…And on the eighth day God created Queensland and He saw that it was good. And he doth made the miracles of Fraser Island, the Great Barrier Reef, and the Whitsundays, for he needed somewhere to rest, and created a perfect 1700km of beaches and barbeques running from Brisbane to Cairns, then founded Oz Experience to take me on the pilgrimage, and lo! I was a believer.

…And on the eighth day God created Queensland and He saw that it was good. And he doth made the miracles of Fraser Island, the Great Barrier Reef, and the Whitsundays, for he needed somewhere to rest, and created a perfect 1700km of beaches and barbeques running from Brisbane to Cairns, then founded Oz Experience to take me on the pilgrimage, and lo! I was a believer.

If the big man does indeed live in Queensland then he weekends in Cairns. It has more wow factor than anywhere else in Australia with its beaches, nightlife, and the R and R of the reef and rainforest, and is the ideal place to start, or finish, a trip along the Queensland coast. Even the ungodly 7am start was a small price to pay for a ten day trip that boasts more highlights than a season of Dallas reruns.

Happily the bus was large and comfortable and allowed me to sleep through northern Queensland’s stunning scenery all the way to Babinda Falls National Park, home to the deadly cassowary and the God-sized Golden Orb Spider, which boasts a web so strong that boffins are researching its use for bullet-proof vests. Gulp. And no visit to the north is complete without a near croc experience, so we stopped at the spectacularly fun Johnstone River Crocodile Farm where crocs have reason to be nervous as they’re farmed for bags, belts and barbeques, and lie stacked in tanks like a bizarre pub-raffle meat tray.

Mick, the charismatic yet cranially challenged owner, amused us by climbing inside a cage containing a five metre croc with naught but a rake for defence, then after buying a croc claw key-ring, taking the obligatory ‘snake-down-the-trousers’ photo, and handling baby reptiles, I was bitten by a snake; a snake, admittedly, that was toxin-free and smaller than a pencil, but a snake all the same.

Still nibbling on my croc kebab, we passed through carpets of cane and bananas to Mission Beach, suicide attempt capital of Australia, where thousands of people a year hurl themselves from aeroplanes attached to little but a rather large hankie. The township has a pristine beach, rafting on the nearby Tully, and the chance to see wildlife on feral pig tours, but if its sun drenched perfection you seek, then Magnetic Island has a far stronger pull.

The island was named by Captain Cook after his equipment went awry as he passed by many centuries ago, and since then little has changed. Maggie still receives an incredible 320 days of sunshine a year, has one of the densest concentrations of Koalas in Australia, and is, quite possibly, where God decided to plant his deckchair. It’s the sort of place you visit for the day, then after a few beers and the odd wreck dive, you check your watch and find it’s already next month and your plants are in desperate need of a watering. I, alas, had but one night, so took advantage of Base Backpackers’ rubber-armed bar staff who generously helped me dodge sobriety, then after a hazy 2am plunge in the ocean, I woke feeling like it wasn’t just Captain Cook’s instruments that the island made spin. I dusted off the cobwebs walking to Picnic Bay and was rewarded with amazing views over the granite boulders and cobalt blue of the island’s splendid bays, before regretfully hopping the ferry back to the mainland and headed south to Townsville.

We followed the tracks of the cane train, the largest privately owned rail system in the world, through some of Queensland’s most fertile pastures, where its possible to extend your visa by killing a few months picking fruit, or you can save wear on your muscles and continue south to Airlie Beach to party the night away and head off on a cruise round the amazing Whitsunday Islands.

If ever there’s a photo to make your buddies jealous, it’s the one of you lying on the deck of a yacht, beer in hand, sailing on a perfect blue ocean surrounded by nothing but isolated verdant islands and babes in beach togs. I had booked my berth on Hammer, one of Oz Adventure Sailing’s super-fast Maxi yachts for a 3 day cruise heading wherever the will, and wind, took us. Smiling like a fool, I grabbed my goon (cask wine), ditched my shoes, and set sail into a perfectly sunny afternoon.

The Whitsundays are surprisingly compact with 74 islands squeezed into 100 nautical miles, so with three days to explore you can see an awful lot. We headed straight to Whitehaven, one of the most beautiful and photographed beaches in the world, arriving before sunset to see the impossibly white sands shimmer. Back on board the drinking games began, but the thrashing splashes from the dark ocean around us made sure no-one went overboard, although many went over the top.

The next morning we returned to Whitehaven for a healthy dose of beach games and sunburn, then raised the sails and headed to Border Island to snorkel in Cataran Bay. The multi-coloured hues of the fish and coral was a fantastic way to end the day, and the last night on board was spent much like the first; devouring the buffet and fighting off would-be pirates attempting to smuggle the goon bounty from within our Esky treasure chests.

The drive out of Airlie is the longest on the trip, but is broken in Sarina to play the deadliest sport known to man; lawn bowls. Although the name spreads fear throughout retirement homes across the globe, one suspects the triple-digit average age of the bowl playing fraternity is more likely the reason for this statistic than any bowl/cranium interface, but still it was with relief that, still breathing, we headed inland to Kroombit cattle station and a true taste of Australiana.

The coast is the main reason backpackers make the pilgrimage to Queensland, but no trip to the Sunshine State is complete without a trip inland. Tackling a goat muster on horseback is the most fun you can have in Australia without being arrested, and add to that a bar, open-fire meals, and the chance to see who is the mother-bucker of the group with rides on the mechanical bull, it is easy to see why those Brokeback cowboys are always smiling.

Back on the coast we continued south through Rockhampton, Australia’s beef capital and surely the only city in the world where the local council has had to nail bollocks to bullocks after tipsy locals stole them from the fibre-glass cows lining the streets. As we left the tropics the air grew cooler, and we stopped in towns lined with Queenslander houses to pick up new travellers and drop off old friends; the hop-on-hop-off bus being, for me at any rate, a great way to meet new people and try that chat-up line that has failed so many times before.

Rainbow Beach is the nearest settlement to what is quite simply one of the highlights this planet has to offer; Fraser Island. Local Aborigines were right when they christened it K’Gari (Paradise), and the island’s superlatives are well known. At 122kms, it’s the largest sand island in the world, took over 2million years to form, has half of the world’s perched lakes, and must have taken God a full day to create.

