Uluru is a single dome of sandstone rising 348 metres out of flat red desert in the centre of Australia, and at dusk its wall changes colour in front of you, from orange to a deep burning red and then to brown, with the whole sequence over in minutes. That is the moment people build their day around. But Uluru is bigger than its photograph. It is 9.4 kilometres around, and the base walk shows a rock that is not smooth at all: caves, waterholes, folds and scars, and near-vertical lines running up the wall because the sandstone was laid flat and then tipped on end by a collision of continents. The rock is Aṉangu country, and its clefts and marks are not read as erosion but as the traces of ancestral beings acting out Tjukurpa, the creation law; the best-known story is a battle fought at the Muṯitjulu waterhole. Several stretches of the base are signed as places you cannot photograph, because what they hold belongs to particular people.
The best way to understand any of this is to walk with Aṉangu guides, who tell the stories the rock is allowed to tell, show the rock art in its caves, and explain how the desert plants around it were used. A short drive west stands Kata Tjuṯa, "many heads", a cluster of 36 rounded domes whose tallest rises higher than Uluru itself. After dark the desert does two things. Bruce Munro's Field of Light, some 50,000 glass stems lit by solar power, switches on across the desert floor within sight of the rock and slowly shifts through colours. And once the resort lights are behind you, the sky is as dark as any on the continent; in the winter months of June to August the core of the Milky Way stands high overhead. The Aṉangu were handed the title to Uluru in 1985 and lease the park back to the state, so the rock you walk around belongs, in law as well as in story, to the people who have always lived beside it.