Dinky the Dingo and other Nothern Territory Adventures

Men are selfish! That's all I could think as I ran along the eastern length of Uluru under the midday sun. A fine red dust had collected on my skin, my legs burned, and the backpack happily slammed into me with each stride; I was tired, late for the bus, and men were selfish. Why else would the entire eastern side of the giant rock be declared a sacred male ritual site and therefore off-limits to photos?* I had never noticed it before, but every post card shows the western side of Uluru. The entire eastern side is sacred to the Anangu aboriginals and photographs are considered a violation. Which is a shame really, because the eastern side has the most intriguing rock formations of the site. I don't know if my eyes could violate the sanctity of the rocks but, in the words of Oscar Wilde, "only the sacred things are worth touching."

Uluru lays 480km southwest of Alice Springs; it is a 6-hour drive each way and that meant hopping onto a tour bus at 6am. Ah, 6am! A mythical time I occasionally hear tell of from friends with children or glandular issues. (Having now seen it for myself, let me assure you that it's not worth the trip.) The bus came complete with comfy seats and an annoying tour guide whose nervous, breathy commentary always started and finished with a high-pitched "Righty-o!" After about an hour on the road the sun had come up, painting the land red, and we pulled off at a diner for some breakfast.

Now, before I continue, let me ask this: have you ever had a story to your name that was so surreal, so full of silliness and stereotypes that it almost becomes boring? Well, I have! Waiting at the diner was a piano-playing, singing dingo named Dinky. My fellow tourists and I sat nibbling on egg and bacon sandwiches when Dinky hopped up onto the piano and walked up and down the keys, howling the whole time. We all watched with eager cameras and distracted smiles, able to ignore the high-pitched noise in favor of the comical aspect. I was selected from the audience at one point to play for Dinky while he sang. (This was the culmination of my piano-playing career!) As I moved to sit beneath Dinky, his head turned and I was face to face with a snarling set of dingo teeth. "Woah!" his handler cried, pushing Dinky's head away. "Were you talking to him?!" He demanded of me. I assured him that I had not yet had the pleasure, and he scowled for me to begin playing. And that's how I ended up playing "When the Saints Go Marching In" beneath a singing dingo. (There has been a theory put forth that Dinky is only masquerading as a singing dingo, and is currently wanted by Alice Springs authorities in relation to a baby-eating.)

Not much can beat Dinky for Aussie experiences bordering on the surreal...but Mt Conner and the giant salt lake came close. I thought Mt Conner was Uluru from a distance; it spurred up from the flat horizon so dramatically I felt time had surely slipped and we had arrived! I watched it take shape and wondered why no one else saw it. Eventually, the tour guide explained in his nasal tones that Mt Conner was actually the polar opposite of Uluru- instead of being sacred, the aboriginals feared this place. They believed that Attila the ice-man lived on Mt Conner and would strike down those that approached. So, why is it so cold in the middle of a desert? The answer can be found in the enormous salt lake - a giant stretch of white against the red sand. Though there is no water on the surface it still flows beneath the land, and is still affected by the moon. The water rises higher to the surface at high tide and cools the surrounding air. (If this sounds like complete b.s. blame the tour guide). In a borderline British moment, we had tea, fruit cake, and lamingtons amidst this wasteland. The lamingtons were delicious!

Driving towards our final destination was rather other-worldly. The giant rock rises so dramatically from the flat, arid land that my eyes could not resist climbing it. The soil of the red centre is the finest I have ever seen, burnt to a lovely red-orange color; the Uluru visitors' center has a collection of "sorry rocks" that were taken from Uluru by admiring tourists and then mailed back with notes of apology. If ever a mars movie was to be made it would be filmed at here! A high-pitch droning from the flapping mouth of our tour guide offered three options for entertainment. We could:

1. Climb the giant rock. Unfortunately, this is considered disrespectful to the aboriginals. Tourists who do so anyway are called "mingas", meaning "ants", because that's what they appear to be from a distance: little black pests scurrying up the rock face.
   
