Tracks: A Woman's Solo Trek across 1700 Miles of Australian Outback

Overview

SOON TO BE A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE

"I experienced that sinking feeling you get when you know you have conned yourself into doing something difficult and there's no going back." So begins Robyn Davidson's perilous journey across 1,700 miles of hostile Australian desert to the sea with only four camels and a dog for company.

Enduring sweltering heat, fending off poisonous snakes and lecherous men, chasing her ...

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Overview

SOON TO BE A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE

"I experienced that sinking feeling you get when you know you have conned yourself into doing something difficult and there's no going back." So begins Robyn Davidson's perilous journey across 1,700 miles of hostile Australian desert to the sea with only four camels and a dog for company.

Enduring sweltering heat, fending off poisonous snakes and lecherous men, chasing her camels when they get skittish and nursing them when they are injured, Davidson emerges as an extraordinarily courageous heroine driven by a love of Australia's landscape, an empathy for its indigenous people, and a willingness to cast away the trappings of her former identity. Tracks is the compelling, candid story of her odyssey of discovery and transformation. 

A cult classic with an ever-growing audience, Tracks is the brilliantly written and frequently hilarious account of a young woman's odyssey through the deserts of Australia, with no one but her dog and four camels as companions. Davidson emerges as a heroine who combines extraordinary courage with exquisite sensitivity. 16 pages of photos.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“Beautiful, thrilling and ferociously brave, Robyn Davidson’s timeless story of her astonishing journey gripped me from the first page to the last. Tracks is an unforgettably powerful book.”
—Cheryl Strayed, bestselling author of Wild

“Vivid and vivacious. . . . Davidson is as natural a writer as she is an adventurer.”
The New Yorker

“Engrossing. . . . Lyrical and salty. . . . Candid. . . . Best in her accounts of her days alone in the desert and what they did to and for her. . . . Her states of mind . . . veer between feelings of being at one with the cosmos and feelings of being utterly crazy.”
The New York Times Book Review
 
“Saucy and unsparing. . . . A strong book, the kind that clings to your back after you’ve read it.”
—Chicago Sun-Times

“Every bit as witty as her camels—and a first-rate writer besides.”
Newsweek

“What continues to resonate with readers isRobyn Davidson’s honest introspection throughout the journey. It prompts the reader to ask herself, ‘Would I do this?’ and ‘Could I do this?’”
A Traveler’s Library

“The integrity of this articulate and impassioned account is evident in the fact that Robyn Davidson does not find glib solutions to inner or outer conflicts. Like her camel companions, she seems temperamental, insatiable, and slightly crazy, but also determined, direct, vulnerable, and splendid.”
500 Great Books by Women

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780679762874
  • Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 6/17/1995
  • Series: Vintage Departures Series
  • Edition description: Reissue
  • Pages: 288
  • Sales rank: 285,567
  • Product dimensions: 5.14 (w) x 8.00 (h) x 0.61 (d)

Meet the Author

Robyn Davidson was born in Queensland, Australia, and is the author of Tracks, the extraordinary account of her 1,700-mile journey across Australia with four camels, which won the 1980 Thomas Cook Travel Book Award and became a film in 2013. She has written extensively for National Geographic and other magazines, and is also the author of Desert Places, the novel Ancestors, and the essay collection Travelling Light. Ms. Davidson lives in London, India, and Australia. 

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Read an Excerpt

1

I arrived in the Alice at five a.m. with a dog, six dollars and a small suitcase full of inappropriate clothes. 'Bring a cardigan for the evenings,' the brochure said. A freezing wind whipped grit down the platform and I stood shivering, holding warm dog flesh, and wondering what foolishness had brought me to this eerie, empty train-station in the centre of nowhere. I turned against the wind, and saw the line of mountains at the edge of town.

There are some moments in life that are like pivots around which your existence turns-small intuitive flashes, when you know you have done something correct for a change, when you think you are on the right track. I watched a pale dawn streak the cliffs with Day-glo and realized this was one of them. It was a moment of pure, uncomplicated confidence-and lasted about ten seconds.

Diggity wriggled out of my arms and looked at me, head cocked, piglet ears flying. I experienced that sinking feeling you get when you know you have conned yourself into doing something difficult and there's no going back. It's all very well, to set off on a train with no money telling yourself that you're really quite a brave and adventurous person, and you'll deal capably with things as they happen, but when you actually arrive at the other end with no one to meet and nowhere to go and nothing to sustain you but a lunatic idea that even you have no real faith in, it suddenly appears much more attractive to be at home on the kindly Queensland coast, discussing plans and sipping gins on the verandah with friends, and making unending lists of lists which get thrown away, and reading books about camels.

