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Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park, Australia
The western desert lives and breathes at forty five degrees
The most impressive rock formations in the outback take a back seat to their nearby, better publicized and clearly more popular neighbor (see below for that one). These are the Olgas, deep in the hot, radio-free Red Centre of Australia, a no (european) man's land where there is no speed limit to protect drivers and kangaroos alike. From this desert life rises the many heads of Kata Tjuta (which ironically means "many heads"), breaking the at times numbing horizon of the Northern Territories (or Northern Terror-Trees as it is most commonly pronounced).
A scaleless view of the rocks as they intersect with the vast, not-quite-as-flat-as-you-think-it-is outback.
Behind the Olgas, surprisingly lush and vast grasslands mix with trees and more red earth. Aboriginals, tourists, kangaroos, gas price gouging locals and fierce, evil flies are all attracted to the many headed monoliths protecting these secret valleys.
The classic, late afternoon view of the rock, over a thousand feet higher than its adjacent, well marked parking lot. Nestled in the middle of nowhere, safely protected by a nearly impregnable wood rail fence and guarded by evil, vicious flies; it is most certainly big, big, big and (at times) red, red, red.
Following the footsteps of Meryl Streep in the classic "a dingo ate my baby" movie ("A Cry in the Dark"), you can climb Uluru's steep trail, assisted by a familiar chain, all the way to the top of the rock to see more of the desert than you probably need to. The Ananagu (the local, oppressed Aboriginal people who technically now own the land, a fact that the Australian National Parks people like to remind you of constantly) have many posted signs asking you not to climb the trail. They like to remind people that the rock is sacred to them and they own the land, still the trail remains open and people do climb it. I chose not to, spending my time on less glamorous trails like this one at the big red base. I avoided the glory and peril of the summit trail thinking that it wouldn't be a good idea to offend anyone's gods at this point, and also look at what happened to Meryl Streep in the movie- who knows what that vicious pack of baby eating dingoes would have had in store for me.
First they don't want you to call it Ayers Rock but Uluru instead, then they don't want you to climb the rock, then the no fun Ananagu don't want you even taking pictures of one of the only actually interesting areas of the rock because it's extra sacred. For a hopelessly oppressed people with not that much going for them, they sure can get awfully pushy sometimes.
For the Outback's and quite possibly the entire Northern Territory's star attraction, there really isn't too much to do at Uluru. Other than the please-don't-climb-me-trail, there's only maybe three other trails- one circles the rock, one connects the rock to the visitors center and the other is a short spur trail through here, a green oasis under the blue sky by the red rock, guarded of course by black flies.
The legendary flies at Uluru (and throughout the small area of the outback I frequented) were vicious, evil, persistent and truly unbearable. Constantly looking for water (and seeking revenge for the millions of their comrades my one time white rental car gleefully massacred), the flies seemed especially drawn to my sweaty self, with no greater draw than the inside of my ears. First I tried anger along with uncoordinated swatting and swearing, that didn't work too well. Then I bought "tropical strength" bug spray, applying so much that it washed the numbers off of my camera's dial and destroyed my sunglasses. Even coupled with the anger and uncoordinated swatting and swearing, the bug spray proved a failure. Finally I resorted to this, the gift shop Australian hat and the net over my head. Despite the loss of personal dignity, the net and hat worked well (and after this picture, I did figure out that the net goes over the rim of the hat and not under it- thanks, graduate degree!). Now protected, I found myself vengefully taunting the little buzzing bastards as I walked about Uluru, appropriately enough on Halloween- a slightly different vibe compared to last year's Halloween at La Scala in Milan.
Two hours from Curtin Springs (where my room and board at the Curtin Springs Roadhouse was the polar opposite of the Peninsula in Bangkok in every imaginable way), and three hours from Alice Springs (nothing to see here, move along, move along), on a clearly out of the way side road is the not terribly popular Kings Canyon National Park. Speeding along past unlucky roadside kangaroos, driving with no speed limits on the wrong side of winding roads (just like home, actually) across the great red centre has its payoffs in places like this.
Not all outback creatures carry their young in sticky, disgusting frontal pouches.