2. Walk around it...a 9km journey in all.
   
3. Hang out with the guide at a cultural center and get a base tour by bus.

Well, 3 was right out! Something about a falsetto doesn't invite my friendship, and I had decided against 1 to be respectful. So, option 2 it was! I had just run a 14K so this should be easy, no?

No! For the record, I'm a masochistic idiot. I don't know if I hovered too much over pictures or just set a mosey-like pace, but as the deadline to meet the bus approached I found myself stranded on the eastern side of Uluru with no way to get back to the road. That's how I ended up running at the back of Uluru. Eventually, I had to cut across some protected land to make it back to the road. Two national parks violated in as many weeks! I'm a rebel with a cause...and that cause appears to be trespassing in national parks. Look out, Yellowstone!

Aside from the intrinsic beauty of Uluru, I loved the stories and myths about the rock. The first tale I stumbled across was about a gray lizard-shaped discoloration on the western face. Long ago, Lizard came to live at Uluru. One day he found a wounded emu with tribal spears sticking out of its belly. Even though it was obviously the object of a hunt, he killed and ate the emu. When the hunters came looking for their catch, Lizard lied and said he had never seen the creature. Soon after, the hunters discovered Lizard's trick and came back demanding their emu. Lizard climbed the rock to escape them. As he climbed, the hunters built a great fire and blinded lizard who fell to his death, hitting the rock where the ghostly shape still lays. (In fact, the gray discoloration is the true color of the rock! The orange that covers most of it is in fact rust.)

We finished the day with a sunset dinner at Uluru, complete with cheap champagne. After scarfing the food and casually kicking over the drink I'd been given I snuck away to watch the show. A purple shadow crawled towards the giant rock, slipping over golden bushes and low trees. It oozed up to the rock and then began to scale it. The colors drained away wherever the shadow touched and eventually it had devoured the rock. As soon as the sun set, the sky surrounding Uluru bloomed with an intense pink color that swam about the gargantuan stone before dying out. In the twilight the rock was gray, its true color, not the burnt orange shade that rust had given it. The desert was quiet and we had a long journey home. I waved goodbye and boarded the bus. So long, Uluru, I couldn't forget you if I wanted to!


See below for Dinky's performance!




*I later learned there are some female sacred sites mixed in there, too. But I think the blame is fine where it's been laid.

14 Kilometers Later...

Everywhere I looked, runners jostled each other in the early morning chill at Hyde Park. People from all over the world had flooded into Sydney for the annual City 2 Surf 14K "fun run" and now waited for the the start guns to fire. As we shuffled, the differences between Colorado's Bolder Boulder and this race kept jumping out at me.

• Bolder Boulder: 26+ starting heats based on prior race times and estimated times
• City 2 Surf: 5 starting heats based entirely on completion time in last year's race

• Bolder Boulder: the streets were lined with bands and cheerers- tons of entertainment!
• City 2 Surf: 2 bands composed of senior citizen rockers

• Bolder Boulder: 10K on relatively flat terrain
• City 2 Surf: 14K on hills that would make San Francisco blush

• Bolder Boulder: Freebies! T-shirts, food, drinks, galore!
• City 2 Surf: A free newspaper and bus ride back to the start

• Bolder Boulder: 55,000 registered participants
• City 2 Surf: 70,000 registered participants

Finally, the gun shot for our heat ripped the air...and no one moved. A minute passed...still nothing. People started hopping to see the front. Had that been our group's shot? It had. Slowly, the crowd began to move: waddling forward like so many penguins. It was 5 minutes after the gun shot that I crossed the start line, and then the real fun began!

Even after being part of a 70,000-strong herd of humanity, I have no way to conceptualize that number. I think the human brain starts struggling somewhere around 500 people. All I know is that the crowd never thinned out. I was perpetually dodging walkers and runners and the river of participants always disappeared into the distance. Another runner joked that it was a 16K race with all the weaving factored in.

As with the Bolder Boulder, some people had gone all out for a theme. There were about 20 men painted blue and wearing white undies: smurfs. Some army men carried two kids on stretchers; a group of kids ran as tools - wrenches, pliers, etc. Others wore fruit or fat suits...just general silliness.

