Of course, unfortunately, there is another less attractive side to Aboriginal culture.
When I last visited Australia in 1990, we took a flight to Alice Springs. Back then, Uluru was more commonly known as Ayers Rock and people were freely able to climb the massive sandstone rock. I used to be quite proud of the fact that I had scaled Ayers Rock and written: ‘Nice view, bit busy, could use an ice-cream stall’ in a tatty visitors book on the summit. Now the rock has subsequently and rightfully been returned to the local Aboriginal communities who view it as a sacred site, I am almost ashamed of the fact.
Twenty years ago, en-route to Alice Springs we saw small groups of Aboriginals congregating in dry creeks, drinking and obviously under the influence of alcohol and we heard that sometimes, they perished when the rains came and the creeks flooded. On this visit, we also saw small clusters of Aboriginals on parkland, sitting, chatting, drinking and occasionally shouting and arguing.
Now this behaviour can be (understandably) intimidating to tourists but to be honest, I walked straight past and the Aboriginals didn’t pass me a second glance. They didn’t speak to me, they didn’t harangue me, they didn’t ask me for money. In fact, I’ve had more hassle off beggars in the South Bank underpass at Waterloo station in London.
It was as if we simply didn’t exist and in many ways, I suspect they probably wish we didn’t. Not in their country anyway.