The lunatic idea was, basically, to get myself the requisite number of wild camels from the bush and train them to carry my gear, then walk into and about the central desert area. I knew that there were feral camels aplenty in this country. They had been imported in the 1850s along with their Afghani and North Indian owners, to open up the inaccessible areas, to transport food, and to help build the telegraph system and railways that would eventually cause their economic demise. When this happened, those Afghans had let their camels go, heartbroken, and tried to find other work. They were specialists and it wasn't easy. They didn't have much luck with government support either. Their camels, however, had found easy street-it was perfect country for them and they grew and prospered, so that now there are approximately ten thousand roaming the free country and making a nuisance of themselves on cattle properties, getting shot at, and, according to some ecologists, endangering some plant species for which they have a particular fancy. Their only natural enemy is man, they are virtually free of disease, and Australian camels are now rated as some of the best in the world.

The train had been half empty, the journey long. Five hundred miles and two days from Adelaide to Alice Springs. The modern arterial roads around Port Augusta had almost immediately petered out into crinkled, wretched, endless pink tracks leading to the shimmering horizon, and then there was nothing but the dry red parchment of the dead heart, god's majestic hidy-hole, where men are men and women are an afterthought. Snippets of railway car conversation still buzzed around in my head.

'G'day, mind if I sit 'ere?'

(Sighing and looking pointedly out the window or at book.) 'No.'

(Dropping of the eyes to chest level.) 'Where's yer old man?'

'I don't have an old man.'

(Faint gleam in bleary, blood-shot eye, still fixed at chest level.) 'Jesus Christ, mate, you're not goin' to the Alice alone are ya? Listen 'ere, lady, you're fuckin' done for. Them coons'll rape youze for sure. Fuckin' niggers run wild up there ya know. You'll need someone to keep an eye on ya. Tell youze what, I'll shout youze a beer, then we'll go back to your cabin and get acquainted eh? Whaddya reckon?'

I waited until the station had thinned its few bustling arrivals, standing in the vacuum of early morning silence, fighting back my unease, then set off with Diggity towards town.

My first impression as we strolled down the deserted street was of the architectural ugliness of the place, a discomforting contrast to the magnificence of the country which surrounded it. Dust covered everything from the large, dominant corner pub to the tacky, unimaginative shop fronts that lined the main street. Hordes of dead insects clustered in the arcing street lights, and four-wheel-drive vehicles spattered in red dirt, with only two spots swept clean by the windscreen wipers, rattled intermittently through the cement and bitumen town. This grey, cream and hospital-green shopping area gradually gave way to sprawling suburbia until it was stopped short by the great perpendicular red face of the Macdonnell Ranges which borders the southern side of town, and runs unbroken, but for a few spectacular gorges, east and west for several hundred miles. The Todd River, a dry white sandy bed lined with tall columns of silver eucalypts, winds through the town, then cuts into a narrow gap in the mountains. The range, looming menacingly like some petrified prehistoric monster, has, I was to discover, a profound psychological effect on the puny folk below. It sends them troppo. It reminds them of incomprehensible dimensions of time which they almost successfully block out with brick veneer houses and wilted English-style gardens.

I had planned to camp in the creek with the Aborigines until I could find a job and a place to stay, but the harbingers of doom on the train had told me it was suicide to do such a thing. Everyone, from the chronic drunks to the stony men and women with brown wrinkled faces and burnt-out expressions, to the waiters in tuxedos who served and consumed enormous amounts of alcohol, all of them warned me against it. The blacks were unequivocally the enemy. Dirty, lazy, dangerous animals. Stories of young white lasses who innocently strayed down the Todd at night, there to meet their fate worse than death, were told with suspect fervour. It was the only subject anyone had got fired up about. I had heard other stories back home too-of how a young black man was found in an Alice gutter one morning, painted white. Even back in the city where the man in the street was unlikely ever to have seen an Aborigine, let alone spoken to one, that same man could talk at length, with an extraordinary contempt, about what they were like, how lazy and unintelligent they were. This was because of the press, where clichéd images of dirty, stone-age drunks on the dole were about the only coverage Aborigines got, and because everyone had been taught at school that they were not much better than specialized apes, with no culture, no government and no right to existence in a vastly superior white world; aimless wanderers who were backward, primitive and stupid.

