As advice goes it was right up there alongside the warning that one should not stand too close to the urinal whilst wearing thongs, or flip flops as they're known in the UK.
My last tour of duty before I was to leave Australia took me to the final frontier, the last mainland state I'd yet to toe-touch, and the home of the most famous of all Australian sites, the monolith formerly known as Ayres Rock, Uluru.
Situated in the Northern Territories, I took the 3-hour flight from Sydney to Alice Springs, the nearest town to Uluru. I left Sydney with contrasting emotions, namely annoyance, apathy and a lighter feeling in the back of my pocket. I was gutted to leave behind a certain Kiwi girl who I'd met a week earlier yet had bonded with in a way I'd never expected. At one point it even crossed my mind to cancel the trip and stay in Sydney with her.
However I'd been advised, by pretty much everyone who'd been that I had to check Uluru out and as the Rough Guide labelled it the number one destination I stumped up $700 to fly out and do another 3-day tour. It's a hard life.
Of all the trips I'd experienced on my Aussie adventure this one promised to be the most physically challenging and visually rewarding as it would take in three of the most stunning sights Australia has to offer, namely, Kings Canyon.
The Olgas
And, of course, one of the unofficial wonders of the world, Uluru. It pains me to admit it now but I had originally struggled to see the big deal about my visit, I'd never heard of Kings Canyon and as for the Olgas, well all they reminded me of was one of those olden day names your Gran would have. I had some semblance of an idea about its cultural and religious significance but for me, Ayres Rock, was just a big old hunk of stone.
All of which probably accounts for the less than chipper mood I found myself in when I arrived in Alice Springs. It's that town made famous by 'A town called Alice' and because a dingo once ate a baby there.
I think I'd have offered myself to be eaten if I'd had to grow up there. It's blisteringly hot, the flies are a constant menace, and there's very little to see. It's one of the most depressing places I've ever been to, still not as bad as Boston, Lincolnshire but close.
Upon arriving I walked around the town for ten minutes, encountered more Aborigine types than I had in my entire three-month stay in Oz, and swatted flies. My tourist guide recommended a quick walk up Anzac Hill to enable me to take in the town in all its glory. Which is what I did.
Disenchanted I made my way back to my hostel which was run by two girls in their mid twenties. One of them was quite pleasant to look at but had extremely hairy armpits and the other, who was quite unpleasant to look at, walked around in ill-fitting undergarments. They spent a lot of time kissing each other, which was good of them. And they seemed happy enough with their lot. Unless the hostel freak was anywhere to be seen and then they'd screw their faces up, studiously ignore the poor fellow and get back to some more kissin' and cuddlin'.
The ill-suited creatures name was Wowy. He was another who had trouble pwonouncing his r's. He was from Sweden and had an unnatural goatee-beard, which swerved to the left of his chin. He was 26, smoked a lot of weed and complained of toothache. He also thought it was amazing that he, a white man, liked reggae music. I think he was slightly disappointed that I didn't immediately whip out my camera and take a photo of him listening to 'mainstream reggae classics 2'.
I was trying frantically to work out how to fill my afternoon as it was too hot to sunbathe and too early to sleep. So I was somewhat surprised to find out Wowy had spent the last two months in this godforsaken town. But then he told me a little of his interests in Aborigine culture and how he liked to chill with them under various yellowing trees. In this he was fairly unique because up to this point I'd struggled to find anyone who'd pause to even spit in their direction much less converse with them. But more on this subject later.
A couple of hours later, after I witnessed just how much weed he put away, it became even clearer how he was so happy to do absolutely fuck all, all day long. And yes, when it came to checking into my room, he was of course, in the bunk opposite me.
In the end I spent my evening chain smoking, on the phone to Fe, talking to Wowy, turning down his offers of badly rolled hash splifs and listening to tinny sounding reggae on his laptop. It'll only be when re-reading this 'blog, that I'll have reason to ever remember the night again.
The next morning my alarm went at 530 and I leaped head first out of my top bunk landing expertly on the floor before standing naked in the middle of my room furiously beating my chest screaming "I'm getting outta here!!!!!!!" I then raced out of my room before the shoes, rusty goatee clippers and ashtrays being hurled in my direction could hit their mark.
I was picked up shortly afterwards. Finally I was on my way and had a purpose to being in this part of the country. My group was 16 strong and led by a fantastic tour guide by the name of Leith. He was also ginger. They're always ginger these tour guides. I think it's the only way they figure they can pull tourists.
Ginger haired puns aside the bloke was by far the best guide I'd had. He was extremely interested in Aborigine culture and put forward the different theories to the origins of the different sites we saw on the trip.