Not wanting to find myself upside down in a rapidly rising ocean on a self drive trip, I booked onto the Fraser Explorer 2-day guided tour and checked into Fraser’s Eurong Resort. Once on 75 Mile Beach, Fraser’s main highway and the longest airstrip in the world, we headed inland to the emerald green Lake Wabby, one of Fraser’s deepest (and coldest) lakes, then to Central Station, Fraser’s former logging industry HQ, where I walked beneath 60m-high Satinay trees growing miraculously out of the sand, and followed the impossibly clear Woongoolba Creek back to the beach.

After a great buffet lunch we headed to Lake Mackenzie, the postcard perfect lake you see in the glossy brochures, to find that, wow!, it really does look like that. Chemistry nerds tell us the sand is 99.9% silica, good for cleaning jewellery and 8 days worth of backpacker grime, and with no pollutants other than sun-screen and toe jam, the lake is amongst the clearest on God’s green earth and the perfect place to while away the sunset before hitting Eurong’s cheap and lively bar.

The next morning I skipped the sunrise in favour of braving an airborne hairdryer for the optional flight over Fraser. We flew low over the beaches and lakes, scattering fisherman like dice in Vegas, then landed amongst the jeeps and sea spray on 75-Mile beach and drove north to Indian Head. Once on top, the wind deposited my cap in an ocean foaming with rays and sharks, but if its safe swimming you’re after, the nearby Champagne Pools are the safest place to play and grab that ‘waves-crashing-behind-you-in-slow-motion’ photo. The highlight of the east, however, is the gentle, mellow float down Eli Creek; a crystal clear stream that discharges enough water every day to erase Brisbane’s drought woes. But after a few photos of the surf crashing on the ridiculously photogenic Maheno shipwreck, it was with regret we headed back to Hook Point and the ferry to the mainland.

From Rainbow Beach it is an easy roll through the über-cool resort of Noosa and the ethereal Glasshouse Mountains to Brisbane, the Sunshine State’s relaxed capital city, where the sun shines, the bars hum, and the Gold Coast’s famous beaches lie agonizingly close. And it was here, sipping a cold beer on the banks of the Brisbane River, that I realised what 4million laid back locals and a constant conga line of suntanned backpackers already knew; Queensland really is God’s country.


Andy Williams




“Hello my name is Bart, German for beard, and I’ll be your guide for the 1500km drive from Darwin to Alice Springs,” boomed the explosion of hair and mouth from the front of the tour bus. It was 5am on day one and already I was exhausted. I had thought the three day road trip would be a chance to loaf, but Bart convinced me otherwise;

“Today we’ll have breakfast with a movie star, tomorrow we’ll drink at Australia’s craziest pub and the day after we’ll see Satan’s balls!” It was going to be an interesting trip.

I dozed as far as Adelaide River where I shared an artery hardening breakfast with a film star. Charlie, the feisty buffalo subdued by Crocodile Dundee in the first movie, is an Adelaide River local and obliges bushman wannabes the chance to adopt the Mick Dundee stare. I did, and just like in the movie Charlie didn’t budge, but being long dead and stuffed that was always pretty likely.

South of town we hit true Australiana. Never having strayed from Australia’s crowded east coast, I was blown away by the emptiness; no buildings, no people, and the few vehicles I saw abused the lack of speed limit and flew past in a colourful blur. We stopped north of Katherine to collect firewood and ants, then entered the Territory’s third largest settlement to find that although not known for her looks, bless her, Katherine does have a very beautiful Gorge.

Nitmiluk is a string of 13 stunning gorges carved over millions of years by the Katherine River and is one of the Territory’s highlights. There are three ways to see the gorge; cruise through it, fly over it or canoe up it, and I was keen for some paddlin’. I grabbed my oar and jumped in, griddling my thighs and baking my beans on the black plastic seat, then set off with the elegance of a man with one arm, filling my craft with water and pirouetting daintily for several confusing minutes towards the bank, where a sign yelled;

“Danger. Crocodile Nesting Site. Do Not Enter.” I rapidly logged onto my internet and hacked wildly at the river, projecting myself backwards and filling my vessel with more water than a Russian submarine captain after a crate of homebrew. Even though there was more water inside my canoe than out, I paddled between the fiery red walls of the gorge with the sun on my back and a grin on my face like a juvenile Jason after his win against the Gorgons.

It was, however, hotter than ancient Greece, so when I came to the top of the gorge I dodged the birds of prey circling excitedly overhead and dived in. It was bliss, but better still the return was downstream, so I let the current carry me lest my cack-handed rowing result in a capsizing.

After a well deserved stubby I headed to a dry and dusty camp site where I encountered a plague of flies more persistent than any tuk-tuk driver or Indian skid-mark. Biblical Egypt never had it this bad and never before had anything got up my nose both literally and metaphorically. I then had a busy evening massacring a lamb bhuna and misplacing my shoes during a crate of heavies.

Mataranka was a welcome break with a groovy bar, cheap camp site and a natural hot spring that throws up 30.5 million litres of heated water a day into a sandy bottomed lagoon. The surrounding cabbage palms are filled with flying foxes which, when spooked, rise as one and darken the sky like that over London during the Blitz. Invariably where there’s bats there’s splats, and inevitably I got bombed, twice, on the head, so dived in for a much needed scrub and a soak.

After lunch we gobbled up miles of asphalt and amused ourselves by sharing hand gestures with road train drivers. ‘Towns’ along the Explorer Way started life as telegraph stations built on the track John McDouall Stuart forged through the bush in 1862 to connect Australia with the rest of the world. They now consist of a servo and a pub filled with hardy locals who compensate missing teeth with a wicked sense of humour. One of the highlights of any trip through the Northern Territory, however, is the stop at Daly Waters, home of Australia’s first international airport.

The airfield is now little more than a collection of derelict buildings clouded in red dust, but keeping the place watered is the eclectic Daly Waters pub, the oldest in the Territory, which was originally built to fuel airline passengers, but now provides road travellers with sustenance and merriment. It is famous for its eclectic décor and is one of the only places in Australia where visitors can add a little of themselves to the landscape. Travellers have plastered the walls with a montage of flags, currency, shirts, license plates, and underwear and feels like an explosion in a thrift store. I added my photo to the melee, grabbed an icy pint of frothy coffee, and headed to the beer garden to admire the flip flop tree and to wonder how many cane toads you’d have to lick to devise such a place.

