Travel Bug:

The joint is rocking

No trip to the arid centre of Australia is complete without the obligatory picture-taking of Ayers Rock at sunset.
Now known as Uluru, which in the local native dialect means "bloody big gibber", the rock is foreboding enough but takes on a whole new spookiness when the setting sun turns it a bright red, a mysterious purple and then a very shadowy silhouette.
But you've got to be there at exactly the right time, and your reviewer is particularly proud of the shot at right. Come to think of it, for all the hoopla surrounding the world's biggest rock, it's not very pretty is it?
Now those of you well versed in all things Australiana probably have sussed out already that the picture is really not of Uluru at all. It's actually of two rather nice chaps, Paddy McGarry and Ian Slater, who live at the Ayers Rock Resort at Yulara just outside the entrance to the Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park.
As two of The Bug's travel and tourism team of reporters, we were at the rock a bit earlier, (see picture in bright afternoon sunlight below right) but, damn it, we had to rush back to the resort to take in the Wallabies-All Blacks semi final in the World Cup.
The way we looked at it, Ulu-bloody-ru has been there since the first Australians sheltered in its shadows and hunted the animals attracted by its run-off, and is going to be there for a wee bit longer. Watching the virtual final of the Bill Cup was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and in years to come, we reckon we'll still be having fond memories of the time we spent in the company of Paddy and Ian as we sent those Kiwis packing. So it was hoo-roo to Uluru and a fast trip back to the wide-open spaces under the tin roof of the Outback Pioneer Hotel beergarden, a stubby's drive from the resort's campground where we took our reasonably priced cabin for a few nights.
These two blokes swear by the centre: they've lived there for many years and think life couldn't be better.
Paddy does maintenance and cleaning at the resort and Ian is a local photographer. Apparently people like to get wed at the rock and the Olgas (Kata Tjuta), most likely at sunset and as long as a World Cup game is not being played. Ian stepped off a plane one summer morning many years ago. "It was 42degC and sunny. I said: this will do me!" Ian is from Melbourne. The only downside to our pleasant night with the boys was to observe the goings-on at the adjacent servery, which does the very touristy thing of letting people burn their own meat selection. This can be a very sad spectacle, and not just because the tourists try crocodile that no Aussie would touch with a 10-foot tine. I'll explain why shortly, but a telling anecdote first.
Not far from our camping destination the night before, we had unfortunately struck and killed a juvenile red kangaroo. I had hit the anchors as soon as I saw him in the distance feeding on the side of the road and although I would have only been doing about 140kmh when I finally hit him, the poor bugger died instantly. After checking to make sure it wasn't a female with a joey in the pouch, as you do, I remarked to my reporter colleague that considering dusk was at hand, and we were rather peckish, we should make the best of a sad situation and ensure this fine creature's demise had not been in vain.
She wandered into the red-soiled country and soon found a suitable desert ash sapling, a hardened piece of bark and some tinder-dry spinifex to start our fire. I dislocated the animal's hindlegs in the traditional way the local Anangu Pitjantatjara people have used for thousands of years, and using a sharpened piece of shale quickly had the carcass eviscerated. I left the unusable bits for the dingoes and soon had the vital organs wrapped up in the emptied-out stomach bag and inserted back in the chest cavity. I don't know what passing tourists would have made of this spectacle as I walked, whistling Dreamtime tunes, through the desert, animal draped around my neck, to where my companion soon had the ground oven well and truly alight. She tied up the animal's legs, again in the traditional method, and we chatted as she first seared the carcass all over on the open flame before laying it down in the hole and covering it for slow baking, as you do. Later that night, under a sky so dark and full of diamonds that it simply took our breath away, we feasted on perfectly-cooked skipee (once again, the local dialect's apt nomenclature) complemented perfectly by some native root vegetables and a delightful spinifex jus.
Now the only reason I mention all this is that we Australians know these things instinctively. It's why a barbecue holds no fears for any of us.
But back at the Outback Pioneer Hotel it broke our hearts to watch German, English and Japanese tourists tentatively taking their perfect T-bones and rump steaks over to the fired up barbecues and then proceeding to ruin their meals. I saw one bloke actually place all his salad-bar accompaniments on the plate beside his steak and then pour olive oil over the whole shebang before uptipping the lot onto the hotplate. He then proceeded to toss the mixture wok-like over and over again until it was burnt beyond recognition and the one slate-grey colour.
I couldn't help myself, wandering over and explaining as diplomatically as possible that he should have turned the meat only the once.

Don Gordon-Brown

Rocks in their heads ... Paddy McGarry and Ian Slater