Badges of (Dis-)Honour: Manifesting the ‘Conquest’ of Uluṟu via Wearable Material Culture

Abstract

Set in a wide open plain, the monolith of Uluṟu (‘Ayers Rock’) has become an internationally recognizable symbol for the Australian outback, currently attracting hundreds of thousands of tourists each year. Promoted since the 1950s as an exotic tourist destination, one of the major activities has been the ‘conquest’ of Uluṟu by completing the steep climb to the top. Always disapproved by the Aṉangu, the Indigenous Australian community of the area, and actively discouraged since 1990, the climb became an extremely contentious issue in the final two years before it was permanently closed to tourists on 26 October 2019. Given that climbing Uluṟu as a tourist activity has become an event of the past, this paper will examine the nature, materiality, and potential heritage value of the portable material culture associated with the climb. The background to the history of climbing Uluṟu in the context of European invasion (‘exploration’), the nature of tourism at Uluṟu and the role climbing played in this, as well as the management decisions that led to the closure of the climb can be grouped into four thematic periods: the beginnings of settler colonialist ascents (1873–1950), the ‘heroic’ age of Uluṟu tourism (1950–1958), lodges in a National Park (1958–1985), and joint management and the eventual closure of the climb (1985–2019). Based on a description of the material culture associated with the climb, particularly badges, patches and certificates, and drawing on the methodologies of historic and material culture studies, this paper will discuss the various interpretations of climbing Uluṟu and how the portable material culture reflects or exemplifies climbing as a conquest and heroic deed, as a spiritual ritual, and as a violation of cultural rights. After examining the materiality of the wearable material culture, we conclude by exploring which of these portable items are culturally significant and which, if any, should be curated in public collections.

1. Introduction

Described in the tourism promotion literature as ‘the heart of Australia’, Uluṟu, or ‘The Rock’ (‘Ayers Rock’), has become an internationally recognizable symbol for the Australian outback [1] and, for Australia as a destination, is only surpassed in its recognition value by the Sydney Opera House [2]. Ever since the 1950s, it has been promoted as an exotic tourist destination, currently attracting hundreds of thousands of tourists each year. One of the major tourist activities in the last quarter of the twentieth century was the ‘conquest’ of Uluṟu by completing the steep, 1612 m climb to the top.

The climb by women and uninitiated men, always disapproved by the Aṉangu community, became an increasingly contentious issue among tourists, especially Australians with a settler colonialist standpoint, who perceived to hold an unalienable right to climb what they considered to be a natural geological feature. Actively discouraged since 1990—five years after the land title to Uluṟu was handed back to the Aṉangu community—the climb was permanently closed to tourists on 26 October 2019. Over the almost 60-year duration of climbing Uluṟu as a tourist activity, a wide range of mementos and souvenirs was produced. Given that climbing Uluṟu as a tourist activity has become an event of the past, no new memorabilia or merchandise that either ‘celebrates’ a successful climb or states that the purchaser chose not (or failed) to climb will be produced. As this chapter is now closed, it is time to examine the nature, meaning, and potential heritage value of the portable material culture associated with the climb.

This paper, drawing on the methodologies of historic and material culture studies, will first set out the background to the history of climbing Uluṟu in the context of European invasion (‘exploration’), the nature of tourism at Uluṟu, and the role climbing played in this, as well as the management decisions that led to the closure of the climb. Based on a description of the material culture associated with the climb, particularly badges, patches, and certificates, this paper will discuss the various interpretations of climbing Uluṟu and how the portable and particularly material culture reflects or exemplifies climbing as a conquest and heroic deed, as a spiritual ritual, and as a violation of cultural rights. Following an examination of the materiality of the wearable material culture, we will conclude by discussing whether these items of portable material culture are culturally significant and which, if any, should be curated in collections held in public hands (e.g., museums).

This paper adds to the body of literature on items of material culture that are associated with an intangible heritage practice, but which are neither utensils, nor the paraphernalia required to facilitate or accompany the practice, nor the objects that result from a practice. In doing so, the paper expands our understanding of the richness of items of material culture and their materiality.

2. Background

2.1. Uluṟu

Uluṟu (25.3444° S, 131.0369° E), located some 450 km south-west of Alice Springs, is a domed, steep-sided sedimentary and vegetationally bare inselberg (colloquially referred to as a ‘monolith’) of 9.4 km circumference that rises 348 m above the surrounding, predominately flat terrain. The weathering of the arkose rock mass has released iron oxides, which give Uluṟu its distinct red color [3]. The sides of the inselberg are generally steep, limiting ready access to the top. The main access occurs via a spur in the north-west, which has a maximum inclination of 41 degrees [4].

Uluṟu was first seen by non-Indigenous Australian eyes on 19 July 1873 by William Christie Gosse and his travelling party, who had been commissioned by the South Australian government to find a route from Alice Springs to the west coast of Australia [5]. In a typical example of toponymic subjugation through over-naming [6], Gosse, unaware and uninterested in Aṉangu toponomy, named his ‘discovery’ ‘Ayers Rock’ after Henry Ayers, the then-Premier of South Australia (with the Northern Territory being administered by the Colony of South Australia at the time). The name became official once Gosse’s account was published in the SA Parliamentary record in 1874 [5]. Its formal appellation as ‘Uluṟu’ was widely ignored, although mentioned, with a range of spelling variations, in publications dating back to the 1930s and 1940s, where it is variously referred to as ‘Ooleroo Gabbi’ [7], ‘Ooleroo’ [8], ‘Oolera’ [9], and ‘Oolra’ [10,11], as well as ‘Uluru’ [12,13]. The first use of ‘Uluṟu’ in the title of any publication occurred in 1957 when Bill Harney entitled a Walkabout article ‘The Dome of Uluru’ [14]. In geographical nomenclature, ‘Ayers Rock’ was formally reverted to ‘Uluṟu’ in 1993 [15].

Uluṟu is of cultural and spiritual significance to the Aṉangu (Pitjantjatjara and Yankunytjatjara) people, the traditional owners and custodians of the Country surrounding the inselberg. There are numerous ceremonial (‘art’) sites, associated with both genders at the base of Uluṟu, many of which are now closed off to public visitation, with photography even from a distance actively discouraged [16]. In the past, uncontrolled visitation (e.g., wrong gender or uninitiated) violated Aṉangu cultural rules, protocol, and mores (Tjukurpa) [17].

The Aṉangu spiritual and legal system, Tjukurpa, which explains the relationship between the Country and the Aṉangu, is animated by creator spirits and events that explain the world as laid down by the Aṉangu law. Uluṟu forms part of this as the venue of several key creation events, the evidence for which is recognizable in the features of the landscape and fauna and flora that this inhabits [18,19,20]. One of these is the story of the Mala people and Mala Tjukurpa with the traditional route taken by ancestral Mala (Hare Wallaby) men travelling to Uluṟu from the north. Under Tjukurpa, each feature is significant. The common line of ascent to the summit of Uluṟu was taken by the ancestral Mala men who planted a ceremonial pole on the top [19]. Considered to be ‘a men’s sacred area’, a climb was only permissible to initiated men of the Mala people [18,19,21]. Other elements of Tjukurpa cannot be divulged to outsiders [21].

The Aṉangu people, as direct descendants of the Mala, are responsible for the ongoing protection and appropriate management of the Country, of these ancestral lands. While climbing Uluṟu does not respect Aṉangu cultural values, inappropriate tourist behavior on the summit exacerbated this through expressions of utter disrespect by dumping rubbish, urinating, defecating, flying frisbees, playing golf, and even taking nude photos [22,23,24,25,26].

The Uluṟu-Kata Tjuṯa National Park Management Plan 2000–2010, drawn up by a board numerically dominated by Aṉangu, explained that “to climb is to show disrespect for the spiritual and safety aspects of Tjukurpa”. As climbing Uluṟu presents some degree of physical difficulty, serious or fatal injuries from physical exertion (e.g., heart attacks) and falls are not uncommon [27]. Over the period that tourists were able to climb Uluṟu, 37 people died during the climb [28], with numerous others dying of heart attacks one or two days after. Apart from cultural concerns, the traditional owners and relevant Aboriginal people take their responsibilities and obligations as hosts to tourists in Country very seriously [29]. They “are very concerned about visitors’ safety. Each time a visitor is seriously or fatally injured at Uluṟu, Nguraritja share in the grieving process. Tjukurpa requires that Nguraritja take responsibility for looking after visitors to their country: this ‘duty of care’ is the basis of their stress and grieving for those injured” [30].

2.2. Climbing Uluṟu

In this section, we will set out the history of visitation of Uluṟu by non-Indigenous Australian people, both as visitors and later as tourists. We have grouped this into four thematic periods: the beginnings of settler colonialist ascents (1873–1950), the ‘heroic’ age of Uluṟu tourism (1950–1958), lodges in a National Park (1958–1985), and joint management and the eventual closure of the climb (1985–present) (for a detailed chronology, see [31]).

2.2.1. Beginnings of Settler Colonialist Ascents

Gosse and his Afghan lead cameleer, Kamran, were the first non-Indigenous Australians to reach and climb Uluṟu in 1873 [5]. The following year, Ernest Giles also ascended [32] vol. II p. 61. At the time, the land around Uluṟu was Aṉangu (Pitjantjatjara and Yankunytjatjara) Country, with a European invasion (in larger numbers) still two generations away.

When Breaden and Oliver climbed in 1897, they encountered a small cairn (erected by either Gosse or Giles) to which they added a few stones as well as two tin vesta matchboxes with their names and date of ascent [33,34]. Climbing Uluṟu and creating a cairn from stones and then adding to it can be read as creating a tangible reality of presence, as a manifestation of taking possession of an ‘empty land’.

In 1931, police officer William McKinnon and his Indigenous support climbed Uluṟu, which reputedly “only four white men before him ha[d] succeeded” [11]. Even though he climbed as an individual (Figure 1), McKinnon was the local manifestation of settler-colonialist power, an authority that he exercised forcefully, if not brutally, with dubious morals and ethics (he was tried but only reprimanded for killing Yokununna, an Aṉangu man, at Uluṟu in 1934) [17,18,35,36]. Additional early climbers who left their names were McKinnon again on 19 February 1932 (when he removed Breaden and Oliver’s matchboxes on the former’s request), H. Fuller and T.I. Walker on 21 July 1933, as well as the Foy Expedition on 28 May 1936 [37]. When Clune climbed Uluṟu in October 1938, the cairn contained a bottle with a ‘logbook’ of sorts where previous climbers had added their names [9] as proof of ‘conquest’ (transcribed in 1950 by Latham [37]).

