describes his visit to Uluru, also known as Ayers Rock, the sacred rock in the centre of Australia.

For the second day in a row I stand outside the backpackers lodge in pitch darkness waiting for a bus to pick me up. It is surprisingly cold, almost freezing. The first passenger to be picked up, I lay claim to seat 1A where I can easily talk to the Coach Captain. My Greyhound bus pass around Australia includes a tour to Ayers Rock, known more recently by its Aboriginal name, Uluru. Included with the three-day Uluru tour is a diversion to the Olgas and Kings Canyon. I wrap my sleeping bag around me as we drive into the concrete culvert crossing the Todd River, the headlights illuminating a sign warning of camels crossing. Dishevelled Aboriginals, apparently hung over from the previous day's binge, stumble like ghosts at the edges of the bright beams of light. The driver glances at me. "One and a half million dollars was spent on alcohol by Aborigines in Alice Springs between Wednesday and Friday.

Frightening statistics. And if they're not drinking alcohol, they're sniffing petrol, destroying what's left of their brains.' The Coach Captain tells me: "People think the Aborigines are not as intelligent as white folk are. I used to think that too when I first started teaching Aborigines bricklaying at a vocational school here. Sometimes I would give a class, hand out notes, and then ask them the next morning what we had learnt the previous day. It was as if none of them had been there. One day we were outside doing practical work and because I didn't have my notebooks, I drew what I was trying to show them in the sand with a stick. The next day I wanted them to repeat what I had taught the day before. One of the students drew everything I had drawn in the sand, exactly the same way. I experimented.

I drew complicated patterns in the sand. The next day every single student could duplicate those drawings without any problem. Aborigines are as smart as we are all right; they are intelligent in different ways from us. They are intuitive, visual, they hear and smell things we can't, they have a sixth sense, and they understand animals better than us. These are all the things we have lost over the centuries being "civilised''. It's just too bad that their capabilities have little use in our modern world.' *** ...Once checked in to our accommodation, we continue for an evening scenic drive to Uluru, or Ayers Rock as the Coach Captain insists on calling it. As we approach the recognisable granite dome he tells us: "This monolith, formed some 400 million years ago, is eight kilometres in circumference and its summit is 347 metres above the surrounding plains.'' We enter a gate and a sign greeting, "Welcome to Aboriginal Land''. It's like entering a theme park or one of the artificial South African banthustan homelands, which catered to wealthy South African gamblers during the days of apartheid.

The Rock looks as if it could swallow us. The closer we get, the more impressive it becomes as we drive on a two-lane sealed road circumnavigating the perimeter. Despite the profusion of four-wheel drive vehicles, there is no need for four-wheel drive.

We stop at the bottom of a chain scarring the rock face. Hundreds of climbers, like a line of ants, use the chain to grab onto as they ascend and descend despite a notice clearly informing tourists that the Aboriginal people would rather no-one climbed up Uluru.

"This is to give you a preview,'' our Coach Captain encourages. "Tomorrow we will climb the rock and those who are faint-hearted and don't want to climb can visit the cultural centre.'' We drive away. "The bloke who has the record time for climbing Ayers Rock,'' he tells us, "is from New Zealand. He ran all the way, up and down. Can't remember how long it took him, but it wasn't long.'' There is silence from the bus, no oohs and aahs. "How many are going to climb it tomorrow?' he asks looking into the rear view mirror as we depart for the Resort.

Only three passengers put up their hands; two Frenchmen and a Japanese boy. I presume the rest of us are not climbing in deference to the Aboriginals' wishes.

We pull in to the "sunset viewing area'', a vast stretch of tarmac where hundreds of cars, as if parked at a drive-in, are lined up facing Uluru. In a separate area sectioned off for buses, I count over 50 full-sized coaches.

There must be at least two thousand tourists on the buses alone. We disembark in the parking lot and walk towards a fenced-off area. Several tour groups stand around tables decked in white linen, topped with champagne on ice and plates of hors d'oeuvres. The clients watch the sun set on Uluru, occasionally lifting fly nets, so they can sip champagne from crystal glasses or eat smoked salmon and oysters. They chat as if this were an outdoor cocktail party. Their guides dressed in immaculate khaki try to disguise looks of utter boredom. I guess you can only take so many sunsets on Uluru before becoming jaded and blase m.

I walk for some ten minutes on a slightly raised sand dune to obtain an unobstructed view of Uluru. Helicopters buzz around ferrying sightseeing passengers for the sunset flight over the Rock. The rock changes hue from bright yellow to orange, red, mauve and then purple. Finally, when the sun has dropped below the horizon, Uluru turns an undistinguished brown. Before the sun has set, there is a mad rush of cars and buses as everyone tries to beat the rush hour traffic back to the resort, to hotel rooms and dinner in a restaurant.

By the time of the Second World War, only a handful of whites had climbed or even seen Uluru. Now almost 500,000 tourists visit the rock monolith annually.

What would it have been like a century ago to wander in here with a clan of local Aboriginals, to have camped out here with them, and watched the sunrise and sunset? My romanticised notion of a walk in the desert with the noble savage, surviving off the land, is in stark contrast to the reality.

I remain on the sand dune staring at Uluru as long as I dare without getting left behind. I find myself alone. A three-quarters moon hangs suspended above.

The sun's last rays hit skeins of clouds patterned around Uluru like supernatural, flickering, red flames from a campfire. It's as if Uluru itself were the source of the conflagration. Apart from me, no-one else seems to be watching this magical show.

*** I wake up early and wander outside and find a place by myself. In the early morning light, the Rock is magical. It rises massively out of the ground over the surrounding flat plains. It has a monstrous presence about it, like a slumbering prehistoric giant. There is a powerful, supernatural force about the place.

Our bus drops most of us off at the Cultural Centre while the three climbers continue on to Uluru to ascend the rock.

Inside the Cultural Centre an unambiguous sign reads: "Now a lot of visitors are only looking at the sunset and climbing Uluru.

That rock is really an important sacred thing. You shouldn't climb it! Climbing is not a proper part of this place. There is a true story to be properly understood.'' At the centre's cafe I talk to a driver of one of the luxury buses. He tells me: "I've been coming to Uluru for years. Every time I return, I get a headache. There's bad karma here. What is going on with tourism here is wrong.

They should leave Uluru alone.' He stirs his coffee, ruminating.'' People climb that rock. They don't care what the Aboriginal people think; otherwise they wouldn't climb it. To the local people it is tjukurpa; like our Bible it establishes rules for behaviour, gives meaning to the Dreamtime stories.'' He sips his coffee before telling me, "When we look at Uluru, we see a monolith.

When the Aboriginal people from this area look at it they see a storybook telling the story of creation. The paintings on the rock teach the tjukurpa, the relationship between people, plants, animals and the physical features of the land. Local Aboriginal people see meaning and significance in every crack, scar, waterhole of that rock. Uluru is sacred, because of its spiritual significance and yet look how those tourists treat it.'' His own busload of passengers is climbing the rock.

He finishes the cup of coffee. "They've got boxes full of rocks in the administration building. Know where they come from?'' I shake my head.

"Tourists who removed them from Uluru. When they got back to their homes, they air-mailed them, sent them back by courier, whatever it took, to get rid of those rock pieces. Why did they return them? Because the stolen bits of granite brought them bad luck. OK, one or two instances and you would think it a coincidence. But this is not just a few. There's boxes back there, full of stones, rocks, bits and pieces that were taken from Uluru.'' He raises his eyebrows at me. "That's no coincidence. If taking those stones brought them bad luck, I reckon climbing up Uluru qualifies for even worse luck.''