Dunmarra, Elliot and Renner Springs all flew by in a blur of fuel, flies and ice cream, and the termite mounds burned redder the deeper into Australia we travelled. The humidity of the North End had evaporated and the vegetation had morphed from lush forest to dry spinifex. By late afternoon we arrived in Tennent Creek, a town of hardy folk brought to the area during the 1930s gold rush, where there’s little to do but join the queues at the bottle shop or camp at the nearby Juno Horse Farm; a place of red earth, water bores and Akubra hats.

After a briefing on what to do should a snake crawl in my swag during the night (apparently panicking is a bad thing), I slept under the stars and woke a little itchy having spent the night curled up on an ants nest. I also had hoof prints on both sides of my swag after a horse had escaped and galloped through the camp during the night.

“Today we’re going to see the Devil’s Balls,” tittered Bart over breakfast. The Devil’s Marbles, or Karlukarlu to the local Waramungu people, are an impossibly beautiful collection of balancing spherical boulders that burn bright red in the early morning sun; great balls of fire, indeed. They are so perfectly formed its hard to believe they are natural; the locals believe they are eggs laid by the rainbow serpent. I wandered between the rocks, took the obligatory comedy photo holding a boulder in each hand, then drove for hours along a perfectly straight road passing through Wycliffe Well, noted for its UFO sightings, and, unsurprisingly, the largest selection of beer in the Territory, Barrow Creek, and Ti Tree, then stopped to straddle the Tropic of Capricorn, before rolling into Alice Springs as the setting sun burned the desert a rich red.

“Welcome to Alice!” yelled Bart, “how was the trip?” Interesting, my friend, interesting.

Andrew Williams
Darwin <> Alice Springs



Think of Australia and you’ll inevitably think of beaches, sunshine, and Kylie Minogue’s derriere, but nothing is more synonymous with the land down under than Uluru; Australia’s geographic and cultural heart. Even though it’s in the middle of nowhere and notoriously difficult to get to, this tiny pebble, geographically speaking, attracts tourists by the plane load, so I headed to Alice Springs to see what else the Red Centre has to offer.

In case you hadn’t realised, Australia is big. Alice Springs is 450kms away from Uluru but is still its closest major settlement. I had always assumed Alice to be the sort of place that’s fun to leave, but it’s a surprisingly pleasant town in a striking location and well worth a few days of history and histrionics. The School of the Air, the Flying Doctors and McLeod’s Daughters all started life here and are worth a certain level of probing, but most exciting of all is that in Alice you can hire a car with more guts than a back alley stir-fry and tear along roads without the risk of being fined.

I got to the agency late, however, and ended up hiring a car with a hairdryer engine and rolled past the West MacDonnell Ranges on a highway carpetted with road kill, stopping sporadically to enjoy the attractions of a range that once stood taller than the Himalayas. Australians have a frustrating habit of keeping the best bits of the country to themselves so I’d never realised how beautiful the desert around Alice Springs actually is, especially at sun rise when the earth glows red. Simpson’s Gap, Standley Chasm and Ormiston Gorge are all beautiful spots, but let’s be honest, everyone goes to Alice to see the Rock, so I headed back to town and booked a two day tour.

We left before sunrise and headed south through acres of spinifex and emu farms to Erldunda where road trains sat cloaked in red dust like something from Mad Max. Driving in the Northern Territory is not for the feint hearted as out here size really matters, and with road trains growing to 50m in length, they rule the highways and will happily pebbledash smaller vehicles with dust and stones before casually tossing them into the bush.

With a reheated pie sitting heavy in my belly, I slept across the aisle of the bus and woke to find us lost in a vicious red dust storm as we pulled into Watarrka National Park, home to the Northern Territory’s most underrated attraction; the Kings Canyon. Most people bypass the canyon in their haste to reach Uluru, but at midday when the mercury tops 41°C and the canyon walls burn bright red, it has to be seen to be believed. The 6km rim walk through the beehive shaped domes of the Lost City and the incongruously lush Garden of Eden is like something from The Lost World. Prehistoric ferns and cycads grow stubbornly from cracks in the rock and bright orange skinks race to find shade. The area was once under the ocean and is etched with ripples and fossils, but the highlight is a stunning 180m high viewpoint where I readjusted my underwear after peering over the edge, then spent a good hour losing friends as I pretended to push people off.

By mid afternoon clouds had rolled in and our guide was salivating at the prospect of seeing waterfalls on Uluru. To me this would be like bumping into a movie star in Woollies and finding them without make up or a push-up bra, so initially I couldn’t share their enthusiasm, but as the sun dipped behind the desert and purple lightning cracked over the rock’s silhouette, I realised that if a guide was excited then I would be too.

We camped at Yulara, 20km from Uluru, and woke to a sky as clear and star-filled as Hugh Heffner’s swimming pool. There was an eerie hush around the camp site, more because of the 4am start than any spiritual reason, but after a breakfast of caffeine and adrenalin, I had my head out of the bus window, tongue and ears flapping in the wind, for the short ride to Uluru.

Since coming to Australia I’d spent New Year in Sydney harbour, driven the Great Ocean Road and dived on the Barrier Reef, but nothing comes close to sunrise on Uluru. It is just so quintessentially Australian, so beautiful and so incredibly unique, and the fact that Uluru is sacred to the local Anangu people means that you are not just visiting the world’s largest monolith, but a living cultural experience.

My first sight of the rock came as the sky lightened behind it, creating a mighty silhouette. It was hardly a unique experience as I shared it with hundreds of others who picnicked in the crisp air or watched with cameras poised on campervan roofs, but Uluru’s colour changes are legendary, so I watched in awe as the sun burned through the desert haze and ripened the rock from black to brown, to pink then red in a few short seconds.

I avoided the rock climb and instead braved the flies and wild dogs on the 9.4km base walk. It’s a misconception that Uluru rises from an empty red desert as it is carpetted with ghost gums and wild flowers and everything is vibrantly colourful. The sky is impossibly blue, the vegetation is lush, and the earth burns redder than a Barmy Army beer-gut. The rock itself is pitted with caves and scars and weathering has left it looking like a huge red skate park, but the Aboriginal culture is very much alive in the rock paintings and caves and it’s simply amazing to think that more than two thirds of the rock is still underground.

