I signed up for the outback’s Squid Game. Now I look like a gaudy octopus

Anson Cameron, a journalist with The Age, recounts his harrowing yet enlightening experience participating in a real-life version of the popular Korean survival game show Squid Game deep within Australia's Kimberley region. His account, published on August 13, 2026, describes how the rugged terrain of the outback transformed him into a “gaudy octopus” covered in injuries, while also revealing the cultural significance of ancient Aboriginal art discovered during his journey. Cameron, who has written extensively on Australian culture and history, described the Kimberley as a place that defies modern comfort. “Everything in that gargantuan rockery is anathema to a modern human’s comfort,” he wrote. The landscape, he noted, resembles a Thoreauvian wilderness, where every step requires careful consideration. The terrain is littered with hazards, sandstone crevasses filled with spinifex, dense vegetation teeming with green ants, and even camels that avoid the toxic plant due to its painful effects. His body bore the brunt of these challenges, with welts, bites, stings, and bruises covering him like the bioluminescent patterns of an octopus. Despite using pharmaceuticals, his injuries continued to flare, leaving him feeling like a “trespasser brought down by birdshot before being flogged.” Each day ended with Cameron using a hunting knife to remove ticks from his skin, likening the process to a carpenter removing nails from tin. To cope with the discomfort, he relied on whisky to help him sleep on rocky ground, surrounded by the sounds of bats as large as corgis. The isolation was absolute, his group was as remote as any place on Earth, far removed from modern civilization. One of the most striking moments of his journey came when they stumbled upon a cave on a plateau overlooking a wild river. The cave’s entrance resembled a “gaping wound in a rock face,” and climbing into it revealed a conch shell the size of a football. Its faded white patterns hinted at centuries of history, possibly having traveled two days’ walk from the sea, past crocodiles and treacherous waters. Cameron speculated on the shell’s origins, wondering whether it had been traded or simply carried by generations of Indigenous custodians. He marveled at its rarity compared to flowers, noting that such shells were “as beautiful as flowers, but rarer and less ephemeral.” The conch, he believed, was a treasure passed down through time, symbolizing both utility and spiritual importance. Inside the cave, the group found themselves looking down onto an amphitheater of orange stone, adorned with ceremonial figures painted in hues of dried blood. These figures, depicting dancers in elaborate feathered attire, seemed to leap and twirl in rhythmic motion. Cameron likened the scene to a masterpiece crafted by Christopher Wren, emphasizing its architectural and artistic grandeur. He envisioned the figures as part of a ritualistic performance, perhaps accompanied by the conch shell itself, which he theorized functioned as a musical instrument. In his mind, the shell became a “gastropod trumpet,” capable of producing sounds that resonated through ancient ceremonies, guiding participants into a state of spiritual transcendence. He imagined the amphitheater as a living space where families gathered for communal dances, with elders watching from the edges, offering quiet approval. The atmosphere evoked for him a sense of sacred unity, akin to the passionate gospel services of Southern U.S. churches, where music and movement intertwine to create emotional catharsis. As he held the conch in his hands, he felt a connection to the past, imagining the hands of long-lost ancestors blowing into its hollow, summoning joy and reverence.