The best way I can describe the relationship between New Zealanders and Australians is that it is a kind of sibling rivalry. We will forever be making fun of one another, with insults flying every which way, but when it comes down to it we really do love our ex-convict neighbors.
That's why I am never ashamed to tell all of my friends from overseas who visit New Zealand that they should include Australia in their itinerary too- it is completely different- not only from New Zealand but from anywhere else in the world. A place of ancient and terrifying landscapes and creatures.
The stereotypes are absolutely true by the way- every single animal in Australia wants to either bite, sting, poison or just plain eat you (or some horrible combination of it all). Even the world's cutest animal, the sweet little platypus (who is cute enough to make baby yoda look like a shriveled cactus with IBS) comes equipped with poison barbs on their hind legs ready to stab at any witless tourists who just wants a little cuddle.
I have been lucky enough to visit Australia on numerous occasions, but my most memorable trip by far was when I went to Alice Springs, the very heart of Oz, where the heat of the day is as unbelievable as the riot of stars you can see in the night.
Flying into Alice Springs gives you a sense of just how massive and desolate Australia really is. People have managed to tame the thin fringe of the coastline to live in, but the center remains almost completely empty. All you can see is miles and miles of desert, a pale, sandy colour that will form the majority of the backdrop from here on out. But fear not, for even in this desolation, strange and wonderful beauty exists.
One of the must see sights in Oz is the incredible Uluru, the huge red-stone monolith that juts out of a perfectly flat horizon, looking as though some massive subterranean monster is pushing up out of the Earth. To get there is no mean feat however, and the most popular option is to join a tour group.
Having booked accommodation at the cheapest hostel I could find and made friends with all of the German backpackers who were staying there (there will always be at least 2 Germans in EVERY hostel on the planet- I used to wonder if this was a strategic placement to maintain surveillance, but they drink far too much to be any good at that), I decided to wander into town to look for a tour. It was dry and dusty, the caked red earth stretching monotonously in all directions. There were brief flashes of colour though, such as the aptly named Rainbow Lorikeet, who gathered in flocks to the amazement of no one but myself, as here they seemed to be as common as sparrows.
I crossed a dry river bed and wandered into the ramshackle town that arose out of the heat waves. It was well over 35 degrees and I was keen for some air con.
It took a little while to decide between the various tour operators, and one I was happy with my choice (Mulga’s Outback Adventures) I decided that all this hard work had definitely earned me a beer. The local pub was about as expected- dark, dingy, no visible windows but with a thick atmosphere of despair and failure to keep you company.
I spent perhaps a half hour here, absorbing about all of the ‘recently divorced and lonely’ vibe that I could stand, before wandering back outside. What greeted me out the door was a surprise however, as it was absolutely bucketing down. The streets were filled with puddles and the empty riverbank I had walked through an hour ago was flooded beyond recognition.
It is said that if you see the rains at Alice Springs 3 times, you are considered a local, as it may be several years between downpours. While I reveled in seeing the place as very few ever had, or would have the chance to see it, I also hoped this would not put a damper (ha!) on our tour the next day. Having no hope of crossing the bridge to get back to my bed, I decided a few more doses of despair and failure might be necessary while I waited out the rains.
The next day the rains had stopped, and I was excited to begin my adventure. The group we had consisted of 2 Austrian girls, one girl from the Netherlands, a very tall frenchman, a Korean couple, and a short and rotund German man called Franz who had a fring that looked as though it had been cut with a ruler. We somehow had to squeeze ourselves into one little van, which was easy for most of us but Rom, the 6 ft 8 Frenchman, had to fold himself up like a praying mantis to fit in the tiny seats.
The cramped conditions made talking easy though, and we all shared stories of our lives and stations, and our guide regaled us with facts and jokes about the Australian desert. The first day would be a long drive, as nothing in the outback is really close by, but it was a shock when, after several hours of silence, our guide piped up to say “right folks, we have just passed one family farm that has been here since the 18oo’s. This single farm is bigger than the country of Belgium!” This measure of scale is so typical of the outback- huge, dangerous and unforgiving.
After another couple of hours we arrived at what is called the false Uluru- it is basically a huge, toothbrush shaped mound that rises out of the earth. Many tourists are fooled into believing this must be the right one, take a few pics and head straight back, and while it, and the salt lake just over the opposite side of the road were beautiful, I can say for certain they held no candle to the magic of Uluru itself.