Just 30kms from Uluru, Kata Tjuta (meaning ‘many heads’ in the local Pitjantjatjara language) is an impressive gathering of 36 red domes that, although taller and in many ways more impressive than Uluru, receives far less attention. Climbing the domes is strictly forbidden so instead I walked amongst a rock formation nearly two billion years old and was blown away by the colours and culture. Rites are still performed here, meaning that Kata Tjuta is one of the planet’s oldest ceremonial sites in constant use, but our time was short so I retreated to the air conditioned comfort of the bus and headed back to Alice Springs, stopping briefly at Mt Connor, which in any other country would be a must see on any ‘to-do’ list.

Back in Alice, I washed the desert from my hair and shared a pitcher with one of my tour buddies,

“So what did you think,” I asked between gulps,

“Not bad,” came the reply, “but it’s still no pop star’s backside.”

Red Centre
Andrew Williams




You know you’re getting old when you’re getting up after a healthy eight hours sleep when others are still coming home from the pub. I was two days shy of my 30th birthday watching in envy as travellers were stumbling back to their Alice Springs hostels as I sat on the pavement waiting for a bus to Cairns. Maybe I was in denial, but it seemed that spending my birthday in the middle of nowhere was going to be more fun than drinking in the usual bars and clubs, right?

I was going to abandon my youth on the ironically named Plenty Highway; a road less travelled. Laurie, the friendly bus driver, put the trip in context;

"There'll be no phone reception or road junctions until we hit the Pacific Coast in three days time. If we see three vehicles in a day, that’s a traffic jam, and forget traffic lights, there aren’t any." This is true Aussie outback, a place so vast you can almost see the curvature of the earth, and where better to leave my twenties than the middle of nowhere?

We headed north out of Alice Springs, crossed the Tropic of Capricorn, and turned right for the last time before hitting Cairns, 2500kms away. We drove 850kms without passing a single town, car, pylon, lamp post, or office. If you drove that far in the UK, you’d fall off. Being English, the idea that you can drive for three days and still be in the same country is alien, but therein lies the attraction; it’s not about what you see, but what you don’t. It’s more about the experience than the sights, the dust, flies, heat and space; and one thing the outback has a lot of is space.

After a few hours of bouncing along corrugated red dirt and redistributing my belongings onto my neighbour’s lap, we stopped at a bright red, 200-year old termite mound, which, at 5.5m, is Australia’ second largest, and sticks out like a very sore thumb above the flat, dry plain. At 46 degrees it was hotter than Satan’s sauna, so I ate my sandwiches and flies and exhausted myself watching Laurie change a ten ton tyre by himself. This is Australia; red dirt perforated with snake holes burning under a deep blue sky.

After lunch, we passed through the Simpson Desert, Australia’s largest, where the only signs of life were watermills giving life to cattle stations larger then many European countries. I stopped at Tobermorey station, which, at 1.8million acres, is three times bigger than Luxembourg, and spent my daily budget on a cold Coke, then headed to the Queensland border five kilometres away. It was little but a cattle grid and a misspelled sign welcoming west-bound traffic to the Northern Terrritory, but still I straddled the border so that one cheek was on Queensland time, the other a little behind.

It’s amazing that anything survives out here, but Queensland was full of wildlife; lethargic kangaroos lazed in the shade, others carpetted the road like a plush road-kill shag-pile, and the odd emu ran alongside the bus before disappearing deeper into the bush. It was a long day that ended round a camp fire at Wirrelyerna Station listening to the Jackaroo yarns of the two guys who manage 2500 cattle and a few nervous looking lambs on a farm as big as New York City. It was a perfect slice of Australiana; the bubbling billy, the impossibly starry sky and a beer drinking kangaroo called Mary, and I wondered why anyone would want to miss this unique experience and fly.

Having slept fitfully in an air conditioned room I started my birthday feeling younger than my years and watched the sun rise as I opened my cards. We gobbled up the clicks heading towards Boulia through a plain filled with columns of spiraling red dust and clumps of grass that looked like a troll’s abandoned hair clippings. Boulia is a tidy town known for the Min Min Light; a phenomenon often seen hovering above the town shortly after last orders.

We drove through a surreal badlands of blood red cliffs and valleys to Middleton, a quintessential outback settlement more remote than England’s chances of ever reclaiming the Ashes, with a population of three (two larrikins, one dog), and plenty of tumbleweed. Being from Middleton, Manchester, it felt good to be home on my birthday.

Due to technical difficulties we skipped Python Gorge and headed straight to Winton, birthplace of the ultimate outback anthem, Waltzing Matilda. The friendly locals make the most of Winton’s fame; there’s a Swagman’s Café, a Matilda’s Fashions, and I was planning on heading back to open the Cooli Bar, but once you’ve been to the Waltzing Matilda Centre you never want to hear the song again. I tried to escape it at the North Gregory pub but it turned out to be where the song was first played so after a quick coldie we waltzed towards Hughenden on a blissfully tarmacked road.

As the earth changed colour, so did the termite mounds, and the grate on the bus’ roo bars julienned insects the size of small birds. The streets of Hughenden were filled with little but quaint Queenslander houses and fiber-glass dinosaurs, so I headed to the Western Hotel and shared my birthday, and a few cold pitchers, with the outback’s finest folk, and found it’s not just the sun but the spirit that burns bright in the outback.

Even cradling a hangover, the road from Hughenden to Cairns is incredible. Although the unsealed roads meant I spent more time in the air than on my seat, I settled in to watch Wolf Creek, a movie about backpackers being murdered in remote Australia whilst I was here, in remote Australia, backpacking. We stopped at the beautifully rugged Porcupine Gorge, had a lazy hour with a pie and a pint at the Lynd Junction Roadhouse, Australia’s smallest bar, then started the climb up the Great Dividing Range.

The change in landscape was remarkable. In a couple of hours we climbed from flat, dry bush, through stands of eucalypts, and into the lush rainforest of the Atherton Tableland. Such a profound change in such a short time was breathtaking, nothing more so than the change in colours from red earth to green and blue skies to grey.

