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My first meeting with Alice Springs/Mparntwe was through a school-assigned novel in 8th grade, in Peshawar, Pakistan. It was Nevil Shute's A Town Like Alice, about an English woman's survival of Japanese prisoner camps in World War II and her journey to the Australian outback. The story made a deep impression on my adolescent mind, and I vowed to go to Alice Springs someday. Unsurprisingly, I forgot all about my glamorous outback plans and instead went to Canada to pursue higher education. After 15 years of snowy winters, corporate jobs, and a marriage that came to its inevitable end (not surprising when you elope at 23), I hauled myself across the world to start fresh in Australia. I had visited Australia before and fallen in love with its sheer beauty and coffee. I landed in Melbourne/Naarm, which was meant to be a pit stop before exotic adventures around the country. But as life goes, I became consumed with settling into a new continent, surviving hay fever and finalising the divorce. Riding an emotional roller-coaster for the next year and a half included several meditation retreats to process it all. At one of the Vipassana retreats, I met someone who mentioned she was moving to the Red Centre. I suddenly remembered: I was supposed to go to Alice Springs. Moving to Alice Springs wasn't a simple decision. Most people leaving Melbourne try Sydney or Brisbane. The comments came in thick and fast. "Why would you move there?" "It's dangerous!" "There's nothing to do!" And my favourite: "I was born and raised in this country and even I've never been there!" I didn't have a good answer except an urge, an inner calling pulling me. I felt stagnant in Melbourne despite wonderful theatre, singing in a hipster choir, and almost 100 Tinder matches. It felt like an echo of my life in downtown Toronto. I wanted something different. The months to follow only cemented this feeling. The howl of dingoes at dawn, incredible treks, and the quirkiest festivals you could imagine (a beanie festival!) made me feel like I'd stumbled upon a secret. In Alice at that time there was also a monthly stand-up comedy open mic with five local comics (2 per cent of the population). My housemate, one of them, asked if I wanted to do five minutes at the next one. I'd never considered stand-up comedy. I liked writing funny things, but performing? I'm chatty with close friends but can feel uneasy in crowds. This was Alice Springs though. It felt like a place you could get away with bombing at a local joint. The open mic was on a rooftop of one of the hip spots in town. I was alarmed to see everyone I'd met in Alice turn up, even though I'd only told one person. That's a small town for you — when there's something on, people show up. After a couple of comics, I nervously did my bit and found myself really, really liking it. It was like going on a blind date and discovering you're sitting across from the love of your life. Stand-up became my drug, and I was hooked. Being in the outback also forced me to finally get my driver's licence — without a car, you're stranded. I had taken lessons before but always panicked during tests, knowing deep down I didn't really need to drive. In Alice, I was determined. I passed the test, flew to Adelaide to buy a used car, and my friends encouraged me to drive it back myself: "It's just one straight road, easy as." Within an hour, I'd managed to crash into an empty field, surrounded by dust, windshield shattered. There was no other way to get back to Alice other than driving my wrecked car, which bravely limped back into town. I made lifelong friends in Alice — not because the small community meant I was forced to like whoever happened to be there, but because I met some of the most interesting people I've ever known. A place like that attracts a certain type: warm, adventurous and courageous. And you come to love your community, warts and all. Alice also shattered my big-city bubble. I witnessed things about Australia I'd never seen in Melbourne so explicitly — segregation, structural inequalities, intergenerational trauma. I met incredible people doing justice work in a stigmatised place. I was forced to confront uncomfortable truths about privilege and belonging. That education quietly reshaped my life's direction. I now work for an Aboriginal Community Controlled Organisation in Melbourne/Naarm, which feels more meaningful than any other job I've had. I would never have tried stand-up anywhere else and it's something I can't imagine not doing. I would have kept deferring my driver's licence. Alice forced me to become self-sufficient and taught me to trust my instincts. Following that adolescent dream paid off in ways beyond my imagination. Sometimes the place others fear is exactly where you need to go. Amna Bakhtiar is a stand-up comic and writer from Pakistan living in Naarm/Melbourne.You can find her on Instagram.
