Goldie Lookin' Coast

The queue that led us to the Metropolis Rapid Transit (MRT) platform was small and fast moving. A short safety warning was issued to passengers before boarding commenced, but there was no reason for concern. The system was friendly, informative, and efficient. No-one expected anything to go wrong. No-one thought we'd suffer a series of earthquakes within seconds of the train leaving the station. A series of earthquakes that caused such devastation that we were unable to stop at the next station. Destruction that turned concrete to dust and brought cars from the street level into the tunnel next to us. The emergency lighting system kicked in and the evacuation warning sounded. An explosion was expected in the tunnel any minute, and this was the moment that the train decided to lose power and seal our fate. There was no escape. No hope for salvation.

As we readied ourselves for the end, a calm and reassuring voice came from behind the train. Almost before the words finished reaching our ears, our bodies accelerated away from their origin at tremendous speed. In 2 seconds, we had reached 100 km /hr and left the tunnel. An explosion behind us screamed out in fury at our escape. Our train flew up to a vertical angle before curving round and flying straight down towards the ground again. After that we flew through various loops & turns before returning to relative safety. The sound of everyone breathing in again was undeniable. The next sound was a unity of voices calling for an encore.

We had as just been on the new 'Superman Escape' ride at Warner Brothers Move World. Ignoring the rest of the park, we walked straight around to the entry and got ready to experience it all again. What a rush!

Elsewhere in the amusement park, we saw a 4D Shrek movie, had photos with cartoon characters, rode the Lethal Weapon rollercoaster, watched The Police Academy Stunt Show and escaped ghosts on the Scooby Doo ride. It was a trip back to my past. I couldn't stop smiling as similarities to a Disney World visit when I was 10 surrounded me. I may have aged 15 years since then, but I'm sure my smile was just as big, if not bigger.

‘Dreamworld’ on the other hand, has no cartoon characters or movies to give background stories to their rides. It is just a choice of pure knuckle-whitening, heart-pumping, pant-staining rides that you’re not sure if you liked or not, but do them again. The advertisements for the park goad thrill seekers into attempting all 5 of the most brutal choices on offer – The Cyclone, The Claw, Wipeout, Tower of Terror, & The Giant Drop. These varied in directions, speed, and duration for how they threw your bodies around, but to illustrate their pedigree I’ll explain what is involved in The Giant Drop (the highest vertical drop ride in the world): A slow ascent to 119 metres, hanging there for what seems like an eternity, before free-falling for 5 seconds and reaching a speed of 135 km / hr and experiencing 4Gs.

I wonder what it is that fascinates us as a species with experiencing things which trick our bodies into thinking we are in mortal danger. Is it a quasi-subconscious feeling of euphoria caused from still being alive after the event, despite logically knowing that you were never actually in danger? Does it go back to an innate sense of proving oneself that must be quenched by other means when partake of war is not possible? A test. A challenge of conquering our fears and setting new boundaries to what we can put ourselves through? Or is it something more dark in nature; a glorified method of self-destruction that is more socially acceptable than a vodka binge? Is it a fascination with living or dying that draws millions of people every year to theme parks like this?

‘Dreamworld’ is also the setting for the Big Brother Studios, a Matrix exhibit, a wild-life section with tigers weighing up to 250kg, 9m long pythons and an 8m long crocodile, and various other themed sections of fun. The rest of the rides offered slightly more complex ways of twisting, turning, disorientating, and speeding you into a zone of adrenaline fueled grins that were impossible to shake for the rest of the day. To make sure, we rode most of the rides at least twice and threw our bodies in every way possible. Thankfully, nothing was ever thrown from our bodies.

Our base for these trips was a place called Burleigh Heads on the Gold Coast of Australia, located about an hour drive south of Brisbane and 20 minutes south of Surfers Paradise. Some friends of Lucie’s were kind enough to put up with us for a few days while we raced around and saw as much as possible (thanks Theo and Nora). As well as the theme parks, we went body-boarding in Burleigh Heads, had a brief glimpse at Surfers Paradise (merely an excuse to see X-men 3 at the cinema), met up with Sarah & Gavin again, and spent a day in Brisbane.