Deemed to be ‘crown land’ under the doctrine of terra nullius (overturned in Mabo v. Queensland No. 2 1992 [Cth]), the Northern Territory administration excised the southwestern corner of the NT, including Uluṟu, as an Aboriginal Reserve (‘Petermann Reserve’) in 1920 [38,39]. This implied that non-Indigenous Australians wishing to traverse the area needed to obtain formal permission, although that was not always obtained [18]. As noted earlier, under the Aṉangu Tjukurpa spiritual and legal system, climbing Uluṟu was discouraged. As long as Uluṟu formed part of the Petermann Reserve, visitation by outsiders was limited, and cultural trespass was limited (albeit not really policeable), at least in numerical terms. While parties of one or two might go undetected, larger groups setting out from Alice Springs, for example, would not. Morley Cutlack’s gold prospecting trip, for example, had required formal permission [9]. Outside the reserve, the first cattle leases on what was claimed to be terra nullius were Angas Downs in 1927, and, closer to Uluṟu, Curtin Springs in 1939 [18]. The initial road to Uluṟu passed between these two stations [18].

Figure 1. The first photograph of a person standing on top of Uluṟu. Constable William McKinnon next to the cairn, February 1932 [40].

Figure 1. The first photograph of a person standing on top of Uluṟu. Constable William McKinnon next to the cairn, February 1932 [40].

During the 1940s, the Australian National Travel Association promoted Central Australia as an ‘untamed’ destination where tourists could relive the hardships experienced by nineteenth-century ‘explorers’ [41]. Uluṟu and Kata Tjuṯa figured prominently. As early as 1936, Uluṟu had been mentioned as one of the places of “surpassing interest…for the mountain-lover, for the artist, for the climber” [42]. That echoed a 1926 comment in The Bulletin, which noted that the McKay expedition had described Uluṟu as “one of the great sights of the continent, and only an Alpine climber could mount it” [43]. Commensurate, the climb was initially described as a challenge, mainly due to the length of the ascent, the lack of resting places, and the looseness of the underlying rock [9]. The narrative of the time was that climbing Uluṟu allowed the early climbers to “win Alpine laurels” [11]. A photographic essay published in January 1949 by the ardent climber John Béchervaise in Walkabout (of which he was the assistant editor) illustrates both the challenge and the rewards of the climb [10]. This description fed the interests of the emerging fraternity of Australian climbers.

All of the early climbs by non-Indigenous Australians were accompanied by Indigenous men. Arthur Groom, who climbed Uluṟu in 1947, for example, was guided by two Aṉangu men: ‘Tiger’ Tjalkalyirri and Tamalji. Tjalkalyirri, who had strong claims to the Mala totemic sites of Uluṟu, worked as an occasional cameleer-guide to Uluṟu [44] and had already guided an ascent along the Tjinteritjinteringura (Willy Wagtail) route in 1946 (see [31] for chronology).

During the 1930s and 1940s, the number of climbers remained very small. That changed in August 1950 when nine staff of a Melbourne University trip to the interior climbed Uluṟu [45,46]. The last to ascend before them was Malcolm Senior, a resident of Alice Springs and staff of Centralia Holdings, who climbed to be able to survey the land in preparation for an expedition to find the famed Lasseter’s Reef later that year [47,48]. Soon after, in the same year, a group of 27 schoolboys and masters from Sydney’s Knox Grammar school, under the guidance of the anthropologist Charles P. Mountford and four Indigenous Australian men, ascended Uluṟu from the southwestern end [37,45,49,50]. The group encountered a coffee jar in the cairn with a list of at least 24 names of individuals or groups together with dates (commencing with MacKinnon in March 1931, representing thirteen climbing events) [37]. Schoolboy ‘expeditions’, organized by private schools in Sydney and Melbourne, continued to bring large numbers of male pupils to Uluṟu, the majority of whom climbed to the summit [51,52]. Three years after the initial Knox Grammar cohort, an account mentions a second bottle in the cairn that held names. In the 1950s, it was seemingly de rigeur to not only leave one’s name in the glass jar in the cairn on top but also to read the names of all those who went before [53,54]. Many of the early formal climbs were led by ‘Ossie’ Andrew of Curtain Springs, the closest homestead to Uluṟu before the construction of formal accommodation [51]. Climbing Uluṟu had become an integral part of the visit.

2.2.2. The ‘Heroic’ Age of Uluṟu Tourism

In the 1950s, a second travel narrative emerged, promoting Central Australia as a location to gaze upon Indigenous Australian people, mainly men, in their ‘primitive’ state before they disappeared, this time not due to extinction (as had been the nineteenth-century trope) but due to assimilation [55]. Until now, visits by people other than Aṉangu occurred on an occasional basis with an ‘expeditionary’ character, be it for mining explorations (Foy, Cutlack) or experiential education (the school tours). The publicity surrounding these visits, particularly the multiple items published in Walkabout, almost bordered on saturation coverage [9,10,45,51,56,57,58,59,60,61,62] and popularized Uluṟu in the public consciousness.

We have termed this period of tourism as ‘heroic’ simply because this is how it was perceived. Off the beaten track, let alone the emerging tourist ‘highways’ of caravaning, holiday-making baby boomers [63,64], Uluṟu was a remote, difficult-to-access location in a, at least for visitors from the eastern seaboard, harsh and forbidding terrain. Participating in a tour to Uluṟu in the early 1950s meant going out of one’s comfort zone. Even though the track that had been graded from Curtain Springs to Uluṟu in 1948 allowed for better access [65], during the early period, travel to Uluṟu was only possible by four-wheel drive trucks, one for the passengers and one for the camp gear [66], with tour groups camping in dome tents at the base of Uluṟu (Figure 2).

In 1950, Connellan Airways applied for a permit to build an airstrip at the base of Uluṟu for sightseeing flights from Alice Springs, with the ground time being about an hour [18]. While this was denied by the Department of Native Affairs, formal road-based tourism to Uluṟu commenced in 1952 when Len Tuit, expanding on his schoolboy’s excursion [67], began to offer conducted overnight tours from Alice Springs [68]. A photo essay in Walkabout in October 1950 identified the ‘climbing ridge’ [58] that many of the visitors climbed. Organized tours from Alice Springs to Uluṟu and Kata-Tjuṯa (‘Mount Olga’) occurred predominately in the cooler winter season [61].

As Uluṟu was part of the Petermann Reserve (created 1922), tour operators as well as individual visitors had to obtain permission from the Welfare Branch of the Northern Territory administration [60,69]. During the early 1950s, the emerging tourist industry pushed for changes to the management of the area, particularly Uluṟu and Kata-Tjuṯa, which were seen as prime, iconic locations. In 1954, Ken Tuit ran monthly tours from Alice Springs to Uluṟu during the winter months (when the roads were dry). An alternative was to fly to Curtin Springs station and be driven from there [70]. Tour operators, as well as pastoralists who benefitted from passing visitation, were agitated to excise Uluṟu and Kata-Tjuṯa from the Aboriginal Reserve [41,69]. Some anthropologists, such as TGH Strehlow, however, were worried that unlimited and unsupervised visitation could endanger the art sites at Uluṟu and argued for a limited access period per year with the tourists conducted by government guides [8]. Indeed, the defacement of art sites, many by scrawling visitors’ names over artwork, had occurred as early as 1946 [37] and then again in 1954 [71] and 1956 [72].

Bill Harney, who had worked as a Native Affairs patrol officer, produced the first guidebook for Uluṟu in 1957 [73]. In his work, based on information provided by the two Kukatja-Luritja elders Kundekundeka (‘Kakakadeka’) and Imalung, Harney displayed cultural sensitivity and did not indicate the climbing location and route on his maps [73,74,75]. In regard to the elders, Kundekundeka commented on the desecration of the Country by settler-colonialist activities, including the climbing of Uluṟu. Subsequent work has shown Harney’s information on spiritual significance to be largely incorrect [18,76]. An extended version was published by the Northern Territory Reserves Board in 1967 [65]. A second professional tourist guide, authored by Mountford and Ainslie Roberts, was a ten-page pamphlet containing a description of the geological features and spiritual significance of Uluṟu that was published in 1960 [77]. That, too, has been deemed inaccurate in parts [18].

Early tourist numbers are guesswork, but a figure of 100 visitors in 1956 has been muted [78]. This may well be an underestimate, as Lamshed noted that “at end of July 1954, no less than 35 people were camped near the rock in four separate parties, some organized tourists, some visitors from the south, others itinerant motorists” [70]. Clearly, while access to Uluṟu required a permit according to regulations, “the impossibility of policing them [made] them well-nigh a dead letter” [70].

Publications in Australian weekly magazines, such as a 1957 feature in Australian’s Women’s Weekly, not only popularized the destination [79], but also embedded the climb to the top as a de rigeur activity in public consciousness: “Of course I climbed the Rock’, said Mrs. Kelty, five times a grandmother. ‘That’s what I came for. And I’ve taken a pebble [from the top, ed.] back for each of the grandchildren” [79]. The fact that the article extolled that even women, who during the patriarchal 1950s were still deemed the ‘weaker sex’ [80,81], could climb Uluṟu as tourists firmly placed a climb on the ‘bucket list’ of mid-century outback tourists (Figure 3).

2.2.3. Lodges in a National Park

On 20 February 1958, Uluṟu and Kata-Tjuṯa were excised from the Petermann Reserve to form Ayers Rock-Mount Olga National Park [82,83]. Established as a separate reserve, the national park, open to tourists, was first placed under the control of the NT Native Welfare Branch. By the end of the year, it was placed under the control of the Northern Territory Reserves Board to be managed as a tourist and wildlife reserve [18].