In general, I found the race incredibly under-organized; it worked as it was, but could run so much smoother! However, there was a clever aspect of the race that rather impressed me. Runners were told to wear clothes that they didn't want anymore for layers and to simply strip them off as they warmed up. People tore their clothing off as they moved, festooning the streets with jumpers and sweat bands. Girl scouts followed along and collected the clothing then carted it off to charity. And, the lack of freebies meant even more money for charity. I believe the race raised over $1,000,000.00 and was, all in all, a pretty unique experience.

How did it all turn out? I was the 25,917th person to cross the finish line with a time of 84:24. I have yet to decide if this time is a "good time" but, in the moment, simply finishing was everything I could hope for!

Exploring Kings Park and the Botanical Gardens

I'm not sure what I did to offend the parrot, indeed I didn't know it was possible to do so, but some basic bird morality must have been violated to make the bird repeatedly launch itself at my head as I walked to my hostel in Perth. Weighed down with all my backpacker gear, the most I could do was squawk a protest and scoot away as fast as possible. So, naturally, I was wary when I found more parrots (gallahs, specifically) at King's Park, grazing like pigeons under the sprawling trees. King's Park sits atop Mt Eliza overlooking Perth; 62m above sea-level qualifies as a mountain here. The park has 3 faces: the war memorials, the botanic gardens, and the aboriginal history; it was expansive, lovely, and best of all: free.

For every city in Australia there is an unique aboriginal culture; the myths, crafts, and ancient ceremonies of the local tribe are pushed fairly hard to tourists. I think of this as a form of repentance. Up until 1928 aboriginals were being hunted as animals, slaughtered for sport, convenience, or dog food; they had few civil rights and no respect for long after. Even today, they hold an "untouchable" status for many Aussies. So I don't resent the peddling much, and I thoroughly enjoyed visiting the old lookout points and meeting places of the Nyungar tribe.

The memorial aspect was also impressive. Aside from the dominating statues and rows of bronze placards listing names of those fallen in war, there were artistic tributes to law enforcement and living tributes in the form of dedicated trees lining Honor Ave. This may seem a bit excessive, but Australians have come close to extinction from losses in war. So, in times of peace, it is natural to hail the accomplishments of old without which they'd all be inbred. Got to tip your hat to that!

The botanic gardens were lush, diverse, and inventive. Giant boab trees contemplated the universe among cacti, agave (tequila!), and all manner of plants I'd never heard of but enjoyed gawking at. Most people come to the park for the wildflower gardens; when I found this section it was a ruin: full of spindly and twiggy bushes. Apparently, the flowers are due to burst into life about three weeks after I leave Perth...poor timing on my part. I am sure it will be magnificent when in full swing. Another draw was the water garden: an artificial river carves through the land, flowing over ledges and rocks in an artistic display. The centerpiece is a lake with timed fountains spraying 20 feet into the air around a statue of a mother and child. It was here that I lounged for a time beneath the trees, keeping an eye on the parrots.

Throughout my wanderings I had seen several plants more cared for than the rest with little signs explaining their significance. These were experimental plants! It turns out that King's Park is one of the world's leading centers of botanical research. Scientists breed new plant species, study their life cycle and generally perform highly important plant experiments. Most of the experimental plants can only grow in Australia; so the luscious gardens double as a laboratory.

Before I had come to Perth, all I had heard was that the city was extremely clean and so far away from the rest of the Aussie world that it might as well keep going. So my expectations were not high when I came here, but I was pleasantly surprised. Perth is not an amusement-park city like Sydney (busting at the seems with tourists and attractions), but rather a homey-city. It is the sort of place that Americans settle in to raise families: safe, beautiful, and friendly. The size and feel of the city reminded me of Denver, and so it was with a sense of "home" that I spent my time there.

Tingle Trees and Breathalizers in SW Australia

And through the tulgey wood it came...

