Travels with George

by Vivien Fallows

Out of respect for the Anangu people, I opted not to climb their sacred site and instead strode out to circumnavigate the base. Just a moment, would I under any circumstances scramble to the top? Err, no. The plaques remembering those whose climb was their final adventure hinted at a less altruistic reason for staying firmly on the ground. So around the base I went.

  I think I must have chosen to walk in the opposite direction to everyone else as I walked alone except when passing people walking towards me. I eavesdropped on a couple of tourist guides as they explained the cultural significance of various rifts, gullies and Dreamtime rock paintings to their yawning audiences and watched the antics of some rather large lizards. Did I really expect to feel an electrical charge fizz through my body when I ran my hand across the surface of this sacred rock? Nothing. No wait, perhaps I did detect just the tiniest tingle of energy. On I walked, the earlier chill having been chased away by the morning sun. Stupidly it had not occurred to me to kit myself out with water, hat or snack. Fortunately, had I keeled over someone would eventually have stumbled across my prostrate body. Although I was in the middle of nowhere, thanks to tourism I would never be truly alone.

  Having completed the circuit I wandered into and out of the deserted cultural centre, unfortunately not one of the park’s greatest assets. Outside, in contrast, was buzzing. A three-day spirituality conference was being held at the Red Centre and the area was full of wafty, floaty hippie types wafting and floating around. The location had been chosen because of the spirituality of Uluru itself, plus the timing coincided with the full moon which also coincided with Buddha’s birthday: three significant reasons. To complete the picture, the sight of a few psychedelic camper vans lazily bumping along sandy tracks added a 1960s Summer of Love dimension to the desert: unexpected and fun.

  Amid all this spirituality and nostalgia taking place in an area known geologically (and incongruously) as the Amadeus Basin, I did wonder what the formations towards which we were all being drawn… actually were. Further scrutiny of signs and information told me that Uluru is arkose, a course-grained sandstone rich in the mineral feldspar. Whilst the ‘plum pudding’ shapes of Kata Tjuta are a conglomerate, comprised of basalt and granite pebbles, cobbles and boulders cemented together by sand and mud. Over an estimated period of 700 million years erosion caused by wind, weather and water has helped create these awe-inspiring shapes. Iceberg-like, much of these formations remain buried under the red desert sand.

  Returning to the hotel, I chatted to Matilda as she tidied my room and then had a bite to eat before flopping in a rather hot and sweaty heap. Not sure how high the thermometer had climbed between sunrise and early afternoon but lethargy indicated that the ascent had been steep. And it was only in this comatose state that I registered the significance of the chambermaid’s name. I hope people don’t start whistling or waltzing in her presence.

  When I originally worked out my itinerary I made choices based on cost as well as prioritising what I wanted to do and in amongst the ‘not to be missed’ slipped a few ‘sounds good’ without thinking the trip through. One such excursion was a dinner under the night sky, entitled the Sounds of Silence. Who would want to miss that?

  Early that evening, I clambered aboard another coach and swiftly registered that I was a lone singleton. Of course, this was a romantic evening under the stars. The now full coach had taken its time doing the rounds to collect couples from various pick-up points and so the sun had almost set as we headed back out into the desert. Night fell swiftly and the view from the coach windows was black. At our destination we emerged to find tables set out under the rising moon: a more romantic spot it would be difficult to find. A glass of sparkling wine and canapés broke the ice whilst we were serenaded by a chap playing the guitar. A change of instrument to the didgeridoo changed the atmosphere of the evening… we really were in the Australian outback. Then to our tables, I joined couples from Sydney, Dublin and Chiswick… the west London couple I had already chatted to whilst sipping wine. The eighth member of the party was the coach driver: my partner for the evening!