By 1958, tourism had become formally established as a viable business. Connellan Airways offered fly-in/fly-out trips from Alice Springs to a strip at the base of Uluṟu. Conellan also teamed up with Alice Springs Tours, which offered bus tours, to offer a fly-in/drive-out option [78]. That company had erected the first lodge at Uluṟu in the same year [50]. By 1960, Uluṟu had become a tourist attraction in easy reach of tour buses [66]. During the 1960s, Walkabout continued to heavily promote Uluṟu through stories [84,85,86] and photography [87]. While climbing is often specifically mentioned, it was established as part of the ‘standard repertoire’ of a visit. A 1964 article outlined the various options to reach Uluṟu by air, coach, and private travel as well as the various accommodation options (“three tourist chalets”) and travel times. The article did not fail to note that a “guided climb up the Rock rewards strenuous efforts with a fine view” [86] (Figure 4). Publications augmented this with imagery of tourists as photographers [62,88]. With the declaration of Ayers Rock-Mt. Olga National Park, the opening of the area to mass tourism, and the establishment of a lodge, visitor numbers increased quickly. In the first year (FY 1958/59), 2296 people visited the park, rising to 10,427 in FY 1964/65, 30,201 in FY 1970/71, and 87,871 in FY 1982/83 [69].

During this period, however, Aṉangu were actively discouraged from visiting the park, yet many continued to travel across their homelands to hunt, gather food, visit family, and participate in ceremonies [89]. In 1964, pastoral subsidies were revoked, leading many Aṉangu to settle at Uluṟu. The appearance of the Aṉangu, perceived as neglected, did not align with the idealized image of ‘primitive Aborigines’ portrayed in tourism and advertising. In response to pressure from tour operators, the government established a settlement at Kaltukatjara (Docker River) to encourage Aṉangu to move away from Uluṟu [18]. As Rose noted in 1965, however, “it is almost certain that if the Aborigines were not kept, or as it is expressed locally, ‘hunted’ away from the vicinity of Ayers rock, the Aboriginal population at Angas Downs would largely transfer there” [90]. By the 1970s, Aṉangu had established a permanent camp at the eastern aspect of Uluṟu. The presence of an ‘untidy’ camp was seen as detrimental by the tour operators as well as the NT Parks and Wildlife, who pushed for a relocation ‘out of sight’ [91]. In 1972 the Ininti store, an Aṉangu enterprise on a lease within Ayers Rock-Mt. Olga National Park, was opened, offering supplies, handicrafts, souvenirs, and services to tourists.

The early narrative that an ascent to Uluṟu was difficult and dangerous was critiqued by Arthur Groom, who in a 1959 publication noted that “various writers have described Ayers Rock as difficult of ascent, when in reality it is a trained mountaineer’s job on the east-south-east corner, a rough and steep scramble up at least two places on its southern side, and nothing else but a strenuous and spectacular uphill walk on its western side” [92].

Prior experiences of coach captains taking tourists to Uluṟu from Alice Springs had influenced many tourists to climb. Indeed, many coach captains even guided the climb. Ossie Andrews, under contract by Pioneer Tours, for example, had led some 250 ascents by 1970 [93]. As noted by Batty in 1960, “[i]s not hazardous even though the steepest part is at an angle of 60 degrees…there is little danger of slipping and experienced guides are there to help” [94]. The accompanying photographs show two women returning from a climb. Groom’s notion that the climb was an, albeit strenuous, “spectacular uphill walk” just added to the appeal. In 1960, most visitors wanted to climb Uluṟu [94], but the exact numbers are unknown. Following two deaths in 1962 and 1963 [95], a chain, supported by stanchions anchored into the rock, was installed in 1964 to facilitate safer ascents. This was extended in 1976 [96].

To the Aṉangu, tourists were ‘minga’ (ants), as like ants, they crawled all over the area, with the line of tourists climbing up Uluṟu resembling an ant trail (Figure 5). It appears that the Aṉangu tolerated the fait accomplí created by the fact that Aṉangu had been actively discouraged, or ‘chased away’ from Uluṟu in the 1950s and early 1960s [90] at a time when tourist numbers, and thus climbers, increased from about 100 in 1956 to over 25,000 by the start of the 1970s (Figure 6). Coupled with the powers of the Native Affairs Board of the Northern Territory and the lack of formal recognition of their status as citizens under the Constitution until 1967 [97], the Aṉangu were in no position to have their cultural opinions heard, let alone respected [17]. Tolerating a situation due to lack of power does not, however, imply its acceptance, as was argued later on by opponents to the closure of the climb (see below).

It was estimated in 1974 that about 75% of all visitors attempted to climb Uluṟu [98]. Observations in August 1972 found that women were more likely to climb than men, and with the highest proportions of both genders in the adolescent and 20–30-year age cohorts [4]. The overall figures are staggering. In the twenty-year period when logbooks were kept at the cairn (May 1966 and May 1986), almost 1.3 million people had climbed Uluṟu [99].

Activities were not limited to the climb itself, taking photographs, and signing the guestbook at the cairn but also included throwing down pieces of rock and other objects and even driving a golf ball from the summit [4]. The 1973 visitor impact study considered the climb as a major attraction for a visit and canvassed a range of invasive options to better manage the climb, including the provision of a chairlift (already floated in 1963, see further below), providing a fixed chain over the whole of the climb, cutting or blasting steps in the Rock, or providing a helicopter pad near the summit [4]. While none of these eventuated, it highlights the lack of cultural awareness at the time. In 1976, the chain was extended over a second, difficult section of the climb [96].

In 1971, the traditional owners of Uluṟu expressed their concerns about the desecration of sites and tourism pressures on their land at a meeting with Commonwealth officials at Ernabella, but next to nothing eventuated [18]. As early as 1973, the Commonwealth government “indicated a willingness to return that Park to Aboriginal control” [100] but with the expectation that tourism would continue to be permitted. The Central Land Council, representing Aṉangu interests, would be subject to a claim to traditional land and should be brought under Aboriginal control, with “the specific power to exclude non-Aborigines from visiting the Rock for approximately two to four weeks during annual ceremonies” [101]. A formal discussion paper on the impact of visitors on Uluṟu comments on the environmental impacts but remains silent on cultural issues [98]. After the Aboriginal Land Rights Act (Northern Territory) 1976 came into effect, the Central Land Council lodged a native title application on behalf of the Aṉangu in February 1979 [91]. Following hearings, the Aboriginal Land Commissioner decided that the declaration of Uluṟu (Ayers Rock-Mount Olga) National Park implied that the area was not unalienated crown land and therefore was excluded from a land claim [102]. While changes occurred in terms of internal management processes, including the formulation of a management plan in 1982 [103], the issue of Aṉangu control over Uluṟu was set aside until 1983 (see below).

2.2.4. Joint Management and Eventual Closure of the Climb

Until July 1978, the Northern Territory had been directly administered by the Commonwealth government. The Northern Territory (Self-Government) Act 1978, effective with FY 1978/79, transferred the majority of decision-making to the elected government of the Northern Territory. The Commonwealth, however, retained, inter alia, powers with regard to Aboriginal Affairs and National Parks.

Following the decision that Uluṟu (Ayers Rock-Mount Olga) National Park was not unalienated crown land and therefore was excluded from a land claim [102], the Aṉangu community continued to argue their case. The Commonwealth government was lobbied to agree to a grant of title to be coupled with an associated leaseback to the Commonwealth for continued use as a National Park. [104]. In November 1983, the Commonwealth cabinet resolved to return Uluṟu (Ayers Rock-Mount Olga) National Park to its traditional owners [104]. The Northern Territory government strongly opposed the handing back of Uluṟu, arguing that this would amount to “giving away ownership of our greatest natural wonder…to a small group of people” [104].

The Commonwealth government prevailed, and the formal title to Uluṟu (Ayers Rock-Mount Olga) National Park was transferred from the Commonwealth government to the Uluṟu Kata Tjuṯa Aboriginal Land Trust on 11 June 1985 [105]. At the formal handover ceremony, the Aṉangu community had the formal, unfettered title over Uluṟu and Kata Tjuṯa for 35 s before the negotiated immediate leaseback to the Commonwealth Director of National Parks (for 99 years) took effect [106]. The newly formed Uluṟu-Kata Tjuṯa Board of Management was established in December of the same year, comprised of eight Aṉangu community representatives (among them the Chairman) and five representatives from the Commonwealth and Northern Territory governments. While Aṉangu had a numerical majority, power differentials remained in the early days. Under the 1985 deal, traditional owners were to receive 25 percent of gate fees paid by visitors to the Uluṟu and Kata Tjuṯa National Park. The proposed wider community benefits, however, failed to eventuate in the following years [107].

A culturally significant manifestation of the new management realities, however, was that ‘Uluṟu (Ayers Rock-Mount Olga) National Park’ was renamed to ‘Uluṟu-Kata Tjuṯa National Park’, not only dropping the settler colonialist toponyms but also adding the Pitjantjatjara phonetization. As noted by McKercher and duCros, the tourism industry and the general public were very slow in adapting to the name change [108], let alone a shift in focus, such as deemphasizing climbing in favor of cultural interpretation.

Even though Uluṟu-Kata Tjuṯa National Park had been handed back to the Aṉangu in 1985, it was still considered a primarily natural space in keeping with standard national park ‘doctrine’. This is well-reflected in the 1987 World Heritage listing of Uluṟu-Kata Tjuṯa, which occurred for its natural values [109]. That listing was expanded in 1994 to include cultural values (as a cultural landscape) [109]. The World Heritage listing was used in the promotion of Uluṟu to national and international audiences. In consequence, visitor numbers rose dramatically soon after the 1987 World Heritage listing, peaking in 2001 (Figure 7). On 15 December 1993, the inselberg officially received formal dual names: Ayers Rock/Uluṟu (where both names were seen as equally important and could be used either together or individually) [15].

One of the traditional custodians of the Country, Tony Tjamiwa, was asked at a press conference on the day of the hand-back on 26 October 1985 whether climbing would still be allowed with the existing chains. Reiterating the fact the tourist ‘tradition’ of climbing was a fait accomplí, he replied: “It is a sacred place for the Aboriginal people, but the Europeans have already climbed it. This has upset us and spoilt our feelings. But now it is already done, we will allow it, but we are not happy about it” [110].

With the increased popularity of Uluṟu, some offerings experienced crowding, including the climb. A study found that more than 100 visitors on the climb line at any time would create a sense of crowding. The visitor data showed that this number was exceeded for much of the time [111]. A risk assessment in 1997 found that climbing Uluṟu accounted for 66% of all accidents and medical incidents and 90% of all fatalities [112]. At the time of the final closure of the climb, 37 people had died during or immediately after the climb [113]. Every death caused anguish to elders [114] and was constructed as a collective responsibility by some. In addition to the deaths that occurred on Uluṟu or at its base at the return of the climb, other deaths, mainly heart attacks (myocardial infarcts) occurred later in the day or on the day after the climb [27]. In 1987, for example, fifteen deaths of tourists were attributed to this, with one death during the climb itself [115]. While cognizant of compromise between the Aṉangu and the tourism industry to permit continued climbing, the deaths prompted the Kata Tjuṯa Board of Management to begin a campaign to ‘de-emphasize’ the climb [115,116,117].