But the best was still to come. We stopped in Wooroonooren National Park for a barbeque and walked through World Heritage listed rainforest to the staggeringly beautiful Nandroya Falls, where I dived in to wash away the dust of the last three days.

We rolled out of the tablelands into the black soil and moist air of the coastal sugar cane plantations, and headed north to Cairns, back to a land of traffic lights, phone reception and offices. It was an incredible end to an incredible trip, and once in Cairns I went out and hit the usual bars and clubs, because 30 isn’t too old to be rolling in as others are getting up, right?


Andrew Williams
Alice Springs to Cairns



Before coming to Australia, three commandments were handed to me from on high (from my Mum). Firstly, never mention Australia’s convict past. Secondly, never be coaxed into a debate about any sport in which Australia and England compete (because being English I would never win), and thirdly, and most importantly, never, ever sample the notoriously dangerous Aussie bush. Not because I might catch something nasty, but because something nasty might catch me.

It’s amazing that this continent was ever settled considering the number of lethal creatures that can bring a swift end to an otherwise merry day. Toxic jellyfish, man-eating sharks, and venomous snakes are all beasts best avoided, but I was on the search for Australia’s apex predator, a killer so perfect it has cheated evolution for 200 million years. I was heading to Kakadu National Park in search of the infamous Estuarine, or Saltwater, Crocodile.

Few places rival Kakadu for wildlife. The park has more species of lizard than the whole of Europe, is home to 2000 species of plant and 10,000 species of insect, and at the end of the dry season in October, the park becomes a bird nerd’s paradise with more tits, cocks and boobies than you can shake a duffel coat at.

Thus, I headed east from Darwin in a 4wd filled with tanned Scandinavians, past termite mounds, road trains and a very lost croc yawning lazily by the road side. At Mamukala bird sanctuary, our guide, Adam, introduced us to magpie geese, black crested cockatoos (worth a tempting US$40,000 on the black market) and a pair of brolga; the symbol of the Northern Territory. All very well, but we were looking for killers, so in a storm of bright red dust we shot to the Mary River and boarded a tiny tin-can vessel for a voyage into the Heart of Darkness.

I settled into a gentle meander up the mirror flat billabong, bumping into the park’s safe but boring animal and plant life; giant lily-pads, cute wallabies, and mangroves filled with jabiru and darters. I was itching to see a croc when our captain, Chris, began his commentary;

“Freshwater crocs are endemic to Australia and are relatively benign, attacking only when provoked. Salties, like that one there, however” he said, casually pointing to a violent eruption of bubbles off the port bow, “are different. Those monsters are the largest reptiles on this planet. They can weigh 1000kgs, grow up to seven metres in length, far longer than this boat, and will attack without provocation.” I was then that I realised I was breaking the third commandment and had I been in the water, I, too, would have been making bubbles.

Although threatened by extinction in 1971, crocodile numbers are again on the rise and the Mary River was full of them. To my right, two Salties fought over territory. In front, a four metre croc warmed itself on the bank. To my left, a row of Freshies lined up like tree trunks in the shallows. We were surrounded;

“A saltwater croc can happily snatch an 800kg buffalo from the banks of a river and drag it into the depths before it can moo,” claimed Chris, “and the pressure in its bite is greater than that in the brakes of a jumbo jet.” What chance did I, an 80kg man, have sitting in a boat just inches above the water? I had seen crocs on the Adelaide River leap three metres out of the water, so when a fresh set of bubbles disappeared under the boat I knew we should move on.

Kakadu is World Heritage listed for both its natural and cultural attractions, so after returning to terra firma with all limbs attached, I headed east to Ubirr, one of Australia’s best and oldest rock art sites. The area has been inhabited for fifty millennia, and is home to over 5,000 rock art sites, some of which date back 20,000 years. The walls and caves are wallpapered with amazing mouth sprayed stencils and x-ray drawings of goannas and barramundi in ochre reds and golds. It is a fantastic introduction to the culture and traditions of the local Aboriginal people, who regained ownership rights to the park in 19?

The day ended sublimely as I drank in the views over the termite mounds and wetlands of the Nardab floodplain, where parts of 'Crocodile Dundee' were filmed, to the red escarpment cliffs of Arnheim Land, until the heat left the sky. I then headed to the beautiful paper bark swamps of Yellow Water, where crocs inched silently through marble flat waters and mosquitoes the size of pterodactyls feasted greedily on my blood, to watch a sunset burnt red by the smoke from distant fires.

The night was punctuated by dingoes and wallabies foraging in the camp, and the 5am alarm call reminded why drinking and camp fires don’t mix. The day was going to be a tough one, spending the majority of the day on the road. At 20,000km², Kakadu is as big as Wales, and even if you covered inch of every road and track, you would still see less than 1 per cent of the park.

It took two hours to meander 60kms along dry creek beds to Twin Falls, where I boarded a boat and sailed through a burning red canyon on a creek filled with barramundi and turtles. The canyon ended where the falls crashed into a crystal clear plunge pool (no swimming allowed) by a beautiful white sand beach. It was true Australiana; beautiful and remote yet ultimately lethal.

Back in the van, we drove through the crocodile filled Jim Jim River, the last place in the park you would want to break down, and headed towards the fiery red escarpment of Arnhem Land. I scrambled over boulders and scree to Jim Jim Falls, the park’s most famous site. The falls are incredible, crashing 150m over a horseshoe escarpment into a crystal clear plunge pool; or at least they would be in the wet season, but in the dry, they are very, well, dry.

By 7am it had already hit 36 degrees, and although tales of unwitting backpackers being chomped in the park are legion, I stripped off to a criminally small pair of budgie smugglers and dived in. According to my brochure, the only safe place to swim is the public pool in the town of Jabiru, but the falls are monitored and the traps were empty, so I swam across the plunge pool and sat on a ledge where, in a months time, hundreds of tonnes of water would be crashing down on my head, and felt supremely sacrilegious having now broken all three Australian commandments.


Andrew Williams



A quick overview of the Blue Mountains Day trip and photos

Blue Mountains Day Trip
Joe Lang

• Blue Mountains blog and photos

As a traveller I think it’s important to learn about the different cultures of the countries you’re visiting. Knowing even a small amount about their faiths and beliefs will make it easier for you to adapt to the locals lifestyle and blend into the community.
As a traveller I think it’s important to learn about the different cultures of the countries you’re visiting. Knowing even a small amount about their faiths and beliefs will make it easier for you to adapt to the locals lifestyle and blend into the community.

