An American in Australia:
Tales from the Outback and the Anangu Tribe
Story and Photos by Lisa Dukart
Arriving at Uluru from Sydney is an experience in and of itself. After traveling for hours, you find yourself in a seemingly barren place, leaving behind the skyscrapers and trains, the cars and construction, and replace them with nothing. Silence. Stillness.
In the far west corner of the Northern Territory of the Australian outback is the small village of Yulara. It is all that’s nearby. After Yulara, the nearest town is Alice Springs, some 450 kilometers away, a nearly six-hour drive.
As the plane descends, the landscape below takes shape. It is red in every direction, a deep brick red that becomes sort of orange the closer it gets. The land is dotted with trees and bushes, and nothing else. It’s all that’s there, aside from a set of metal stairs and hot dry air, directly ahead. A beautiful red rock, somewhat rounded looking, standing proudly, surrounded by emptiness. The landscape is barren and yet alive.
***
Geologists believe that Uluru and Kata Tjuta are the result of the Petermann Mountain Range collapsing many millennia ago, and sinking into the earth. Over time, the sediment piled up, forming two unique, rocky shapes in the landscape, one rounded, one domed. Wind and water erosion then produced many of the shapes, caves and markings on the rocks.
The remarkable coloring comes from rich iron in the sediment, which rusts when exposed to water. Both formations are originally gray, visible in some caves that are guarded from the elements.
At approximately 300 meters in height, Uluru is roughly as tall as the Eiffel Tower, and yet it, and Kata Tjuta, are believed to be just the tips of the remaining mountains now below them.
***
Some things just can’t be explained by science, though. For the native Anangu, tjukurpa, their tribal heritage, their history of their creation, their truths, are what they see all around Uluru. They have survived on the natural resources here for many centuries, hunting and gathering, taking only what they need from the land.
This is the outback at its truest: empty and barren. A spiritual center found few other places on earth.
One such spot is a group of small holes, and below them a handful of large, round boulders. In tjukurpa, they are the eggs of Liru, a poisonous female snake who one day fought off an angry, attacking group of Kuniya, non-venomous snakes. Spears were thrown, leaving those holes on Uluru.
It is one of the Anangu’s sacred sites, a place where photographs aren’t allowed. They believe that if a photograph is taken, the content will be transported with the photo, to wherever the photographer goes. If Liru ever returns for her eggs, she won’t be able to find them.
Continuing the walk, our touring group comes to a stop. Our guide covers his mouth with his hand, removes it and suggests we do the same. It is to ward off the whispers of the gossiping bird, which lives in these parts. If the bird hears us, it will spread rumors, so like the Anangu, some cover their mouths, others look wistful, and somebody whispers a wish for a raise. Just maybe the bird will pass along the message.
Later, the group comes across one of the many caves, some of which are used for teaching tjukurpa. The walls have been marked with red and white lines, in circles and shapes, indecipherable to us, the non-Anangu.
As we continue, we end up near “the scar” — the part of Uluru where visitors can climb to the top. It is a figurative scar, and yet it looks literal: a deep gray rub mark runs from top to bottom, set with a metal hand rail like a crooked spine, wending its way from top to bottom. Children and adults alike cling to it as they mark their way up the Anangu’s heritage. It is the ultimate disrespect, to tread on this sacred tribal site. Despite pleas from the tribe, who have been trying to stop climbing, it continues.
This used to be a right of passage for Anangu members. The young were given the task when the elders believed them ready. Today, they no longer climb, not wanting to contribute to the damage being done.
At the end of the day, we watch the sun set over Uluru, watch the rock and the surrounding sky change colors. The color blossoms, turning the rock a deep, rich red, like a painting coming to life before my eyes.
The surrounding sky goes from nearly white around the rock, fading into blue. Then, a ribbon of pink forms at the bottom, stretching across the sky, meeting the blue. A whisper of yellow bands in between them, slowly bleeding into a soft orange. The shadow on the rock changes, the top half bright, the bottom fading into shadow.
After the sun has set, we sit under the stars — the whispers of clouds of the Milky Way shimmering against a black backdrop — and hear the final tjukurpa story for the night. To the Anangu, the Milky Way is a river in the sky which descends into the spirit world. When a person in the tribe dies, they believe that they travel on a canoe, on the river, to the spirit world. Several days later, the entire tribe lies down and looks up at the night sky, searching for a shooting star. When they see that shooting star, they know that their tribesman has made it across. The star is the canoe, being thrown back, ready for the next person who needs it.
