A warning. This was my one place in Australia where I had a bad time. It may or may not
reflect on the place, perhaps it was only my state of mind these two days. But heed this:
Ayer’s Rock is the most visited site in Australia. You are not alone. 
Uluru is a proscribed experience. You do not do Ayer’s Rock except as the
authorities want you to. No walking into the desert. No straying from the paths. Park only
where you’re told to see the sunset. You and scores and scores of other tour buses.
Though by walking on the path around parts of the rock (I found it too hot to hike the
entire loop), I did achieve some solitude. And I got some nice photos, despite my foul
mood. I despised the heat. It drained and saped and puddled my entire being to a wet
morass of sweat and fever. It was horrifically hot, and this was still Spring. And the
flies. I more or less accomodated to them at Kakadu. But here, they’re loathesome.
They never let up. They’re a constant presence, beating on one’s face. I broke
down and bought a flynet and looked like a silly tourist. And saw Ayer’s Rock through
a green haze. That and everything else made my mind hazy and my emotions raw and it’s
a wonder I got any photos at all. 
After a horrifically turbulant flight from Perth, then some time sorting out my car and
a campsite, I arrived at the Rock. The sky was deeply blue with strange white clouds.
I’m so glad I shot a lot then, even though it was midday, because within hours it
would cloud up and stay that way for the rest of my time here. There is an aborginal
culture centre (with only white people staffing it), and every tour brochure and sign
offering a “true aboriginal cultural tour” also said, “no
photography.” I know there’s a lot of complex historial and cultural reasons for
this antipathy for photographs, but at the moment it was one more slap against me from
this place. I’m an outsider, I’m not welcome, look at this place our way, and
then just go away please. And it worked. I photographed no one who would take offense,
because I saw no one who actually lived here. 
The great Gathering of the Tour Buses for Sunset was a bust. No sun. Then I had a terrible night. Too hot for even a sheet, the cloud cover kept it warm. But there were bugs constantly crawling over my skin every time I began to drift off. Hours I fought the insects, wrapping myself tight in the shee, to be drenched again in the sweat before I’d turn towards the breeze to dry off, only to have the lee side puddle in a new damp sweaty place. And the ants still came. And bit. I awoke to a lighter sky, grateful that the night was through, but it was the moonrise and it was only 1:20am. I felt betrayed by the time. Again, I battled the insects and the sweat to sleep again. Finally, a ragged wakefulness at 5:30am.
Though sunny at sunrise, it rose into a high overcast that threatened to deepen. I
called regarding flying out, they weren’t hopeful. I went back to the Rock to
contemplate climbing it. The 8 tour buses in the parking lot and the solid line of
tourists on the rock, like a column of ants, dissuaded me more than the Aboriginal desire
that no one should climb it. Though on seeing those buses, I can imagine the level of
offense they must feel. And why they stay out of sight. I gathered my freezer bricks, then
headed to the Olgas. At the road pullout I tried to sleep in the car. 
Too hot with the windows
up, too many flies with them down. Unsuccessful. The Olgas were dreary and flat in the
overcast light. I took not a single shot. Hell, let’s try to get out of here! That
energized me like nothing else. I zoomed back to the campground for a shower, then to the
airport to see if I could get on a flight. A very patient, thorough Ansett agent found me
a flight—to Alice to Sydney to Canberra to Melbourne. In at 9pm.
So glad to escape. It’s the only place I felt like I had to work to get photos.
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