Granted, I didn't see any jabberwocks, but I felt sure they were there as I walked up the road to the Valley of Giants. I had traveled from Perth to Albany, a small town in Western Australia, to traverse the famous elevated walkway through the tingle tree forest. In Albany, I rented a car to and drove the 100 km to Walpole-Narnalup National Park only to find it closed. Gasp! What terrible planning on my part! But, unwilling to admit defeat after venturing so far, I ventured yet further and trespassed in a national park. I know: my new-found rebel status shocks me sometimes, too. My thrilling life of crime may be late-begun, but I think the Australian authorities saw it coming considering certain events that day.

Earlier, at the airport in Perth, I was randomly selected to be screened for bomb materials. A middle-aged man flagged me down and led me to a cash-register-sized machine on a folding table; I could sense the seriousness of this procedure as he handed me a laminated sheet and stowed away the Krispy Kremes. (Aussies are crazy for Krisy Kremes!) The instructions explained that I was suspected of being a deviant and only a thorough poking with a bomb-detector would prove my innocence. I consented and he cheerfully commenced the prodding. I passed. But something still didn't sit right with the law because on my way to the park I was pulled over (on the left side of the road) to participate in a random breathalyzer test. I don't think these policemen had ever met anyone so excited to be pulled over! The whole experience added charm to my bizarro-world driving adventure, and they let me keep the mouthpiece after I blew a 0.0. (Clarky* the swimming saftey platypus says "Good job, Sarah!")

So the Aussie cops had the right idea about me but the wrong crimes. My villainy came later, as the sun set and I walked through a forest I should have paid $8 to see. The tingle trees towered above me, painted pink by the setting sun; the air was sweet with the taste of them. I crawled inside a particularly large tree with a gash in its base and listened to the oceanic rumbling of the wind through the leaves. The world was so quiet that even the rustling of my backpack was startling; the trees whispered, always seeming to fall quiet when I turned to look. This place definitely gave me tingles! The complete lack of humans combined with the company of such an imposing expanse of woodland was powerful and precious.

However, the tranquility morphed into spookiness about the same time that the sun set...go figure. So I scampered back to my rental car and drove to the "town" of Walpole. My hostel turned out to be little more than a glorified trailer park; sadly, I did not rank a double-wide. All facilities were outdoors, and I appeared to be the only guest. When I asked about food I was directed to the local gas station which "should be open if [I] hurr[ied]." After stocking up on delicious junk food, I returned to my trailer to enjoy the one luxury it could offer: a space-heater! For the first time since returning to Australia I was blissfully warm and ensconced in my own room with comfort food. Ah, joy!

The next time I awoke at the mythical time of 5am and drove back towards Albany. Who knew people could do that? Huh. Along the way I pulled off to a beach called Peaceful Bay to watch the sun rise. It was, as promised, quite peaceful. I crouched on a shadowed sand dune while the sturdy roots of beach grasses dangled from above. The massive carcasses of seaweed monsters lay beached along the shore; seaguls fought over their bodies and drunkenly dipped and twisted through the air. Slowly, the sun began peeking over the clouds.

I realized then that I had touched every ocean except those at the poles. How did the Indian Ocean compare to the sunny Pacific or the yawning Atlantic? From where I sat, I was at first inclined to say it was more peaceful: the waves at Peaceful Bay were breaking far out from the beach making the waters more like caresses than waves. But that was just the lay of the land in this area. What was the character of the whole ocean? The more I thought, the more I noticed that everything touched by the Indian Ocean is exotic, feral with its own beauty. The scented shores of India, the wilds of the African coast, and the green splendor of Western Australia all made the character of the Indian Ocean something truly unique.

All told, I spent a little under a day in the Albany area. But in those few hours Western Australia became my favorite corner of the continent, and I can't help feeling that I will return someday.



*Clarky can be seen in public service announcements on late-night television (in between the one phone sex ad that keeps repeating).

