Everyone – and I mean everyone – who took the canoe trip up the Noosa River got it for free. Tribal Travel, an agency ubiquitous in Australia, is throwing it in when you book other classic tours like Fraser Island on a 4WD and sailing on the Whitsundays.

While they’re clearly trying to promote this lesser-known trip, it has two major problems: a) it’s not really free, and b) it totally acts like it’s free.

Point (a) is simply a matter of deceptive marketing. They give you the trip for no money up front but you have to pay $69 AUD in park fees and insurance to the tour operator. Tribal doesn’t see a cent, and so it’s free for them.

Promotional flyers for this trip price it at $140. So what you’re getting is a 50 percent discount on the advertised rate.

As for point (b), think back to the freebies you’ve been offered. A pen for signing up to a credit card. A crappy T-shirt. All of them of expendable quality.

The pointless part

A van picks you up from your Noosa hostel early in the morning and takes you to a lakeside station where a crater-faced fellow wearing – unironically – a trucker cap gives you two-seater canoes, tents, cooking stoves, and waterproof drums for your belongings.

He then hands you a crayon drawing of the lakes and rivers of the area. After a curt “See you in three days” he vanishes.

To call it a map would be a riotous overstatement. The river forks and splits in far more places than the doodle suggests, making it easy to turn into the wrong lake, turn around, and take another inlet to the same dead end.

This is a refreshing change from the excessively safe and controlled tours of the Queensland coast. Getting briefly lost in a tea-coloured river flanked by dense bush, one can almost call it an adventure.

But this laissez-faire approach goes too far when you learn that 1) when you arrive at your campsite at 2 pm, you will have the rest of the day to do precisely nothing at all, and 2) that park rangers patrol the camps and ask to see a camping permit, which the tour operator does not provide you with.

There are no walking trails around the campsite, nothing that would warrant arriving there so early. So one is left with two options: get back on the canoes, backtrack for one hour and explore the lakes we passed on the way, or start drinking.

Everyone chose the second option.

The Cooloola Sandpatch

The part that matters

The highlight of the trip is the second day, in which you paddle 1.5 hours upstream then hike for another 1.5 hours to the Cooloola Sandpatch. This is a huge erosion in the middle of the forest where winds hoarded enough sand to make it unlivable for plants. You can spend a good three hours wandering around and imagining it a lifeless desert with a gorgeous ocean view.

This three-day trip could easily be condensed into two: paddle up to the sandpatch, camp, come back the next day.

The third day is hardly a day at all. You are asked to report back to the lakeside station by 9:30 where no one is waiting. After roughly two hours spent killing mosquitoes for fun, the next batch of campers arrive, and you can finally return to your hostel in Noosa.

If the point of this promotional “freebie” is to popularize it by word of mouth, it can be deemed an absolute failure. When I asked other travelers if they too took the trip, many replied, “I was about to, but someone told me it wasn’t worth it.”

To the same extent as buyers, sellers also get exactly what they pay for.

When they can’t be bothered with sound discipline, it’s customary for parents to scare their children with fantastic lies.

In Brazil, for example, children are told that if they play with fire they will wet their beds, or that cockroaches will lick their mouths at night if they neglect to brush their teeth.

And there’s the mammoth childhood lie, one that crosses many cultures and is so ridiculous that its survival is nothing less than a miracle: that a fat old man in the North Pole is monitoring every child and delivers obedience rewards on a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer.

Despite their absurdity, to the literal-minded child they are devastatingly effective. The young adult, however, is not so easily fooled. But Australian tour operators at Fraser Island have adapted the childhood scare tactic with lethal efficacy.

The premise is simple: give a group of eight fun-chasing twentysomethings an immense sandy island off the Queensland coast and an expensive four-wheel drive truck to explore it with over three days. Then fill their heads with so many dangers and threats that no one would dream of doing anything memorably fun with it.

The briefing

The day before the trip, travellers to Fraser Island are shown a one-hour video on the dangers of driving on sand. A live person, usually a worker at the hostel that organizes the tour, then repeats many of those warnings and offers further instructions.

