The Big Red Center

I know, I know....I did not spell "centre" according to Australian custom, but I can't entirely get rid of my American prejudices after six weeks here. Last Friday Jane, Ronald, Jayne, and I boarded a plane in Sydney to travel to Uluru and the big resort hotel complex that welcomes visitors at this isolated spot. We all got package travel deals, which included a stay at the "Lost Camel Inn," a pretty nice hotel as we found out even though the rooms lacked individual television sets.

The trip began by a limo ride to the airport courtesy of Ron's preparation arrangements, and before we knew it we were travelling far, far into the interior of the continent. I had no idea how vast this country is until that plane ride. It took over two and a half hours to get to Uluru, and had Quantas adopted the American airline custom of letting passengers try to subsist on a package of pretzels we would have starved. As it was, the ham sandwich they served up did not last me until the drinks came around.

The Ayer's Rock Resort complex is a really bizarre oasis in a desert that looks a lot like the area around Tucson. We had expected a moonscape of red sand, but the whole area was covered with strange little trees that looked like Dr. Suess had drawn them, and the dry washes gave host to large eucalyptus trees. Even though the soil was mostly red sand, batches of prickly grass seemed to grow everywhere, and we were all a bit surprised by this.

At the resort, we quickly found out that there was only one place we could afford to eat at, the Pioneer Bushman's Bar and Grill. It was also the only place you could get beer, which was cheap by the glass, but outrageous by the six pack. We went to this watering hole the first night to grill our own steaks and abuse the salad bar, and listened to a pretty good guitar player who seemed to know every popular tune you could think of from the last thirty years or so.

Most folks at Uluru book tour buses that take them out to the rock at dawn, dole out a ration of two cookies and a cup of tea, and then let folks wander around for a couple of hours. We were lucky enough to have booked our own car, so the next morning we drove out before sunrise to see the rock come to life. When we arrived at the viewing spot we found it crowded with tourists and the sunrise obscured with clouds, so we went to a parking space and began our seven kilometer march around the giant red stone. . It was quite an experience. The rock has thousands of pit marks where the wind and elements have eroded the surface, and periodically there are small box canyons where the sparse rainfall allows for some pretty substantial brushland growth. We also saw ancient aboriginal drawings in some of the caves, and paid heed to the countless "sacred site" warnings that advised tourists their cameras were an insult to the natives These warnings are second only in number to the admonitions that climbing the rock is also an insult, although the park managers alledgedly allow the practice to continue. I cannot imagine wanting to climb it. Even if the weather was hot (which it was not) the effort it would take to pull oneself up along a giant chain would be enough to discourage anyone with a lick of sense.

After our trek around the rock, we went to the "cultural centre" which was filled with more lenghty notices regarding the significance of the site to the aboriginal people and some of the most expensive "crafts" (read: carved sticks) on the planet. We tried to eat at the little cafe, but the sausage rolls they were serving were filled with the fabled mystery meat that you may recall from juinor high cafeteria days and other dining options were prohibitively expensive. In all, the cultural centre seemed to be designed primarily to relieve well-heeled tourists of their disposable income, without a word being said of the local geology or history of the place.

In my next post, I will describe the rest of our trip.