The group I was in wasn't as fun as the Fraser Island crew and was almost entirely made up of Brits and Irish. Notable names include Jon from Croydon and Pete from Gloucester, and apart from the two Scots, three Irish, one Northern Irish and eight English, there was one Aussie woman and a German guy who, fantastically, was called, Herman! Ha ha!!!!!!
Uluru is 440 km from Alice Springs so we were faced with quite a drive. It's something I've got used to here and I'll not look at the distance between London and Birmingham, say, in quite the same light from here on in. Our first destination was Kings Canyon and we arrived at precisely the wrong period of the day. It registered 41-degrees in the shade when we began our three-hour hike round the rim of the canyon in the early hours of the afternoon. By the time we completed this Herculean task it had passed the 45-degree mark.
Again, embarrassingly, I'd been stupidly ignorant of the effect these conditions can have on you. I'd brushed aside comments of those who'd forewarned just how hot, hot can be. I just figured you'd get a tan easier. I didn't realise just how taxing it is to climb around in conditions that Tom had previously warned me were "straight out of Total Recall."
Luckily, for me, I'd been in the country for 3 months. I'd also spent most of my time leading a moderately active lifestyle. My fair skinned freshly arrived companions from Scotland and Ireland however weren't so fortunate and one of them almost collapsed from the heat. Another woman feared she was going to have a heart attack and an Irish couple went a very peculiar shade of purple. I was alright though!
Kings Canyon itself pretty much ruled. But as I have the annoying habit of looking at my feet when I walk a lot of it passed me by. My desire to spot stray 10 pence pieces definitely worked against me here. Although I managed to take a few snaps along the way.
Halfway through the walk we stopped off at the bottom of the Canyon at a point called the Garden of Eden. As welcoming a dip in cool calm fresh water was I think it was a bit of an overstatement to called it thus. But that didn't stop us jumping in and out of the water like madmen. Leith also actively encouraged us to divebomb from precariously high rocks, which endeared him to us immediately. As did his outrageously painful belly flops which he achieved with frightening regularity.
That night we were to camp out under the stars. The journey to our position in the middle of nowhere was made more interesting by a quick stop to collect firewood and then an even quicker stop to avoid running over a pack of wild camel. Wild Camel!?!?!? I didn't even realise they existed in Australia.
As a lad, I never made it in the Scouts, too much shouting for me. I was more of a Woodcraft Folk kind of guy. So I've never slept out under the stars before. Passed out maybe, but this wasn't Tooting Bec common and I impressed myself with the nonchalant way I brushed off the many flying insects that took an interest in feasting on my blood and sleeping in my hair. I suppose after spending so much time being baited by Australian cricket fans over the previous months my tolerance levels when being bugged by annoying creatures had reached new heights. I've also never seen 'Wolf Creek' so I slept that night like a baby.
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It was another early start the next day for our journey to Granny Olga's house. Upon arrival, in another 45-degree day, and with the flies buzzing around our heads, we were given the option of a 3-hour walk or a 1-hour walk. I opted for the former and a small group of us went off on our own. Again, it was tough going, but more than worthwhile as we soaked up the rays and the view of some more weird looking rock formations.
Leith explained to us how they came about but I can't remember what he said. So you'll just have to make do with some below average photos instead.
By the time we made our way back to the lunch area the temperature had got so hot that people were being advised not to make the journey we just had. And we were looking forward to cooling off as another night under the stars awaited but first we were to see what it was that had made me leave Sydney in the first place, Uluru.
I won't bore you with the mystical crap that is associated with the place. Not because I don't believe in it or lack respect. It's just that the overwhelming emotion I took from my journey was one of sadness. Listening to the tales Leith told us about the Aborigine people, seeing with my own eyes the position they hold in Australian culture and reading up on the rape and destruction of their race of people, started by the English and which the Aussies seem intent on continuing, scandalised me.
Make no mistake about it, these are a people who have suffered genocide, their culture and customs destroyed or put to moneymaking use for the whites, and their future seemingly on the way to oblivion. Their history goes back 40,000 years but in the last 200, from 1,000,000 natives their numbers are no more than 300,000. And the future looks just as bleak. Uluru, their most holy site, has been abandoned to tourists like me, who desecrate their land, paying millions to the Australian government to do so, and who pass through without any thought to the history behind such a sacred place.
Not that this was immediately evident. And our first impressions of the place were wholly positive. It takes a while to internalise the outrage that has been submitted upon these people. And so my initial experience of Uluru was pretty similar to anyone who visits this land. It's a place that will never be done justice by the millions of photographs taken every year. It's a part of the world that you need to visit to really appreciate the vast beauty and experience the unique ambience that prevails around this hunk of rock. So I'll stop writing so you can behold the mighty, Uluru!
We headed back to our camp in good spirits that night and suspicions that Leith secretly wanted to be English began as he blasted out the classic football World Cup song 'World in Motion'.