An example: if you drive too close to the sea, the salt water will rust the body and you will be fined at least $200.

Another one: If you make a sharp turn in the sand, the truck will flip over and every passenger will be seriously hurt.

Finally, the person who manages the truck fleet and the equipment inventory completes the scare session with photos of cars that flipped over and news clippings mourning a reckless death.

They clump everyone into groups of eight, based not on compatibility but to ensure that every team has enough qualified drivers. This also boosts the chances of being paired with a zealot for rules whose burning need for control makes sure any potential for adventurous exploration is snuffed out (hiya, Lucy).

A wild dingo menacingly strolls on Fraser Island.

The trip

It starts with a barge trip from the mainland to the island. It truly is an all-sand island where a rainforest miraculously thrives. When the tide is high or rocks impede safe passage along the shore, sandy inland tracks offer a detour.

Travelers are given a detailed itinerary and everything is scheduled. Go to a lake at 2pm. Leave by 3:30. Be at the campsite by 5:30.

This is because of the tides, yes, but since it’s policy to infantilize visitors to the maximum extent, responsible independent exploration is strictly verboten. If anyone veers from the itinerary, they will be fined.

Despite the military scheduling, enforced by a group’s self-appointed despot (still here, Lucy?), the trip is lovely. Driving on sand is a unique kind of exhilaration. Soft patches make the van lurch slightly sideways and washouts, creeks of inland fresh water that seep to the sea, can make spectacular splashes if negotiated well.

Fraser Island boasts several lakes. Some are topaz blue with blindingly white sand that rival Caribbean paradises. Others are at the bottom of steep sand dunes and beg for sandboarding or just a good ol’ tumbling.

Bianca risks life and limb by enjoying a casual skip down a sand dune.

The lies exposed

By the second day on the island, most participants realize that driving on sand is actually quite safe and that no, the island’s dingoes aren’t really interested in eating  people alive.

With minimal reasoning, you realize that when driving on wet hard sand – the sand operators say offers the best traction – much of the it sticks to the underbody, taking salt water with it. And anyone who lives in a snowy country knows that cars don’t fall apart at the first contact with a salted road.

You also learn that hurtling down the pillow-soft sand dunes around Lake Wabee won’t really cause lethal spinal injuries. Or that the rough sea  won’t drag you to a drowning death if you simply wade at knee height.

And no one that I heard of suffered a cardiac arrest upon contact with a jellybean-sized jellyfish.

Still, no one wants to take chances. The organizers’ scare campaign is too refined. Their repetition overpowers common sense.

Back at the hostel we asked a staffer why they exaggerate the dangers so much. “We want to make sure you’ll be completely responsible.” My parents would be beaming with pride.

A de facto campervan site in Wellingston, NZ.

By 8 am the sunlight starts to slither in the window, lazy as we. The windows are fogged and dotted with condensation from a 10-hour sleep. We crack open the curtain to see it it’s raining (almost never) or sunny (almost always).

From the window we can see the sea, the grass, the asphalt, the neighbours or the mountain. The most important decision to be taken presents itself: have breakfast here or drive to a prettier or more intimate backdrop? If we’re lucky there’s a bathroom nearby. Other times we ned to hold it in and brush our teeth with water from a collapsible gallon.

The tasks are divided without a word: while Roberto boils water and scrambles eggs, I make the bed. I get dressed, he studies the map. While he tans the toast, I set the table, which might be our own, or perhaps a park bench.

The coffee is made in small quantities. The toast is a bit cold, but not as much as some of the nights. The fruits are tasty, the granola fresh, the kisses sweet and the sky is ours.

We don’t have schedules, deadlines, or commitments. We use the morning to continue down the road, listening to choro or Bebel Gilberto, and deciding if it’s worth exploring the area a bit more. Sometimes we follow our guidebook. Else, we let the roadsigns or the wind point the way.

He drives. I offer ideas. He orients himself, I commandeer the iPod. We marvel at the sheep, the mountains, the blue sea, the sunset. We taste wines, stamp trails, dip in the ocean, map cities, snap pictures, eat nuts, take naps. Sometimes we meet other people. Most days we spend alone. We look for an Internet café and run around to accomplish necessities, like laundry and banking and groceries.

