaped the chains of student debt by living a cheaper lifestyle.
Stiles isn’t alone in his choice to opt for downsized, freelanced living – he estimates about 100 people in Ottawa are living and working in their vans. He even pointed to one couple who wrestled through an Ottawa winter living in their van, all while holding down government jobs.
Mat Dube and Danielle Chabassol hang out in their camper van. (Photo provided by Exploring Alternatives)
Former Ottawa-area residents Mat Dubé, 39, and Danielle Chabassol, 32, have been living out of their 5×19-foot van for the past two years. Dubé and Chabassol owned a four-bedroom house together in Hull, but after some extreme downsizing, the self-identified minimalist nomads ditched their house, travelled for two years and finally moved into their 2002 Ford E-150 in 2014.
Though they got approved for a mortgage, all the while thinking the purchase was manageable, it turned out to be a big financial stress — something the couple wanted to ditch to pursue their artistic and travel dreams.
They decided buying a van would be the perfect way to have the comforts of home while travelling – something Dubé and Chabassol live for.
The pair have been documenting their journey on YouTube, like Stiles and many other van dwellers. Currently, the couple is living off their social media channel Exploring Alternatives, something made possible only through the van life. The couple has more than 100,000 subscribers and is trying to grow an online community of people living outside traditional housing norms.
Since downsizing, Dubé and Chabassol said their expenses have dropped by nearly $3,000, and they spend on average between $1,100 to $1,500 every month – much more reasonable than the money they were sinking into a traditional house.
Housing prices are out of control and a lot of people simply can’t afford it, said Dubé.
The average cost of a “residential-class” property sold in the Ottawa area in July was $398,608, according to the Ottawa Real Estate Board. That’s up approximately $100,000 in the span of around nine years, according to numbers collected by the Canadian Real Estate Association.
Vans, tiny houses and trailers have become more viable alternatives for many in North America. But what’s frustrating, said Chabassol, is that most of the alternatives to traditional housing are highly regulated.
“It’s fine if people want to have a house and a mortgage, I don’t care, but it’s frustrating if you want an alternative, it’s illegal,” said Chabassol. “That’s one thing we don’t like about our lifestyle – we’re kind of relegated to campgrounds or public land, staying in friends’ driveways or Walmart parking lots.”
Cities across North America have bylaws which regulate alternative living, such as parking restrictions and bylaws limiting trailer or van dwelling on land at certain times of the year.
Bylaws in the City of Ottawa limit where and when you can park on the street, as well as laws which ban people from sleeping in cars. However, most van dwellers say city bylaws that could impact them are rarely enforced.
Mat Dube and Danielle Chabassol’s van is parked on Prince Edward Island. (Photo provided by Exploring Alternatives)
From the outside, van life might appear to be a type of homelessness since it doesn’t follow the traditional norm of living within four walls.
But Dubé and Chabassol said you don’t need a house to have a home, and in many ways they say the movement is an exploration of how society perceives homelessness more broadly.
“There’s an element of shame with being homeless and judgment towards homeless people and I feel like living in a van has really forced us to let go of that,” said Chabassol. “It’s forced us to be more aware of how serious it is, and how uncomfortable it would be to be homeless.”
In North America after the 2008 financial crisis, many people who experienced foreclosure and layoffs were forced, not by choice, to live in their cars and in some cases, inside vans. Some media in the U.S. identified vehicle dwellers as the “hidden homeless.”
For Dubé and Chabassol, homelessness is not as it’s traditionally defined – as a person without a four-walled home – but rather an alternative space to call home.
“I think the van life movement is helping to demystify what is acceptable and what is shameful and give ideas (to homeless people) about how to create a comfortable home and I feel like they’re not alone and it’s not embarrassing to live in your vehicle.”
Some people who are homeless have no choice but to live in their vehicles. Knowing there is a community of people who believe living in a van or car is not shameful can help build confidence and reduce stigma, Chabassol argues.
The couple, as part of their work with their project Exploring Alternatives, are travelling across the continent to interview people living sustainably in alternative spaces to show what is possible with less. They’ve even produced a book, The Exploring Alternatives Guide to Van Life.
Dubé and Chabassol, veterans of the movement, don’t sugarcoat the lifestyle and caution would-be van dwellers to get their feet wet before committing to pint-sized mobile living. At the end of the day, they said, living in a van is fun but also extremely challenging — especially at the beginning.
Social media is peppered with fun images of people living the van life, but the pictures often don’t expose the day-to-day realities and struggles that life presents.
“The heat, the cold, the humidity, rain, bugs, finding water – everything was challenging,” said Dubé. “Van life is extreme, and it’s not for everyone.”
Chabassol recalls the first (and only) winter the couple spent in their van. Chabassol said they would hang around in coffee shops until closing before running into the van and trying to get warm under the covers.
“Everything is a little bit more intense when you’re in the van,” she said. “It’s really hard.”
The tight quarters and challenging times means tensions can rise – though Chabassol admits, not for long.
“We have micro-fights,” she said. “It’s like we’re mad and (then) it’s like, ‘Can you pass me the water jug?'”
The couple knows the van life isn’t for everybody.
“There are moments when you’re peeing into a funnel when you’re like, ‘This isn’t normal,'” she said.
查看原文...
