Australasia > Australia > Northern Territories > Ululru-Kata Tjuta National Park > Articles > Contrasts in a Red Desert

When a front tyre burst, I thought events could get no worse. Things had looked ominous as our plane landed at Alice Springs, and we were handed umbrellas for the short walk to the terminal building. We had arrived at the driest part of the continent and it was pouring. The problem was that three tropical storms were fighting it out in the Indian Ocean, and had sent a side-swipe across the north-western corner of Australia.

The dryness of Alice Springs is legendary, to the extent that it holds an annual regatta in which teams run along the desiccated river bed carrying their boats. Even during the rains of our arrival, the river was waterless. The town has grown rapidly in the past half-century, though it retains something of the atmosphere of a frontier settlement. It is a long way from anywhere else.

We checked into our hotel, decided to forgo the seductions of the casino, next door, and drove out to the Desert Park, considered by Sir David Attenborough to be one of the finest wildlife parks in the world.

No more than a ten-minute drive from the town centre, this is genuinely spectacular. Set amid desert scrub beneath the vivid, red escarpments of the McDonnell Ranges, it allows the visitor close encounters with the amazing variety of wild creatures that thrive improbably in a desert environment.

Three distinct habitats: sand, woodland and desert rivers were laid out and linked by two kilometres of pathways. There were birds-of-prey displays, enclosures containing kangaroos and emus, and a nocturnal house in which numerous small creatures could just be discerned scurrying about in the near darkness. An exhibition centre and film show illustrated the evolution and ecology of the deserts.

The following day, still in heavy rain, we drove the 275 miles to Yulara. Outside the towns, Australia’s roads are deserted and driving is a pleasure. The road to Yulara headed south for half its distance, then west, through endless desert scrub and sand so glaringly red as to appear almost unreal. Places marked on the map turned out to be no more than petrol stations, cafes or camel farms, and the land was the flattest on Earth. Birds were everywhere, from circling kites and wedge-tailed eagles to flocks of cockatoos and brilliantly coloured parrots and budgerigars.

The resort at Yulara caters for all budgets, having campsites, hotels, a shopping centre, restaurants and sports facilities. Yet the buildings are low and disappear amid the desert vegetation. Visitors come here to see Uluru (Ayers Rock), which even from a distance of ten miles dominates the view.

This day, however, it was invisible. We drove into the National Park. The modest fee entitled us to a 3-day pass to both Uluru and Katatjuta (The Olgas).

The Cultural Centre should be on every visitor’s itinerary. It illustrates the aboriginal culture and way of life, and its short film presentations and displays give one a necessary insight into the legends about snakes, kangaroos, and marsupial moles that surround every feature of Uluru, and have great religious significance to the people.

We drove round the base of the rock. The rain continued to pour and cloud hung almost to the road, occluding the upper 90%. Water rushed down countless channels, disappearing into the sand in some places, filling pools in others.

Many of the temporary water holes are the homes of frogs that hide in the sand, only to emerge for a frantic breeding season during the brief and infrequent wet spells such as this.

It was here that the tyre punctured.

I had it repaired next morning at a garage in what looked like a shanty town, five minutes’ drive from the resort. We then went to Katatjuta.

In many ways, this proved more impressive than Uluru. It was broader and higher, and cut by a series of deep, narrow gorges enclosed by all-but-vertical cliffs. Unlike Uluru, which is composed of fine sandstone, Katatjuta is made of coarse, stony conglomerate.

The Olga Gorge was a short walk from the car park. Its oasis-like floor was filled with dense shrubs and trees, and irrigated by a stream fed by numerous water courses that trickled down the walls. Many birds flew here, including a falcon, which ignored us to settle and tear apart its prey, no more than ten yards away.

Encouraged by a brightening sky, we returned to Uluru. The rain stopped and the cloud lifted. Over the next hour-or-so, the sun shone, and as it set behind us, cast its colours onto the rock. We were joined by a couple of hundred other people, who had come to witness the transient chromatic spectacular for which Uluru is world famous. We were not disappointed.

I rose at 7 am, next morning, hoping to climb the rock, but the climb was closed, because of the dampness. Instead, I walked around the base, looking at centuries-old cave art, deep pools beneath huge, beetling cliffs, and rock features that had their place in a legendary cosmology as rich and imaginative as any we have in Europe.

In two days, we had seen aspects of Uluru and Katatjuta that few others see. In the sunshine, they fulfilled all expectations. Rain, however, gave them another dimension: dark and brooding, perhaps even sinister, yet with an undoubted presence that we were unlikely ever to forget. In retrospect, we felt ourselves very lucky.

Later that day, we drove back to Alice Springs, this time through heat and unbroken sunshine. The scarlet earth of the desert looked even more surreal than it had in the rain.

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