bowls he shows me. But to Tjamiwa it tells a particular and whimsical Dreamtime tale about two women who chase a goanna deep inside a cave. At the bottom of the pit the women meet two snake men, whom they eventually marry.
Uluru dominates Tjamiwa’s visual and spiritual landscape. He built a hut recently, making sure that the doorway opened directly on to a view of his “Dreaming Trail”—the creased north face of the Rock to which his people are connected. “I do not own this thing,” he says of Uluru. “It owns me.”
I envy Tjamiwa the security of having his history, his law, his roots all preserved in a massive piece of stone. But this strength of Aboriginal belief is also its greatest vulnerability. Lose the land, or become alienated from it, and Aboriginal culture loses its very soul.
Even as Tjamiwa speaks, Uluru’s face is covered by tourists: “minga juta,” he calls them, which translates as “lots of ants.” Greater armies still—advertisers, developers, promoters of every stripe—are clamoring like Visigoths at the gate. A New Wave band wants to set up a stage, using Uluru as a backdrop for a televised concert. A film crew asks permission to crash an airplane into the Olgas. Another wants to roll boulders down the Rock. And a self-promoting hang glider doesn’t even ask: he just jumps from the summit and floats to earth again.
Somehow, though, Tjamiwa and his kinsmen remain calm in the face of this onslaught. Perhaps it is because the magic of the place seems to rub off on all but the thickest-skinned of visitors. Australians may litter beaches and bush trails but here the land is unspoiled. Tourists, particularly Americans, often display an odd impulse to shrink even the grandest of natural wonders to human size. “Majestic doesn’t appeal to us,” writes Garrison Keillor in his gentle satire of Midwestern America,
Lake Wobegon Days
. “We like the Grand Canyon better with Clarence and Arlene parked in front of it, smiling.”
But Uluru seems to humble and inspire respect, even from the Clarences and Arlenes. I meet a few of them—“Idaho potatoes!” they exclaim—armed with Instamatics and Budweiser caps, clustered at the base of the Rock. When I tell them about the stories Tjamiwa has shared with me, they ask if it’s blasphemous to climb onto Uluru’s face. I sensethat it is, and as we follow the dashes of white paint marking the beginning of the climb, something feels awkward. With a few of the others I retreat to the base and circumnavigate the mountain instead.
At sunset, the tourists gather to watch the Rock begin its dance through the spectrum, from red to orange to pink to purple to red again, then brown and black. An expectant hush falls over the audience, like the quiet at first dark in a theater. Only the sound of camera shutters breaks the silence. And when the show is done, the audience drifts away, leaving the great desert beast to bed down in peace for the night.
It is morning and the rented Ford speeds toward Alice. I touch my foot to the accelerator and seven hundred horses of power pound off through the scrub … sixty … sixty-five … seventy…. Nothing but empty road and empty space to measure myself against … seventy-five … eighty … eighty-five….
I reach for the radio dial, catch a wheel in the road’s soft shoulder, swerve once, and spin off the bitumen backward.
The Ford swan dives off an embankment. Then it begins to roll. There is an instant when I realize that the car is going over and in that instant I wait for the vertebrae to crack, the skull to cave in. I do not wonder if I will die, just when. The last thing I see is a blur of sand and stone, upside down, rushing up to meet me. Fade to black.
I regain consciousness, suspended by the seat belt, hanging upside down, with my head pressed against the car’s crushed rooftop. Blood drips slowly past my face and onto the ceiling. Outside, the wheels still spin, the engine still spits and
Uluru dominates Tjamiwa’s visual and spiritual landscape. He built a hut recently, making sure that the doorway opened directly on to a view of his “Dreaming Trail”—the creased north face of the Rock to which his people are connected. “I do not own this thing,” he says of Uluru. “It owns me.”
I envy Tjamiwa the security of having his history, his law, his roots all preserved in a massive piece of stone. But this strength of Aboriginal belief is also its greatest vulnerability. Lose the land, or become alienated from it, and Aboriginal culture loses its very soul.
Even as Tjamiwa speaks, Uluru’s face is covered by tourists: “minga juta,” he calls them, which translates as “lots of ants.” Greater armies still—advertisers, developers, promoters of every stripe—are clamoring like Visigoths at the gate. A New Wave band wants to set up a stage, using Uluru as a backdrop for a televised concert. A film crew asks permission to crash an airplane into the Olgas. Another wants to roll boulders down the Rock. And a self-promoting hang glider doesn’t even ask: he just jumps from the summit and floats to earth again.
Somehow, though, Tjamiwa and his kinsmen remain calm in the face of this onslaught. Perhaps it is because the magic of the place seems to rub off on all but the thickest-skinned of visitors. Australians may litter beaches and bush trails but here the land is unspoiled. Tourists, particularly Americans, often display an odd impulse to shrink even the grandest of natural wonders to human size. “Majestic doesn’t appeal to us,” writes Garrison Keillor in his gentle satire of Midwestern America,
Lake Wobegon Days
. “We like the Grand Canyon better with Clarence and Arlene parked in front of it, smiling.”
But Uluru seems to humble and inspire respect, even from the Clarences and Arlenes. I meet a few of them—“Idaho potatoes!” they exclaim—armed with Instamatics and Budweiser caps, clustered at the base of the Rock. When I tell them about the stories Tjamiwa has shared with me, they ask if it’s blasphemous to climb onto Uluru’s face. I sensethat it is, and as we follow the dashes of white paint marking the beginning of the climb, something feels awkward. With a few of the others I retreat to the base and circumnavigate the mountain instead.
At sunset, the tourists gather to watch the Rock begin its dance through the spectrum, from red to orange to pink to purple to red again, then brown and black. An expectant hush falls over the audience, like the quiet at first dark in a theater. Only the sound of camera shutters breaks the silence. And when the show is done, the audience drifts away, leaving the great desert beast to bed down in peace for the night.
It is morning and the rented Ford speeds toward Alice. I touch my foot to the accelerator and seven hundred horses of power pound off through the scrub … sixty … sixty-five … seventy…. Nothing but empty road and empty space to measure myself against … seventy-five … eighty … eighty-five….
I reach for the radio dial, catch a wheel in the road’s soft shoulder, swerve once, and spin off the bitumen backward.
The Ford swan dives off an embankment. Then it begins to roll. There is an instant when I realize that the car is going over and in that instant I wait for the vertebrae to crack, the skull to cave in. I do not wonder if I will die, just when. The last thing I see is a blur of sand and stone, upside down, rushing up to meet me. Fade to black.
I regain consciousness, suspended by the seat belt, hanging upside down, with my head pressed against the car’s crushed rooftop. Blood drips slowly past my face and onto the ceiling. Outside, the wheels still spin, the engine still spits and
Similar Books
