A Dingo Ate Your Baby?

This Isn't the Steakhouse For Which You Are Looking

You’re more likely to find Roo, Emu, Camel or Croc burgers than you are to find an actual Outback Steakhouse in the real Outback. In fact, if you ask most Australians about the meaty chain, they’ll most likely give you a quizzical tilt of the head. Down Under, the “Outback” means a lot more than a large selection of steak entrees and spuds with chives and sour cream, it is a part of the country’s rich Aboriginal history. A vast expanse of rural terrain comprising more than seventy-five percent of the country, it is only host to ten percent of the population, mainly descendants of indigenous peoples.

Boyhood imagination knowing no bounds, I always wanted to walk amongst the bush of the untamed land, preferably with an ability to mellow animals with my stare. (“Crocodile Dundee here I come!”) From Melbourne, I caught a flight to Ayers Rock (Aboriginal name: Uluru), touted as the largest monolith on the planet. (What is a monolith you ask? I forgot so Ask Jeeves.) Uluru is believed to have begun forming under a sea bed approximately four hundred million years ago (give or take a few million). As early as fourteen thousand years ago, the Aboriginese lived in our around this sacred rock, as is evidenced by cave drawings still visible today. Technically, Uluru and hundreds of thousands of acres surrounding it belong to the indigenous peoples, but the tribes have given the Australian government a ninety-nine year lease for tourism (probably after a big night of drinking - more on that below).

For my first foray into the bush, I found an adventure tour company to show me the ropes for three days in the wild. I met twelve other explorers at the airport and we headed to a tent camp for the night, but not before catching our first glimpse of the main attraction at sunset. Unfortunately, Uluru was no longer an Aboriginal secret as bus loads of tourists packed into the parking lot for their photo opp with the rock as it changed colors at dusk. Hundreds of onlookers aimed their cameras, ready to rapidly fire off fifty digital shots in the hopes of having at least one with the brilliant orange and purple sunset hues. Low on the horizon, bone chilling winds began to blow and only the determined remained outside, away from the warmth of their waiting comfy coaches.
(Uluru at Sunset)

Returning to camp, an unexpected intergalactic body put on a splendid surprise appearance in full force. On the black horizon, a full moon rose, illuminating the desertscape so much so that the trees cast shadows on the white sand. At the direction of our experienced trip leader, Nevelle, the group sprung into action, lighting a big campfire and starting the initial preparations for dinner. This was not the deluxe tour where dinner was served on bone china in the Serengetti, this was the cut, cook and clean up after yourself tour. Nine Australians, two French, one German and one American made it happen like a well rehearsed team. Breaking out the chores equitably, it was a fun group, that enjoyed the work by talking about the world, places visited and of course, the World Cup.

It was on this first night that I would finally learn the origin for the saying made famous by Elaine on Seinfeld. Apparently, “A dingo ate my baby,” was a defense used by Mrs. Chamberlain in 1980 when her child disappeared from a campsite near Uluru. Her daughter, Azaria, was never seen again and a jury did not buy the “dingo” story so they found her guilty and Mrs. Chamberlain was sent to prison. Six years later, by another freak death (tourist falling from the top of Uluru into a dingo lair) police discovered clothing evidence, indicating that in fact a dingo (wild dog) had eaten Mrs. Chamberlain’s baby. Mrs. Chamerlain was immediately released and promptly sued the government, winning $1.3 million AUD for wrongful imprisonment.

Day two of the tour involved a second chance to see the full moon as Nevelle gave a gentle bang on each tent at 6 a.m. (still dark in the winter). Once again, the group fell in line, preparing a quick brekky before moving out to watch the sunrise at Uluru. Wind biting at my nose, I jumped around to keep warm begging the sun to make its return. At nine below Celsius, the sun seemed to take its own sweet time cresting over the horizon. When the sun finally did make its appearance, its rays turned a brown Uluru to a bright orange red. For a special and rare treat, the moon decided to hang out a little longer and we were witness to a simultaneous sunrise and “moonset”. “Is this the Outback or Mars?” I asked myself, as the grand full moon slowly slipped behind the red earth of Uluru.