'The River City' seemed like a very beautiful city, but we just weren't in the mood to see much that day. I’m not sure if was because of what we had already seen in the area, or just a tiredness that was becoming more draining with our continuous travels. We tried to check out a couple of local points of interest only to see a suit of scaffolding covering them. After that, we made a quick circuit through the streets and found our way to the casino. Lucie has an uncanny knack for winning on fruit machines and we planned to use this skill whenever the possibility presented itself. But that’s it. That’s all I could say about Brisbane.

The Gold Coast has seen a tremendous amount of development over the last 10 years and shows no sign of slowing down. The ‘Warner Brothers’ company is in the process of moving their entire film production operations to the area and building 30,000 homes for the staff. Elsewhere in the area (at the moment) are a dozen other attractions including Steve Irwin’s Australia Zoo, & Sea World. Sadly we didn’t have time (or money) to visit the zoo but assured ourselves we would have plenty of other opportunities to see crocs in their natural environment further up the coast. Our travels so far have varied from true outback experiences, interacting with nature, and seeing some national monuments. The stay in the Gold Coast was something different entirely. Just fun. No culture. No genuine Aussie experience. Just a few days of behaving like kids, not worrying, and enjoying ourselves. That's worth a stop for anyone passing through the area.

The Evolution of The Sub-Species Known As 'Hippy'

Byron Bay is one of those places in Australia that was always on the list. Anyone who'd been there recommended it, and every traveller who hadn't, said they were going there. We arrived slightly dazed and confused, as per every other morning after a night on the bus. Only this time, we felt that we'd landed back in the summer. The first words spoken by the hostel minibus driver were "You can leave your jumpers in the bus; you won't need them here." Time to break out the sun lotion, kick-back, and turn those grey-city tones back to beach-brown.

We had about an hour to explore the town before our bus would whisk us back to the hostel. In any normal situation this would be completely excessive for the size of the town involved, but this wasn't a normal town. This was the king of chill where the infinite supply of surf shops is only disturbed by a selection of hip bars. Everything moves slower here. Nothing is done in a hurry. In one direction, the road leads to rainforest & remaining ridges of one of the largest volcanic craters on earth, while the other direction takes you straight to the beach and a constant supply of waves.

What town could be better than this? Well, we chose to leave the comparative hecticness of this place for a town so laid-back that a koala would be considered an energetic resident. A place with even more reliable waves than Byron Bay, but without the trendy name and consequent draw of the majority of travellers. A place where people didn't dance on the tables (one bar in Byron Bay is famous for this), but where people have chilled out to the sounds of Jack Johnson & Donovan Frankreiter playing in the local pub. Jack fell so in love with this town that he has recently bought a house at the end of the beach for when things get too stressful in Hawaii.

After a few days of doing nothing but watching pretty views, DVDs, and our eyelids, we decided to jump on a bus to a well known hippy retreat. Nimbin is a town that dropped a trip in the 1970s and then got caught in a psychological trance that prevented it from moving forward. Arriving at the town has the feel of entering some kind of warped theme park or theatre town, only the props being taken reek of authenticity. And the constant offers of drugs don't do much to hide it either.

While some locals have maintained a consistent authentic look with acquiring new clothes every year, some appear never to have changed. Their clothes and their skin hang on with an obvious lethargy that barely conceal the paranoid eyes looking suspiciously out at the modern world.

The openness of the marijuana appreciation in this town is not exactly a closely guarded secret. It is well known to both travellers and native Australians and yet its habitual use is somehow able to continue. The only efforts to combat this began when the drugs became less socially tolerable and heroin was introduced. Suddenly things weren't so innocent & naive - restaurant and bar owners were forced to drill holes through their spoons to discourage addicts from stealing new apparatus. This method of cutlery customisation backfired though, when the tourists started stealing these spoons as memorials for their experience of Nimbin.