Figure 7. Development of visitor numbers to Uluṟu, 1958 to 2023 (in financial years, July–June) [65,69,78,118,119,120,121,122,123,124,125,126,127,128,129,130,131]. 1—Yulara Resort opened; 2—Handed back to the Aṉangu community; 3—World Heritage listing; 4—Asian economic downturn; 5—Sydney Olympic Games; 6—Global financial crisis; 7—Climbing ban announced; 8—Climbing ban took effect; 9—COVID-19.

Figure 7. Development of visitor numbers to Uluṟu, 1958 to 2023 (in financial years, July–June) [65,69,78,118,119,120,121,122,123,124,125,126,127,128,129,130,131]. 1—Yulara Resort opened; 2—Handed back to the Aṉangu community; 3—World Heritage listing; 4—Asian economic downturn; 5—Sydney Olympic Games; 6—Global financial crisis; 7—Climbing ban announced; 8—Climbing ban took effect; 9—COVID-19.

A visitor survey in 1986 noted that 85.7% came because they wanted to see ‘the Rock’, with 49% coming specifically to climb Uluṟu [132]. On average, 1000 visitors a day were climbing Uluṟu in 1987 [115]. By 1991, little had changed, as a visitor survey that year found that 87% of visitors came because they wanted to see Uluṟu. The percentage of people who came specifically to Uluṟu to climb, however, had risen to 71% [133]. By 1998, that figure was, based on perceptions of tour guides, closer to 90% [108]. The Aṉangu community continued to express its dissatisfaction with this tourist ‘custom’ and ensured that the third management plan for Uluṟu in 1991 reflected their view and also included provisions to discourage tourists from climbing: “In keeping with Aṉangu views on the inappropriateness of climbing Uluṟu, visitors will be encouraged not to climb through use of the interpretive message Ngaṉana Tainja Wiya—We never climb, which will be presented in interpretive brochures, during guided tours, and on signs” [133]. Yet, while many tour operators and bus drivers explained the Aṉangu “we never climb” message, the climb continued to be advertised as one of the attractions by the same operators, not only setting up a dissonance in the minds of the visitors but also covertly suggesting to visitors that the Aṉangu and the cultural concerns did not really matter [29].

Even though a process to deemphasize climbing was under way as early as 1987 [115], and the inappropriateness of the climb had been formally acknowledged in 1991 in the third management plan for Uluṟu [133] and mentioned in the subsequent plan as well [30], climbing remained permitted. Texts explaining Aṉangu cultural views and requests not to climb were included in park brochures as well as on signboards erected at the base of the climb (in 1992). The majority of the visitors either walked right past them or read but ignored the message [134]. When some high-profile individuals, such as the then-Deputy Prime Minister Tim Fischer, apologized to the Aṉangu in 1999 for having climbed Uluṟu in the past, the tourism industry lobbied strong and hard to keep the climb open. The educational efforts, both verbal and signage-based, however, had a gradual effect. From a peak of 71% in 1991 [133], the percentage of people climbing declined to 52% in 1995 [135] and to 35–43% in 2003–2004 [136] (Figure 8).

Data collected in 1995 showed that all genders climbed, with women being less likely to do so than men due to perceptions of negative health/fitness outcomes as well as their impact on the Indigenous community’s beliefs [135]. A 2006 study by Hueneke noted a reduced overall percentage of people who climbed (38%), with men more likely to climb than women and with the greatest proportion in the age cohort of under-19-year-olds [136,147]. Cultural differences were noted, with German tourists being the least likely to climb (20.5%) and Japanese being the most likely (83.1%), possibly encouraged by a Japanese-language leaflet that gave specific instructions on how to approach the climb [136].

When the next draft management plan for Uluṟu-Kata Tjuṯa was released for public comment in July 2009, the proposed closure of the climb attracted considerable media coverage and public debate [148]. Even the then-Prime Minister, Kevin Rudd, weighed in, voicing his opposition [149]. Despite opposition, the 2010–2020 management plan included a strategy to permanently close the climb once the percentage of visitors desiring to do so fell below 20% [16]. At the same time, restrictions on climbing were introduced for public safety and personal health reasons during periods of high temperatures, high winds, or increased slip hazards [150].

A visitor study from June to August 2014 showed that only 2% of visitors specifically came to Uluṟu to climb, with 12% actually having climbed or planning to do so while there. A clear dichotomy was observed, with under-40-year-olds (19.6%) being significantly more likely to climb (p = 0.0007) than over-40-year-olds (5.9%) [138]. By 2015, the percentage of visitors actively climbing had dropped to 16.2% (Figure 8), but the data were influenced by technical issues with visitor counters and frequent climb closures due to weather conditions [137]. On 1 November 2017, the Uluṟu Kata Tjuṯa Board of Management unanimously voted to close the climb on 26 October 2019 [151]. The date was chosen because it represented the anniversary of the handback of Uluṟu Kata Tjuṯa to the Aṉangu community.

Not surprisingly, this decision incurred often vitriolic commentary from conservative commentators. It was described as “theft” [152] and “an attack on our collective freedom to climb this totemic rock” [153] and seen to “derive from the now-dominant politics of identity and victimhood” [154]. A strong opponent to the ban even published “A guide to climbing Ayers Rock” questioning Aṉangu cultural beliefs [155]. Other media contributions also questioned Aṉangu cultural beliefs regarding the appropriateness and permissibility of the climb [156,157,158].

The fear of ‘missing out’ led to phenomenon of ‘last-chance tourism’, where prospective tourists are motivated to act and complete their ‘bucket list’ of ‘must-see-before-you-die items’ ‘before it is too late’. The signaled closure of the climb at Uluṟu was no different [118,157,158,159]. The spike in annual visitor numbers tells its own story (Figure 7). The ‘right to climb’ as a collective entitlement to the national icon [157] and the concomitant urge to post the ‘conquest’ on social media completely disregarded Aṉangu cultural values and polite requests to abstain.

The climb closed for the last time on 26 October 2019 [160]. In late October and November 2019, the Uluṟu climb infrastructure, associated materials including the chains, the posts, and the summit cairn, as well as memorial plaques commemorating those who had died while undertaking the climb, were removed [142]. While the plaques were returned to the families, where possible, some elements of the former climbing infrastructure were added to the collection of historic artefacts associated with Uluṟu [161] (held at the Uluṟu cultural centre). Following the closure of the climb, Google acquiesced to have the virtual climb (via Google Street View) removed from its map offering [162].

3. Methodology

The examples of material culture that form the basis of this paper were sourced through object and image search methodologies that follow the “protocol for the systematic compilation of items of material culture held in private hands” [163]. This entailed systematic online searches using text-based searches in the general WWW; those within online auction houses such as eBay and Delcampe and sales platforms such as Amazon, Etsy, and GumTree; and the use of auction image aggregator sites such as PicClick. Further systematic searches were carried out in the auction aggregator sites Carters.com, Invaluable.com, and Liveauctioneers.com as well as reverse image searches in Google and Bing. The initial search logic on eBay and Delcampe (and other sales platforms) was as follows:

‘Uluru’ | ‘Ayers Rock’ + ‘climb’ | ‘climbing’ − postcard.

We included wearable material culture encompassed items that could be worn on the body of a participant (e.g., caps and T-shirts) or be affixed to an item of clothing (e.g., lapel pins, brooch-like hat badges, and cloth patches). Once a category of wearable material culture was identified, additional searches were carried out:

‘Uluru’ | ‘Ayers Rock’ + ‘badge’ | ‘pin’ | ‘patch’ (etc.)

All results were scrutinized, whether they specifically referred to the climb or were items referring generically to ‘Uluṟu’/‘Ayers Rock’. The primary image search commenced in September 2024 and was completed in late October 2024. eBay and Delcampe (and other sales platforms) were queried on a weekly basis (including past sales).

Examples of wearable material culture included lapel pins, brooch-like hat badges, cloth patches, and items of clothing such as caps and T-shirts. Given that several badges were awarded as proof of a successful climb, we also have examples of certificates issued to successful climbers. For the sake of the comprehensiveness of the data set, adhesive stickers (for cars) and tea towels were also included in the expanded data capture [164]. Postcards, on the other hand, were specifically excluded from the data capture as they, conceptually, constitute a very different type of souvenir that is subject to different selection criteria and motivations than badges and patches [165,166,167,168,169,170], as were gifts and souvenir pottery [171].

The authors would like to stress that they do not wish to be interpreted as speaking for the Aṉangu community where references to Aṉangu are made in the text. Epistemologically, we ground ourselves in Indigenist standpoint theory [172].

The authors expressly do not assert copyright or intellectual property rights over any of the images (or their intellectual content) of the badges, patches, and other items of material culture that have been included here solely for purposes of academic review and analysis.

The compiled data set, comprising images of badges, patches, key rings, adhesive decals, souvenir spoons, tea towels, and items of clothing, has been presented as a stand-alone document [164].

4. Results

In total, 99 different items with the slogans “I climbed Ayers Rock”, “I tried to climb Ayers Rock”, “I didn’t climb Ayers Rock”, and variations thereof were identified. The lapel pins and hat badges fall into three main groups: badges issued by the tour operators, commonly with the name of the operator or accommodation (Figure 9 and Figure 10); badges, patches, and adhesive stickers produced by commercial souvenir companies proclaiming “I have climbed Ayers Rock” (or a variation thereof) (Figure 11A–D, Figure 12A–D and Figure 13A); as well as badges and patches with the text “I didn’t climb Ayers Rock” (or a variation thereof) (Figure 11E–H, Figure 12E–H and Figure 13B;

Table 1. Frequency of slogans on badges and patches documented in this data set.

	Issuer/Publisher
	Tour Company	Lodges	Souvenir Merchants
Badges
I climbed Ayers Rock	5 (1)	1	11 (1)
Presented for climbing Ayers Rock	2 (1)
I’ve Climbed Ayers Rock			3 (2)
The Rock. I made it			1
I didn’t climb Ayers Rock			6 (1)
I didn’t climb Uluṟu			1
Patches
I climbed Ayers Rock			7 (1)
Ayers Rock Climbers Club			1
I’ve Climbed Ayers Rock			6
I tried to climb Ayers Rock			2
I didn’t climb Ayers Rock			6

) [164].

