Uluru rises 348 metres straight out of the red desert at the centre of Australia, a single dome of sandstone with nothing else anywhere near it. Most people come for the few minutes at dusk when it changes colour, and the colour does not build so much as switch: the wall goes orange, then a deep burning red, then out, and the whole sequence is over almost before you have settled. The near-vertical lines running up that wall are the edges of flat sandstone beds, tipped upright long ago by a collision that folded the whole region. But Uluru is not scenery, and this is the part visitors most often arrive without knowing. It is Aṉangu country, held under Tjukurpa, the creation law, and the Aṉangu were handed the title deeds in 1985 before leasing the park back to the state for ninety-nine years.
A short drive away, Kata Tjuṯa, which means many heads, is a cluster of thirty-six rounded domes, and the tallest of them actually stands higher than Uluru. After dark, on the desert floor within sight of the rock, some fifty thousand solar-powered glass stems come on and bloom slowly through their colours. Once you are clear of the resort, the sky is as dark as any in the country. The rock itself, though, is walked rather than watched. A track circles it in 9.4 kilometres, and along the way you pass signed stretches where photography is not allowed, because what is held there under Tjukurpa belongs to particular people and not to everyone. With Aṉangu guides the wall stops being a wall: the clefts and scars are not erosion but marks left by ancestral beings, the plants beside the path all had uses, and there is rock art in the caves. The loop passes the Muṯitjulu waterhole, under a long gash in the stone. That is not weathering either. It is the wound from a fight, and it has been read that way far longer than anyone has been driving out to watch the sunset.