The government installed CCTV cameras along the main street to identify and later prosecute dealers, but how do you look for someone specific when everyone acts the same - virtually everyone positioned along the main street was selling. Even if one 'provider' did feel slightly paranoid by big brother's ever watchful eye, then they would simply move to a blindspot for the actual transaction.

Our problem with this place wasn't what was being taken, but the hostility we felt when we expressed non-interest in what was on offer. The whole town had the feel of a squat, as if the people had taken over and then decorated in their own poor taste. The 'museum' of the history and benefits of marijuana was a papier-mâché den for people to smoke out of CCTV sight. Not exactly up to the standard of Blue Peter. Most people had that tired look of street beggars, and were viewed with an apprehension of an approaching mood fluctuation that lay barely below the surface.

On the way back to Lennox Head, our minibus driver seemed desperately sorry that he was the one who'd taken us to Nimbin. He talked about the difference in responses of people that had been on his eco tours around the region and those coming back from Nimbin. He said that it had a genuinely pleasant past but didn't believe it had a future. The guy looked like a quintessential hippy with long blond hair, & a penchant for using expressions like 'dude' or finishing sentences with 'man', and yet he wanted to distance himself from the hippy retreat as much as possible. During our stay in Lennox Head we found more and more people that walked the same path and held the same views as the minibus driver. It seemed that while some hippies of the region matured, & found pleasure in the elements of surfing and conservation of nature, others just matured in the scale of drugs being consumed.

A City Surrounded by Beauty

In stark contrast to our perception of Canberra, we knew we'd arrived in a city the moment we stepped off the Greyhound bus at Sydney Central Station. A local cardboard supporter was being physically persuaded to enter a police van, while his equally vivacious acquaintances made their objections known. As welcoming a sight as this was, we decided to not hang about and left in search of a bed for the night. The usual criteria would need to be fulfilled of being close enough to walk to with bags on, but far away enough to not hear these disturbants ... and cheap. We hobbled along under giant brick railway bridges, across and then beside a 6 lane road, and accepted our fate at the arse end of Elizabeth Street.

The next morning we walked to the south-west-side of Sydney to hunt for some warmer clothes at the Glebe Market. The surrounding area was a gallery of graffiti talent that I found far more interesting than the shopping potential of a market, but we made it there regardless.

Luke met up with us in the centre and provided a quick tour of the city and its parks. The last time we'd seen each other was in Perth, before that it was in Thailand and next it would be in New Zealand. It's funny how things go.

With most of the notable landmarks securely stored on our memory cards we decided to take a train 2 hours west of Sydney to the Blue Mountains. This national park is 200,000 hectares of heritage listed landscape & it's name derives from the blue mist produced by the eucalyptus oil of the dominant trees. The area is a rich wonderland of crystal clear waters falling over yellow rock cliffs surrounded by a treasury of greens.

The base for our stay was The Flying Fox Backpackers in Katoomba - aborigine for 'shining tumbling water'. The night we arrived there, a BBQ was put on by the hostel - coincidental, not on our account. The lounge was a large gathering of deep sofas that surrounded an open fire. The bed had more covers than the song 'My Way', and the room was generously decorated to the level of a bedroom at home. We felt instantly comfortable in this home and didn't procrastinate on whether we would stay the previously debated extra night or not. The fact that the back garden was an eternal selection of walking trails through some of the most beautiful scenery we'd seen on the east coast was just a bonus.


Well rested, but emotionally hand-cuffed to the bed, it was with reluctance we actually left this place to explore. We ignored the main area of Katoomba and opted instead to explore the lesser popular vicinity of Wentworth Falls instead. For the next 4-5 hours we followed our feet along various paths up, down, and around the escarpments. Our conversation and surrounding views distracted us from thoughts of tiredness (most of the time), and we arrived back in Katoomba in the late afternoon. The potency of the shadow filling the valley was steadily gaining in size, and moved up the cliffs to consume the famous "Three Sisters" rock formation. As these were the pin-ups of the region, the surrounding area was pile of railing lined viewing balconies with swarms of tourists covering them. We grabbed the mandatory photos and swiftly returned to our room at 'The Flying Fox'.