It is difficult to sort out fact from fiction, fear from paranoia and goodies from baddies when you are new in a town but something was definitely queer about this one. The place seemed soulless, rootless, but perhaps it was just that which encouraged, in certain circumstances, the extraordinary. Had everyone been trying to put the fear of god into me just because I was an urbanite in the bush? Had I suddenly landed in Ku Klux Klan country? I had spent time before with Aboriginal people-in fact, had had one of the best holidays of my entire life with them. Certainly there had been some heavy drinking and the occasional fight, but that was part of the white Australian tradition too, and could be found in most pubs or parties in the country. If the blacks here were like the blacks there, how could a group of whites be so consumed with fear and hatred? And if they were different here, what had happened to make them that way? Tread carefully, my instincts said. I could sense already a camouflaged violence in this town, and I had to find a safe place to stay. Rabbits, too, have their survival mechanisms.

They say paranoia attracts paranoia: certainly no one else I met ever had such a negative view of Alice Springs. But then I was to get to know it from the gutters up, which may have given me a distorted perspective. It is said that anyone who sees the Todd River flow three times falls in love with the Alice. By the end of the second year, after seeing it freakishly flood more often than that, I had a passionate hatred yet an inexplicable and consuming addiction for it.

There are fourteen thousand people living there of whom one thousand are Aboriginal. The whites consist mainly of government workers, miscellaneous misfits and adventurers, retired cattle or sheep station owners, itinerant station workers, truck drivers and small business operators whose primary function in life is to rip off the tourists, who come by the bus-load from America, Japan and urban Australia, expecting high adventure in this last romantic outpost, and to see the extraordinary desert which surrounds it. There are three major pubs, a few motels, a couple of zed-grade restaurants, and various shops that sell 'I've climbed Ayers Rock' T-shirts, boomerangs made in Taiwan, books on Australiana, and tea towels with noble savages holding spears silhouetted against setting suns. It is a frontier town, characterized by an aggressive masculine ethic and severe racial tensions.

I ate breakfast at a cheap cafe, then stepped out into the glaring street where things were beginning to move, and squinted at my new home. I asked someone where the cheapest accommodation was and they directed me to a caravan park three miles north of town.

It was a hot and dusty walk but interesting. The road followed a tributary of the Todd. Still, straight columns of blue smoke chimneying up through the gum leaves marked Aboriginal camps. On the left were the garages and workshops of industrial Alice-galvanized iron sheds behind which spread the trim lawns and trees of suburbia. When I arrived, the proprietor informed me that it was only three dollars if I had my own tent, otherwise it was eight.

My smile faded. I eyed the cold drinks longingly and went outside for some tepid tap water. I didn't ask if that were free, just in case. Over in the corner of the park some young folk with long hair and patched jeans were pitching a large tent. They looked approachable, so I asked if I could stay with them. They were pleased to offer me shelter and friendliness.

That night, they took me out on the town in their beatup panel-van equipped with all the trappings one associates with free-wheeling urban youth-a five million decibel car stereo and even surf-boards . . . they were heading north. We drove into the dusty lights of the town and stopped by the pub to pick up some booze. The girl, who was shy and very young, suddenly turned to me.

'Oo, look at them, aren't they disgusting. God, they're like apes.'

'Who?'

'The boongs.'

Her boyfriend was leaning up against the bottle-shop, waiting.

'Hurry up, Bill, and let's get out of here. Ugly brutes.' She folded her arms as if she were cold and shivered with repulsion.

I put my head on my arms, bit my tongue, and knew the night was going to be a long one.

The next day I got a job at the pub, starting in two days. Yes, I could stay in a back room of the pub, the payment for which would be deducted from my first week's wages. Meals were provided. Perfect. That gave me time to suss out camel business. I sat in the bar for a while and chatted with the regulars. I discovered there were three camel-men in town-two involved with tourist businesses, and the other an old Afghan who was bringing in camels from the wild to sell to Arabia as meat herds. I met a young geologist who offered to drive me out to meet this man.

The minute I saw Sallay Mahomet it was apparent to me that he knew exactly what he was doing. He exuded the bandy-legged, rope-handling confidence of a man long accustomed to dealing with animals. He was fixing some odd-looking saddles near a dusty yard filled with these strange beasts.