Tour companies awarded badges to those who successfully climbed Uluṟu. At present, such badges have been documented for Centralian Tours, Sampsons Tours/All Australian Tours, Pioneer Tours, and Trailway Tours, as well as associated accommodations (Figure 10). Given that early tourists tended to stay at one of the company-owned or company-associated lodges at the base of Uluṟu, these badges were formally handed out at dinner by the tour company, as described by Colin Simpson on the occasion of his visit in 1970 [93]. While dating these badges is generally difficult, all can be dated to before about 1983/86 when company-owned accommodations at the base of Uluṟu were replaced by independent hotel accommodations at Yulara [31,164].

This began to change when the Ininiti Store was opened at Mutitjulu in 1972 [173]. Selling, inter alia, handicrafts and souvenirs, this outlet allowed the sale of generic, company-independent badges and patches (Figure 11 and Figure 12). From then until the close of the climb in 2019, various souvenir manufacturers and retailers sold a wide range of badges, patches, and adhesive labels, as well as other souvenir products that reference the climbing (or not) of Uluṟu [164]. These badges carry a range of texts, such as “I climbed Ayers Rock”, “I’ve Climbed Ayers Rock”, and “The Rock. I made it”. There are also examples that proclaim “I didn’t climb Ayers Rock” [174]. The sew-on/iron-on patches carry similar texts, with additional variations such as “Ayers Rock Climbers Club” and “I tried to climb Ayers Rock” (Table 1). Badge designs asserting that the wearer climbed Uluṟu far outnumber (78.18%) those stating that the wearer did not climb. The designs of cloth patches show similar proportions, with 73.9% of the patches purporting to have climbed or tried to climb (Table 1).

5. Discussion

In this section, we will first frame the portable material culture associated with climbing Uluṟu (as described in the preceding section) as wearable souvenirs demonstrating the wearer’s cultural positioning through ostentation. We will then discuss the various interpretations of climbing Uluṟu and how the portable material culture reflects or exemplifies climbing as a conquest and heroic deed, as a spiritual ritual, and as a violation of cultural rights. Following an examination of the materiality of the wearable material culture, we will conclude by discussing whether these items of portable material culture are culturally significant and which, if any, should be curated in a public collections setting.

5.1. Framing Wearable Souvenirs

While the deposition of tokens or adding one’s name to the ‘logbook’ in the memorial cairn atop of Uluṟu represented an attempt at immortality, albeit a more ‘civilized’ one than scratching one’s name into the rock (or trees) as had been au courant in the nineteenth century—and indeed had occurred at Uluṟu in 1946 [37]—it held no demonstrative value beyond those who also completed a climb at the same time. In an age before smartphones, the then-standard modes of publicly verifiable demonstration of one’s participation and presence at destinations, such as commercial tourist portraits [167], did not exist at the destination. For the case of Uluṟu, the only verification was through souvenirs that could only be acquired on site.

Although the origins of souvenirs trace back to the Middle Ages when pilgrims brought back devotional objects [175,176], the growth of tourism in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries led to a surge in ‘proof of presence’ and ‘tangible memory’ items. Souvenirs play a significant role in enhancing a visitor’s experience of a destination and can be divided into distinct categories: sampled objects (e.g., a picked-up rock); pictorial images of the location or event (i.e., postcards, tourist portraits); symbolic shorthand souvenirs (i.e., functional and non-functional manufactured objects that reflect the location or event); markers (everyday items that assume the role of mementos through inscriptions indicating their place of origin); and local products (merchandise and local crafts products typical of the location) [167,177,178]. A visitor’s choice of souvenirs is influenced by factors such as personal preference, economic considerations like cost and availability, familiarity with the location, and practical aspects such as ease of transport and weight [179].

All souvenirs possess a wide range of ontological characteristics, which are projected onto the object by the acquirer, by a casual observer, or by the receiver (where the souvenir is purchased as a gift) [179,180,181]. Souvenirs, which hold “special and symbolic trip memories”, [182] serve as tangible reminders, enabling people to recall specific moments, experiences, and places. By doing so, they allow individuals to transition from the present into a semi-nostalgic state, emotionally revisiting and reliving past experiences. At the same time, through ostentation to others, the souvenirs accrue social capital to their owners [183].

5.2. Climbing Uluṟu as Conquest and Heroic Deed

In an age before ready personal access to aerial or satellite imagery (e.g., Google Maps), elevated positions provided the only opportunity to ‘take in’ the views and vistas of a landscape. The mid-nineteenth century climbers Gosse and Giles did so primarily for reasons of geographical orientation.

Allan Breadon of Henbury Station and W. Oliver, ascending Uluṟu in 1897, did so in full cognizance that this represented a conquest and that, while not the first, they would be the first of many that followed, as settler colonist expansion into the area was about to intensify. In true nineteenth-century mountaineering tradition [184,185,186], of which they would have been aware from the popular weekly periodicals (such as the Adelaide Observer, Australasian, or the Australian Town and Country Journal), they erected a cairn from loose material collected on the top. For posterity, as proof of conquest, they deposited a paper with their names in a tin matchbox, which they placed in the cairn [33]. Subsequent climbers added their names and posed for their conquests (Figure 14).

As noted earlier, early twentieth-century media described Uluṟu as one of the few climbing challenges on the continent [9,10,11], ranging from “as one of the great sights of the continent, and only an Alpine climber could mount it” [43] to a place of “surpassing interest…for the mountain-lover, for the artist, for the climber” [42]. Descriptions such as these, as well as the remote nature and difficult access to Uluṟu even in the early days of commercial tour operations, painted the climb of Uluṟu in the light of challenge, adventure, and conquest. Some of the early badges with the text “I climbed Ayers Rock” reflect this perception, as they depict a traditional mountain climber dressed in a short-sleeved shirt, shorts, long socks, and boots, carrying a rucksack while ascending a rope (Figure 9).

In 1963, a scheme was floated to construct a chair lift from the base to the summit of Uluṟu to allow for safer and more convenient access for elderly tourists. The proposal was supported by the Northern Territory Reserves Board, but it incurred widespread condemnation [188,189]. It was suspended in December 1963 despite a second fatal fall in the same month [95] and shelved in May 1964 [190]. While the debate echoed for another year [191,192], the proposal was never revisited. Though abandoned, the very floating of the scheme itself indicates that the motivation to climb Uluṟu had begun to shift from conquest as a mountaineering challenge to a conquest of Uluṟu as the highest location within hundreds of kilometers. As alluded to by Barnes [55], the opening lines of Cowper’s poem ‘The Solitude of Alexander Selkirk’, “I am monarch of all I survey, | my right there is none to dispute | from the center all round to the sea, | I am lord of the fowl and the brute” [193], would have consciously or subconsciously echoed in the minds of many visitors, particularly pupils drawn from elite private schools.

In addition to the infrequent tour buses, individual travel also occurred during the ‘heroic’ period of tourism. In 1959, the magazine Walkabout published a description that reinforced the sense of adventure and conquest: “during the three days we were at the Rock, no one came to interrupt our strange feeling almost of ownership as we walked and climbed around and over its magnificent bulk” [194].

In the days of ‘heroic’ tourism when tour visits were few and far between, having climbed Uluṟu made a tourist one of a select few, joining “the Brotherhood of the Rock”, as Rex Ingamells put it in 1953 [51]. Bill Harney, the first ranger at Uluṟu, noted that one of the lasting impressions for him was “the holy expressions in white people’s eyes as they came down after going to the top of the mountain” [131]. Not surprisingly, the tour companies promoted a climb as an ‘achievement’. A description of a Pioneer tour in 1970, for example, noted that of a busload of forty tourists, twelve commenced climbing, but only six actually climbed all the way. It was those who, at dinner, were publicly rewarded with a company badge that stated “I climbed Ayers Rock” [93] (for Pioneer badge, see Figure 10E). These badges were worn affixed to hat bands or the lapel to be ostentatiously displayed by the climber. In the eyes of the fellow travelers, they took on the meaning of a medal, implying that climbing Uluṟu was a heroic deed. The ostentation of the lapel badges imbued the wearer with status, not only among the fellow tourists on the bus tour but also on return to Alice Springs, as well as upon return to their own social circles.

As late as the 1980s, some tourists conjured up imaginations of conquest. In a 1988 video, one of the tourists interviewed saw himself as re-enacting the climb of Mt. Everest by Sir Edmund Hillary even though he had followed a conga-line of others to the summit. When asked why he had bothered to climb the Rock at all, the tourist replied with the cliche, “because it’s there” (AFTRS video 1988 cited in [1]). By the mid 1990s, the sheer number of visitors on the climb at any time created a sense of crowding, which diminished the experience [111]. This suggests a shift in dynamics when the individual conquest, being one of the selected few, morphed into a ‘me too’ moment where the climb became an item to be ‘ticked off a bucket list’.

5.3. Climbing Uluṟu as a Spiritual Ritual

A mixing of conquest and spirituality was demonstrated in 1959, when three Catholic priests, four laymen, and 33 students from Blackfriars College in Adelaide celebrated a Catholic service [69] on top of Uluṟu, replete with “vestments and all the altar requisites cruets, missal, candles, candle-sticks, altar cloths, altar stone, etc.” and an altar erected from loose stone slabs [195]. Not only did climbing represent a personal conquest, and one that involved a personal ‘burden and sacrifice’ by carrying items up the slope, but it also represented a spiritual conquest of the landscape. Moreover, the event can also be read as both imposition of and a domination by Western spiritual values over Aṉangu cultural rules and spirituality. The 1959 service was not an isolated occurrence, however. One Japanese tourist in the 1980s reputedly erected a Buddhist shrine on the summit and “chanted his devotion through a loudhailer” [23].

