In the Bungles with George and ... oh, hang on...

Bungle Bungles 1 | Barquing

As with a number of place names in Australia, the Bungle Bungles do not quite mean what they are meant to mean. In fact, no one is entirely sure where the name Bungle Bungles comes from (and no, it probably has nothing to do with Rainbow) but the suspicion remains that it is derived from a misspelling of ‘bundle bundle’, which is a variety of grass.
The local name for the park is Purnululu, which sounds better, but has a meaning even more prosaic, it translates, rather disappointingly, as ‘sandstone’. An accurate name certainly, but about as mystical as calling, say, Jerusalem’s Temple Mount, 134B Calgary Street.

The Bungle Bungles are a range of 360-million-year-old sandstone structures which have eroded in a certain manner to resemble huge, pleasingly stripy domes. The park which houses them covers some three thousand square kilometers and is also home to newly discovered plant varieties and 130 species of bird.
Given that the world at large remained unaware of their presence for so long (they were ‘discovered’ in the 1980s) they probably count as one of the country’s best kept secrets. Or at least they would had they not been granted World Heritage Status in 2003.
Our tour of the area begins with a leisurely hike through Picaninny Gorge (or Cathederal Gorge), which skirts around the bases of the domes and leads to a vast open cavern in the rock. Hemispherical in shape, it boasts sheer faces of what look like recently broken rock.
The violence of the place floors Donald completely.
"I’ve never seen anything like it." He marvels, "you can almost imagine the sounds that must have reverberated through this place: shearing, tearing rock."
He breaks off and we stare up at the ceiling. The structure suddenly seems rather delicate and unstable, as though the ceiling might come crashing down upon us at any moment.
"Let’s get out of here," I suggest nervously.

On our way back to the bus, we encounter a park ranger with a problem. Reportedly, a seven-year old kid was seen carving his initials in one of the domes, an act of vandalism which strikes us as unthinkable. Satisfied that the sprog is not hiding in our luggage, the ranger stalks off into the park to – presumably apprehend the culprit and bestow some suitable punishment.
"Stoning?" someone suggests.
"No," someone else replies, "Tie him up in the cavern for the night and let him listen to the rocks shifting above him. He won’t be back in a hurry."

That afternoon, we take two more walks. The first is to Enchida Chasm, a claustrophobic trek through a narrow crack in the hillside. It is particularly impressive, and the way the light creeps through the gaps is startlingly effective, but the walk proves a trial for some of the group who find the whole walls-closing-in sensation is not the sort of thing they do for fun.
On our way, we run into a film crew for the Western Australia Tourist Board. They are filming stock footage of the area and need an ‘actor’ to walk across the foreground for one of the shots.
We volunteer Jan, our own tutonic German. He is approved by the director because he has a light coloured shirt which stands out against the rich, dark reds and greens of the valley. As we leave him to it, we see that his is made to change his shirt anyway, with the director standing behind him, looking mightily pleased with herself as he strips.

Our final walk of the day is termed ‘Mini Palms’ for reasons which are never entirely clear. It involves a tough trudge up a dry river bed, lined with large, thick blocks of gravel which make walking particularly tiring. The views at the end are certainly worth the effort, however.
On the way back to the campsite, we stop off at the visitor’s center, which is notable primarily because it displays a prominent poster detailing the frequently asked questions which the desk clerk – a dead eyed lady with frown-lines so deep you could loose small change in them – did not want to hear again under any circumstance.
The questions range from the informative, "Do you sell chocolate?" (No) or "Do you sell stamps?" (No) to the pedantic: "Do you have to drive to work every day?" (No) and conclude with "What will happen if I ask any of these questions?" which has the ominous answer, "I advise you not to find out."
I read through the list twice before asking if they sell any camera film. There is a long, dangerous pause.
"No." she says coldly.
I thank her anyway – I really do not know why I do that – and I flee back to the safety of the bus.

I wake at about three o’clock in the morning, desperate for the toilet, but realise that this would involve clambering out of my swag, and worse still, that it seems to be the coldest night of the trip so far. I lie huddled in my sleeping bag, trying to get myself back into a position comfortable enough to fall asleep in, but it does not happen.
The canvas of the swag is slightly damp on the outside, and cold with it. Its weight seems to press against my sleeping bag, trying to dispel all the warmth and comfort that the bag offers.
I lie dissatisfied, willing myself to just sleep and forget it, but with no such luck at all. Then scrabble around the swag trying to locate my torch. The darkness of the night is absolute, the moon barely a fingernail in the sky. My sight is useless for such a task, and thanks to the bitter chill in the air, my sense of touch seems also to be deserting me.
Bugger. I think.
I consider my options. I could, I think, stagger out blindly and try and find the toilet shack – a small tin hut located on the other side of the camp-site. Alternatively, I could stumble a little closer: there are bushes all around me and I could just feel my way to one and …
No, I think. There are other swags spread out randomly around the campsite. I might step on someone. Worse, I might urinate on them.
Bugger. I think again, and once more rummage around my swag for the torch. The torch is small, and has clearly found its way into some nook or cranny of the canvas bag, somewhere between the mattress and a thick seam perhaps, or maybe it has been kicked down the swag towards my feet?
My hands touch something plastic, then close gratifyingly around the frayed elastic head band.
The light comes on like a rude burst of sunlight, disturbing the perfect blackness. Hastily, I smother it against my chest and dig out my sandals from beneath the swag where they have been acting as a pillow. I extricate myself from the bag, wincing at the cold – it is sharp and deeply unpleasant, but I grab my jacket and – led by my bladder of all things, make my way to the toilet shack, the torchlight picking out the other swags, lumps of canvas like body bags, strewn around the truck and the guttering campfire of the previous night.
On my return (having washed my hands gingerly in freezing cold water – always nice), I leave my jacket on before easing myself back into the sleeping bag. A mistake of course, as come two hours later when we are woken for the morning – a long drive ahead necessitates a pre-sunrise set-off – I have nothing else to put on, and find myself shivering around the campfire hugging a plastic coffee mug, cursing myself for not bringing my four-season sleeping bag and wondering what the symptoms of hypothermia are.