After circumambulating Uluru and an obligatory stop at the “Cultural Center” (read tourist trap), we packed up camp and headed for a new campsite several hundred kilometers away near King’s Canyon. Along the way we were treated to a few “roadhouses” or local pubs, most frequently serving “Road Train” drivers making long hauls across the empty desert. A “Road Train” is basically an 18 wheeler (semi), with two additional trailers attached. They are basically semi-trailers on steorids with a whopping 62 wheels, something you might see in Mad Max, only they are very real and often hit speeds upwards of eighty miles per hour. Locals issue warnings to naïve tourists free of charge, “do not get in the way of a road train, they don’t stop for nothin’.”

Curtin Springs was our first roadhouse/pub/RV park/cattle ranch/restaurant/shop. It was a cattle town of about 1.2 million acres as advertised. The roadhouse was where it all happened, if anything was happening. Our group strolled in for some tough decision-making, which exorbitantly priced ice cream to buy. Four locals, leather brim hats capping their crowns for more than the "Dundee" effect, occupied four stools at the bar, each with his own “stubby”(beer bottle) before him. This was the shack to put down a few cold ones, talk about the weather, the livestock or the latest road kill.

Ordering ice cream would not be easy as this was the chance for the shop owners to harass the city slickers in a jovial manner. Ask what an abbreviated sign means, that’ll cost you twenty cents, no joke. Signs with funny country bumpkin sayings littered the walls and ceiling like a bad dentist’s office (is there such thing as a good one?) The place had lots of character and characters, making for a more eventful pit stop.

Arriving at our campsite near King’s Canyon, the group again worked well together, this time building an even bigger fire with wood we collected along the drive. Another evening of campfire sharing (enhanced with free box wine (red and white)) ensued before all retired to their tents.

Next morning, we started an early hike up, into and around King’s Canyon with a depth one third that of the Grand Canyon. Submerged beneath the sea millions of years ago, fossilized crustaceans can be seen frozen in time embedded in the rock surrounding the canyon rim. Another Mars like landscape, sand dunes, turned rock mounds, dot the canyon rim after almost two billion years of wind and rain compaction. Walking around park, the saying “older than dirt” took on a very real meaning.

Closing out my time with the group tour, our 4WD bus took us over 260 kilometers of an extremely rocky unsealed road known as the Merengue Loop. At the end of the rough ride, the group imbibed in libations and played pool at a local watering hole. Another bus arrived to take me and three other group members to Alice Springs, the nearest town with an airport. Parting was bittersweet as nine members of the group continued on for two more days, while four of us moved on to new adventures.
(Nev and I say goodbye.)

Never Leave Home Without It

Early the next morning I flew to Darwin, the largest city in the Northern Territory, which really didn’t seem that large. Fortunately for me it was a Thursday night, which meant the Mindil Beach night market would be in full swing. Just before sunset, I shared one of the famed Mindil Beach sunsets with many picnickers drinking wine on blankets and beach chairs. Orange, red, yellow, pink, purple, the setting sun’s colors stretched across the ocean’s surface to shore. It was a beautiful start to a fun evening. (Sunset at Mindil.)

Twenty feet off the beach, the festive Thursday night market was getting underway. A food stall named “Road Kill” served just about every animal I had seen alongside the Aussie roads. Croc kebab, Roo burger, Emu sandwich, you name it, this stall had it. But the food scene at the market went much further than the local asphalt lickers. Stalls sold tasty cuisine from around the world, be it Ethiopian, Greek, Chinese, Italian, American, Mexican, German and French. And with your favorite dish in hand, rows of handicraft stalls lined the footpath with local made goods from Aboriginal and Aussie artists alike. One stall even provided a “whipping” show, where different Outback cowboys would lash two whips at a time while strobe lights flashed on the quick moving leather. This was an art and food festival, Northern Territory style.

Figuring I needed all the mind clarity possible to stay on the right, I mean left, side of the road for the more than 1,000 kilometer trip into the Outback, I bypassed the after market festivities opting instead for some sleep before my self-drive camping excursion the following morning. Having had a taste for the great outdoors on tour, I wanted to experience it solo, with no prophylactic between me and the Outback. The most important precaution I could take to ensure success was planning.

I was up early the next morning, combing through my gear and supplies. The forecast called for a dry, temperate eighty degrees. Water, check, bread, check, peanut butter, always, headlamp, check, skeeter repellant, check, Aussie dollars, check, breakfast bars, check, clean underwear, nevermind. Everything seemed in order, and what I didn’t have, I could do without. Confident in my preparations, I marched down to the rental company to claim my 4WD. It was ready for me, gassed up, clean and ready to get dirty. I plopped down my credit card and driver’s license at the request of the rental agent completing the rental contract.

