Swagman in Red
Last time I wrote about being blue. This entry will be about a different color: red. There’s been a lot of talk about red and blue in the news lately, as it pertains to states and American politics. I’ll be writing about the Red Centre, but not about the USA’s but Australia’s.
On December 21, I began a three-day camping trip (Mulga’s Backpacker Trip) that has been the highlight of my travels so far. As I mentioned in a previous entry, I spent the night of December 20 in Alice Springs. You might recall that I’d spent the prior two days driving up the Stuart Highway from Adelaide to Alice Springs. On the drive, you couldn’t help but feel that you were growing closer and closer to the middle of nowhere. Alice Springs is pretty close to Nowhere. It’s about as close to the dead center of Australia as you can get.
The night of the 20th, I had dinner with Tony, the driver of the mini-bus from Adelaide, and another guy on that ride. Those two were practically the only ones who spoke during the drive. The others mostly just slept or peered out the windows for two days. In the courtyard of the place where we ate, a presenter from the Alice Springs reptile center gave a demonstration about the local snakes and lizards. Ten of the 15 deadliest snakes in the world live in Australia. The Australian snakes have highly concentrated venom and short teeth, not moderate venom and long fangs like foreign snakes. This is because, as the zoologist explained in technical terminology, foreign snakes are woosies. He told us that the amount of venom a snake transmits varies from bite to bite. If the snake perceives only an accidental affront, such as a hiker’s inadvertent trodding on the snake’s tail, the snake will administer a low dose of venom. But if the snake perceives aggressive behavior, the snake will bite with full potency. So, basically, your life hinges on the ability of a tiny-brained slithering creature to accurately perceive the situation. I found this as comforting as the marine biologist’s common refrain that most shark attacks are accidents, the shark mistaking the human being for a seal or a turtle. As long as snakes and sharks are fallible, I’m watching where I trod and splash.
I spent that night in Annie’s Place hostel. When I located my dorm room, I couldn’t figure out which bed was available. While I was pondering this, four bright-eyed young Germans walked in. They struck up a conversation, taking an immediate interest in me and my background. The most locquacious, adorable Caroline, posed the question I least like to field: “If I may ask, how old are you?” To my relief, none of the four fainted, laughed or showed any discernible reaction. Happily, I learned they would be part of the camping trip that would begin the next day. Besides Caroline, the others were Michaela, Caroline’s beautiful sister; Isker, Michaela’s boyfriend, a budding law student; and Emel, their lovely friend. Regarding the bed space, there had been a mistake, and I was given a room of my own for the night.
Early on the morning of December 21, I found a seat in the mini-bus, passing my four new German friends on the way down the aisle. With genuine enthusiasm, a hostel employee, “Krusty” (a nickname based on the clown on the Simpsons), momentarily stepped into the mini-bus to bid us all a fantastic trip and introduce us to our driver and tour guide, Scott. Scott then greeted us with the same level of enthusiasm, setting the upbeat tone for the next three days. I liked the guy right off the bat. He set the ground rules, let us know what we were in for, and stirred us up into a cohesive unit.
Above: Inside the mini-bus, with Isker and Michaela in front and Caroline just behind them; a contented-looking camel; in Kings Canyon; our campsite on the first night.
Throughout the trip, Scott addressed the 17 of us as “Possums” and “Family.” As we drove out of Alice Springs, he played Monty Python’s song, “Always Look On the Bright Side of Life.” He would play that song practically every time we made a stop. Before long, we all whistled along.
On the first day, I had the fortune of sitting in the back with Frank and Wendy, a delightful couple from Holland. My guess is that Frank was the second oldest of the campers, and I had ten years on him. I also conversed extensively with friendly Yong from Korea. As the days passed, I befriended two of the sweetest Irish lasses I’ve met, Laura and Lara. I got to know another German named Silke, and did a power-hike with her companion Olivier, the consummate cynic. In that hike, Olivier and I set a goal of beating the three athletic Danish girls–Stina, Diana and Maria–to the next reststop. We succeeded, but they were unimpressed, tending to keep to themselves then as always. It took me until the third day to penetrate the Danish wall, when at last I had the honor of joining them during a break in a four-person game of catch with a miniature Australian football. I and Stina, the only available one, then made plans to get married in Las Vegas, but I’d bet big money SHE was just joking. There were other integral members of the group whose names are escaping me. But I mention the names to emphasize the closeness of the group.
On the first day of the trip, we drove to Kings Canyon, where we hiked through its dramatic, steep, gnarled walls and swam in the Garden of Eden waterhole. At certain points, Scott gave geology lectures, explaining why the terrain appears as it does. During the hike back down to the mini-bus, the sky unleashed a spectacular thunder and lightning display, completely drenching every one of us. That night, we slept on the red, powdery dirt under the stars in a circle, arrayed around the campfire like the petals of a flower. We each had a sleeping bag and a rectangular swag, which is like a canvas zip-up bodybag and functions like a one-man tent but without any poles. During the night, it began to rain again. The group migrated to an adjacent patch of dirt kept dry by an overhang. I was the last to move, having convinced myself in my laziness that the swag would keep me dry. When I did finally move and was about to stake out a new spot, out of the darkness I heard Caroline’s voice warn me there was a big rocky lump in the spot where I was heading. She scooted over and made room for me. Over the next couple days, she became my special companion, the youngest one in the group accompanying the oldest.
