They came at me relentlessly, buzzing past my ears like tiny propeller planes that would eventually land on my forehead and taxi across the tarmac of my face. They crawled into my ears, eyes, tried to gain access to both nostrils. Whenever I opened my mouth I feared that one of them might dive in, Kamikaze style, and offer itself as a meal. Flies! No visitor to the Australian outback can escape them. During a recent 3-day excursion to Kata Tjuta National Park, I was attacked, in broiling 110-degree heat, by hordes of the airborne buggers. But it was Madonna who ultimately made me lose my cool.

We departed Alice Springs at daybreak. In addition to David, our tour guide from Way Out Back Desert Safaris, there were 8 in our group: a newlywed Spanish couple; a pot-bellied 60-year-old Swiss businessman traveling with his adult son; two Germans (brother and sister); a Canadian who operates a Zamboni at a hockey rink in Alberta; and me, an American in the midst of an around-the-world trip. One by one we piled into the modified Toyota Land Cruiser, introduced ourselves, took seats in the cramped air-conditioned cabin and settled in for an outback adventure. 

During the 4-hour highway jaunt to our desert campsite, I would have been happy to stare at the arid landscape or converse with fellow travelers – all of whom seemed to lead interesting lives. But David insisted on playing music constantly, and at high volume. He bombarded us with a cacophony of forgotten tunes by the likes of Meatloaf and Pat Benatar. We suffered in silence. But after an hour or so, the Canadian Zamboni operator could no longer withhold his objection. He actually had to scream over the music so that David could hear. This set off a chain reaction of complaints that gave rise to "Madonna's Greatest Hits," which played over and over at a deafening volume for the next 3 hours.

We arrived at the campsite, ears ringing from Material Girl monotony, and were immediately set upon by flies. They hovered around our heads as we offloaded provisions to a makeshift kitchen. More flies swarmed the picnic table as we laid out bread, ham, cheese, lettuce and sliced tomatoes with which to make sandwiches. We swatted at our outback smorgasbord, trying in vain to remove the undulating black blanket that covered it. Lunch, it seemed, became an insectivore's delight.

We endured these annoyances in order to see a big rock. Uluru is, after all, a 1,100-foot sandstone monolith with a circumference of more than 6 miles. It sits incongruously atop the flat desert plain of Kata Tjuta National park, which the Australian government leased for 99 years after returning the sacred land to Aborigines in 1985. Our plan was to tread across a section of the surrounding walking track and then retreat to a viewing area. From there we would watch Uluru change colors in the fading sunlight.

Beneath a ferocious white-hot sun we walked for nearly an hour, swiping at flies all the way. I marveled at the aboriginal wall paintings that grace Uluru's basal caves. But soon I could think of nothing but the insufferable heat. It was like walking through the world's largest convection oven. With each labored breath I felt as if my lungs might ignite. By the time we reached the parking lot and escaped in the Land Cruiser, the Swiss businessman had developed sweat stains across his belly. Then the air conditioner petered out.

We drove in hot and sweaty misery to the viewing area and watched the tourism nightmare begin. Huge buses roared into the parking lot, spilling 1,500 to 2,000 oglers who, like us, came to watch the sunset play upon Uluruís northwestern face. Tuxedoed waiters appeared as if by magic, pouring champagne into the glass flutes of affluent tourists who sat affably on portable chairs. Others swarmed behind the ropes of the viewing area, pointing their cameras like weapons.

As the sun began to set, perhaps 1,000 camera shutters clicked in unison. Beneath a rich blue sky, Uluru bathed in a magnificent nexus of hues – amber, orange, reddish brown, burgundy. The mountainous rock then faded in twilight.

At the campsite the next morning, I was awakened abruptly. Not by sunlight or hunger, but by more freaking flies. I leapt from my sleeping bag, swatting frantically as a squadron of critters flew sorties past my face.

We packed our gear and jumped into the Land Cruiser with flies in hot pursuit. After slamming the doors, a dozen or more became trapped inside. But because the widows had been permanently sealed to prevent outback dust from entering the vehicle, we were forced to drive onward in fly-ridden agony.

The next two days were as exhilarating as they were difficult to endure. We hiked through Kata Tjuta (aboriginal for "place of many heads"), a group of monolithic rocks west of Uluru. We camped in the open spaces of Kings Creek Cattle Station, where a doorless "bush toilet" allowed me to answer nature's call and watch the sunset simultaneously. And on day 3, after a sweltering hike through Kings Canyon, we returned to the Land Cruiser to find Madonna screaming "Like a Virgin" again.

"Please, please, please turn that *!@# OFF!" I said this to David in a sun-stroked act of frustration. Madonna finally fell silent. But within the superheated confines of the vehicle – which had begun to stink of sweat and toe jam from 8 pairs of sore, shoeless feet – the flies buzzed with glee.

Elliott Hester has given up his day job to travel around the world for one year. His dispatches appear regularly in Travel. 

Next stop: Bandar Seri Begawan, Brunei.

Contact Elliott at megoglobal@hotmail.com or visit www.elliotthester.com