“Um, when does your license expire?” she asked.

“2008,” I replied.

“But it says 2003.”

I began to see my Outback adventure swirl around the drain. While I had no trouble renting a car in Sydney, “Thrifty Rent-A-Car” was requiring me to be in possession of a valid driver’s license. Totally ludicrous, right? (Wink) Having forgotten that I lost my wallet the night before my trip and therefore my current license along with it, I was carrying an old expired license. Oops, MAJOR SNAG. I had spent hundreds of dollars flying to Darwin, gearing up and now my trip hung in the balance on the minor detail of a driver’s license, something I could not solve overseas.

For all intents and purposes I was dead in the water. My only move was to plead like a whimpering puppy with the most honest harmless face I could muster. “Oh, shoot, I forgot that I was carrying that license. You see, the night before my trip I lost my wallet with my current license. I had this one as a spare, but I can assure you that I have a valid license that expires in 2008." As the words left my mouth, I didn't even believe myself, and it was the truth.

“I’m sorry I cannot rent to you. If the police pull you over and you don’t have a valid license, they will find fault with the company for renting a car to you.”

Darn, she was making a lot of sense, and I had nothing with which to counter. That was it, I was finished. One last plea, “I will drive very safely the whole way, two hands on the wheel. Plus I hear there are no speed limits in the Outback so why would I get pulled over?”

Not looking up from behind the desk, her fingers resumed typing in the computer. I figured she was canceling my reservation and I would now have to join a tour which would not leave until the following morning. One day lost and a few hundred dollars gone to waste. “The car is parked over there,” she said pointing to the white 4WD across the parking lot, “I’m not supposed to do this, but you seem responsible.”

“Oh, yes, I will take the greatest of care, thank you so much,” I said halfway out the door before a sense of job security prevailed and she changed her mind.

Fast on the road out of Darwin, windows down, hair blowing in the warm wind like a wild fire, my first stop was Litchfield National Park. (Below: Kids, do not attempt this stunt at home, it can lead to grave bodily injury. The driver pictured has rehearsed this stunt at least once.) Home to Florence, Tolmer and Wangi waterfalls, the Territory’s newest park is lush with green trees and a thriving bird and bat population. Swimming holes provide respite for overheated travelers when the “salties” (salt water crocodiles) are not around. On my visit, Wangi was closed for swimming as salties loomed in the depths of the appealing jungle pool. Still, Wangi did not disappoint, as a stellar sunset from the top of the falls gave me a front and center seat overlooking the park lowlands.

Before retiring to my tent for the night, I laid on the ground beneath the brilliant star filled sky. The Southern Cross was directly overhead and the Milky Way was thick with tiny stars normally not seen from the bright cities. Contemplating the magnitude of the universe, nothing seemed real, it was as if I was in a planetarium waiting for Pink Floyd to start playing. But everything was real, as real as it was in the late 1970s from the Yosemite trails when I backpacked with my Dad and Uncle. Of course, then I watched the sky intently, scanning for satellites and shooting stars, but now two decades later, I was trying to figure out how it wall fit/came together.

Well rested, the next morning I made a non-stop bid for Nitmiluk National Park, 270 kilometers south of Litchfield. Home to Katherine Gorge, I planned on kayaking for a half day down the Katherine River which meant I would need to get to the park by noon. In the absence of speed limits, that proved not to be a problem. At 170 kilometers per hour on the open road, long distances become much shorter. And ignorance sometimes is bliss as I pretended not to know the conversion of kilometers to miles per hour, two hands on the wheel, eyes scanning the roadside for unwilling road kill candidates.

With half an hour to spare, I pulled into the kayak shop to claim my vessel. Sunscreen applied and camera in a dry can (I sound so responsible all of a sudden), I set out onto a river so pristine that you can still drink the water, a rare treat these days. For three hours I paddled up river between the red canyon walls, portaging my kayak twice around rocky points where the gorge narrowed. It did not have the rush of the Colorado River to be sure, but it was beautiful, scenic and sparsely visited, save the occasional patio boat tour for the tour bus crowd. Nitmulik Park had the advantage of being far enough from Darwin that less people were willing to make the journey, thereby preserving its native habitat.
(Kayaking on the Katherine.)