Our time in New South Wales was limited so once we were back in the city, we wasted no time before resuming our exploration. The ferry to Manly was one of those things when the journey was more important than the destination, as it was the harbour views we were paying for.

Once our feet returned back to Circle Quay, we jumped on a train east to one of the most famous beaches in the world. Bondi Beach was the start of a headland walk to Coogee Beach that was similar in setting and views to The Great Ocean Road in Victoria - only without the apostles!

The next day we took advantage of the fortunate timing that had placed my brother's wife's sister and husband (or 'Gav & Sarah' in abbreviated form), in Sydney at the same time as us, & met for a surreal lunch on the opposite side of the world from home. They had climbed the harbour bridge in the morning and we were set to in the afternoon.

Fondly known locally as 'the coathanger', the bridge was opened in 1932 & is considered to be one of the '7 Engineering Wonders of the World.' Paul Hogan became a local celebrity when he was working as a painter on it. He managed to save a half-hearted suicide attemptee by hanging on with one hand and reaching out to him. He later returned the favour by bringing increased international attention to the bridge with his 'throw another shrimp on the barbie' sketch while hanging off the archway. Nowadays, the safety is so extreme that you are permanently connected to the bridge by a thick steel wire when climbing, and not even ear-ring or tissues are allowed on the climb in precaution of something falling and causing a traffic accident below. The downside of this was that we were not able to take cameras along to capture the spectacular views of the city.

My initial impressions of distaste for this city were transformed over 5 days into those of love. It was hard not to fall for a city that had so many famous and beautiful landmarks within, and even more areas of natural beauty surrounding it. A dozen surfing beaches are within a short train ride from the city centre to the east and unspoilt wilderness lies to the west. My only regrets for our time here were that our visit was not during the summer months and that we were unable to obtain tickets to a opera or musical performance at The Opera House. They would become further additions to the list of what to do and see on a return visit.

Politicians & Pornstars

When Australia became a federation in 1901, the newly unified nation called for a capital. As neither Melbourne or Sydney would submit to the other's claim for glory, the powers that be decided that a new city should be built in between them. An American architect named Walter Burleigh Griffin was then chosen to design the city, and the aborigine word for 'meeting place' was the inspiration for it's name.

Canberra is a very open, well planned, and beautiful city. However, it lacks depth of character and feels as though it was only yesterday that ol' Walt's design left the blueprint. This seems strange when you consider that it's nearing its 100th birthday, but not so when you look at the inland location, and thus disadvantages compared to the neighbouring cities of Sydney & Melbourne enjoying their coastal views.

So the politicians moved in with their families, but all the other intricate colours that make up the rainbow of most cities in the world never followed. That is, except for the pornstars & dope tokers. The reason for their influx, is that the Australian Capital Territory enjoys some of the most lapse laws in Australia regarding pornography and minor drug use. The cynics among us may stipulate that the catalyst for these leiniancies is that there is consequently no 'story' when a politician or a member of his / her family, is caught 'leg before wicket' or taking a lung full of Jamaica's finest. The truth, I'm sure, is down to another reason altogether. Really.

As soon as we'd found suitably cheap accommodation and fueled our bodies with adequate nutrician and energy, we stepped out of the hostel into the city centre and began strolling. That lasted all of 15 seconds before we decided to take advantage of the excellent bus network. Once we reached the other side of Lake Burley Griffin, we headed straight for the National Gallery. This offered all the usual questionable offerings of the contemporary nutcases / artists of today's world along with those of yester years.

Our interest here lasted only slightly longer than it take to consume a sausage roll and we made our way over to the science museum nearby. I grant you that the majority of the interactive exhibits here were (slightly) tailored more towards more younger visitors than ourselves, but as we were still feeling slightly dazed from a night sleeping on a bus, the level of thought & concentration required here was perfect. We burst into hysterics at our balance and coordination skills in the sports section, cursed the school kids in the games section, and threw out some shapes in the music and video hall. We left after being 2 of only 3 people attending an acted performance about liquid nitrogen, & aliens from the planet Zog taking over the Earth!!!

