Monday

The hotel, an ex motel, had connecting doors between the rooms. They were completely un-soundproofed. So I know the blokes next door went out at half 8, came back with friends sometime later etc. They either came back in at 4:45, or were getting up. Which wasn’t much of a problem for me getting up a half-hour later as I was already wide awake.

The bus was v slightly early, and two others from the tour (Rosie and Judy) were staying at the Desert Rose too. After a short time looking for Judy’s boots which she may or may not have packed (nice to not be the disorganised one), we went round picking everyone else up then left Alice on the 5 hour drive to Yulara (Ayer’s Rock resort). It’s an interesting road, the Stuart Highway – scrub, sand, rocks, bushes, more sand. For about 5 minutes.

The first stop was at a camel farm, which thankfully also sold a sort of coffee, the effects of which lasted for about 10 minutes before I fell asleep. When I woke up, the desert was still the same. It’s surprisingly green and very much flat, except for the table mountains that line up in the distance like carriages in a great yard waiting to be shunted into a proper mountain range. Buzzards and Kites swooped in front of the bus. Civilisation is a 60kph speed limit and a radio transmitter mast.


Eventually, after about 2 hours, we took a right turn (directions out here aren’t complicated) down the Lasseter Highway through more scrub, the burnt trunks of the sheoaks stark against the green grass and red earth. The most striking thing is the colour.

Finally, poking a huge orange head over the dunes you see Uluru to the left, and dark Kata Tjuta looking like Homer Simpson lying on his back to the left. We stopped in the campsite in Yulara for lunch, then it was back on the bus (a beaten up old Mitsubishi with god-knows how many miles on the clock, a faded yellow logo, a menagerie of cuddly toys in the front and vinyl seats! And a CD player that only seemed to play the BackStreet Boys) to go to Kata Tjuta. On the way we all introduced ourselves, favourite film (of the moment), favourite food (any, as far as I’m concerned) and star sign (obviously I’m an archetypal home-loving cancerian).

Broadly speaking there were around 7 Brits, 3 Aussies, a Danish girl, a German girl, and Team Japan with an honorary South Korean. There were only 6 blokes. Oh and a Canadian guy who I don’t think said a word, just looked at the whole thing with distaste. Certainly did very little cooking. The leader was a fireman called Damo.














Kata Tjuta is a range of 35 lumps of concrete (sorry, conglomerate), the tallest is over 500m (although I don’t know the height of the plain surrounding it) formed when the whole of central Aus was 50 fathoms deep. It’s an Aboriginal sacred males place, although they allow the tourists in. (Heavitree Gap, which is the way south out of Alice is another – the only time Aboriginal women are allowed to look at it (thankfully) is when they are driving.)

The temp was well over 30ºC, maybe over 35º. It was the only walk in the afternoon heat – what few climbs there were seemed longer in the baking sun. Plus that key ring that caused so much trouble a few weeks ago has become a piece of sharp wire in my bag. War wound No 1.

The trail of tourists winds round the tallest head, to a green lawn with a shady gum tree. Then along the walls of a v deep valley, the sides scarred black and pitted by water. The valley looks like it could lead to anywhere in the world, but eventually you climb up a steep incline to a magical view over the valley in the centre. Below are the silver trunks winding through the greenery, surrounded by the round deep red heads of the mountains. I guess there must be water somewhere.


45 min later (it wasn’t a long walk) we were back on the bus, chasing the clock to get to the viewing site for sunset over Uluru. Hundreds of buses spewing tourists onto the car park. Who started the tradition of alcohol at the viewing? If you pay enough, you get a white-clothed table with cold champagne in glasses. We drank it out of plastic beakers, with the chips and dips set up on top of the eskie, while we stood in the rapidly cooling evening watching the sun sink behind Kata Tjuta, turning Uluru even redder, then greying it. The coming night was a purple shadow behind the rock, split by camera flashes. However, I now have photos to prove that I’m not in hiding in Peterborough writing this blog.

Afterwards it was back to the campsite with its bizarre canvas huts (not really tents) for a dinner of barbequed kangaroo steak and the most bizarre sausages I’ve ever had (except maybe the bright pink, cheap Wall’s ones you get in the UK). Damo was not a bad cook, just to much bloody garlic in everything.

We all went to bed after dinner given the early start. I was so tired that I slept in the cabin I’d put my stuff, couldn’t even be bothered to find a swag to sleep outside. Certainly not awake enough to see the fence post I tripped over (war wound no 2) and I have a palm-of-hand size bruise on my right shin.