Given that to many Australian visitors Uluṟu represents the spiritual heart and soul of the country, a visit takes on the meaning of a secular pilgrimage [196]. Horne regards it to be “one of the principal pilgrimages in Australia”, interprets the tourism behavior expressed at Uluṟu as one of genuflection when kneeling down to take photographs “in a series of way stations”, and reads the climb as an ultimate test of faith [197]. Whitakker noted that tourism promotions “evoked the moral and existential rights of white Australians to make a pilgrimage, to the Mecca of all Australia, Ayers Rock” [198]. She continues noting that “as befits the notion of pilgrimage, the route is depicted as difficult, the climb dangerous and a true test of spiritual endurance”, a form of initiation ceremony for tourists, notably white Australians for “whom the spiritual quest, even dying for it, is tantamount to being a true Australian” [198]. Frank Moorhouse saw the climb as Australia’s “biggest initiation ceremony” and the top of the Rock as a “sacred site of mystery” where tourists could meditate and make big decisions about the rest of their lives” [199]. Julie Marcus, looking at the behavior of ‘settler tourists’, likewise likened the visit to Uluṟu as a pilgrimage to the heart of Australia, arguing that the clockwise ‘circumambulation’ of Uluṟu resembles pilgrim behavior at numerous shrines. She equates the climb to the summit of Uluṟu to the climb at Lhasa (Tibet), both in effort and posture (many tourists ascend the steep sections on their knees) [200]. Climbing Uluṟu became a rite of passage [201,202]. These interpretations relate, in particular, to the period in increased visitation after the opening of the resort in 1983. The notion of ‘new age’ spirituality, as Marcus noted, only enhanced the appeal of Uluṟu and its climb [200], which is now included in an international mystical tour circuit [203].

In this interpretation, then, the materiality of the souvenir badges claiming “I climbed Ayers Rock” can be read in the same way as the devotional objects that pilgrims brought back during the Middle Ages [175,176] and still today [201]—a dual meaning and value as a personal memory and as ostentation to the social circles verifying the deed. Unlike the early badges that were handed out as a reward and proof of actual achievement, the latter badges were individually acquired devotionalia.

There are also ample examples of vulgarization and desecration of that settler-colonist version of spirituality when tourists, as well as Australian sport identities, driving golf balls off the top [23,24,25], or when a French woman performed a striptease on top of Uluṟu in 2010 [25].

5.4. Climbing Uluṟu in the Wider Settler-Colonialist Discourse

Discourses promoting Uluṟu as a significant Australian attraction and climb have mirrored social norms and understandings of the cultural importance and validity of the site in Australia [198]. Although they do not synchronize well with the historic time period of tourism development outlined earlier, three specific periods of time can be noted for discussion: ‘pre-knowing’, the Land claim era when Aṉangu were exerting themselves to be heard, and the era post hand-back when Aṉangu were, at least nominally, ‘in control’.

Initial discourses of Uluṟu developed within settler-colonial values and understandings of the site. While Aṉangu storylines and traditions were acknowledged [57,73,74,75,77,131] these initially excluded any focus on the site as possessing ongoing cultural significance to the Aṉangu people [159], a concept that was amplified by the fact that Aṉangu were actively discouraged, ‘driven away’, from Uluṟu in the 1940s to early 1960s [18,90]. The rock was an object to be ‘conquered’, and its value as an attraction and destination for tourists was normalized. As elsewhere in Australia, this has historically come at the expense of the cultural significance of the iconic site, particularly at the expense of the rights of the local Indigenous communities such as the Aṉangu people [159].

The initial ‘pre-knowing’ discourses on climbing Uluṟu reflected the complete absence of Indigenous voices from the narrative. Tourists could symbolically ‘conquer’ the rock through climbing it and visiting all caves and spaces, without genuine discussion of its value as a sacred site or the disrespect these actions demonstrated to the Aṉangu [204]. This reflects the initial absence of space for Indigenous voices in tourism around climbing the Uluṟu, effectively excluding any other ways of understanding the site outside of the colonial narrative. At Uluṟu, the period until the 1967 referenda reflects the mindset of the wider Australian society, which supported a policy of assimilation and, where this was deemed impracticial, a policy of reservation—but not at the expense of settler-colonialist economic aims and gains. The 1950s push to excise Uluṟu and Kata Tjuṯa from the Petermann Reserve must be seen in this light. This is not that culturally aware voices did not exist:

“To the aborigines [sic] of the area it is a sacred shrine, the core and heart of the myths which are entwined with their deepest religious beliefs. Surely a nation which would so flagrantly despoil the religious heritage of one of its voiceless minorities would set itself up before the world as Philistine, cheap, materialistic, and commercial” [189].

These voices, however, gained no traction. Uluṟu was positioned in tourism campaigns as being an Australian national site as opposed to an Aboriginal cultural site. As the ‘heart’ of Australia as a nation [204], Uluṟu could not possibly be “locked away in an ‘Aboriginal reserve’”. In furtherance of this colonial mindset, and to support an ongoing stream of individual ‘conquests’, significant fixtures were imposed on the landscape to support tourists in climbing. This included safety rails in 1966 and ‘guide chains’ in 1976 to facilitate an improved experience in climbing the rock [96,145]. Each of the successful conquests was publicly rewarded with badges, akin to medals, with each badge and certificate establishing a fait accompli of climbing as the ‘new normal’.

By 1975, the national ‘landscape’ had altered somewhat to include Indigenous discourses and voices in the debate on climbing Uluṟu. In particular, the Aṉangu land claim, which had been filed in 1979 under the Aboriginal Land Rights Act (Northern Territory) 1976 [91,102], although ultimately unsuccessful, brought Aṉangu voices into the foreground. The ensuing ‘competing’ discourse provided by Indigenous people and the Aṉangu focused on the environmental and cultural significance of the site, the cultural disrespect of climbing Uluṟu, and cumulative damage to the site from climbers [205]. Yet the dominant narrative prioritized in media coverage and tourism promotion continued to reinforce the colonial perspective that climbing Uluṟu is a right or achievement that should be upheld over any other. This settler colonial narrative of conquest over the land is again positioned as the most influential on shaping social understandings of Uluṟu and its significance to the nation [41]. The prioritization of discourses of potential economic loss also further justified the ongoing climbing Uluṟu in terms of promoting growth and economic revenue in the tourism industry; losing the right to climb was the repositioned as both a national and economic detriment to Aṉangu and to the nation as a whole [134,158]. Dominant discourses on Land Rights similarly echoed this theme of loss of rights and economic benefits attached to landing back land unlawfully taken as part of ongoing colonialism [118]. These discourses served, and still serve, to reject the possibility or legitimacy of Indigenous sovereignty [198]. This then ensured that the settler-colonial standpoint could be maintained as the default ‘correct’ understanding in the national debate around Uluṟu, undermining the efficacy of messaging from the Aṉangu people on the cultural disrespect and damage inherent in climbing Uluṟu. Signage of the time only commented on the difficulty of the climb (Figure 15).

Uluṟu was officially handed back to the Aṉangu people in October, 1985 by the then-Hawke Labor Government, positioning control of the site with the Aṉangu—in name at least [134]. This prompted a broader discussion about stopping climbing as a tourist activity, rationale for a visit to Uluṟu, and making space for Indigenous advocates and the Aṉangu people to challenge the entrenched settler colonial discourses [41]. Over time, the messaging around respecting Uluṟu as a sacred site has gained greater traction in shifting public perceptions around climbing Uluṟu (Figure 16) [206]. However, significant resistance to changing this colonial mindset on the contested space of Uluṟu remains [206]. For example, Chief Minister of the Northern Territory leading up to the Uluṟu handback, Ian Tucksworth, actively campaigned and advertised against the decision, arguing that it represented placing control of ‘the Heart of the nation’ in the hands of just a few [207]. Colonial discourses at this time now included active messaging around Uluṟu as a site belonging to all Australians—a discourse that both delegitimized any discussion of Indigenous sovereignty and tapped into broader cultural understandings about perceptions of equality [158]. This discourse of resistance continues to resonate for many Australians even today, with prominent media publications and politicians remaining strongly opposed to the closure. As recently as 2019, Senator Pauline Hanson engaged the media to film her attempting to climb Uluṟu before the deadline for its closure as part of her active campaign against the climbing ban [158]. The focus on discourses against the closure of the climb continues to emphasize the closure as a loss of an inherent ‘right’ of Australians and international tourists alike [204]. This can be viewed as a contemporary repackaging of the previous settler-colonial narrative of prioritizing colonial values of land and space [158].

Public discourses have continued to frame closing the climb as a cultural loss to the broader Australian national identity. This messaging expressed in the tourist badges commonly sold at Uluṟu. This messaging was also entrenched within tourism, manifesting in paraphernalia such as badges available for purchase, proclaiming “I climbed Ayers Rock”. Although later opposition can be seen in alternative badges messaging, such as “I didn’t climb”, these did not hold as much cultural or social currency as the former (Figure 17). These discourses continue to serve a very specific function, as tourism has an economic stake in maintaining the settler colonial ownership of Uluṟu. Tourism is inherently intertwined with colonialism, the ongoing exclusion and marginalization of the Aṉangu people, and, by extension, denial of Indigenous Australian sovereignty [159].

6. The Materiality of the Wearable Material Culture

Beyond descriptive and typological analyses of an object’s ontic properties—such as shape, size, weight, material, and sensory characteristics [209,210], the core principle of material culture research is that all created objects (‘artefacts’) possess an ontological reality, embodying meaningful social relationships with their owner(s) [211,212]. Most objects within material culture perform a function, whether physical (e.g., tools, containers, clothing, toys), ornamental (e.g., body adornments, decorative art), or symbolic (e.g., spiritual symbols) [213]. We need to consider the ontological dimensions as perceived or projected by the issuer of the items, the dimensions as projected by their purchasers, and the dimensions as understood or interpreted by the broader community.

Setting aside examples of forced display in authoritarian regimes [214], badges, by virtue of their voluntary ostentation in public display, signal the wearer’s affiliation with an institution or a group of like-minded individuals [215,216,217,218,219]. Several studies have explored their role in organizational culture, where they symbolize achievement [215,220,221,222], as ideological markers in political campaigns [217,223,224] to commemorate events (and participation therein) [225,226], and as devices for signaling a ‘safe’ ethnic identity—for instance, Chinese Americans distinguishing themselves from Japanese Americans in the USA during World War II [227].

As noted by Halavais, “to carry social currency, [a badge] must represent a significant sacrifice” [228]. Unlike tattoos or body mutilation as a ‘badge of honour’, wearable badges allow for fluidity in ostentation. While badges project and message the wearer’s value system or achievements through display, they are small and easily removeable or concealable in settings where it is less advisable to signal one’s point of view [217]. In this, they differ materially from sew-on/iron-on cloth patches or bumper stickers, for example, which have a longer permanence. At the same time, unless witnessed and vouched for, the mere possession of a badge does not necessarily prove the significant sacrifice has been delivered.

