The Sacred and the Profane
Uluru, or Ayers Rock as it used to be known, is one of those sights that loom large in a travelling consciousness, an inevitable as well as desirable destination. I've always wanted to see it ever since I saw Picnic at Hanging Rock, a film directed by Peter Weir, when I was 11. Although it features a rock in Victoria not the Northern Territory, it certainly evokes a similar landscape of eerie mystery. The real thing doesn't disappoint.
There are only two options in terms of accommodation: Alice Springs (500 hundred kilometres and five hours' drive away) or Yulara, the Ayers Rock Resort. I chose the former, mainly because as the name might suggest the Resort is out of my, and many people's price range, and also because to reach it alone would have cost more in energy and money than I could muster. So I went on a daytrip, which left at 6am and returned at 1am. It's probably the longest such trip in the world; but there is plenty of time to sleep on the bus...
If you want to know what the earth looked like at the time of the dinosaurs, as our guide pointed out, this is probably the closest you can get. The cayenne-pepper-red of the soil is relentless, exhausting and very fond of white socks. Empty landscape stretches out indefinitely, interrupted only by dried-up river beds, desert oaks (narrow spindly trees that are a good indicator of where to find water), and cattle skeletons. Oh and cattle hides that look like they have been flattened by a cartoon rollercoaster. Apparently after being hit by a car the body practically evaporates. Though I'm sure a few scavengers have something to do with it.
We arrived at Kata-Tjuta first, a sort of bumpy version of Uluru. Of course every Lonely Planeter I met thought it was FAR more interesting, but then The Book had told them so and LP is law in some people's eyes. After this we went, as is the nature of all tours, to the Resort so that we could be parted from our money for half an hour before being taken to where we had paid to go.
In the supermarket,I watched two young white cashiers making faces over the head of an Aborigine woman. Neither of them made any attempt to hide their disgust. In the ticket office John, an American on our tour, asked whether they advised tourists to climb Uluru. This had been the subject of much debate between us on the bus. I had no plans to climb, partly because of the heat, partly because of the danger but mostly because for the Aborigines (who own the land now, after it was given back to them about twenty years ago) Uluru is sacred. Climbing Uluru is a bit like walking over the Turin Shroud, slapping the Pope or standing during prayers in a mosque. The woman at the desk seemed surprised by the question and had no opinion. If anything she seemed unaware of any reason why tourists shouldn't climb.
When we finally reached the monolith, several members of our group got out to climb the incredibly steep slope that stretched up into nowhere. A tiny climbing rope, like one thread of a spider's web, pathetically showed the way. The rest of us walked around the base, listening to the guide's explanation of the history and meaning of Uluru in Aboriginal legend. It was about 40 degrees and, as I looked up at the small figures pulling themselves across the unforgiving red stone, I wondered how they could justify their action.
However, my self-satisfaction was shortlived. As we went round the base, Jack the guide explained how the landowners had stopped climbs for a month out of respect for a tribe elder who had died. The immediate effect was that the Japanese, so the guide told us, stopped coming. Uluru lost 8 million Australian dollars (about 3.2 million pounds; 1.6 million dollars) in four days. 25% of the receipts goes to the landowners and, after the initial losses, the Aborigines reopened the climb. Just for the Japanese. I looked up again at the climbers and back at the wall, depicting holy images from Aborigine creation stories and realised that this culture wasn't so different. Ultimately everyone has their price. After all, what could be more sacred than money?
There are only two options in terms of accommodation: Alice Springs (500 hundred kilometres and five hours' drive away) or Yulara, the Ayers Rock Resort. I chose the former, mainly because as the name might suggest the Resort is out of my, and many people's price range, and also because to reach it alone would have cost more in energy and money than I could muster. So I went on a daytrip, which left at 6am and returned at 1am. It's probably the longest such trip in the world; but there is plenty of time to sleep on the bus...
If you want to know what the earth looked like at the time of the dinosaurs, as our guide pointed out, this is probably the closest you can get. The cayenne-pepper-red of the soil is relentless, exhausting and very fond of white socks. Empty landscape stretches out indefinitely, interrupted only by dried-up river beds, desert oaks (narrow spindly trees that are a good indicator of where to find water), and cattle skeletons. Oh and cattle hides that look like they have been flattened by a cartoon rollercoaster. Apparently after being hit by a car the body practically evaporates. Though I'm sure a few scavengers have something to do with it.
We arrived at Kata-Tjuta first, a sort of bumpy version of Uluru. Of course every Lonely Planeter I met thought it was FAR more interesting, but then The Book had told them so and LP is law in some people's eyes. After this we went, as is the nature of all tours, to the Resort so that we could be parted from our money for half an hour before being taken to where we had paid to go.
In the supermarket,I watched two young white cashiers making faces over the head of an Aborigine woman. Neither of them made any attempt to hide their disgust. In the ticket office John, an American on our tour, asked whether they advised tourists to climb Uluru. This had been the subject of much debate between us on the bus. I had no plans to climb, partly because of the heat, partly because of the danger but mostly because for the Aborigines (who own the land now, after it was given back to them about twenty years ago) Uluru is sacred. Climbing Uluru is a bit like walking over the Turin Shroud, slapping the Pope or standing during prayers in a mosque. The woman at the desk seemed surprised by the question and had no opinion. If anything she seemed unaware of any reason why tourists shouldn't climb.
When we finally reached the monolith, several members of our group got out to climb the incredibly steep slope that stretched up into nowhere. A tiny climbing rope, like one thread of a spider's web, pathetically showed the way. The rest of us walked around the base, listening to the guide's explanation of the history and meaning of Uluru in Aboriginal legend. It was about 40 degrees and, as I looked up at the small figures pulling themselves across the unforgiving red stone, I wondered how they could justify their action.
However, my self-satisfaction was shortlived. As we went round the base, Jack the guide explained how the landowners had stopped climbs for a month out of respect for a tribe elder who had died. The immediate effect was that the Japanese, so the guide told us, stopped coming. Uluru lost 8 million Australian dollars (about 3.2 million pounds; 1.6 million dollars) in four days. 25% of the receipts goes to the landowners and, after the initial losses, the Aborigines reopened the climb. Just for the Japanese. I looked up again at the climbers and back at the wall, depicting holy images from Aborigine creation stories and realised that this culture wasn't so different. Ultimately everyone has their price. After all, what could be more sacred than money?
posted by Louise at 7:09 PM
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