'Yes, what can I do for you?'

'Good morning, Mr Mahomet,' I said confidently. 'My name's Robyn Davidson and um, I've been planning this trip you see, into the central desert and I wanted to get three wild camels and train them for it, and I was wondering if you might be able to help me.'

'Hrrrmppph.'

Sallay glared at me from under bushy white eyebrows. There was a dry grumpiness about him that put me instantly in my place and made me feel like a complete idiot.

'And I suppose you think you'll make it too?'

I looked at the ground, shuffled my feet and mumbled something defensive.

'What do you know about camels then?'

'Ah well, nothing really, I mean these are the first ones I've seen as a matter of fact, but ah . . .'

'Hrrmmph. And what do you know about deserts?'

It was painfully obvious from my silence that I knew very little about anything.

Sallay said he was sorry, he didn't think he could help me, and turned about his business. My cockiness faded. This was going to be harder than I thought, but then it was only the first day.

Next we drove to the tourist place south of town. I met the owner and his wife, a friendly woman who offered me cakes and tea. They looked at one another in silence when I told them of my plan. 'Well, come out here any time you like,' said the man jovially, 'and get to know the animals a bit.' He could barely control the smirk on the other side of his face. My intuition in any case told me to stay away. I didn't like him and I was sure the feeling was mutual. Besides, when I saw how his animals roared and fought, I figured he was probably not the right person to learn from.

The last of the three, the Posel place, was three miles north, and was owned, according to some of the people in the bar, by a maniac.

My geologist friend dropped me off at the pub, and from there I walked north up the Charles River bed. It was a delightful walk, under cool and shady trees. The silence was often broken by packs of camp dogs who raced out with their hackles up to tell me and Diggity to get out of their territory, only to have bottles, cans and curses flung at them by their Aboriginal owners, who none the less smiled and nodded at us.

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Reading Group Guide

1. Davidson begins her book with a quotation from Doris Lessing's The Golden Notebook. Why do you think she has chosen this particular passage? What burdens does Davidson herself shed during the course of her journey? Does she shed them permanently?

2. "They say paranoia attracts paranoia: certainly no one else I met ever had such a negative view of Alice Springs" [p.23]. To what extent do you think that Davidson colors Alice, its white and black inhabitants, its architecture, and its social mores with her own pre-judices and preoccupations? What is it in Robyn Davidson's character that forms her opinion of the city?

3. Davidson is passionately determined to shed her own sense of herself as traditionally "feminine," a quality she sees as arising from "the weakness of animals who have always been prey" [p.30] and from being trained from birth to be "sweet, pliable, forgiving, compassionate and door-mattish" [p.48]. Does Davidson's anger at the way women in her culture are conditioned abate at all during the course of the narrative? Does she at any point confront her own ambivalence about the idea of "femininity"? Do you feel that the Australian tradition of misogyny, as Davidson describes it, is common in American society?

4. At one point Davidson defines the substance of her inner world as "desert, purity, fire, air, hot wind, space, sun, desert desert desert" [p.50]. Why has the desert been so powerfully attractive to many people, including Davidson? (See the list of suggested reading below.) What is Davidson's own fantasy about what she will find in the desert? Does that fantasy come true, or does the desert offer her different, unexpected gifts?

5. One of the lessons Davidson learns on her journey is that solitude is a condition to be prized rather than feared. At what point in her journey did she come to this realization? What brought it about? Is the value of solitude a universal truth, or valid only for certain individuals? Does our contemporary Western life-style engender a fear of solitude? Is such a fear unhealthy or natural?

6. During her trip Davidson harbors some hostility toward National Geographic, feeling that her association with the magazine has robbed her trip of the purity and self-reliance she had originally conceived for it. Do you feel that her attitude is justified? Do you think that, in the end, she regretted her decision to accept the financial support of the magazine? Do you believe that her project was in any way compromised by this association?

7. Aboriginal ideas of nature, ownership, time, ritual, ceremony, and wisdom differ enormously from white ones. Why is the subconscious mind so very important in the Aboriginal way of life? What brings about Davidson's own increasing reliance on her subconscious? Does the Aborigines' world view mean that they can never succeed within a Western-style economic and educational system? Does Davidson imply that the Aborigines' position within the white continent is finally a hopeless one?