The Indian Pacific: A Cross-Continental Train Adventure

Do you remember the evolution of a tantrum from when you were a kid? Where "I won't do it" quickly becomes "I can't do it" and horrendous sobs over the injustice of it all result from being forced? That's how I felt about the smelly guy who took the seat next to me at the Adelaide stop. He didn't simply reek, oh no! He exuded the nearly-tangible odor of the bog of eternal stench or the three mouths of Cerberus, hell hound - it was bad. I started developing complex schemes to escape the night: sleeping in the showers, staying up, pretending to read in the lounge car, etc. It was horrible! And no one understood except for those tiny violin players; thanks, guys, wherever you are!

Melodrama aside, train travel wasn't so bad. There's a lot more space to move around in than a plane, but that freedom is paid for by the slowness of the journey. My red service seat (coach) allowed access to 2 other cars: the dining car and the lounge. The dining car was a time-warped 1950's ice cream parlour complete with intense lighting, metal-trimmed tables, and rigid plastic booth seats. The lounge had a couple arcade games and several coaches so soft they bottomed out not matter how light the sitter was. The main source of entertainment came through the large windows. At times, the train would stop with no apparent reason (in that it was very like Denver traffic); we actually were letting other trains by. The Indian Pacific is a single rail line cutting across the Australian continent from Sydney to Perth, with a brief detour in Adelaide. The line was extended out to Perth as part of the deal to make Western Australia a province of the country; it was the first, and remains the only, transcontinental railway in Australia.

The land melts from city to suburb to dairy farms to bush to proper outback country. What's the difference between the bush and the outback? As far as I can tell it's a matter of life. The bush still has trees and kangaroos while the outback has no life other than the half-dead bushes and a few humans: the only creatures stupid enough to live out there!

Our first whistle-stop was at Broken Hill, also known as Silver City. Broken Hill is a true mining town: all of the streets are named after mineral, unions are alive and well, and the mines still operate. The town has served as backdrop for several fabulous films: Dirty Deeds, the Mad Max movies, and Priscilla: Queen of the Desert. Yet, despite all this glamour, it is a town coming to the end of its life. In 2001, when mining was slow, the council made a decision to prevent Broken Hill from fading into a ghost town: the entire town would become a "living museum." Old buildings were restored, porch roofs were re-attached to shops, and tours began. Call me a pessimist, but this plan seems flawed. A living museum? Museums are, by nature, dead; completely focused on preserving the past, they have no future. Broken Hill still cannot offer jobs to its children and so they leave. The community simply gets older, and no matter how they cling to the past, there is no stopping that.

The second full day on the train took us through the Nullarbor Plains; Nullarbor is from the Latin for "no trees." An apt name. The plains sit on a giant slab of limestone 30m deep and as vast as the plains themselves! The layer was formed by this section of land submerging and emerging from the Indian Ocean tens of thousands of years ago. The land is so desolate that bushes break the horizon instead of trees; it is flatter than Kansas, with the burnt-orange soil peppered by tiny blue-grass bushes and rocks. The clouds lounged lazily on the horizon - close enough to poke if you had the gusto to get there. As I mentioned before, only humans are crazy enough to live out there, and I met a few at the next whistle-stop in Cook.

Cook was an interesting little town. There was no official tour, probably because the town could be fully explored in the 30 minutes it took to refuel. Cook was once a boom town, but those days have long passed and now it is a simple refueling stop. This self-proclaimed ghost town sits in the center of the Nullarbor Plains. There is no directionality possible there without referencing the train tracks of the only street sign in town: pointing west to Perth and east to Sydney. What residents do remain seem to take their isolation and degeneration with an Aussie sense of humor: the town is decorated with aging signs carrying catchy phrases. "Save our hospital: get sick." "If you're a crook, come to Cook!"

There actually are some trees in Cook thanks to 6 men called "the men of the trees." A few years back, these men from Adelaide and Perth brought 600 trees to Cook to begin the "re-greening of Australia." Most have died since, but a few remain to offer a welcome counterpart to the surrounding plains.