Katherine, the third largest town in the Northern Territory, was not so pristine. In fact the three cities I visited in the Territory were economically depressed. Sadly, the largest sufferers of unemployment and alcoholism were the Aboriginal people, who seemed to be treated as second class citizens in the towns I visited. Comparisons cannot help but be made between the Aboriginese and the Native Americans. For 14,000 years, the Aboriginese inhabited Australia, but in the last 230, European explorers knowingly and unknowlingly contributed to their demise.

Alcoholism is rampant throughout the indigenous peoples now struggling to find their place in a modern fast paced world that has left them in the dark ages. Over the past fifteen years, some Supreme Court rulings have found in favor of Aboriginal tribes claiming that their land was unjustly taken from them. In some cases, the land has been returned to the tribal councils and in other cases, tribes have received remuneration for their loss. In either case, it appears that the majority of Aboriginal people have lost out, robbed of their land and now their culture vanishing into the abyss, joining the ghosts of the Inuit, Native Americans and Shuar cultures, to name a few.

Depressed town of Katherine in my rear view mirror, I was again full steam ahead toward my final national park in the Northern Territory, Kakadu. The world's second largest national park, is home to 280 bird species, 55 fresh water fish, 60 native mammals and 1,000s of plants and insects. It has the rare distinction of being both a Natural and Cultural World Heritage site.

With a short time to see it all and a few key road closures, I refused to travel the long distance without seeing two of the main attractions, Jim Jim and Twin Falls. A ranger explained that the 4WD roads to the falls were closed to all through traffic and the only way to see the falls was by air. Having left my wings at home, I found my way to Kakadu Air, where the only peanuts served are those you bring yourself. Deep in Kakadu, a dirt runway was home to one six-seater plane whose sole purpose was to give the die-hard waterfall junkies aerial views of the gushers.

("This is your co-pilot speaking, strap yourself in, it's going to be a bumpy ride . . . because I don't know how to fly.") Getting through security was a breeze, the safety demonstration was non-existent (fasten your seat-belts) and six people were soon taxiing down the red dirt road for takeoff. Watching the pilots every move from the co-pilots seat, I felt more at ease than usual knowing that any moment I could probably take the “wheel” and keep us in the air, at least until fuel ran out (yeah, right). Liftoff was smooth and at 1,000 feet over the park, it was truly a bird’s eye view.

(I really didn't want to use this door even though I had decent odds at a "water" landing, only problem being in the waters below were lots of hungry salties and last time I checked, they don't have a safety measure for crocodiles snacking on your limbs.)

It wasn’t the Serengeti with herds of wildebeest, zebra and water buffalo running across the plains, but it was a land of many contrasts, from swamps to rivers and floodplains to mountain tops, we could see it all. Banking the plane twice to the left, the pilot circled around Twin Falls and then reversed direction to do the same for the right side as if turning on a spit reaching from the sky to the ground. He did the same for Jim Jim Falls and then straightened out for a flyby of many sacred Aboriginal sites, explaining the fables behind them. Reliable as usual, the sun began its journey down to the horizon for its daily disappearing act. As darkness began to overtake the sky, the plane found its red dirt landing strip in the seemingly endless plains, delivering us safely home for the night.

(Sunrise over Yellow Waters.)

An early morning boat trip on the Yellow Waters billabong and a few visits to Aboriginal cave drawings later, I was on my way back to modern civilization. The Outback is captivating, even the fast moving imagery passing by on the highway leaves an indelible imprint on the mind. It is a step back in geologic history, a time machine of sorts, to a time before modernity, at least back to the days of the Wild West. You could spend years traversing the Outback and likely not run into another human. For lovers of the great outdoors, this is a land yearning to be experienced, not dominated. Give yourself a few weeks, rent a camper and take to the open road at your own pace, just make sure you carry a valid driver’s license!

(A Jabiru takes an early morning flight. "Look Mom no hands." Everyone dislikes a showoff.)

("There's my handbag, I've been looking all over for it." Saltie lurks in the Yellow Waters waiting for his bird of prey, literally.)

Happy Father’s Day to my Dad and all the loving Dads investing in their children’s future with love, patience and the passage of wisdom from one generation to the next.