Our First Night Camping at the Boulia Camel Races

There are certain milestones in life that deserve recognition. Graduating from school, buying your first home, falling in love.

Today, I achieved my first proper shower in five days.

We packed up camp this morning and rolled into Boulia to top up the water tanks and buy a few essentials from the local supermarket, which continues to operate under the bold assumption that nobody has any alternative. We left with bread, milk and a handful of groceries that somehow cost about the same as a modest investment portfolio.

From there we made the short drive to the racecourse, deciding it was time to move a little closer to the action. More importantly, it put us within comfortable walking distance of the amenities block.

I’ve always maintained that civilisation isn’t measured by skyscrapers or high-speed internet.

It’s measured by hot showers.

Five days of baby wipes will keep you socially acceptable from a distance, but they never quite convince you that you’re actually clean. A proper shower, on the other hand, feels like pressing the reset button on being human.

You don’t really notice how long you’ve gone without one until the water hits you. Then, suddenly, you’re standing there, watching enough red dirt swirl down the drain to fill a small paddock.

It also revealed something I’d been strangely proud of all week. I’d been admiring what I believed was an impressive sock tan, convinced my legs had developed the sort of healthy bronze glow normally reserved for beach holidays.

Turns out it wasn’t a tan at all, just Queensland soil.

With camp established, we spent the afternoon watching more and more caravans roll through the gates. Before arriving, I’d imagined the Camel Races would attract something resembling the Deni Ute Muster. Dust. Country music. Young blokes with rigs that cost more than my annual salary.

Instead, it’s shaping up to be less “festival” and more Australia’s largest mobile retirement village.

Caravans now stretch in every direction. Camp chairs appear with military precision around happy hour, and if mobility scooters ever decide to race the camels, I honestly couldn’t tell you where to place a bet.

As the sun slipped behind the wall of caravans, Will and I poured a couple of glasses of wine and sat outside the van watching the stars slowly take over the outback sky.

Tomorrow the Camel Races officially begin, and I’m not entirely sure what to expect.

But after five days without a shower, I feel suitably prepared for almost anything.