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To Uluru At
the last second, we take the turn-off at Erldunda, deciding on a detour to
the famous Ayers Rock. At the petrol station, I call home and say we will
be an extra few days. My mother’s voice sounds angry and distant on the
phone. When I return to the car, I find you have filled it with supplies.
Cold cans of Coke, bags of Samboy chips, red frogs and lamingtons. You
toss me an already warming can of Coke and with a grin, start the engine.
There is just one road to our destination. It’s straight, flat
and unchanging. In my dreams, I have driven this road a million times
before. The wave patterns on the dune ripple under the glare of the sun.
They shift in minute frames, transient.
We pull over and, as others have done, collect a small pile of
rocks and write our names upon one of the dunes. When we stand back to
admire and photograph our effort, we see that the beauty is destroyed by
our clumping footsteps and I am rather sad that we have done it. Still,
you take a photo and we drive on. A film of redness envelopes the car and
tinges the black polish on my boots.
Your voice breaks the silence, it is cracked and dusty in my ears:
Is that…?
No. That’s Mt. Connor but it means we must be close.
Are you sure? That looks like it.
It’s not. Trust me, it’s not.
You
peer past me a little longer. The rectangular shape of Mt. Connor fills my
window but I keep my eyes on the road ahead.
Trust me, that’s not it.
Hours later, when I almost believe we might have taken the wrong
road, we see it. The giant rock is one moment visible and the next,
hanging in the air like a rusty, spectral ghost to our west. I feel
suddenly triumphant.
That’s it. No
kidding. We cheer at the sight of it. |