So, in Australia I’ve felt compelled to down copious amounts of lager and have a Barbie at least once a week.

After four months of guzzling the amber nectar I feel like an honorary Aussie.

However, to become a fully pledged member I decided I had to go that one step further so I headed to Byron Bay and converted to their religion of surfing.

Getting involved in the coolest sport Australia has to offer is one of the best things you can do in Byron, the town famous for its fantastic surfing and diving courses.

Most surfing lessons take two hours and all companies offer you a full refund if you don’t stand up on your first lesson.

The experience is sensational, nothing feels as invigorating and exciting than standing up on a surf board whist riding a wave all the way back to Byron’s shore. You get more of a high from this than from the $10 so called ‘special’ cookies you can buy from the nearby druggie town of Nimbin.

Most hostels hire out snorkelling gear and surf boards, the popular party hostel J’sBay can even book you lessons if you’re not confident about testing the waves alone. The best surf beaches are at Clarks and Wattegoes, where as nudist action takes place at Benlongil Beach.

Julian Rocks Marine Park is extremely popular with snorkellers. Listed among the top ten of Australia’s dive sites there is an abundance of sea life, you can even swim amongst endangered Grey Nurse sharks during winter.

The alternative coastal town of Byron virtually encourages all visitors to embrace their inner hippie. The locals are mellow and the town, despite its crowds of tourists, appears friendly and welcoming.

Stretching from the north east NSW border to Queensland, the region comprises of quiet beaches, vast rainforests, vibrant seaside resorts and charismatic rivers and valleys. It’s no wonder residents are so happy.

The nonchalant atmosphere in the town is reflected through its shops and buildings. There are no high rise buildings and very few, if any, fast food giants. Instead everything is kept simple and quaint.

The best views of the town are at the Cape Byron Headland, where you can take a picturesque walk to Byron’s famous lighthouse and look out to the unspoiled hinterland and nearby world heritage listed national parks.

Between June and October you might even be able to see humpback whales. Otherwise, dolphins, turtles and stingrays can be seen from the cliff top all year round.

As much as the people of Byron know how to chill they also know how to party. The nightlife in the town centre revolves around the three main pubs and most notoriously Cheeky Monkeys.

Like the Woolshed in Cairns this pub operates on sleaze, sex games and anything that generates pleasure.

Challenges are set and rewards of beer jugs mean the place is always crammed, from the moment it opens at 7pm to 3am, with willing punters flashing their tits or baring their arses in exchange for booze. If only they realised you can get a free jug by simply giving the bar staff exact change when paying for drinks.

Despite the relaxed vibe in the daytime, Byron at night is best spent losing your dignity and taking part in the various games and dance offs kicking off in most of the town’s pubs.

Since the 1970s the place has nurtured a worldwide reputation for excellent surf, laid back living and a groovy nightlife. Looking like a scene form Woodstock, Byron Bay is one of the best places in the East Coast to relax, soak up the rays and have a fun time without getting bogged down by pretension that can often ruin big city lifestyles.

Byron Bay
Alexandria Gouveia
British Balls - Alexandria Gouveia travelled on Oz Experience to see Byron Bay
• British Balls

I’m sure, if given a choice, most people would like to have a heart attack whilst doing something spectacular.
I’m sure, if given a choice, most people would like to have a heart attack whilst doing something spectacular.

For men it would be at 60 years-old whilst shagging a glamorously sexy 20 year-old Miss Universe contestant and for some it would be after exploring the whole world and bungee jumping off the highest point in the most amazing place in the globe.

Although, neither of those options would be my personal choice, I know for a fact that climbing up some bloody stone steps aren’t my favoured preference either, but with my heart attempting to break out of my chest I feel I’ve got no choice.

Now I know why they call it the Heart Attack Hill. These giant, ledges are the entrance and only route onwards and upwards to the amazing Kings Canyon.

Getting to the top, especially at 6am, is a death defying defeat worthy of a Rocky air punching scene, if you still have any energy left.

However, once at the peak you’ll witness the best views of the red centre. I don’t care what anyone says about the sacred Uluru, Kings Canyon kicks its arse.

The sheer drops and edgy rock faces seem to allure gymnast wannabes to their death. Ok, I’ll admit, whenever I’m standing at a great height I do tend to automatically lean toward the border. I think everyone does.

Yet, doing a headstand off the perimeter is something that I don’t think is as natural. But it is exactly what two Aussie nutcases did, resulting in their unfortunate, if not stupid, deaths.

Hiking around the Canyon takes four hours however, due to its many contrasting sections you won’t get bored. Most of the places resemble a scene from Jurassic Park which adds to the excitement of the walk.

An oasis called the Garden of Eden is the best section to relax in. It’s a natural pool full of temptation, with young guys and women frolicking in the water. Look up and you’ll see ogling men risking their life, leaning precariously on the rim of the canyon desperate to get a glimpse of action.

Whether it’s labyrinths, greenery or sheer rock climbing, you’ll find it here.

King's Canyon
Alexandria Gouveia
British Balls - Alexandria Gouveia travelled on Oz Experience to see the Red Centre
• British Balls

Enough already, after visiting Uluru and Kings Canyon how much more rock can you really explore? It’s gets to the point where you just think, ‘I’ve seen it all before,’ which is precisely why I was so reluctant to climb yet another boulder.
Enough already, after visiting Uluru and Kings Canyon how much more rock can you really explore? It’s gets to the point where you just think, ‘I’ve seen it all before,’ which is precisely why I was so reluctant to climb yet another boulder.

With my ankle strapped in a bandage from a previous fall at a different rock, this climb up Kata Tjuta’s Valley of the Winds better be spectacular or else I’m opening up a can of whoopass.

We’re starting the walk at a painful four in the morning. After 11am the walk is closed at the Kalpa lookout, the best spot, because the heat gets so bad it fries your eyes, well something like that. I wasn’t really listening, like I said it’s four in the bloody morning.