Setting aside badges used in political campaigns [217,223,224], little work has been carried out into the ontology of late twentieth and early twenty-first century lapel pin/hat badges. One of the authors discussed badges issues by mulled wine vendors at German Christmas markets and discussed their meaning in terms of layered spheres of exposure (personal, event, social, and public sphere). While the percentage of customers accepting and wearing these pins during the visit is unknown, it was posited that it is unlikely that these pins would have been worn outside the event setting. As objects that could only be acquired during the event and at the event locations, these badges were treated as collectibles and were (and still are) being traded as such [229]. This is echoed, in part, by Woodham’s work badges and other collectibles of the London Olympics 2012, which were mass produced with a considerably larger target market and which had dedicated pin trading venues [226].

The wearable material culture associated with the climb is imbued with various levels of meaning in terms of the participant, the other visitors at Uluṟu at the same time as the participant, the participant’s social network, and the community at large. The badges and patches can be examined in terms of the spheres of exposure at Uluṟu (personal and visitor sphere) and external context (social and public sphere). Critical for the understanding of the ontological qualities of the badges and patches is that they do not represent a narrow time horizon but cover the period from the mid-1950s to the new millennium. For any discussion to be meaningful, it needs to be cognizant of the changed administrative and political realities (see Section 2.2).

The first badges were issued by tour operators (Figure 9 and Figure 10) and handed to participants after the successful completion of a climb. The public display of the badge signaled a group identity/membership with other tour group participants who also completed the climb, while it created a corporate and event identity with the tour operator (Figure 18). The public presentation of the badges at dinner [93] has the hallmarks of a ‘graduation ceremony’ as well as a formal admission to a circle of selected few. It can be posited that in the wider context of other visitors to Uluṟu, the public wearing of the badge on a lapel or hat band signaled proof of membership of the ‘brotherhood of climbers’ and positioned the wearer in relation to other tourists who had not or not yet climbed Uluṟu. The same applied to those the participant came in contact with at Alice Springs, as the shopkeepers and hotel staff would have been cognizant of the meaning of the badge. Upon return home, the badge served as a symbolic memory of the location and the climbing event itself. As proof of achievement, the badge also delivered social credit in the participant’s social circle (Figure 18).

It is highly unlikely that wearing the badges of that period would have had no ontological dimension that might have affected or involved the Aṉangu community. Efforts by the Welfare Board of the Northern Territory and later the Northern Territory Reserves Board, as well as the tour operators, discouraged the presence of Aṉangu at Uluṟu during that time (even though many Aṉangu came back to Uluṟu for ceremony [18]), trying to ensure that tourists and Aṉangu were two spatially separated groups of people. As noted earlier, the authors would like to stress that they do not wish to be interpreted as speaking for the Aṉangu community where reference to Aṉangu is made in the subsequent paragraphs.

The ontological qualities of the badges shifted once hotel accommodation multiplied and the Ininiti Store, offering handicraft and souvenirs, was opened in 1972 [173]. This period lasted until the handover of the title to the Aṉangu community in 1985. While some tour companies continued to issue badges during this period, badges proclaiming a successful climb became part of commercial souvenirs that could be acquired by a tourist irrespective of whether Uluṟu had been climbed (Figure 11A–D) [164]. In the personal sphere, wearing such a badge signaled a group identity/membership with other tourists who also completed the climb. To the Aṉangu community, it might have signaled the wearer’s ignorance of Aṉangu cultural preferences (not to climb). As these preferences had not been made widely known, climbers may be considered excused in their actions due to ignorance (Figure 19). As before, upon their return home, the badge served as a symbolic memory and delivered social credit in the participant’s social circle as proof of achievement.

As long as the number of visitors was low at any given point in time, the acquisition of badges under false pretenses is likely to have been self-policed. Once the tourist numbers increased (Figure 7), however, the pressure for self-regulation may have decreased. Moreover, the ability to purchase on demand allowed for personal interpretation of what constituted a ‘climb’. Was it necessary to have summited, or did being half-way up qualify?

Once the handback had occurred in 1985 and the new Uluṟu Kata Tjuṯa Board of Management had a majority of Aṉangu members, the dynamics regarding the desirability and permissibility of the climb changed. As noted earlier, a process to deemphasize climbing was under way as early as 1987 [115], with the 1991 management plan formally acknowledging the inappropriateness of the climb and the Aṉangu desire to stop tourists from doing so through education. Signboards explaining Aṉangu cultural views and requests not to climb were erected at the base of the climb in 1992. A similar educative text was included in Parks brochures at the same time.

From this point onwards, visitors could no longer claim or feign ignorance. The badges purchased and worn at that time need to be interpreted in this light. Unlike in earlier iterations, tour companies no longer issued such badges. All accommodation was no longer at Uluṟu itself but at various hotels in Yulara. Souvenir shops in the hotels catered for a wide range of interests.

As before, badges proclaiming successful climbs became part of commercial souvenirs that could be acquired by a tourist irrespective of whether Uluṟu had been climbed (Figure 11A–D) [164]. To the Aṉangu community, a badge reading “I have climbed Ayers Rock” (or similar) clearly signposted the wearer’s disrespect, if not contempt of their wishes that tourists should not climb. To the other members of the tour group and fellow tourists present at Uluṟu or Yulara, wearing a badge with text also provided proof that the wearer disrespected Aṉangu wishes and set up a proof of group membership with those of a similar mindset who had also climbed or who were intending to climb. While in the past, a badge with the text “I have climbed Ayers Rock” was a mark of achievement, it can now be read with an added a political dimension, an ostentation of disregard to Indigenous Australian viewpoints and authority, and an assertion of the perceived settler-colonialist right to trespass. As was the case in previous periods, upon returning home, the badge served as a symbolic memory of the location and the climbing event itself. Moreover, it also reinforced the personal perception of the appropriateness of the act of defiance that the climb represented (Figure 20).

Kim Fleet, who conducted extensive field work at Uluṟu between 1996 and 1998, noted that at the time the majority of people who climbed Uluṟu did not acquire a T-shirt or similar paraphernalia proclaiming to have successfully climbed [139]. This suggests that the majority of tourists who climbed Uluṟu (45% of all visitors) regarded the climb as a de rigeur activity but did not perceive a need to demonstrate their exclusivity (being content with receiving a climbing certificate from their tour companies) [139]. Extrapolating from this, the specific purchase of a badge, patch, or T-shirt and its public ostentation may well signal a wearer’s standpoint in open juxtaposition to the Aṉangu wishes.

In addition to the badges that proudly proclaimed the wearer had climbed Uluṟu, the souvenir merchants also catered for tourists who chose not to climb and who wished to make that choice known. These badges flag the wearer’s cultural positioning both with regard to fellow members of the tour group and the wider visitor community present at Uluṟu or Yulara, signaling in tangible form the regard for and respecting of the wishes of the Aṉangu community. As was the case with badges proclaiming a climb, upon return home, the badge served as a symbolic memory of the location and the choice not to climb and reinforced the personal perception of the appropriateness of that action. The badge also delivered social credit in the participant’s social circle, as long as they were conscious of, or were cognizant of, the cultural concerns a climb entailed (Figure 21).

It is tempting to read all badges and patches that proudly proclaim “I didn’t climb Ayers Rock” as an acknowledgement of Aṉangu cultural sensibilities and as a public positioning of one’s attitudes to the inappropriateness of the climb. Barry Hill certainly interpreted a T-shirt bearing that text and that he saw on sale in 1993 in this way [76], as did Watkins in 2005 [174]. The use of the three colors that have been widely equated with Indigenous Australian identity, red, black, and yellow, as represented in the 1971 flag design by the Wambaya and Kukatja-Luritja artist Harold Thomas, seem at first sight to support this interpretation of the badge (Figure 11F). Upon reflection though, this reading does not hold necessarily true, as numerous “I climbed Ayers Rock” badges use the same color scheme (Figure 11C).

The souvenir merchants also offered a variation of the badge “I didn’t climb Ayers Rock” that includes a striped canvas deck chair in their design (Figure 11G). Such deck chairs signals, in common advertising parlance, the concepts of holiday, leisure, and relaxation [230]. Like the previous “I didn’t climb Ayers Rock” badge, the versions with the deck chair signal the wearer’s cultural positioning both with regard to fellow members of the tour group and the wider visitor community present at Uluṟu or Yulara. They clearly convey the message that a climb is all too hard and that the wearer would rather sit back and relax. Some of the cloth patches even accentuate this by depicting a male with a beer can in his hand, reclining on a sun chair next to a table with a radio or camera (Figure 12H). This imagery appears to side-step the issue of whether a climb is disrespectful of the wishes of the Aṉangu community. Yet by ‘taking the mickey’ out of the issue, to use an apposite Australian slang term favored by ‘larrikins’ [231], the question of adherence to Aṉangu expectations is trivialized and make a mockery of. As with all previous examples, the badge served as a symbolic memory of the location and the choice not to climb. The badge also delivered social credit in the participant’s social circle, but merely as a ‘proof of presence’ (Figure 22).

While irreverence, questionable jokes and double entendres are commonplace in ‘true Aussie’ circles, frequently associated with the ‘working class’, ‘Bogans’, and being ‘ocker’ [232,233], and while clothing companies like Mambo [234], as well as advertising campaigns [235,236] capitalize on this market, there is a very fine line between ‘larrikinism’ and cross-cultural offensiveness. While the inclusion of the deck chair on the badge or the patch depicting the male with a beer can trivialize Aṉangu expectations that visitors do not climb Uluṟu, other souvenir offerings cross that line by portraying the visitor as a self-centered settler-colonialist slob who does not care about Uluṟu or Aṉangu culture (Figure 23). Another example is a tea towel that is littered with scenes of culturally inappropriate behavior, such as sunbathing, skateboarding, or paragliding off Uluṟu [164].

An intermediate version, only known from sew-on/iron-on cloth patches, carried the text “I tried to climb Ayers Rock” (Figure 12E,F), showing that even though the climb was not completed, an attempt was made, and these patches have ontological characteristics similar to that that proclaim to have climbed (Figure 24).