  At our table, I learnt that the husband from Chiswick was on a lecture tour as he kept asking his wife what the subjects were this time. I’m not sure that his forgetfulness bode too well for his forthcoming audiences but his wife reminded him firmly that this time it was art – circa nineteenth and twentieth centuries. From the way she spoke it wasn’t clear if the subject or the dates were in question: surely not art one year and astrophysics the next? Mr and Mrs Chiswick and the alliterative David and Deidre from Dublin had a mutual friend: the St Ives artist Anthony Frost (so art was the correct topic). I looked blank at the name and was not helped when Mr Chiswick described the red and black splodgy souvenirs in the Royal Academy gift shop as being reproductions of his work. No, I was none the wiser… although now I am. I returned home and did my research and became familiar with the work of Anthony Frost and found that I was drawn to the boldly coloured abstract shapes he paints. The strong shapes and pure heat of his chosen palette sing to me of the Australian outback, the never never. I couldn’t have been in a more appropriate spot to hear about the art of Anthony Frost. Perfect.

  After a dinner of pumpkin soup (it works better in soup than on a pizza), plus bits of the animals I was struggling to see alive – crocodile, kangaroo and emu – with chicken for the less adventurous, assorted salads, macadamia pie, coffee and port it was lights out and settle back to listen to a spellbinding mother of six teenagers describe what we were sitting under but couldn’t see because of cloud cover and a full moon. Aarrgh. In a lilting voice, which after that feast could so easily have lulled us to sleep, our astral guide took us on a journey across the skies, pointing out what could be seen of Orion, his belt and his two dogs. David made “I’m impressed” noises in my direction as I’d already pointed out the constellation to him (it’s the only one I know, but I kept that bit quiet).

  Next came the Southern Cross and its ‘pointers’ alpha and beta Centauri. A close neighbour of the Southern Cross, the Diamond Cross, was also visible and it was easy to see why the two constellations get muddled. The Australian flag is the Southern Cross and a mythical star. Next we were shown how to find due south, not as easy as in the northern hemisphere with the north, or pole, star: fascinating. I decided there and then that I should invest in an astral atlas. (Eventually I got an astral app, which I think I can make sense of… but gosh, what a lot of stars there are). Then we enjoyed a trip through the astrological calendar with as many constellations as possible being pointed out – from memory only Leo and Virgo were clearly discernable. It seemed wrong to wish that it hadn’t been a full moon but the light was just too bright to make it a top notch star spotting night. Nevertheless, the evening was completely magical.

  We returned to the hotel in time for a ten o’clock sociable nightcap; being a lone gooseberry had not been an issue. The evening was truly special. It was fun and informative and I was happily relieved that my companions had been both interested and interesting. Yes, travelling on your own is absolutely fine and that particular excursion gets a great big ‘tick’. I’m so relieved that I didn’t discard it as an unwanted romantic option.

  … Relieved it was outside my room and not in it…

  Ambling back to my room, I was halted in my tracks by the sight of a huge spider waiting expectantly in her equally huge, but scruffily straggly, tree-spanning web. I think I was looking at a female Golden Orb Weaver spider (aren’t they bigger than the males?) but my ability to recognise spiders from pictures is as good as my ability at identifying plants and birds, and this one was certainly a hand-span or two bigger than the one I’d seen in Sydney. Whatever it was, I felt it necessary to tip-toe past quietly, relieved that it was outside my room and not in it.

  Perth and North

  Saturday 27th April: off to Perth and Western Australia for even more adventures, but not before…

  Five in the morning and another ea
rly rise to again watch the sun strike the bulk that is Uluru. As we drove out into the desert, the moon that I had watched rising last night had almost completed its arc and was slowly dipping towards the distant horizon. Tumbling out at the viewing spot the chill in the air caused a sharp intake of breath: the weather was not as good as yesterday and there were many more tourists all vying for the best viewing spot. I took a few more photos of Uluru and again tried to see more in the changing colour than was actually visible. Have now decided that the shift through the spectrum of ochre is almost incidental as, whatever the shade, it is the sheer awe-inspiring bulk of this solitary monolith which magically lures the never sated photographer. On the way back to the hotel I spotted a lone dingo – as red as the Red Centre. Apparently true dingoes are solitary hunters but they will mate with any dog and it’s the resultant feral breed that is the troublesome pack animal. This was one of my first native sightings that wasn’t either lying sunny-side up or enclosed behind bars: result!