After another long drive, we finally made it to the camp. I had been looking forward to this as we were miles away from any artificial light sources and would be sleeping in swags out in the open (I also said a silent prayer of thanks that the rain really had stopped!).
A swag is basically a leather, waterproof sleeping bag that you slide your normal bag into and, provided you don’t get claustrophobic, can zip right up so you are completely entombed within it. When I was about 8, my vengeful older brother decided that locking me in a cupboard was a great way to deal with an annoying shadow. Unfortunately, my family then proceeded to forget me and head off to do some shopping for a couple of hours. My resulting claustrophobia persists even now, so I knew my swag would always be open to the night air, come whatever creepy crawlies may. The swags do smell a little, as they are not washed, and can be rather restrictive (i.e. scratch your nose before getting into one), but are tough and waterproof.
This might sound rather comforting, except for the fact that I had seen a number of small black scorpions around abouts, and I was very nervous they might decide to share my bedroll. Talking with the guide about this, he smiled reassuringly and told me I didn’t need to worry about them as they couldn’t climb the steep sides of the swag. After I breathed a sigh of relief, he added “no, it's really the centipedes you really need to worry about. They have no problems climbing into bed with you, and they’re attracted to your body heat so will actively try to get in. Oh, and their bite is way worse than the scorpion sting”. I confess, I slept with my pants tucked into my socks that night.
Even dinner was an affair interrupted by the wildlife, as during the cooking, I had what felt like a small bird smack into my head and get tangled in my hair. Trying not to panic as thoughts of flying centipedes entered my head (hey, it’s Australia, it really wouldn’t surprise me!), I carefully extracted the offender and found that it was a huge, bright green moth.
This thing was enormous, at least the length of my palm, and was really rather beautiful now that I had established it wasn’t some poisonous nightmare.
My study was suddenly interrupted by a scream, and I dashed inside the cooking shed to see the two Austrian girls waving their arms around wildly as more of my fluffy green friends dive-bombed them, obviously attracted by the cooking lights we had stationed about. When I say more, I mean thousands more- we were attacked by a swarm of these monsters, many of whom became so disoriented that they ended up landing in the food bowls- Spaghetti-a-la-moth anyone?
It was really quite exciting for me, more fascinating than worrying, but the eclipse (the technical name for a group of moths- thank you word-a-day calendar) dispersed as quickly as it had come, and we were able to eat in peace, only occasionally needing to pull a wing or leg out of our dinner.
Before heading to bed, we had a bonfire to share some more stories and a bottle of the only available liquor for about 100 miles, which was called “Fucking Good Port”. It was advertised as able to put lead in your pencil and make rabbits bite pitbulls, but I’ll confess it really was as the slogan said- ‘it’s just fucking good’. So, a little tipsy to calm the nerves about bug attacks, we let the fire burn down to embers. A hush descended over all of us as we stared up dumbfounded into the sky. I cannot describe to you how clear and bright the night sky was here. It was as though the atmosphere around the earth had been removed and we could see perfectly into the void of space. There was no moon, and the constellations were as clear as though seen through a telescope, containing a multitude of extra stars within them I had never seen before. Looking at the milky way, you could even see the galactic bulge of the center of the solar system clearly. For me it was a poignant moment, one that gave a sense of just how tiny, and special, we really are in the universe.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the night sky, especially as a few meteorites would occasionally dash across the night leaving bright yellow and green trails behind them, so I lay on my back in my swag. But I must have eventually fallen asleep, centipede fears notwithstanding.
I was awoken rudely by the queer sensation of a hot, erratic wind blowing on my face. A little disoriented, I blinked and opened my eyes, looking directly up. In the predawn light, I could see the shaggy outline of a Dingo staring happily down at me, it's lolling tongue not more than 30 centimeters from my face, probably wondering if I would politely die so he could feel a little less guilty about taking a chunk out of my face. I gave a start of fright and the dog jumped as well, scurrying off into the night. My heart was pounding and I leaned up to make sure I really was alone again. I have seen Dingoes hunt and kill kangaroos, so I knew they were serious predators, and I can tell you it was a long time before my heart quieted enough for me to return to sleep. This place really was trying to show me everything it had to offer.