His knowledge of our fair Isles obviously needs some working as he expected us all to join in the singing. But it of course polarised opinion throughout the group. "We're singing for England, Eng-er-land!" the English sang heartily while the Scots muttered something about Archie Gemmill and the Irish moaned about the invasion of their country. Herman the German just smiled to himself and unabashed I proudly did my Chrissie Waddle dance in time to the music.
Leith was getting into the swing of things so much he failed to realise he was being tailed by a police car and only by running his hands suggestively through his ginger hair and turning down the music did he escape a ticket.
Once back in the camp we got back to British basics by drinking many a beer, hooking up an iPod to the jeep's sound system and chatting away. But as an even earlier start awaited I was the last to bed at the piss poor time of 1130.
Not that I got much sleep. Unlike the night before I kept waking throughout the night convinced mini-beings were crawling over me. It reminded me of a bad trip Tom Rees once experienced. But in the morning I realised I hadn't been imagining anything. When Leith's torch burnt through the mists of sleep and I opened my eyes I realised I'd pitched my swag on an ant's nest. "Ha, ha! You've been anted!" cried Leith, introducing me a new word to add to my vocabulary. Thankfully the sun had not yet risen so he couldn't see me mouth various expletives in his general direction, and that of the ants, and which he'd probably have had to add to his own vocabulary.
The reason for such an early rise, 5am to be precise, was that we were to be taken back to Uluru to see the sunrise. While everyone jostled for position I remembered my Fraser Island trip and scuttled to the top of the jeep for an optimum vantage point. And what a view it was as the big hunk of rock turned many a different colour and appeared to come to life in front of us.
Shortly afterwards we embarked on our third and final 2+ hour walk of the tour. This time it was a little more relaxed as we sauntered round the base of Uluru. We had been given the option to climb one side of the rock. But as this flies directly in the face of what the Aborigine people request only one of our group, the sole Australian, opted to go against their wishes and climb. I can't get on my high horse too much though as my fear of heights was also a factor in my decision.
The remainder of our last day together was spent almost entirely in the vehicle. It was a long old trek back to Alice Springs and I for one couldn't wait to get back to Wowy and the lesbians. However on the way we took a minor deviation to allow another unexpected experience, that of camel riding!
I believe I am unique on this planet in being able to say I have ridden a mule, a donkey and a camel but, and this is the crucial bit, never a horse! I'm thinking of getting some T-Shirts printed.
On a more serious note, I realised something quite profound whilst lazily staring at the features of those magnificent beasts. Facially they are quite an incredible being. The two slobbering hunks of meat masquerading as big lips, the uneven yellowing skin, the copious amounts of drool hanging from scabby jowls, and the seriously misshapen hairy plasticize features. When I was at school there was this girl who was so ugly we nicknamed her 'camel chewing a biscuit.' Kids can be so cruel. Imaginative and funny, but still so cruel. I never knew camel chewing a biscuit's real name, but I still see her pushing a buggy down Streatham High Street every now and again. I seem to remember she didn't take to her new moniker very kindly. At the time I couldn't fathom what her problem possibly could be. But after studying the horrendous practical joke that the mighty camel parades as a face I can now hold my hand up and admit that I maybe went slightly too far back in the glory days of Class 2G.
Riding a real life camel is incredibly painful, especially when they run, so it was with some relief that I managed to clamber off my trusted steed with all my faculties intact. I didn't want anything to get in the way of my Friday night in Alice Springs!
The pub that we spent the majority of the night in was an interesting mix of rednecks, tourists, aborigines and mentalists. I spent the entire night awaiting an old-school pub style brawl to kick off. The place was heaving and rammed with absolute nut bags. The pub itself had huge crocodile skins on the ceilings, a python in a cage, CCTV pointing everywhere (pretending to be a web-link) and bizarrely a huge urn of monkey nuts. This hotbed of trouble wasn't helped by Leith who was celebrating having three days off by getting him, and me, absolutely fucked.
The expected fight never materialised but that was no thanks to Leith. He took it upon himself to throw an entire tub of monkey nuts over his shoulder straight into a huge redneck sitting behind us. Unlike Leith, who was oblivious to the whole thing, and myself, who found it pretty damn amusing, the local didn't see the funny side of this and for the remainder of the evening repeatedly warned me that if it happened again he'd kick the shit out of all of us. Hmmmmm. I don't think he realised just how fast I can run when I need to.
Not for the first time on my holiday I awoke the next morning with a monstrous hangover. Not the best idea when I had a flight all the way to Sydney. However, armed with a fistful of valium, and enough money to cover a few vodkas, a friendly, and equally scared Frenchman alongside me, I made it back in time for another amazing night with Fe and her friends at a swanky bar in Kings Cross. But that's a story for another time.
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