We eat. Barbecue, pasta, sandwiches, canned soup, boiled corn. Cereal bars, chocolate, cheap cheese, tea with biscuits.

Sometimes we watch Mad Men or In Treatment on the laptop, one of the few things that kicks us back to our life back in Montreal. Other nights it’s not needed: sleep comes quickly and it comes loaded. Our white noise is the hush of the sea or the wind whistling through a poorly-closed window. Time to say good night, my love.

New Zealand, is after all, the land of extreme sports. So it’s only fitting that taking risks is integral to the culture experience.

Instead of buying a car an sleeping in backpacker hostels every night, we decided on a campervan that converts into a bed. Bonus: you have your meals with a different natural landscape every night.

You can even give it a nickname and, if you’re a child of the 80s like us, you might fully realize your fantasy of living like a hippie for a month.

There’s a catch: at least in the North Island, it’s illegal to camp overnight in public areas (legend says the South is a lot more laid back). The independent traveler has to consent to paid campsites.

Of course, these are good for a warm shower and a clean kitchen so you can give the propane burner a break and do the dishes without squatting. But not every night: we want to sleep before the mountains, dine with an ocean view, fancy ourselves intrepid explorers, and  have no other light source beneath the stars.

And besides, we’re Brazilians. We never give up in the quest for saving a few clams, which we’ll reinvest in extreme sports market.

Here are our tips on how to dribble around the system:

1. Overcome the fear of getting caught

This is fundamental, and perhaps the easiest tip to apply. This is why: last night we were in Auckland for car-related paperwork and, to save on the hostel, we decided to sleep on the street, parked in a residential neighbourhood.

Like a good Brazilian girl, I was a bit on edge, fearing midnight hoodlums who would knock on our window with a .38. Roberto, like good semi-gringo, was worried about suspicious neighbours who might call the police.

But Auckland is calmer than church during Carnaval, and we woke up safe and sound. When in doubt, ask a local – preferably not an anal one – to suggest a street.

2. If you camp illegally, skip breakfast

One night we found an empty lot in a rural area, half-hidden by tall firs, no houses around, and no signs barring overnight stays. We called it home for one night.

But – remember – camping in public grounds in illegal in North Island. Said and one: in the morning, while we enjoyed coffee and cereal, the “bylaw officer” came by and politely informed us of our trespass.

We weren’t fined, but we learned our lesson: if you do something wrong, do it right. Leave early and quietly while the man is still asleep.

3. Use DOC campsites

In addition to the commercial sites, the DOC (Department of Conservation) runs about 120 campsites scattered around the country, almost always in gorgeous and isolated places: reserves, national parks, and forests.

The facilities are basic. At most, you get a faucet with running water, toilets, and a pit to make a fire. And the price is unbeatable: NZ$9 per person.

Detail: there’s usually no one working there. You leave the payment in a little “honesty box” at the entrance. As far as we saw, no one checked who paid and who didn’t.

4. An evil tip not at all endorsed by us

The private campsites charge around NZ$18 per person. Seems like a lot of money for just a level patch of grass if you just want a place to park and sleep.

Here’s the thing: after 8pm, the camp office usually closes and reopens at 8 the next morning. Yet the camp ground remains open for cars to enter and leave. In other words: you have a 12-hour window. But please don’t do this. It’s not right.

5. Get a solar shower and make use of public bathrooms

The biggest inconvenience of DIY cmaping is the lack of toilets and running water. You can reduce the B.O. factor, however, with a solar shower, essentially a sturdy plastic bag that warms water when you leave it out in the sun. It does provide a decent shower at the end of the day.

And there are always bathrooms at the beaches, gas stations, and roadside restaurants.

Handy tip: always keep a stock of water in the car for doing dishes, brushing teeth, boiling pasta water, etc.

6. Obvious tip that bears repeating

If this van is rocking, don’t come a-knocking.

Just don’t.