Canberra is an extremely well planned capital, but lacks a lot of critical elements necessary for me to feel comfortable calling it a city. It feels more like a movie set that we were taking a private tour of. From the novelty grass roof of parliament to the artificial lake, and it's 140m memorial jet of water shooting out of it, the place doesn't feel quite right. Or maybe my opinion on this is simply attributable to a lack of sleep and thus similar viewpoint to insomniacs where everything seems unreal, far away, a copy of a copy. Whatever the reason, I would urge anyone to go there if they are in the area, for the simple reason of seeing the capital, but not stay longer than is necessary to 'take the tour'.

The Fashion Capital & It's Dwindling Apostles

We landed in Melbourne to find that Winter had taken an earlier flight and was there to greet us. As we broke cloud cover during landing, a familiar sight of grey / green haze spread out in all directions and it felt like returning to England.

We left the airport as soon as all bags were collected, and made our way to Lucie's relative's house, on the east side of Melbourne. Once again we were lucky to enjoy the hospitality of friends and could miss out the usual backpacker domains. It also provided the chance to test some of my Czech skills and to hear the language spoke in all it's indistinguishable complexity. I have much to learn.

Melbourne is one of a few cities in Australia that was not established by convicts and it's people are very proud to state this in every brochure. A good path of historical enlightenment is to walk 'The Golden Mile' - a route from one corner of the central city to it's opposite, passing the landing point of the first ship, major buildings of influence & consequence, and finishing at the museum. We breezed passed sites requiring an entry fee and slowed at those that were free. By the time we reached the museum, our time was limited to two hours and within 5 minutes of that, it became clear we would not see it all.

Now that the cultural side had been taken care of, we jumped forward in time to investigate Federation Square (the celebration of the 2001 centennial), St. Kilda (the 'place to be seen' for pretentious style seekers & backpacking 'Neighbours' enthusiasts), the Observation Deck (the place to see from), and the Crown Entertainment Complex (where films are watched & money is lost.) I paid $50 to enter a 10 seat Sit&Go Tournament of 'Texas Holden'. 3 people went all-in on the first round and set the pace for the game. I played conservatively at first until I was the 2nd chip leader and became a little too confident in my subconscious feelings of psychic ability. Luckily while I was losing money, Lucie was winning on the slot machines. $30 up when I found her, she increased to $80 up, and cashed in when still $63 in profit. Now that's teamwork!

After a few days in the city we hired a car and headed south west to 'The Great Ocean Road' - a ribbon of tarmac that precariously grips the hillside only metres from a steep drop into the blue. It is 300 kilometres of the biggest war memorial in the world that opened in 1932 to commemorate those who died in WW1.

A short distance from Torquay we arrived at our first stop - a beach that was said in one film to be the setting for "the biggest surf this planet has ever seen". I'd wanted to go to Bells Beach ever since watching 'Point Break' when I was 14. It is probably the most famous surfing beach in Australia and from the viewpoints on the cliffs, the reasons why, could be seen rolling towards shore in a non-stop convoy. With neither a surfboard or the skill we kept our visit to talking about (and quoting some film history), and taking a few photos.


We then drove on a widow-maker of a road that had more twists and turns that a 'Bush Gardens' roller coaster. Great fun compared to the monotony of the usual straight roads in this country, but not too enjoyable for a passenger feeling slightly sick whilst in a car that was racing against the sun. We stopped along route to see the Erkine Falls in Otway National Park and take a few scenic walks but we always had in mind the time remaining until sunset.

By the time we actually reached the '12 Apostles', darkness prematurely taking over courtesy of a blanket of thick grey clouds. Despite the less than ideal conditions to view this significant site, the beauty of it's setting was undeniable. The bold yellow of the cliffs must truly look stunning when against a clear blue backdrop of a summer's day. It would be nice to return here some day and see how many of the now '8' remaining Apostles, are still standing.