The Valley of the Winds is one of the two walks open to the public. The 7km track circles around most of Kata Tjuta which, to my absolute relief, has some unbelievable stunning views. One of which I reckon if you snap could win you prizes at one of those minor photography awards. In fact, I’m sending mine off, you can win some good money at those things.

Located 48kms from Ayers Rock and standing 200metres tall, the 36 monoliths of Kata Tjuta, meaning many heads, are also called The Olgas.

The weathered red domes were discovered in 1872 by explorer Ernest Giles. Obviously as the founder you get to name the sites. But, missing out on the best opportunities to make up some ridiculous titles he named them after the reigning Russian royalty at the time. Very disappointing.

Ernest said of his discovery: “Mount Olga is the more wonderful and grotesque; Mount Ayers the more ancient and sublime.”

So I guess, no matter how much rock you want to avoid, you’ve got to explore at least these two in order to judge his comparison, which I personally agree with.

Kata Tjuta
Alexandrai Gouveia
British Balls - Alexandria Gouveia travlled on Oz Experience to see the Red Centre
• British Balls

I have a dream... At some point in the not-too-distant future, when I’ve made my first squillion dollars, my official residence will be an ostentatious and imposing home which dominates an exclusive hillside with a valley of poverty-stricken proletarians languishing beneath it.
I have a dream... At some point in the not-too-distant future, when I’ve made my first squillion dollars, my official residence will be an ostentatious and imposing home which dominates an exclusive hillside with a valley of poverty-stricken proletarians languishing beneath it. Aside from frequenting overpriced health retreats and brunching with self-obsessed socialites, who I can’t stand and who don’t really like me either, my daily routine will be restricted to berating my inept nail technician, panicking about which $1000 dress to wear to that charity do, and interfering with my jail-bait gardener.

Then again, maybe not. I could probably do the obligatory Aston Martin and Manolos, but cooing over co-ordinating Chanel handbags containing diminutive dogs in fairy frocks just isn’t me. I’d rather drink my own bile. But there is one thing the solid gold toilet seat clan flaunt that I would gladly sell my own grandmother for: the chance to don my deck shoes and rock open the boathouse for a day’s sailing whenever I wanted.

Not everyone knows someone whose friend’s dad’s cousin has a four-storey mega yacht that he’s happy to lend out. But there’s a reason Airlie Beach is such a mecca for travellers – a sailing trip to the spectacular Whitsunday Islands is a must-do, and it’s amazing how affordable it can be. People certainly don’t flock to Airlie no-Beach for the sand, sea and... sausages.

Azure waters

Chugging out from the jetty, the twinkling town lights slowly dwindled into the distance as my boat left the hostel drinking games and jelly wrestling far behind. Except for the low hum of the engine, the only sounds were the light hubbub of conversation and clinking of glasses as crew and passengers popped open some bubbly to break the ice. There was a good mix of people – a few middle-aged and up-for-it Canadian couples, a few dewy-eyed lovers and some backpackers, and we spent a good few hours draining bottles and sussing each other out before turning in for the night.

With the engine cut and no goon-fuelled hi jinx to interrupt my slumber, the motion of the boat quickly lulled me to sleep. I awoke the next day to a clear head and a cracking breakfast. As a newly initiated member of the diving world, I was really looking forward to getting into the water again, and after gearing up and finding a buddy, we were sinking down through the azure waters to explore the reef. When I did my PADI (Professional Association of Diving Instructor) Open Water Certificate, the visibility had been shocking – about half a metre – so it was really my first descent into a world that I’ve only ever encountered in dental surgeries as a prelude to root canal surgery. (Dentists take note – fish really are soothing, but I’d still prefer a general anesthetic every time.)

Lara Croft-style swim

After crashing unceremoniously onto the ocean floor, I inflated my BCD, then deflated it, then inflated again, and after much faffing around and bobbing about I found neutral buoyancy and floated weightless above the reef. The dive master motioned for us to follow him, and expertly finned away over the concoction of colour darting in and around the coral below. I followed dutifully, between narrow rock clefts and through murky twisting tunnels, twice getting my tank jammed and flailing pathetically until my buddy unhooked my gear and shoved me through.

Eventually we emerged into a chamber, where the light from the surface filtered down into the depths, slicing the space into great glimmering shafts. Dubbed the cathedral because of its cavernous size and ethereal glass window effect, it was more than worth the Lara Croft-style swim and is probably one of my favourite dives so far. (So what if I’ve only got eight under my weight belt? That’s not the point.)
The great thing about the reef is often you can see just as much snorkeling as you can diving, and it was after surfacing from a dive and getting back in the water that we spotted three majestic manta rays encircling each other; barely two metres below the surface. I’d seen a few reef sharks before, but watching those mammoth wings gliding gracefully through the water was just amazing.

Blood lust

The night dive was another first for me and was definitely an interesting experience, although the feeling that there could be a three metre tiger shark lurking just beyond the range of my torchlight was a little hard to shake off, and I did feel a little guilty for revelling in a brief spate of blood lust.

It all started so innocently... I was scanning the floor for resting fish, and once I’d picked out some bright colours in the narrow beam I kept the light trained on my new friend as I finned closer for a better look. No sooner had I started forward when a massive groper burst out of the darkness and swallowed poor little Nemo in one massive gulp. At first the sudden disappearance of my specimen was a source of annoyance, but soon I was actively seeking out prey for the hunters lurking just out of sight, quite taken with my new found god-like power. It was Roman Emperor syndrome: the “I choose you to be eaten, but I will let you live,” kind of thing. I probably got through five before I actually realised what I was doing, and that “cooo-el!” wasn’t the right response to subjecting animals to violent annihilation.

I was lucky I had hit the Whitsundays when I did – September wasn’t yet stinger season, so although the crew offered us the opportunity to hire a stinger suit, it wasn’t really necessary. They didn’t look particularly enticing – kind of like a svelte black baby gro for the discerning businessman’s weekend suburban shenanigans, but the definite no-no was watching the 70 year-old on our boat pulling one on. On his gangly and liver-spotted frame it looked less SAS frogman and more long-suffering gimp suit, abused for years and now sagging in all the well-worn places. Taking my chances with the jellyfish would be far less painful than that image, so I snorkelled au naturel and thankfully had no problems.

