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I arrived at the offices of Wayward Tours in Adelaide as a veteran. Having spent a whole 14 hours in South Australia's state capital it was time to acquaint myself with my latest group of 'rent-a-friends' and hit the road in the direction of the country's Red Centre. Some 8 hours previously, I'd been saying goodbye to the Great Ocean Road gang and truth be told I longed for their company as I couldn't be arsed with the rigmarole of having to go through the motions with this latest bunch of companions. Thankfully, however, that lazy attitude was soon quashed: I'm not sure if the phrase 'sausage-fest' has an opposite but there was a helluva lot more burds than lads and if for this shallow reason only, I headed north like one excited wee puppy.
I needn't have got my hopes up though, as sweaty trips across dusty desert tracks in 40 degree heat aren't exactly conducive to charming or being charmed. We had 2800 km to cover in 8 days; Michael our guide and driver had his work cut out. As we approached the Flinders Ranges it became apparent that we were headed for the desert and all that
comes with it: blistering heat, blankets of isolation the size of many European countries, warm drinking water, tinned food, dust-devils that can fill the horizon in matter of seconds appearing as tall, thin, sandy cyclones and swarms of flies as desperate for moisture as their human counterparts - and on whose persperation-soaked garments and skin they find it. The Outback consists of endless stretches of deep red earth akin to chilli powder, lots of rocks and rubble with the odd dry bush-shrub. There is no cattle as the grazing conditions end just north of the Clare Valley wine region and even the kangaroos don't venture any deeper into the desert than Angorachina which isn't very far out of Adelaide.
Yet amid these apocalyptic surrounds there is still grand adventure to be had providing your inventory of equipment includes a sense of fun. We got up out of our tents early enough to go off exploring in the Flinders Ranges, the terrain was similar to what I would expect the Grand Canyon to resemble and we had the craic with the kangaroos and emus who were still with us at this stage. Emus are hilarious creatures, principally because they're so
thick: Michael would often chase them across the desert in the bus when all of a sudden they'd stop having forgotten why they were running. They'd have a look around, see the bus again and get off their mark. I know it doesn't seem like much, but it's these small things that brighten up your day when the iPod batteries have gone flat.
If this is coming across as some sort of gruelling ordeal forgive me - that's not the picture I'm trying to paint at all - I'm just trying to set the scene as best I can as to what it's like to spend 8 days in the Australian desert. I'll rewind for a second: the grand highlight of our trip was to be Ayres Rock or Uluru, to give it it's 'correct' Aboriginal name. We were due to arrive there on day 6 but there were plenty of diversions on the way. Hundreds of kilometres from the nearest form of civilisation, we called in to visit a local hero called Talc Alf. Now if you're wondering how anyone can survive life in the middle of the Outback with their sanity intact, Talc Alf provides the answer.
You can't. I didn't care much for his sun-worshipping or word origin theories but I became a huge fan when he showed us his version of the Aussie flag where the Union Jack at the top left corner was replaced with the Aboriginal flag; his analogy was that when you teach a kid to wipe it's arse, you then leave him to do it by himself. A good Republican is Alf.
One memorable night was spent in William Creek, population 7 when everyone is in town. The place had a real Wild West feel; behind the swinging saloon doors lay the kinda pub where you would expect Ned Kelly to be the top man... so long as Billy the Kid wasn't around. Despite the best intentions of the flies stowing away on every imaginable part of our bodies and then some, we got dinner made and our swags assembled for a night of star-gazing from the desert floor. Swags are an ingenious hybrid of sleeping bags and tents, a sheltered mattress if you like where your head pops out the top like an upsidedown turtle. If you're not averse to the odd dingo licking your face or snake slithering
across your tummy, it's the perfect way to spend a dry night.
Novel sleeping conditions were to be the order of the trip and none more so than in Coober Pedy. Straight out of Back to the Future III, the business of the town is Opal Mining. We were regaled with some great stories during a tour of a mock-up typical Coober Pedy abode. Accommodation in the town is dug-out 20 metres underground to escape the year-round 40 degree temperatures, the result not unlike where the Batcave would meet Austin Powers' lair. Kids apparently are charged with the task of manufacturing the bombs to be used in their father's opal-mining; rumours that Glasgow is set to break in to the industry are unconfirmed...
And so after 6 long, hot, exhausting but exciting days we reached the natural wonder of the world that is Uluru. To the millions of tourists like myself who have been coming since the 1950s, an awesome sight that is pretty good for a picture depending on what direction the sunlight is coming from; to the Aboriginal people of Australia, a religious Mecca, as sacred as others would find the Cistine chapel, the Ko'ran or
a reclining Budda. For this reason, we were asked not to climb on the rock which I reluctantly accepted although I was to find the walk around the perimeter utterly spell-binding. My trance was broken by the nagging ache of the ball-chafing that had set in with all the ferocity we experienced that long day in Seville. It was with massive relief we greeted Michael who had arrived with an esky-full of beers and snacks... not quite the champagne and canopies being quaffed by the blue-rinse brigade who shared our sunset viewing spot but it was exactly what I needed. Fair play to Saga though...
By the time the alarm clock sounded at 5am for the 4th day on the spin I was wrecked. We had King's Canyon still to tick off but in truth I couldn't have tackled a fish supper. Somehow, I mustered the energy for the 6 hour hike (in fairness I didn't have much of an alternative) and I was to be rewarded with an experience every bit as awe-inspiring as Ayres Rock or The Olgas. Apparently Pricilla Queen of the Desert was shot there but it was far more suited to Indiana Jones, like
a derelict forgotten city of the Aztec. The Canyon consisted of endless mini-pyramids of red rock that the geology-student in our group told us we should be impressed with; something about Carmichael sandstone that went over my head. My fly covered head. If you ever have the chance of visiting this part of the world do NOT listen to your guide who tells you that only wooses wear fly-nets. Sensible people do. People who don't want their trip to culminate in a Rain Man-esque hissy fit of slapping their head repeatedly while running around screaming like a mad man. Finally, the desert had broken me, and if there had been a video crew handy, you all would've found it hilarious.
The final day saw us arrive in Alice Springs, the biggest 'metropolis' since Adelaide, although still the kinda place you could expect to see a 'gone fishing' sign pinned to a shop door - and we did. On the way we were treated to a comical display of singing and piano-playing from Dinky, a talented dingo saved from poisoning by a pub landlord obviously looking to pull in the tourists. We ended with the token group parting session and,
again, it was tough to say goodbye to the friends I'd shared the experience with. To the latino gang that took care of me in the desert - sorry about the naked singing...
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