Considering that some travellers see a trip to the toilet as a strenuous life and death voyage of insurmountable odds, it’s not surprising
that many merely stick to Australia’s east coast on their travels.
But take the time and effort to trek through the Outback to the country’s heart and you’ll finally see Australia for what it is: unique, awe-inspiring and just a little bit magical. I’m going for gravitas, but I feel like I’ve just described Paul Daniels. Sigh.
While many natives lay claim to its position as the “arse-end of nowhere”, I’d like to posit Alice Springs’ rightful place, topographically speaking, as the belly button fluff of Oz; dead centre and just a little beguiling.
Alice itself has a lot to offer: cheap hostels, native cuisine, endless sunshine and a decent smattering of Aboriginal culture.
After a few days spent lounging around my hostel’s pool, I booked onto a three day Uluru tour and set off into the great unknown.
The bus ride alone was worth the admission price. Hours and hours of endless desert, it’s the first time since I hit Oz that I actually felt that I was truly in a different country.
Mini sand twisters whisked by the bus, kangaroos and camels nonchalantly mosied on by, and a bright orange vastness dominated the landscape, melting into endless, repetitive nothingness.
Our first stop was Kings Canyon, seen by many as Australia’s own Grand Canyon. Hopping out the bus in the scorching mid-day sun, we began a rather laboured ascent up the side of an overbearing pastel-orange rock face.
It was only at the top that our guide decided to bless us with the name of said section; Heart Attack Hill. The Aussies don’t really do subtlety, do they?
A short game of lizard hopscotch later and our group made it to the top for a sweeping view across the canyon. With the heat searing into the back of our necks and the trek only getting steeper, the mumbles and grumbles from the rear of the group were rising to irritating, white-noise proportions.
Luckily we made a detour to one of the very few forgiving parts the Outback has to offer; an obscure, secluded cranny that hid a permanent waterhole entirely surrounded by lush fauna.
Emerging from the relentless heat and harsh desert into a veritable oasis of cascading, cool waterfalls and refreshing rock-pools, you can fully understand how it got its name as The Garden of Eden.
Soon after, we began a slow descent through a number of sandstone domes that could have passed for God’s own personal game of whack- a-mole, and we were led onward to our next destination.
Sharing Uluru’s national park status Kata Tjuta, better known to locals as The Olgas. With little background knowledge to go on, I was nowhere near prepared for the sheer aura of the place.
Kata Tjuta stands resiliently in the face of Uluru and possesses a spiritual, calming ambience that ebbs out from every rock-face and crevasse.
It’s hugely important to the Aboriginal people and numerous Pitjantjatjara Dreamtime stories centre around the site.
Spiritual journeys and ceremonies are still performed today, with a regular favourite consisting of eating the surrounding shrubbery to induce a hallucinogenic, borderline catatonic state that allows Aborigines to endure seven-day treks across the Outback without water or food.
Hallucinogenic, night-time treks in desperate need of food and water? Sounds like my 2am ASDA run when I was back at Uni.
Another hike up a path sandwiched between two skyscraper-sized rocks rewarded us with a view unlike any I had ever seen.
Everything was so rich in greens and oranges, so vibrant and of such clarity when contrasted with the cloudless, aqua sky; it was simultaneously mind-blowing and humbling. From there, it was a quick ride to the main attraction.
Clasping eyes on Uluru for the first time felt uncannily similar to the moment I first saw Karl Kennedy in the flesh; it was all just a little surreal confronting something that I’d seen thousands of times on television and in magazines whilst growing up.
Something undeniably Australian. And something incredible.
(It does seem gravitas has gone on somewhat of a sabbatical for this article, doesn’t it?)
Our guide informed us that while we’re fully welcome to climb Uluru, not only is it disrespectful and extremely rude to the rock’s rightful owners but you’ll more than likely suffer bad karma for the rest of your life.
If the cautionary tales of tourists blown off cliff-tops weren’t strenuous enough, a quick peer into Uluru’s nearby visitor centre will probably hammer home the point.
Visitor books are filled with hundreds of letters and emails from people denouncing arrogant, momentary lapses that saw them steal stones off Uluru.
Every one then goes on to detail their almost sudden reversal in fortunes, from cancelled flights and flat tires to mysterious illnesses and odd, sometimes life-threatening accidents.
In a word? Eep.
Like my time with Karl, it was only really until I got up close that I finally took in the sheer reality of the experience.
Feeling ancient cracks and the chafing sensation on my thighs (did I mention the Kennedy comparison stopped a while back?) as we trekked around the deceivingly huge track was enough to hit home that I was actually there, at the site of something iconic, immense and momentous.
Give it a chance and you’ll see that above beachside fumbles, VB and Aussie Rules, it’s the history, significance and relevance of Australia’s centre that really gives the country its identity.
Even if it is somehow comparable to Paul Daniels.
The damage and the details: for more info on tour and transport options visit www.centralaustraliantourism.com