It needs to be stressed that all bar one of the badges and patches that make reference to climbing Uluṟu use the settler colonialist term ‘Ayers Rock’ (the exception being Figure 11H). While the name Uluṟu had been mentioned in the literature intermittently since the mid-1950s [14] and used on site since 1964 (Uluru Lodge Motel) [237], the formal name change from ‘Ayers Rock-Mount Olga National Park’ to ‘Uluru (Ayers Rock-Mount Olga) National Park’ occurred in 1977 [238]. Even though the reference to ‘Ayers Rock’ was extinguished with the subsequent name change to Uluṟu-Kata Tjuṯa National Park in 1993 [15], the formal geographic name change in the same year created a dual naming convention with Ayers Rock retaining precedence (‘Ayers Rock/Uluṟu’ [239]).

The manufacturers of the souvenirs clearly saw little incentive in reflecting the changed name of the park. While this is understandable for badges and patches proclaiming that the wearer had climbed Uluṟu, it could be surmised that it might be commercially opportune to create badges with the text “I did not climb Uluṟu”. That this did not occur indicates that souvenir manufacturers saw the “I did not climb Ayers Rock” as generic and ideologically neutral productions.

We do not have any data on the production volume of the badges and thus their overall frequency. Setting aside the early productions for tour companies, we can assume that purchase of “I climbed Ayers Rock” badges and patches is related to the frequency of people climbing Uluṟu. In addition to a drop in visitors climbing due to the Aṉangu education campaign, management actions preventing access to Uluṟu on days of high winds, as well as during hours of high temperatures, reduced the number of ‘climbing hours’. It can be surmised that as the opportunity to climb declined, the significance of the “I climbed Ayers Rock” badges decreased.

Setting aside other souvenir items, such as tea towels and items of clothing (e.g., caps and T-shirts) that could be purchased at souvenir outlets [164], one additional group of material culture items stands out: certificates of achievement. Similar to the badges issued by the tour operators, early certificates were issued and certified by a coach driver [203]. This practice continued until at least the late 1990s [139]. Unlike badges, which were ‘generic’, the certificates are named and dated, firmly anchoring the owner to the event at a specific time (Figure 6A). Considering the ontological dimensions of these (Figure 25), certificates are similar to the badges issued by the tour operators, with the difference that, because of their specific naming, they are less likely to be traded as collectibles (even though on sale at online auction houses).

A characteristic of the early certificates is the verso, which carries lined spaces for the names and addresses of fellow climbers. An example is the certificate issued in September 1962 to a man from Mosman (Sydney, NSW, Australia) (Figure 6B). The certificate carries the signatures and affiliations of 26 fellow climbers, the majority being pupils from Murray Bridge (South Australia) High School [164]. A later iteration are certificates that were obtainable at hotels [1] and where the verification of actual achievement is less rigorous [164].

7. The ‘Conquest’ of Uluṟu as Heritage?

In light of the foregoing discussion of the materiality of the various badges and patches, it is now apposite to consider whether any of these items of wearable material culture are culturally significant and, if so, which should be accessioned in museum collections. While all items of material culture will, with the passage of time, become historic (and often collectable) objects, not all are culturally significant to such a degree that they warrant formal curation in the setting of public collections. Paring it down to its core, all cultural significance is derived from community-held values with regard to the importance of a practice, a place, or an object, whereby the community-held values are constituted of a congruence of multiple people’s individual, subjective value constructs. These are influenced by personal standpoints, the epistemology of which often remains unacknowledged [240]. Significantly, community-held values are not static but are mutable qualities undergoing intergenerational change [241]. Heritage encompasses these practices, places, and objects that the present generation values for itself in the present [242,243] and which it purportedly wishes to preserve for future generations [244,245].

Unlike a wide range of other examples of intangible heritage, which require utensils or paraphernalia to facilitate or accompany the practice, or which result in tangible productions (even though they are not the purpose of the practice), climbing Uluṟu requires neither, nor does it result in tangible outcomes. Thus, beyond the perpetuation of the activity itself, the only tangible heritage associated with climbing Uluṟu is comprised of material culture items that were presented to or were acquired by the participant. In this, the material culture of the climb has strong similarities with the material culture and bring-backs of medieval pilgrims.

Climbing Uluṟu was a culturally contested practice, caught in the tension between the Aṉangu as custodians and rightful owners of Country who deem climbing an inappropriate activity and (primarily) domestic tourists who, steeped in a settler-colonialist mindset, viewed climbing as part of their nation’s inalienable right. The cultural significance and heritage value for Aṉangu rests in the space itself and their own ability to utilize that space, including the climb, for ceremony, as and when required. Climbing by non-Aṉangu has negative cultural values attached and, in consequence, the cessation of the practice, which took a long time to come to fruition, is beneficial for the Aṉangu people and the site. As far as the authors can assert this without being interpreted as speaking for Aṉangu, the tangible material culture discussed in this paper is unlikely to possess heritage value for the Aṉangu community.

When considering the heritage of the tourist experience of climbing Uluṟu beyond the practice of the climb itself, all material culture is associated with mementoes and souvenirs that were presented to or were acquired by the participant. This material culture is not an amorphous mass, however, but needs to be considered in a nuanced fashion that reflects the discrete phases of the history of the settler-colonialist climbing of Uluṟu. There are objects that are associated with what we have termed the ‘heroic age of tourism’, objects associated with the period of lodges in the National Park and objects associated with the period of joint management.

Climbing Uluṟu as a settler-colonialist practice began in the ‘heroic age of tourism’ and was cemented by coach companies as one of the key activities to be conducted at Uluṟu. Badges and certificates, combined with photographs, created tangible evidence of the ‘conquest’. Because these items, which carried over into the period of lodges in the National Park prior to the establishment of the Ininti store (and the outlet for souvenirs that this presented), were awarded as evidence of a successful climb by the tour companies (Figure 10), they have greater significance than the later examples, which could be freely acquired as souvenirs. These early badges are emblematic of the period of pre-knowing, when Indigenous Australians were excluded from the narrative.

The period between the establishment of the Ininti store and the handback of the area to the Aṉangu community (1972–1985) presents somewhat of a grey zone, where Aṉangu aspirations were made public through the (failed) land claim of 1976–1979 but where restrictions of culturally inappropriate tourist activities were insignificant compared to regaining control over land. While badges and patches were available to all and sundry (irrespective of whether they had actually climbed or not), the badges and patches of this period (Figure 11A,B) [164] are demeed to have little cultural significance.

While the latter period badges and patches proclaiming to have climbed Uluṟu (Figure 11C,D), which had been purchased after the Aṉangu had expressed their opposition to the climb through public signposting at the base of Uluṟu, are evidence of disregard of Aṉangu wishes, it is not possible to unequivocally attribute all of these as a reaction to such wishes and interpret them solely as wanton settler-colonialist attitudes. Unlike postcards, which can carry unequivocal messages (Figure 17), the only item that can probably be linked with the period of dissonance between Aṉangu and settler-colonialist attitudes is the badge that proclaims “I didn’t climb Uluṟu” (rather than ‘Ayers Rock’) (Figure 11H)—but even that could have been acquired for motivations other than an expression of a specific cultural positioning. From a collections perspective, it would be apposite to curate a small and representative sample such as the ones illustrated in (Figure 11).

Having noted above that climbing Uluṟu required no utensils or paraphernalia, this is not entirely correct. There were four elements of tangible material culture associated with the infrastructure of the climb: the post and chain installed in 1964 (and extended in 1978) for the safety of visitors, the metal plaque on top of the cairn monument, the plaques commemorating the deaths of early climbers, and the signboards educating tourists about Aṉangu view on the climb, as well as the inherent dangers. When the infrastructure was removed, sections of the post and chain as well as the metal plaque of the monument were retained for future interpretation [161].

8. Conclusions

During the last couple of decades before its formal termination in 2019, climbing Uluṟu was a culturally contested practice, reflecting the tension between the Aṉangu people, as custodians and rightful owners of the land who considered climbing inappropriate, and predominantly domestic tourists who, influenced by a settler-colonialist perspective, saw the ‘conquest’ of Uluṟu as an inherent national right. Promoted as a de rigeur activity by the early tourist operators during what we have termed the ‘heroic age of tourism’, the trickle of tourists climbing Uluṟu in the 1950s and 1960s developed into a surge with the advent of mass tourism following the declaration of Uluṟu and Kata Tjuṯa as a world heritage area in 1987 by UNESCO. Following the handback of Uluṟu and Kata Tjuṯa to the Aṉangu community, the latter reasserted their opposition to tourists climbing Uluṟu. With decreasing participation in the activity due to visitor education, as well as prohibited access during climatic extremes, the climb was formally closed to all visitors on 25 October 2019.

Over the almost 60-year duration of climbing Uluṟu as a tourist activity, a wide range of mementoes and souvenirs has been produced that predominantly ‘celebrate’ a successful climb. While the messaging (“I climbed Ayers Rock”) remains stable, the materiality of these objects has a range of ontological connotations that change over time, reflecting the nature of the tourism offerings. While the badges handed out by tour operators in the early period, when visitor numbers were small, had a connotation of exclusivity giving them a value akin to medals, the later badges were souvenirs akin to clothing patches, adhesive labels, and t-shirts that were available to all and sundry (irrespective of whether they had actually climbed or not). Only a small number of items state that the purchaser chose not to or failed to climb. While these were produced since the late 1980s, there is no evidence that they were purchased to signal the wearer’s stance not to climb in adherence to Aṉangu wishes.

From a heritage perspective, climbing Uluṟu can be construed a practice that constituted an aspect of the intangible heritage of Australians who in the early period were ignorant of Aṉangu cultural concerns and who in the later period took a culturally unresponsive, settler-colonialist standpoint. The heritage associated with climbing Uluṟu is limited to material culture items that were presented to or were acquired by the participants. Among the universe of wearable material culture (badges, patches, adhesive labels, items of clothing), badges (and certificates) presented by the tour companies in the 1950s to early 1970s are significant as they illustrate the emerging tourist industry and the period when the climb was established as a key activity during a visit. Although it is not possible during the post-handback period to unequivocally attribute “I have climbed” badges and patches to settler-colonialist attitudes or attribute “I did not climb” badges as reflections of cultural responsiveness, a representative sample should be curated.

On a wider theoretical perspective, the former climbing of Uluṟu is an example of intangible heritage (for a segment of society) practice that did not require utensils or paraphernalia to facilitate or accompany the conduct of the practice, and which in itself also did not result in tangible outputs. The tangible heritage associated is solely comprised of material culture items that were presented to or were acquired by the participant as mementoes and souvenirs.