My tenth grade English teacher would most likely have an aneurysm if she knew I was violating one of the most sacrosanct rules of the road when it comes to essay writing… never use words like “thing” and “stuff.” There are always better words that are more accurate and more descriptive.
Still…
Here’s the thing: after spending most of my adult life trying to get to places like Uluru… places that speak to our most primal nature and searching for those once in a lifetime experiences that have to be seen to be appreciated… it’s difficult to leave without an overwhelming impression that you’re trespassing. The Anangu Aborigines who own Uluru would rather you not know about its existence at all. This is not an exaggeration. I was told this in no uncertain terms by the Anangu community representative we interviewed for our documentary. However, barring your absence, they would at least prefer you not know about the sacred stories and legends surrounding Uluru. They would definitely prefer you not climb Uluru or photograph it. For my crew and I to get permission to shoot footage at Uluru, we were required to sign documents stating we would accept a media guide’s approval for every single shot we took. If you’re interested in the level of specificity, here is a link to the filming permit all crews are required to sign in order to film at Uluru-Kata Tjuta.
Attempting to interview a representative of the Anangu community for our documentary also proved to be a challenge. We did not secure the interview until the day before we were scheduled to leave the area. The barriers included language, culture and… there really is no other word to use here… secrecy. I found myself thinking of Fight Club. The first rule of Uluru seems to be not to talk about Uluru.
What we were facing was a culture clash of truly monumental proportions, and I use the word “monumental” quite literally, as we were having this conversation in the shadow of one of the most sacred natural monuments in the world. There is a myth, perhaps apocryphal, that the Aborigines do not have a word in their vocabulary for “no,” and that this explains why, although climbing Uluru is frowned upon, nobody as of this writing will forbid you from doing so, barring weather conditions that would make the climb hazardous to your health and continued heart rate. There are efforts underway by Parks Australia to close The Rock to climbers, but it has not happened yet. What seems to be the case, however, is what we in the west would call a passive-aggressive approach to the matter. The feeling seems to be something along the lines of “Hey, if you want to risk the wrath of the sacred spirits, that’s your business. I’ll be over here feeling sorry for whatever tragedy befalls you for violating these sacred precepts.” There’s a reason one of the very, very few tales the Anangu share with outsiders is The Tale of The Blue Tongued Lizard Man. It’s the story of the last Aboriginal being to attempt climbing Uluru. Spoiler alert: he dies.
No, my impressions as a white outsider were that I was very much not welcome. Or rather, I was not welcome as an interloper, a person who would be on the ground here for less than a week and who would be back in the land of MacBook Airs, Netflix and as many Pringles as I wanted before he could hike to the nearest potable water. Yes, I could explore the base trail, stroll along the Mala Walk, enjoy the serenity of the Kuniya Trail to the Mutitjulu watering hole, even hike through Waupa Gorge… but I was not exactly ushered in with a bear hug or even a “Hi, how’ya doin’?” by our Anangu hosts.
Which is not to say we were treated rudely. I was reminded of the impressions of one of the diarists on the original journey by Captain Cook. “All they seemed to want of us was for us to leave.”
What a traveler has to come to terms with is this: why should I be welcome? I’m bringing my sense of adventure and exploration to the table… and not much else. There’s a word gaining more popularity today called “Columbusing.” It’s the idea that you’re discovering something that has already been known about for a very long time. In this context, the path to Uluru was old hat to everyone but me. I had been a bit taken aback when I asked what, for me, has been the central question of the entire journey – what could I, as a visually impaired traveler, learn from Uluru with the senses I have available to me. The answer had been immediate and jarring: very little.
Our guide, though, was not being dismissive of my abilities. “You have to live with the people for a period of time, and live around these places to understand how they do things and how they live their lives every day.”
Well.
“When you’re at the age of thirty,” he continued, “it will be hard to learn anything.” I took the unintended compliment, being as I am into my forty-something years, but the truth is there was no compliment here. You’re too old, he was saying, there isn’t enough time left on your shot clock to fully comprehend what this land and this culture is all about. I felt like he was breaking up with me, and what he was saying to me was… it’s not me. It’s you.
However, and again, I’m sorry, Mrs. Henle, here’s the thing: it’s hard for me to disagree. Drawing from my own biography, such as it is, am I not, in fact, more proud of the fact that I’ve been a registered voter in Colorado rather than a seasonal visitor during ski season? Do I not consider it a point of pride that I know the best place to grab a burger or a beer at one in the morning on a Saturday in Sioux Falls, and that I can tell you which six barbecue joints in Memphis are better than the Rendezvous? Don’t I, in fact, agree, that you don’t get to pass through a community and claim honorary membership just because you’ve felt the asphalt under your tires fora few hours?
This isa perspective that can be anathema to the eager traveler, but isn’t that the central problem about travel? We want to see it all, do it all, experience it all. How can this possibly happen in a world this vast? Isn’t the truth that I could no more understand Uluru than my Anangu friend could understand the Braille New York Times Magazine I had in my pack just because he could feel the dots under his fingers. “Nothing in this world that’s ever been worth having comes easy,” and I don’t care that this quote comes from an episode of Scrubs… it’s still a pretty good quote.
Uluru ended up reminding me, in the form of a nine hundred foot stone monolith, that being a storyteller is, after all, not that bad. I was, after all, in the presence of a storyteller – my Anangu guide – and he took his storytelling seriously. What he was saying was… earn these stories. Respect their value. He gave me a taste, just a taste, of his forty thousand year old world, and for that I was grateful. Really, we all should be. In tolerating our presence in this ancient culture, we travelers and journeyman storytellers are being done a great service. I pondered this that night at Yulara, the hotel complex about fifteen miles from the base of Uluru. My cinematographer and I were enjoying our iced tea, coffee and steaks… none of which was sourced within fifteen hundred miles of where we were sitting. We would be sleeping in an air conditioned hotel room while our camera batteries charged in the hallway. In the morning, we would grab a breakfast wrap and continue on to King’s Canyon… and our Anangu guide would still be here. I think that says something about him.
And us.
