Feb 09 - Kings Canyon and the end of the holiday

The night after we feasted on the views of Uluru at sunset, our group got together for a big celebratory dinner at the Kings Canyon campsite. We enjoyed a meal of, oh yes, more burgers, then played some party games. It was a long time since I played any party games, other than drinking games or piling furniture on to people asleep on couches.

There was that old favourite the chicken game. We took it in turns gripping a rubber ball between our knees and trying to chicken-walk along the ground to drop it in a cup; I got an excellent video of my dad doing this. Then there was the kangaroos and emus game, which involved going outside and pretending to be, erm, kangaroos and emus; then the circle of truth, where we formed a giant circle then each person took turns to stand in the centre and perform some special feat.

I told a joke about ducks and Bill Withers, and Anthony entertained us with his vast array of barcode and US highways trivia. We’re very fun people to be around obviously. I like evenings like those – the games were pretty unimaginative but we were making our own entertainment, like they did in the old days. Finding enjoyment from the surroundings, be it playing daft games or killing things in new and inventive ways, seems like a big part of life in the bush.

After darkness fell, Nick told us (almost as an afterthought) that part of the camp was haunted by sinister tribal spirits; people waking in their sleep were sometimes panicked to feel an invisible force pinning them to the ground. I took it with a pinch of salt, as Aussies have a bit of a reputation for bullshitting visitors about made-up scary monsters. But then we got a chance to see if the myth was true, spending another night sleeping out under the stars in swag-bags! Nothing happened, though we hid our shoes from the dingoes as a precaution.

And so the next morning dawned, and we did a big hike round Kings Canyon. Epic scenery, rock formations, wind erosion, wild plants, blah blah blah. More of the same and I loved it, but there just aren’t enough words in the English language for me to describe this awesome experience without repeating words I’ve written about the Grampians National Park and Flinders Ranges, etc. We had been utterly spoilt with great scenery in the last couple of weeks.

This was the longest walk we went on during the holiday and featured some tough climbs, particularly the fearsome Heart Attack Hill that marked the beginning. I liked the way it was named; no poetry, no bullshit, just a no-nonsense encapsulation of its identity. It didn’t prove fatal for any of us but it was certainly a steep unrelenting climb.

Once our group got up Heart Attack Hill we went along on level ground for a while, with the huge valley of Kings Canyon to our right and far-away scenery to our left, then we crossed a couple of bridges; then we went down to see a massive rock pool called the Garden of Eden. It’s a popular swimming spot but travellers frequently fall ill from the dodgy water. Lonely Planet recommended it for a dip, which shows you what they know I guess.

Then we crossed the Lost City, which is a plateau with loads of mesmerising patterned rocks. Nick showed us a plant which produces the natural equivalent of MDMA. He refused to tell us how to prepare the leaves, much to our disappointment! We walked along taking lots more photos of the horizontal rock strata. After all, when would we be coming here again? Most of us had filled our memory cards with hundreds of photos on this trip. A smorgasbord of colourful pixels to dine out on for eternity back home.

After three or so hours of walking we climbed down the opposite hill and that was it, the end of the hike across Kings Canyon. We boarded the bus for the final leg of the journey to Alice Springs. More driving through nothing, then we had a lunch stop at a roadhouse that kept emus in a paddock. One last emotional lunch of burgers and salad, the food we’d survived on almost completely for the past week. Clouds of flies descended on the food, ignoring most of it and heading straight for the tuna.

The bus carried on up the highway, passing an interesting turn off that led to a covert US military base. I was fascinated by all these secret goings-on in the desert. Apparently there are thousands of US personnel housed on this base – God knows why – and they get all their food flown in direct from America. Word is that they are all designated with menial job titles such as ‘gardener’ to hide their true identities. But if anyone asks, I didn’t tell you that. (I’m not dissing gardeners by the way, I’ve already got the CIA on my back after writing that.)

Soon afterwards the beginnings of a town appeared over the horizon. We had reached Alice Springs! The Stuart Highway, that friendly stork guiding us through the treacherous desert, was flying on to pastures anew – and sadly we would have to say adios. On the outskirts of town, the road bent through 90 degrees for the first time in a thousand miles. We stopped at a pair of traffic lights; again, the first we’d seen in a thousand miles. And suddenly we were back in civilisation, shops and houses and streets crowding all around us.

Nick did the drop-offs at the hostels round town; me, Anthony and my parents were almost the last off the bus. Esther was still sat there at the end, grumbling about some perceived slight from Nick. Some of the other guys would regroup later for a tour up to Darwin, but the four of us were glad of a rest from the constant activity, and also had two nights to look forward to in a big hotel.

After a quick shower everyone got together for a farewell party at Annie’s backpacker bar. There were about twenty of us who did the trip and we all sat at a long table and got uproariously drunk together one last time. Email addresses were exchanged. Verbal commitments were made to add one another on Facebook and tag each other in our travel photos. After tonight we would most likely never see each other again.

Nick came too and had some beers with us. He didn’t hold back either, he had the next day off and was evidently very happy to have a break from driving. The last I saw of my group, I was getting in a taxi and he was getting ready to lead them off to a casino! In my experience the point in a night out when your mates decide to go to a casino is the point where you should go home.

Anthony stayed out with them till the wee small hours, partying like the behemoth of high living that he is. Later he had to get the porter to let him into the room. I was passed out on my bed like a proper lightweight and didn’t hear him repeatedly phoning me. That night was a big blow to my confidence in my drinking abilities.

