My notes from Uluru. (Ayer’s Rock).

I have never ‘blogged’ before, but I volunteered, so here goes.  I thought I would share some things I know about the biggest monolith in the world, Uluru.

Don’t climb it.  Limit the rock-climbing to the non-sacred sites only.  The Pitjantjatjara do not approve, and it’s their rock.  They were kind enough to share some stories with me about the dreamtime and the rock’s role in their culture.  Their stories act as warnings not to climb the rock.  People have died from climbing, it’s such hard work and so hot out there, and that upsets the Pitjantjatjara immensely.  They do not want death associated with their sacred site.  They do not climb the rock.  As one Pitjantjatjara man put it, “all stories are for the ground, we have no stories for the top of the rock.  We are not walking on the rock, it’s not our way.”  There are many sacred areas around the base of the rock, there are meeting areas for the men, banquet preparation areas, family time areas, community areas, lots of special places.  Some have amazing rock paintings, but sadly many were washed away by tour guides years ago (past tour guides used to throw water at the rock paintings to bring out the colours of the pictures… over time, it eroded the paintings.)

Tourist "ants" climbing the sacred rock.

The Pitjantjatjara name for tourists climbing the rock is munga, which is their name for a particular type of black ant.  When you see the tourists climbing the rock at a distance, the name makes total and perfect sense.  You aren’t allowed to photograph Pitland people, as it is akin to stealing their souls and weakening their spirit.  So I can only photograph the people that have allowed us to do so, and I must provide them with copies of the photo, to give some of their spirit back.  I was allowed two photos of Malya who shared his stories of Goanna Man (a thieving liar) and Emu Hunter with me.  I asked George, my guide, if he knew of the Imjimm, the bad spirits I read about as a child, from Northern Territory (Kakadu etc) tribal stories.  George knew them, and also knew the name of the good spirits, the Qinkin, whom I had all but forgotten since childhood. 

When someone dies, they stop mentioning their name.  The have two specific names – one for men and another for women, for when talking about someone that has passed.  For an average person this might last for ten years before they can dare to use the deceased’s name again.  For an important person like a leader or similar, the name will not be used for at least 20 years or more, as a sign of respect.  When I look through the photographic archives of the Pitlands, any photo containing the image of a deceased person has been removed, and replaced with a placeholder card that is black and simply says “Sorrow”, by way of explanation.

"Malya" on the right, Me on left with traditional women's tools - multipurpose carrying basket and heavy digging stick

Most words in the Pitjantjatjara language also have an equivalent sign language that can be used instead.  This allows you to converse at distance or without disturbing your “prey”, as well as conserve energy and moisture, which are very valuable resources out here.  The women chew “minkulpa”, a mix of a type of eucalypt of the same name, with ash, it’s a bit similar to chewing tobacco and has the effect of relaxing them…  They often keep a wad of it in the left-hand side of their lips.  When I first saw one, I thought the woman had a huge cold sore or something similar… but darkish grey-green.  I’m glad to know that it wasn’t part of her natural anatomy.

The tourism staff at Uluru all live in semi-permanent caravans, block-mounted with some rough outdoor paving, shade cloth and maybe some garden struggling along in the heat.  They all have such interesting backgrounds and unique dreams.  Some lived in Argentina or Spain, or speak French, or are saving for a yacht, or used to work in fashion photography or whatever… Happiest community of rag-taggers from all walks, they all love life, all love to feel alive.

Really big rock. (Uluru, at a distance.)

In the evenings our host, Chris, puts together seafood laksa and fried Szechuan calamari.  I ask him “how is it that you have fresh calamari out here in the middle of the desert?” and he turns around in his big hat and loose shorts and says thoughtfully and with a perfectly straight face and a twinkle in his eye, “Well, it’s like anything.  You just gotta know where to dig.”