We spent the night in the town of Warrambool, which lies at the western end of 'The Great Ocean Road'. After a restful sleep in a caravan park cabin, we had an early start to reach 'The Grampians' - the 3rd largest national park in Victoria and said by many to be the most beautiful. Using Halls Gap as our base point, we drove around to various points and explored as much as possible in the hours we had allowed. A large proportion of the park was devastated by fire last summer and the extent of scorched earth could be seen from any of the viewing platforms. The reassuring element of this scene of destruction was the beauty of fresh green stems and leaves growing out from black bark. The forest dealt with the damage and moved on unswayed. We left just before dark set in, and drove against a barrage of rainclouds to get back to Melbourne later that evening.

It had taken a total of 20 seconds of walking on the streets of Melbourne to realise why it is regarded as the fashion capital of Australia. We felt uncomfortably under-dressed as we wandered about the city and desperately craved the money to buy some new clothes.

The city is clean, well organised, with excellent transport links (including a massive tram network), and seems a great place to base oneself in Australia. There are excellent surfing beaches to the south west, & beautiful national parks and wine regions to the north. We spent a total of a week in Melbourne and had a very rushed tour of the area. The tiredness of traveling was biting at our muscles and called for some rest. We spend some days doing relatively little and on others, enjoyed the simple pleasures of just laying in bed for the majority of the day. In one regard it was time wasted, but it was a fundamental necessity required to keep the momentum of our traveling going.

Feeling slightly refreshed, if not still a little disoriented from traveling, we boarded a night-bus to Canberra, and promptly undid any of the good we had achieved in rest.

Welcome to 'The Rock'

If you said "Australia" to most people, I'm confident that the two main things that would grace their minds would be "Ayers Rock" and the Sydney Opera House. For many years, it has been these dignitaries that epitomized, in my mind, the extremes of what I would encounter “down-under”, from the dusty red outback to a modern city. In 1993, Ayers Rock & The Olgars shed their European names and regressed to the traditional titles, "Uluru" & "Kata Tjuta”. I feel this should be mentioned to avoid any confusion over my use of the traditional names.


Since I was a little boy, I regarded “Uluru” as the unofficial ambassador of Australia, thanks to countless views of it in books and television. Now actually there, I hoped to discover a deeper insight into the culture that has surrounded it for the past 50 thousand years - to hear the legends and feel a new level of closeness available only through presence and understanding. Unfortunately for us, this information was not as readily accessible as we’d hoped for. The majority of the aboriginal legends are passed down from the old to the young, & some are kept strictly within specific families. This makes it very hard to learn much or appreciate why the area is so sacred. It also did little to dissuade us from climbing “Uluru” on our first day.


However, after 3 frustrating days of learning very little, one random question to the minibus driver set of a landslide of information that both gripped and surprised us. He’d lived in the area of over 10 years now, & has many aborigine friends. Over the years, they have felt more and more comfortable with him, shared some of their stories, and thankfully for us, he has chosen to pass them onto anyone who asks. The essence of what he said, was that although the “Anangu” (the preferred nomenclature for the natives of this area) are keen to share their culture, they will only relinquish a minimal amount to those that are only passing through. They do not believe they should give up such valued information to those that fly in on a plane, when their people have always had to walk hundreds of miles through the desert to get here. Ignoring this seemingly jealousness of innovations in aviation, the journey to Uluru has always been seen as a pilgrimage that has now become possible for anyone with a credit card. For this reason, photography is banned at 6 sacred sites around the base of Uluru and very little is shared to the general public outside of the cultural centre. The rock itself isn’t sacred, but is the setting for a number of significant zones. 6 are made known to the non-aboriginals, but 1 is kept secret. Much like, the city of London is not sacred but contains many sacred sites within it.

