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Sometimes the path not taken is the honorable one, even if it's halfway around the world and would have afforded a spectacular view.
By DON GEORGE, Lonely Planet Writers Syndicate
© St. Petersburg Times, published December 23, 2001
Just before I arrived at Uluru, the sacred red rock monolith in the middle of Australia, an important Aboriginal elder there passed away. I first heard about his death from a ticket agent at the Alice Springs airport, who said that the climbing path up Uluru (or Ayers Rock, as it is still largely known outside Australia) had been closed due to the death.
The subject of climbing Uluru is controversial. One of the pamphlets at the Uluru-Kata Tjuta Cultural Centre at the site explains it succinctly:
"The existing Uluru climb is the traditional route taken by ancestral men on their arrival at Uluru. Because this path is of great spiritual significance, Anangu (the traditional Aboriginal owners of Uluru) rarely climb Uluru.
"Although Anangu have given permission for visitors to climb Uluru, Anangu prefer if you choose to respect the cultural significance of Uluru and do not climb.
"As well, the traditional owners have a duty to safeguard visitors. Anangu feel great sadness when a person dies or is hurt on their land."
There is still considerable confusion among non-Aboriginals about this issue. Before I left Melbourne, I asked two dozen people if I should climb, and about half of them said that as long as I did not get injured on the path, it would be okay to make the climb.
Clearly, this is not what the words in the pamphlet imply. The pain just beneath the surface of those words is palpable. Basically, the Aboriginals want to simply say, "This is a sacred site and you can't climb it," but instead they have reached a compromise with the government that maintains a chain-path ascending the rock and permits visitors to make the climb along that chain.
(While the Aboriginals own the land, they lease it to the government for tourism use. You can imagine the economics and politics of persuasion that underlie this compromise.)
But when I made my way out to the rock last May, the climbing entrance area was cordoned off and the the chain-path was closed -- no exceptions allowed. Signs stated that due to the death of the elder, climbing was not being permitted at this time.
A park ranger explained that the elder had been a member of the Mala tribe that was traditionally responsible for the ancient path the climbing route follows, and that the path was closed as part of the practices associated with the period of mourning.
Most of the visitors around me seemed to accept this, but a few were outraged. "What the bloody hell is this all about?" one Aussie asked me rhetorically. "I'm just gonna go tomorrow and bolt up the hill, mate -- what can they do?"
And I overheard a Brit turn to his group and mutter, "We've come all the way around the world for this?"
I could understand the disappointment and even the outrage of people who had traveled for days to make what seemed to them a kind of pilgrimage. For some, this may have been a once-in-a-lifetime trip. They had saved and planned and looked forward to it for a long time. And if climbing Uluru was supposed to be the climax of that trip, well, being forbidden to make the climb would be profoundly upsetting.
Part of me was disappointed as well: I had been looking forward to the challenge of the climb, and to the view of the Outback spreading away sere and red to the horizon, and especially to the sense of oneness that I thought I would feel with the rock as I pulled myself up its flank.
But the more I thought about it, the more I felt uniquely privileged to be denied the possibility of making the climb. This very denial affirmed that the ancient rites and beliefs still abide, that they are as valid and vital today as they have been for centuries.
After all, it is these rites and beliefs that comprise the spiritual foundation of Uluru. In honoring them, we honor and sustain the sanctity of the site.
And in doing that, I realized, we were paying homage to an ancient spirit -- call it awe, call it worship, call it faith in something that, unknowable, gives shape and sense to life -- that infuses and connects all the peoples of the world.
The death of that cherished elder, and the rites and restraints attending his death, taught me something irreplaceable about life.
As it turned out, I'll never forget the view from the base of Uluru.
- Don George is the travel editor at Lonely Planet Publications. You can e-mail him at dgeorge@lonelyplanet.com.