  Another leg of my journey was coming to a close and once again I packed George ready for the next adventure. Having checked out and bid farewell to my spider and Deidre and David, I spent a couple of hours wandering around the Ayers Rock shopping centre where I had raisin toast and coffee for breakfast, collected another two sets of photographs and made the odd purchase, including Neville Shute’s A Town Like Alice… a town which was a mere 440km away. Then time to catch the transfer bus back to tiny Ayers Rock airport for the Qantas BAe 146 flight to Perth.

  As I peered from the aircraft window, the enormity of the Red Centre really struck home as the desert sand with its smattering of salt pans remained visible virtually until touch-down at Perth. Australia is vast and I was about to spend time in its largest state: Western Australia. Referred to (unsurprisingly) as the ‘Big State’, Britain and Europe could sit comfortably within its borders. Geographically, this huge slice of Australia is sandwiched between the sparkling Indian Ocean along its western shore and an immense sandy nothingness to the east. A long way from anywhere, the benefit of this isolation is that it has helped to preserve unique plants and animals (how many would I see?) And the shoreline changes from the green and rocky southern capes to the smooth sandy beachscapes up beyond Perth (these I would surely see). My exploratory appetite had been whetted… and I would certainly experience the feeling of being ‘a long way from anywhere’.

  But first of all, welcome to the state capital. Arriving at Perth I found an airport only slightly larger than the one I had just left. Changed some money and managed to get a better rate than I had done in Sydney (I think) and then took a taxi into town. Wow! Did the driver talk so much to all his fares? It certainly wasn’t a conversation, it was a no time to draw breath monologue: of Goan descent, his number one son is an engineer searching the world for new sources of oil and making a mint; number two son works for Accenture and is also making a mint; his (the driver’s) brother lives in Sevenoaks, Kent where he is a shipping magnate and multimillionaire whose number one son is also making a mint but not in shipping, although he is about to go into shipping; number two son is a barrister… not sure about his pecuniary success. My driver is sixty-three years old and had been a pilot before moving into air traffic control and in his retirement he is now a taxi driver. His wife is of Canadian/Indian descent and has curly auburn hair and their number one son looks Greek. He showed me family photos – was he watching the road? I certainly saw an emu or two scuttling out of our way. He pointed out the Birdswood Casino and said that it was very respectable and therefore would be alright for me to have a flutter. He usefully described how to get to the best eateries and said umm the Ibis was clean but that was its sole recommendation. Phew!

  Saying cheerio to my new friend, I checked into the Princes Ibis on Murray Street and, surveying my surroundings, thought that to award it one star was being generous: my taxi driver’s lack of enthusiasm was probably not misplaced. In reality, the hotel proved to be more than adequate and (predictably) I soon found my way to the laundry room where I assessed the facilities with a now practised eye. As usual, the washing ritual required much energetic darting backwards and forwards to my room, as I lay claim to an empty machine, gathered the right coins, sorted my clothes into piles and bought a cup of washing powder with my dwindling small change. My room was quite a distance from the laundry room but when the bedroom floor shook I thought, Aah, final spin… and I was right. Hope those below the laundry paid a reduced room rate. There’s nothing sophisticated about the Australian washing machines, they are usually top loaders with hot, warm, cold options and that’s about it but they do work extremely well. Perhaps if my luggage had consisted of fewer books and more clothes, I might have spent less time carrying out a comparative study of laundry facilities and more time actually reading…

  With today’s laundry once again draped attractively around my room with perfected doss-house panache, it was time for a call home plus a chat with Matt who, in Sydney, was two hours ahead time-wise. Apparently Friday had been a bit of a struggle after an excellent and boozy ANZAC day. He was currently in the doghouse as he’d lost Alice’s party clothes whilst tidying up. With her birthday falling mid-week, they were just about to set off for her party at a pub we’d visited with a delightful and cosy garden tucked away at the bottom of a short flight of steps. Re-reading this, I assume/hope Alice was either reunited with her party outfit or a suitable alternative was soon found. Anyway, whilst they went off to party the night away, I chowed-down on a couple of lamb chops and then went to bed after a preliminary saunter around the block to get my Perth bearings.

