A Slightly Exagerated Tale of My Near Death Experience

Uluru, formerly known by the white man's name of Ayer's Rock, is one of the 7 Natural Wonders of the World. It is the world's largest rock...and oh no, not a composite rock you geology fans. Millions of years ago it was formed from sand blowing off a crumbling mountain and collecting in a hole. It was compressed and turned into an underground rock. After some palatial movement, courtesy of mother earth, the tip of the compounded rock popped through the surface and created the marvel that stands today and is 10km in circumference and takes two hours to climb.

I know you think where I'm going with this - did I set out to climb this natural wonder? Did I slip, trip, lose my balance? Did I nearly join the 35 others that have died climbing Uluru since 1985? The answer is simply, no, so let's get that out of your head right now. My brush with death was not so sexy or glamorous, but perhaps of greater discomfort. It all started in a swag.

Swag (noun): Australian term for a portable shelter that is rolled, usually with belongings inside.

From Alice Springs I joined a 3-day camping tour to Uluru, Kings Canyon and the Olgas to take in Australia's most beautiful rocks. The plan was simple - drive hundreds of miles, hike around all day in the sweltering heat and sleep in swags under the outback stars. How could I possibly find myself feverishly close to a meeting with the hooded man in black?

The first day was grand. Up at 5:00 am to catch the bus we drove to Kings Canyon for a few hours of hiking around the rusted sandstone rim. Geology lessons and a swimming hole complimented the experience. Later that night, worn out from the day and with pasta con ground camel in my belly, I had no problem adjusting to the feeling of the swag's stiff canvass casing. The gritty sand left from the last occupant nor the glowing light snoring of one of the camp's occupants could keep me away from dreamland. Unfortunately the cold damp pre-dawn dew could. I awoke around 2:30am with an unbeatable chill and a growing sore throat. This was the beginning of the end.

My wake-up call came at 4:30 am - there was a lot of driving to do before reaching the Olgas (Uluru's lesser known composite rock neighbor). My tingly throat persisted and as we drove through the morning and I felt my temperature rise along with the sun. Surely a 7km hike in 107 degree heat would chase away whatever bug had penetrated my swag and my body, now flashing hot and cold. Surely.

It was hot. I stayed hydrated. It became harder to swallow. Minutes seemed like half hours and then hours. My head started to hurt as if a 1/2" lead pipe had been shoved between my temples. The giant rocks began to resemble familiar shapes - the orange ghost from Pac-Man, a lady's rump bent over a stool, a cuddly bunny...dressed up as the orange ghost from Pac-Man. I drank more water. Later I sought shelter in the air conditioned Aboriginal Cultural Center where I continued to think I was hallucinating, but realized that it was just a very obtuse film of Aboriginal dance - women with enormous sagging painted breasts dancing/hopping on one foot while making alien sounds with their voices and rudimentary bush instruments. I was comforted by the blank stares around me. I was still sane.

Back in the bus I began to sweat. My forehead was on fire. I knew what I needed: antibiotics, the Lord's sweet serum for strep throat. If I can only push through until tomorrow when we're back in Alice Springs....

The rest of the trip went something like this: sleep on the bus to lunch, sleep through lunch, take a Tylenol, drag myself on a "cultural walk" after finding out it was only 300m of actual walking, sleep on the bus, rally to sit and watch sunset at Uluru next to bus loads of retired Americans sipping champagne with fly nets over their heads, eat something...slowly, set up my swag, sleep, sleep on the bus to Uluru, sleep through the 10km walk around Uluru, sleep on the bus home waking only for bathroom stops, re-hydration and more Tylenol.

Back in Alice Springs, I checked into my room and completed the task that had been on my mind for the duration of the 8-hour journey back: visit the doctor, the nearest doctor, the Emergency Room doctor.

I (slowly) marched myself the 4 blocks to the Alice Springs Hospital, still in 107 degree heat. My energy nearly gone, I stumbled into the ER waiting room and took a seat among the other Aboriginal families and filled out my forms. Did I know that as an American I would have to pay for my treatment? Of course..."JUST GIVE ME THE TREATMENT!" I screamed inside my brain...ouch. (Note: Had I been a citizen of the commonwealth or even a nation with nationalized health care I would not have had to fork over the $144 to be seen by a doctor.)

Pulse: high. Temperature: 104.5 degrees. Throat: Pussy and red. The nurse gave me more drugs to reduce the fever. I got a pillow soft bed and fell asleep to the Australian Soap Opera, Home and Away, waiting for a doctor. A strange European murse (man-nurse, not man-purse) kept checking in on me. I tried to listen in on what was wrong with the Aboriginal woman next to me. It was too hard. My head hurt.

2 hours later (fever reduced)...

Doctor: "Feeling better?"
Me: "Yes"
Doctor: "Do you want some antibiotics?"
Me: "Yes"
Doctor: "Do you want to go home?"
Me: "Yes"
Doctor: "Good. There we go."

She handed me a box of penicillin tablets, instructed me on how to take them and I was on my way, feeling better the instant the cure was in my sweaty little fingers. I would survive.

Note: None of the temperatures in this account are exaggerated in the slightest. If anything, they are rounded down in the conversion to Fahrenheit.