Above: Kata Tjuta; posing in front of Uluru; Scott and me gesturing sternly; Uluru up close (and personal).
On the second day, we hiked through the surprisingly verdant Valley of the Winds at Kata Tjuta, also known as the Olgas mountains. (That was the day Olivier and I left the Danish girls in the dust–with no fanfare whatsoever.) When we began the hike, we heard what sounded like a stampede coming down the hill to our left. To our amazement, two kangaroos thundered past us and out of sight. I could not believe the height and distance of their leaps. (I’ve since learned that adult red kangaroos can jump 40 feet in a single bounce and can reach heights of 10 feet and speeds of 40 miles per hour.) After lunch, we drove to Australia’s most recognizable natural icon: Ayer’s Rock, known as Uluru in the original Aboriginal language. We spent some time at the Aborigine cultural center and then strolled along parts of Ayers Rock’s base.
Scott told us a number of tales about the Aborigine beliefs as to the origins of certain features of Uluru. He assumed an uncharacteristically serious tone as he told us of things like emu-men stealing a giant snake-woman’s pet dingos and the snake-woman taking vengeance on them by striking at them with a big stick, thereby creating certain distinct crevasses on one side of Uluru. Something like that. There may have been a giant kangaroo character also, and a detail about emu eggs. We drove to a look-out spot and caught the sun setting on Uluru. And I’m pretty sure it really was the sun and not a giant emu egg.
Scott taught us some things about the local wildlife, mentioning creatures with descriptive names like wedge-tailed eagle, crested pigeon, blue-tongued lizard, red-bellied black snake, and red-backed spider. He made me chuckle when he commented that the animals in Oz sound like they were named by children.
On the third day, we returned to Ayers Rock for sunrise. As I gazed upon this marvel of nature and contemplated how blessed I was to be here at this moment to see such a sight, Olivier leaned in my direction and, true to his curmudgeon-like demeanor, whispered, “This is crap.” I almost fell over laughing, his comment was so perfectly inappropriate. Playing along, I responded, “Yeah, I’ve got one at home.”
Later that morning we walked all the way around Uluru’s base. Up close, it looks like a big hunk of red clay you could carve your initials in with a popsicle stick. Its features include caves and overhangs and waterfall tracks, each the inspiration for one of those human-animal stories. The Aborigine people request that visitors refrain from hiking up to the top of Uluru out of respect for its spiritual significance. We weren’t able to hike up anyway because the trail was closed due to high winds.
Above: Uluru shortly after sunrise; the Danish girls; Uluru again; the after-party, featuring me, Caroline, Isker, Michaela, Wendy and Frank.
When we weren’t outdoors, we were in the mini-bus. I began to sit up front at Scott’s request, to keep him company and just generally joke around. I’m a music buff, and he played an amazingly diverse set of up-tempo music, including many of my favorites as well as many new to me. He told me about a local bird called the pen-pen-palalala, which is named after its unique song. We discovered that that name could be recited to the tune of many different songs, including the intro to U2’s “The Sweetest Thing,” which became stuck in my head as modified. (You had to be there.)
On the last day, as we turned off the highway and back into Alice Springs, Scott had us singing at the top of our lungs Queen’s “We Are The Champions.” I was very sad to see the trip come to an end (the best $250(!) I’ve ever spent). But we reunited that evening for dinner at Annie’s Place. The next morning, most of the campers left for new destinations. Appropriately enough, the last to leave were Caroline, Michaela, Emel and Isker. The hostel felt silent once they were gone, but before my spirits could sink, Scott pulled up and invited me to lunch with his friends.
We drove to a bar in Alice Springs. The people in that bar looked like they walked off the set of a western. Characters showcasing all manner of cowboy hats and facial hair configurations–twisted mustaches, ZZ Top beards, mutton chops, etc. Mixed in with these cowboys were not Indians but Aborigines, whose features–wide noses, inset eyes, very dark skin–are fascinating to behold. Sadly, the bars seem to figure as prominently in town as the many didgeridoo shops and seem to stay full all day long.
One of Scott’s friends is a park ranger, the very ranger who would be patrolling Uluru itself on New Year’s Eve. I considered it an honor to have a beer with her, a local luminary.
Later that afternoon, the 24th of December, Krusty drove me to the airport and I boarded the plane to Cairns. Thus I would leave the Northern Territory, my fourth state to visit, and enter Queensland, my fifth. I’ll end here since you’ve already heard what transpired in Cairns and thereafter.
Tags: Alice Springs, Australia, Ayers Rock, Kata Tjuta, Kings Canyon, The Olgas, Travel, Uluru
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