Nautical but nice

There were so many amazing spots to visit around the islands that you couldn’t possibly see them all on one trip, but amongst others, our skipper dropped us at the famous Whitehaven Beach, with its 98 per cent pure silica sand. The weather was amazing, and in between exploring the waves and some backyard cricket along the shore, the time passed far too quickly for my liking.

We did put the sails up once, but there was less than a gnat’s fart of wind and we did it more for the look of the thing than for any practical purpose. It would have been cool to wrestle with billowing sails and plough through foamy wave crests, but the calm meant the conditions were perfect for diving and I’d take good visibility over seasickness any day. And the boys did get to pull on ropes and look all manly and nautical while the ladies sunned themselves on deck, and that’s close enough to the OC for me.


Whitsunday Islands
Gemma Price
TNT magazine - Gemma Price travelled with Oz Experience to reach Airlie Beach and the Whitsunday Islands
• TNT Magazine

I have a lot of respect for cowboys. Any man that will sit bareback on a tonne of wild bull with no head or body protection, and nothing to cling to except a rope strap and a prayer, deserves some kind of attention. I’m thinking psychiatric attention.
They only have to hang on for eight seconds to get a qualified round, but when you’re sitting atop a whirling dervish of hooves and horns, eight seconds is a very long time. Thankfully there were no fatalities, but as the Mount Isa Rodeo went on, the backstage stands slowly filled with the walking (or hobbling wounded). Broken wrists, shattered legs, bruised buttocks and concussion... all fairly run of the mill injuries that go with the territory.

My personal guide to the events (the guy I pestered to explain the rules to me) was a bull rider himself, but had to sit out this time around because a year ago a bull had sliced open his neck from ear to collarbone and he couldn’t risk “popping it open again”.

Okay then. So who are these madmen happy to shell out $180 dollars a-piece (and risk life and limb) for this testosterone-fuelled hobby? Curiosity took me to Rockhampton, the beef capital of Australia, where the marketing slogan is “Eat more beef, you bastards!”. I have one of the stickers proudly displayed on my fridge, much to the annoyance of my vegetarian flatmate. Country life starts early, and after boarding the bus at 6am and driving two hours out to the station in the sticks, I was given a good breakfast and told to choose some farm clothes for my stay – mainly for protection from the sun which was already unforgiving at 9am.

I’d ridden a bit when I was younger so the morning horse ride wasn’t too nerve wracking, and I was amazed how sure-footed our mounts were as they picked their way through close-knit trees and down steep rocky outcrops completely hidden by scrub. “I used to go through here at full gallop chasing after cattle,” proclaimed our ruddy-faced guide, clearly a longstanding member of the vaguely insane cowboy club.

Lunch was another hearty affair (plenty of salad with the meat, thankfully), and then it was time for my motorbike lesson. Sounds innocent enough, but any of my friends will tell you that me and mechanics don’t mix. I haven’t driven a car for six years, and the prospect of having 150CC of power between my legs didn’t bode well. But, after a quick lesson and a few circuits around the practice field without licking the floor once, I was granted my “Myella licence” to take the bikes around the station any time I wanted. Feeling pretty pleased with myself, I swaggered up towards the house, but my good mood was soon replaced by unease. As I approached the building, I could see the feet of an animal protruding from a bag hanging from the fence. I know they do things a little differently in the outback, but coming face to face with “country ways” as they say, was still a little difficult. As I inched nearer for a closer look, wondering whether I could and should say something, another guest at the station rocked up and swung the bag from its hook.

“Want to help me feed him?” she asked.
“Huh?! Feed him to what?”
“It’s nearly time. Come on.” She set off up towards the house.
She didn’t look like a maniac – I suppose they never do – but I followed her cautiously to the outdoor kitchen, where she carefully put the bag on the floor.
After a few moments the legs slowly untangled themselves and out poked a tentative nose, followed by the paws and body of a joey.
“He was orphaned by a crash down on the road, so he has to be bottle-fed four times a day,” the girl explained.
Aha. No blood-soaked callous cattle station chore, then. And possibly the cutest thing in the world.

Someone had the bright idea of watching the sun set, so as newly initiated petrol heads, we revved up the bikes and floored it to the top field to watch the shimmering sun sink over the property. Once darkness had fallen everyone realised how knackered they were, so we hit the hay pretty early. Probably a good move as work started again at six the next morning when my toil of choice was milking the cows. We’d separated the calves from the herd the previous evening, so by then they were udderly good and ready to squirt. (Sorry, sorry.) Ted, possibly the most sarcastic farmhand in Australia, gave me a quick demo and then I was set to go. At first it was pretty easy, but after a while my hands started to ache and the jets of creamy goodness got more and more feeble. What can I say? Ted’s talents with hard erect nipples far exceeded my own, so I let him work his magic while I checked the chook pen for eggs.
Stupidly I agreed to help Ted with his farm chore that afternoon – the pump that supplied water from the dam wasn’t working properly, and basically we had to go and fix it. It sounded easy enough, and Ted said all I had to do was wade out and grab the pump hose tied to a float in the middle.

Although the dam water was completely opaque, Ted assured me that it was only a couple of feet deep and there was no need to take my clothes off. So I rolled up my joggers and stepped barefoot into the thick gloopy mud on the bank, gurning like a trooper as the mud squished and squelched between my toes.

As I waded out the water got deeper and deeper, and I was soon swimming fully clothed in seven metres of dark poo-coloured water while everyone sat bone dry on the bank, laughing.
Never, ever volunteer for things. I should’ve learned that
at school.

After another good night’s sleep – it’s amazing how tiring it is actually doing things – we saddled up for some cattle mustering. It goes without saying that we were pretty rubbish, but I suppose it’s only to be expected, and we did manage to round up the herd and get them through the gate. It took about an hour – not so much a jillaroo as ditheroo – so I don’t think there’ll be many stations clamouring to snap me up anytime soon.

And then that was it: cowgirl adventure over and back to civilisation. Admittedly, I was kind of glad to get my feet back on solid ground – John Wayne’s pained bandy gait wasn’t really working for me – but I was quite sad to see the farmhouse dwindle into the distance through the shuttle bus window. Cowgirl training to be continued? Very possibly...

Rockhampton
Gemma Price
TNT magazine - Gemma Price travelled with Oz Experience to reach Rockhampton
• TNT Magazine