8. What does the word "primitive" usually imply? Is that word applicable in any way to Aboriginal society? Is it a word that tends to be subjective, or does it have certain fixed meanings? And what about the word "superstition"?

9. Sometimes Davidson's friends accuse her of "anthropomorphism" in dealing with her camels and her dog. Does this seem a relevant or accurate response to Davidson's way of thinking? To Aborigines, as to Native Americans, our culture's stricture against anthropomorphism would seem absurd. Do you believe that the Western notion of man as being intrinsically different and independent from the rest of the natural world is valid or invalid?

10. For reasons of her own, Davidson dislikes photography and photographers. These feelings prejudice her against Rick from their first meeting: she sees him as the typical photographer, hiding behind his lens and creating images that are projections of his own imagination rather than records of reality. Does Davidson come to change her thinking as she gets to know Rick? How does Rick himself change? How might Rick's version of this story differ from Davidson's?

11. "Why was everyone so goddamn affected by this trip, adversely or otherwise? Had I stayed back home...I would not have been up for all these astounding projections" [p.101]. Why are Davidson's exploits vicariously exciting to some people, threatening to others? If her journey does indeed "hit some soft spot in this era's passionless, heartless, aching psyche" [p.237], how can this be explained?

12. Back home in Brisbane, Davidson writes, I "had been sick of carrying around the self-indulgent negativity which was so much the malaise of my generation, my sex and my class" [p.50]. Do you find that the kind of generational negativity she describes (though she is describing a period almost twenty years ago) manifests itself in our contemporary American culture—in our attitudes to political action, to our environment, to our friends and family?

13. One of the goals of Davidson's personal quest is "freedom." To be free, she writes, "is to learn, to test yourself constantly, to gamble. It is not safe" [p.222]. Do you agree with this judgment? How would you yourself define freedom? How might one achieve real freedom in one's own life without taking steps as drastic Davidson's? Or is the taking of drastic steps a necessary part of the process?

14. If you've read other books of self-discovery and/or inspirational journeys—such as these recent works: Wild by Cheryl Strayed, Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, Under the Tuscan Sun by Frances Mayes, or classic works such as Blue Highways by William Least Heat-Moon and A Walk Across America by Peter Jenkins—compare the similarities and differences? How does this reflect on your own journeys whether physical or inspirational?

15. Davidson gives numerous examples of the laws, both written and unwritten, that exclude Aboriginal people from the mainstream of Australian life and ensure their permanent poverty and marginalization. How do racial attitudes in Australia resemble, or differ from, those in the United States? Is the social and economic plight of the Aborigines comparable to that of Native Americans? Davidson herself compares Australian government policy with that of the earlier apartheid governments of South Africa. What are the stated purposes of such policies in all three countries? What do you believe to be the actual, unstated purposes?

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Sort by: Showing all of 3 Customer Reviews
  • Posted February 9, 2012

    Impressive, Honest, & 130 Degrees Hot

    I'm re-reading this memoir for a memoir class I teach, after first encountering it ten years ago, and it still has the magic. I'm deligted, too, with how well the book has aged (it was originally published in 1980).

    Almost half of the book is Robyn Davidson dealing with all the training, pressure, and ravaging self-doubt before the true six month journey from Alice Springs to the Sea begins. This is a spiritual account that is also funny, disarming, dangerous, and suspenseful. It is also the kind of true adventure and meditation that could just jump start one of our own.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted March 31, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    Tough love in the Outback

    I was frustrated with Ms. Davidson for making me wait until page 125 to get her camel caravan on the road. But, once upon the 1,700-mile desert trek, leaving the harsh ways of the locals in the Australian outback behind, I was captured by the journey. It does seem strange that a female should feel the need to go to such extremes to establish her independence, know her inner strength, and witness mind bending beauty, but I'm glad she did it. The vast, unending space of the outback intrigues, but the thought of temperatures soaring to well over 100 degrees, venomous snakes curling up in your bedroll to keep warm, and drinking putrid water from drying wells, does crest my adventure threshold. Though I was sometimes annoyed with her doting on her camels and dog, I understood her feeling closer to them than humans and that she preferred their company most of the time. My hat is off to a plucky female who had the gumption, and sheer tenacity to follow her heart through such treacherous country. Like Isabelle Bird, who rode horseback across the western United States in the 1850's, she let women know there is more to life than changing dirty diapers and washing dishes.
    www.LindaBallouAuthor.com

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 9, 2011

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