Back on the train I listed to audiobooks and watched the barren sprawl. The motion was hypnotic, and even when we stopped I thought us still in motion; my eyes carried on travelling whether or not the train cooperated. As we moved back into the bush, the sun seemed to set with supernatural speed and cast purple shadows over the ground and trees. Our last whistle-stop was in Kalgoorlie for 3 hours. Two Singaporeans, Two Swiss men, and I attempted to romp around the town for awhile; it's not easy to romp in freezing temperatures when all the shops are closed! The best part of Kalgoorlie besides trying to pronounce the name correctly? Sitting on the lap of a man statue/drinking fountain named Paddy Hannan. Thanks for the drink, Paddy!

The smelly guy took pity on me and slept in the lounge car on our last night - I think I might have kicked him, ENTIRELY BY ACCIDENT...but a lot, the night before. Mwahaha! When I woke up the world was covered in fog but I could make out trees and rivers and green grasses. We had made it to Perth!

Cliff-Walker: Hiking from Coogee to Bondi

Time to hit the beach! Alright, not in the traditional way - more in the jeans and sweatshirt "geez it's freezing here" way. Today I joined a hostel tour of the seaside cliffs between Coogee and Bondi Beach. Coogee lays 8km SE of Sydney's city center and is a classic example of English settlers inability to overcome language barriers. The name Coogee comes from the Aboriginal word 'koojah' meaning 'smelly place'; this referred to the rotting seaweed that washed up on the shores and not the place itself. Ah well, at least the natives can get a chuckle about it. Bondi Beach is one of the most famous Pacific Ocean beaches, holding 40,000 sea-waders on any summer day. It is also the setting of a reality Bay Watch show simply called: Bondi. I believe slow motion running is involved on a near-daily basis.)

I ditched the tour group about 30 seconds after getting off the bus; there is no time for lunch when there are ocean cliffs to explore! They probably wouldn't keep up anyway. The cliff walk was a rock-scrambling good time that reminded me of family adventures to Great Falls, Virginia. The ocean boomed and sprayed against the rocks and a murderous wind kept shoving me towards the edge. Far below were men who should, if the world was a sane place, be in a mental institution and not surfing. The undulation of the water made me nauseous; it looked like a giant had grabbed a carpet and was shaking off the dust...in this scenario swimmers and surfers are the dust specs flying off into oblivion.

After Coogee, I entered a wildlife preserve warning against the disturbance of all plants, aquatic invertebrates, and fish; except grouper - nobody likes them anyway. The Aussies are incredibly cautious when it comes to the ecosystem. They do not allow food to be transported internationally or even domestically between provinces and their animal-quarantine laws are infamously stringent. Not that they don't have good reason for paranoia. Australia's ecosystem is the diverse on the planet, filled with species not found anywhere else in the world. But, most of these species have had to adapt to a very specific and harsh conditions and have not had to endure competition. When a more adaptable breed is introduced the world goes haywire. Take the story of the bunnies: In 1859, a brilliant man named Thomas Austin released 24 rabbits onto his property for hunting purposes...and now rabbits are invasive pests responsible for the extinction of several Australian species. So the Aussie care for environment is not unusual and there were several preserves along the path.

At one point in the walk, I found two ducks floating happily in a small pool while a tiny rivulet carried the water back to the ocean. My guess is that the pool fills at high tide each night and drains throughout the day. I stood at the brink admiring the clever little ducks when an aquarium exhibit flashed into my head. I was loitering at the edge of a pool...and the world's greatest ambush hunters live here! I jumped from the imaginary crocs into the safety of a large mud puddle at the cliff's edge. Ah, the cold clammy embrace of safety! How would a croc get up on a cliff? Listen, if you're going to bring logic into this when I've just escaped death, I'm not sure we can be friends anymore.

ANYWAY! Back to the cliff walk. The path wound into little coves full of fishing boats, through playgrounds and preserves, along boardwalks, through sea-side cemeteries, and always back up to the rocky cliffs. The entire walk took about 1.5 hours, mostly due to my dawdling over pictures and scenic views. It's a backpacker's delight: romantic, harrowing*, and informative all for the price of bus fare.

*Note: This walk is more harrowing for those possessing intense imaginations and little sense.