The next day was sunrise at Kings Canyon and then the big trip to Uluru itself. It is probably important for you to know that I hate mornings. With a passion. In fact if mornings were a person, I would drag them out the back and shoot them in the face, that's how strongly I feel about them. So after my close encounter with the canine kind, I was not in the best of spirits to be woken before sunrise to go and see some rocks in the desert.
Fortunately, the canyon absolutely took my breath away, and before long my hatred of life in general eased up and I was able to really appreciate the view. Huge spires of rock erupted from the red earth like the massive fingers of a subterranean giant, and as we wove through the valley to the top of the canyon, I was stunned at the scenery, and from our vantage point which stared out at the valley floor several hundred feet below us, I couldn’t resist craning over the very tip of the ravine to peer at the wonders below.
I did this in part to spite our guide, as he had managed to get me excited, ever the gullible tourist, into looking for ‘Pygmy Koalas’. After several minutes of searching, I had finally seen the little buggers clinging to the branches of a barren tree high above me, and they must have been all of 4cm tall. Unfortunately, they were also available to purchase at the local $2 store, having handy clips that let you attach them to your coffee mug or straw.
After the canyon, it was time for the main event, and Uluru did not disappoint. It is massive, and beautiful, full of winding curves and caves carved into its flowing surface, looking like marble waves frozen in time. It is not the size or the features that set it apart however- Uluru is a sacred place to the local aboriginal people, and you can sense this in every step you take. There is a hush of quiet that surrounds the entire rock, punctuated only by the annoying whine of flies that will never leave you alone, and had the annoying habit of congregating on the embarrassing sweat patches of your clothes.
As we walked, we were educated about the legends that had been built up over the years about various patterns and shapes appearing on the rock face. There were entire sections where we did not photograph, as they were special and sacred sites of rites of passage and other ceremonies of the people. It was magical, peaceful, and a little eerie, as streams of water from the recent rains still gushed and echoed off of the surface of the rock.
Reluctantly leaving this beautiful place, we were told we had an extra special treat to look forward to- a ride on a true-blue australian camel.
In the interests of keeping this slightly shorter than the Old Testament, I have skipped a few of the extra days and nights, but so you know, we spent a total of 3 nights out here in the desert.
During all of that time, our wonderful friend Franz the German had gone to bed in his grey shirt and grey trousers each night, and arisen the next morning wearing the grey shirt and trousers, to continue wearing the same grey shirt and trousers all day, every day.
We had hiked, climbed, sweated in the bus and crawled through the dirt over those 3 days, and Franz had done it all in his well worn, and now rather damp and pungent clothes. It got to the point the two Austrian girls insisted on squishing into the seat next to me in our cramped little van rather than sit anywhere near a very smelly German man who had inexplicably never chosen to make use of the shower facilities we had available at the camps.
I say all this to provide some context for you, because our last activity, the famed camel ride, was something I had looked forward to for a long time. We were lumped up onto the camels in pairs and yes, you guessed it, Franze was chosen to accompany me.
Now I rode at the front, so thankfully the wind of a moving camel kept most of the stink at bay, but unfortunately camels move in a kind of undulating motion, and Franz had next to no balance, so each step that the camel took sent Franz crashing into me, his heavy belly pressing wetly against my back, and crushing my already painfully squashed plumbs against the pommel of the saddle in front of me. When I say my plumbs, by the way, I’m talking about my balls. They were feeling rather testy about the situation as it was, but were definitely not prepared for when the camel guy (the mahout? The camel whisperer? Man who took sadistic pleasure in ruining my future chances of having children?) decided it was time to race the camels against one another.
I tried to cry out in the negative but Franz came crashing into me heavily and I had no choice but to close my mouth lest my plumbs came popping out of it. The next minute and a half could only be described as blunt force trauma to the crotch. Thankfully, it finally ended, and I could waddle off to cradle myself and cry quietly in the corner.
Finally, our adventure was over, and as we dropped each person off at their various hostels we said our goodbyes. Franz and I were the last to go, and it was with disappointment that I saw where he was staying and couldn’t this revelation with the others- our lovely Franz, who couldn’t be bothered to shower or pack more than one set of clothes over 3 days of camping, was staying at the Ritz.
Many other exciting and wonderful adventures have happened in Australia, and if you ever get the chance to go I really encourage you to go- yes, it is scary and wild, but also beautiful and unlike anywhere else on the planet. Go, see, but in the desert, always remember to tuck your pants into your socks, and please, bring a spare pair of clothes.
Comments