The next day it was just the four of us again. We lived it up in style, nursing our hangovers by the hotel pool. My parents went shopping in Alice Springs and my dad bought a fancy hat made of kangaroo leather. The hotel was really posh – it was the kind of place where you suddenly feel attractive and interesting because the staff are smiling at you, then you realise they have to smile at the guests in these sorts of places.

I went for a wander round Alice Springs with Anthony. There is a dried-up riverbed running through the town centre, the Todd River. Every year they hold a pretend yacht race on it, teams of runners carrying boats along the ‘river’ as a laugh. Like I said, in the outback you have to make your own entertainment. There were lots of Aboriginal people hanging round in the town centre. Having spent all this time in Australia it was the first time I’d seen them in any number.

The next day we flew out from Alice Springs’ tiny airport, to Sydney. We got the standard safety demonstration on how to use the life-jacket, despite the fact we didn’t pass over water at any point during the flight! We spent three days sight-seeing; checking out bare essentials like the harbour bridge, the opera house, the ferry to Manly etc. I’d been there before but it was worth the four of us paying a visit so my parents and Anthony could see the amazing cityscape and the unending panorama of harbours and coves surrounding it. We didn’t get the greatest weather, in fact it pissed it down nearly every day we were there.

Walking round Circular Quay we had a chance reunion with Matteo, the Italian guy from our tour, who was going about his mysterious business in Sydney. A man like Matteo, you don’t ask too many questions. Then the weather brightened up so we did a boat trip round the harbour. The trip was notable not so much for the views as for the tour guide’s strange obsession with Nicole Kidman and camp showbiz trivia. It was quite a good trip though – there are miles of dramatic views around the harbour.

Next we caught a long-distance train down to Melbourne and spent a few days by the sea in St. Kilda. We had literally come full-circle – by a weird quirk of fate our hotel was just over the road from the pick-up point on the Great Ocean Road tour. That adventure on Dave’s bus was now a distant memory from a fortnight ago. I was starting to realise that the holiday was nearly over; soon I would have to go back to farm work in the country.

St. Kilda had a strangely familiar atmosphere; due to its southerly location and colonial buildings it is probably the closest thing you will find in Australia to a British seaside town. Despite that it was enjoyable and relaxing. There was a harbour and a fun park and all the other stuff you get at the seaside. The streets were lined with endless cafes and restaurants, the maddening diversity of choice that is Melbourne’s trademark. The trams flocked here, bringing people to and from the city centre. We pottered round looking at trams and boats mostly, with my dad taking photo after photo.

We wanted more sight-seeing so we went on a winery trip round the Yarra Valley; a day of fine wines, haute cuisine and the painful experience of making small talk with posh strangers. Our guide, an enthusiastic wine buff named Orson, explained how the countryside was marred with bush-fires. Many of the vineyards were bravely staying open for business despite being in high-risk areas. The recent tragedies certainly took the fun out of the occasion.

And so we spent the afternoon going from winery to winery, sipping chilled chardonnay and staring at the massive plumes of smoke on the horizon. It’s easy to forget how massive the bush-fires were, and many people living rural Victoria were affected. I detected an atmosphere of forced jollity among our group. A flowery Canadian tourist named Darcy held court over the table, rapturously praising a hit new musical based on the life of Shane Warne. His passions in life seemed to be the theatre and fancy restaurants. It was interesting to finally get to meet the coach party brigade, but I still harbour a Trotskyite mistrust of them.

That night, relatively sober despite all the wine, we went back to the city and met our friend Seana for dinner and drinks. We ended up in a karaoke bar, an abrupt return to working-class life after all the folly of the wineries. It was the final evening of our holiday and we had a few beers to commemorate this, followed by a few more. Anthony put in a rare appearance on the karaoke, singing Elton John’s ‘Your song’. I was not looking forward to this holiday ending.

The day after it was all over; time to pack up and check out of the hotel. We spent a long day hanging round in St. Kilda with our bags, drinking tea in cafes and watching the hours creep by with sad eyes. My parents took me shopping for new trainers in Melbourne – after all these years I can only be forced to buy footwear with the application of an electric cattle prod or parental shame. This was the last they’d see of me in a long time and they wanted me all turned out in shiny new school clothes.

That evening we got a cab to the city and enjoyed dinner by the river one last time. My parents and Anthony talked excitedly of the flight home; it would be my last ‘posh’ meal for some time and I savoured every mouthful. I felt a mixture of happiness and sadness that I was continuing my strange wandering life while these familiar faces departed home. I felt a bit lonely to be honest, and not for the first time I inwardly wondered what the hell it was I was hoping to achieve from this trip.

We said our goodbyes outside Southern Cross station, a massive transport hub crouching under a giant freakish canopy of twisting metal. We exchanged hugs and then they were out of my life in a flash, speeding away in a yellow taxi, quickly lost in the sea of rear headlights. I headed to the coach stop, humming upbeat tunes and looking forward to my next adventure. I could hack this travel lark; loved ones coming and going did not distract me in the slightest. Probably.

While Anthony and my parents were spending a mind-numbing 24 hours on a plane back to the UK, I was going on a long journey of my own. A crowded bus took me on an overnight journey up to Mildura, a country town in Victoria that sits on the border with New South Wales. I was low on money and needed to get more farm work for my visa. That meant another stay on a working hostel and some serious hard graft!