He told us a couple of legends and then went on to explain why the “Anangu” are against people climbing “Uluru”. The first (and most easily dismissible) is that Uluru is a giant marsupial mole and it is the animal’s back you are climbing on – of course it is. The 2nd is that the steep path from the base to the top (348m above sea level) is the traditional route taken by the ‘Mala’ – ancient & respected small kangaroo like creatures of old. However, the “Anangu” realize that we care for their beliefs on these matters, about as much as they do for ours. They also appreciate that it is a part of our culture to climb, to strive, to achieve, but it is not something they can comprehend. Life is hard enough without risking an abrupt end by climbing for the sake of climbing. A total of 38 people have died attempting the climb and each death has been met with great sadness by the “Anangu”. They believe they are responsible for us whilst on their land and as such any death will be met with the demise of one of their own.

So, why not just ban people from climbing? The driver stated that the “Anangu” know that “Uluru” is a billion dollar business. Half a million people come here every year and 60% of those, climb. If they banned the climb, the number of people visiting the area would decrease and local businesses that rely on this custom would suffer. A media frenzy would then ensue and the “Anangu” would be held accountable. Therefore, they are trying to combat the numbers on ‘the rock’ by signs and information. 10 years ago, virtually 100% of people coming here, climbed it. Roughly 60% do at the moment, and they hope this downward pattern will continue until climbing is a vague thing of the past.

Ignoring all the myths and legends, the most important reason why they don’t like people climbing is that the vast majority of people don’t respect the land. They urinate on it, drop champagne corks, and leave litter. These inadvertently contaminate the water holes surrounding the base and scare off the local animals. If the animals don’t come, the aborigines lose a food source, and are forced to accept government hand-outs to buy from supermarkets. People then look down on them and state they should get jobs like everyone else. But why should they? Why should they adapt to our way of life when we have no right to impinge it upon them? Because we feel they would be better off? Because we feel our society has more to offer them? 50 thousand years ago the aborigines of Australia were some of the most advanced people on the planet, but due to the effects of geographical constraints, they never progressed further. They are now faced with a monumental jump to take on a new way of life or be pushed further and further into the most inhospitable places in Australia.

It is said that anyone who removes a piece of Uluru will suffer terrible luck until it is returned. This is confirmed weekly by letters received by park wardens from people sending rocks back after suffering a string of unfortunate events. Similar misfortunes have been experienced by those who have taken pictures of the 6 sacred sites.

I am not a religious person but would say I am of the spiritual persuasion. I don’t hold much belief in the legends of the aborigines, or other religions for that matter, but it doesn’t mean I don’t believe in more than what is seen or heard. There is undoubtedly something special about “Uluru” & “Kata Tjuta” that has been drawing people to the area for thousands of years, and continues to do so. Like everyone else, we must have taken a hundred photos each of these rocks. We joked about taking each new photo because they are all essentially of the same thing (just another look at a red rock), but we continued to do it anyway. Sure, you can put an element of this flippant regard for photography down to the easy manageability of digital technology, but I believe it is largely due to something else - something that cannot be explained by science and can only be measured in degrees of faith.


The range of colours displayed by “Uluru” at sunrise and sunset was breathtaking on every occasion. Any slight variation in cloud cover or weather created freshness to the vision & an image different enough to warrant even more photos. And yet it is just a large rock (or monolith for the geologically inclined). Leaving this area, I realize that I still know very little about its true spiritual significance but perhaps that is one of the reasons why it remains so enchanting - a mystery for curiosity - to know about the unknown. Or perhaps, it truly has a power that is felt by the soul.

The strange thing about our little chat with the minibus driver was that it wasn’t anything about “Uluru” that was the most interesting, and even stranger considering what the point was. Despite there only being a small amount of information provided about “Uluru”, it is an infinite wealth of knowledge compared to what has been spoken about a more sacred site in the national park. “Kata Tjuta” is so important to their people that the women & children will not even look at it. There is nothing in the cultural centre, nothing on signs, and nothing in the brochures.

The rock structures of both “Uluru” and “Kata Tjuta” extend down to 6 miles below the surface, so it is actually only the slightest amount that is visible to people. This is very apt considering the amount of information known by white men about their cultural history.