  Murray Street proved to be an ideal central location, especially as that part of the city was constructed on a grid system making navigation a doddle, but the buildings immediately left and right of me were far from glamorous and a tiny bit seedy. Surely I was not passing ladies of the night…?

  Sunday 28th April: back in true tourist mode, joining an organised trip…

  … to cruise down the Swan River to Fremantle, visit the heritage markets, admire the city’s architecture, drive along ‘Millionaires Row’ and back into Perth through King’s Park. But first, the bells…

  Gosh Perth is quiet. Saturday night didn’t have much bustle so Sunday morning was bound to be even quieter. Wandered around the main sights on St George’s Terrace and then visited the Swan Bell Tower which now houses the twelve 18th-century bells which once rang out across London from St Martin’s-in-the-Fields and are immortalised in the Oranges and Lemons nursery rhyme: “You owe me five farthings say the bells of St Martins…” Parting with a few dollars, the leaflet I was given described how the bells had been rung in London in 1771 to celebrate Captain Cook’s homecoming after his first voyage of discovery, having made landfall at Botany Bay in 1770. Records show that the bells were in existence before the 14th century and recast in the 16th and 18th centuries. They are one of the few sets of royal bells and are the only ones known to have left England. The biggest beast is the 1726 tenor bell which weighs a hefty 1,480kg.

  With unusual good luck, they were being rung which unexpectedly made me feel a tiny bit nostalgic and rather a long way from home: a cousin was a member of St Martin’s ‘scrub club’ which prepares the crypt morning and night for homeless people to find food and shelter… a long and valued St Martin’s tradition. This was the only time in all my travels that could qualify as being labelled ‘homesick’: the moment in Melbourne doesn’t count as it was cold sore induced.

  … I shot up to the angels with both feet dangling…

  Putting aside my leaflet, I listened as the bells were put through their Dixons, Dodges and Double Bob paces. Naturally, as a campanologist virgin I had to have a go. Joining a small band of fellow tourists I quickly mastered (after a fashion) the treble bells and when (another) Deidre asked if anyone would like to have a go at the 728kg bass beastie, of course I volunteered. Applying my new-found treble skill to this monster required some red-faced heavi
ng but the clapper remained mute whilst I shot up to the angels with both feet dangling, cartoon-like, above the thigh-slapping audience gathered below. Descending from my impromptu vaudeville act I felt as if every one of my long-suffering vertebrae was now a good two inches from its nearest neighbour. Deidre no longer looked like a nice little lady, more a sadistic menace. She retrieved the bell rope from my shaking hands and with a nonchalance which set my teeth on edge proceeded to gently tweak the rope until the bell began to respond with a silent to and fro motion. As soon as the bell began to swing to Deidre’s satisfaction, she smoothly pulled down and away went the bell – booming out its magnificent basso profondo voice. I’m just glad I wasn’t given the tenor bell to play with…

  Next I wandered, or limped, around taking photos of buildings that were rather finer than those close to my Murray Street accommodation, before settling down by the Swan River with a flat white, which then was a relatively new coffee phenomenon. Mulling over the majesty of some of the buildings I had been looking at, I appreciated that their construction had been made possible by the influx of convict labour. By the 1850s the struggling incoming free settlers realised that help was needed if the country was to grow and flourish. Known as ‘ticket-of-leave’ men, British convicts worked on projects integral to the development of agriculture, shipping and the state’s infrastructure. They also constructed the historic buildings (both in Perth and Fremantle) I had been looking at. It was within these cities fine walls that an economy and state legislature had begun to emerge as Western Australia moved towards becoming the state I was enjoying today.

  As one o’clock approached, I ambled back to the hotel in time to join a tour of the Swan River and Fremantle. To begin with I was befriended by Tom and Peggy, Christian Malays from Kuala Lumpur. And as we edged away from our mooring, Peggy started talking to me, and continued without pausing for breath for the entire seventy-five minute cruise (Tom was rather good looking and I imagine very kind and patient). The conversation or monologue, the second I had listened to in two days, was surprisingly personal and not quite what I had expected to hear on a tourist trip – perhaps ‘women’s bits’ will suffice as way of explanation.