Uluru

We were awoken at 5.30am on Wednesday morning to go and see the sun rise over Urulu. It was freezing.

Before I go any further, I would just like to say that I will now only refer to this famous phenomenon as Uluru, and not Ayers Rock. Uluru is the name it was given thousands of years ago by indigenous local tribes. Ayers Rock is the name it was given by the first European to see it in the 19th Century - named after the then governor of South Australia. I'm sorry, but I think Uluru is rather more appropriate than the name of some non-descript politician nobody would otherwise have ever heard of. So there you have it. Uluru it is.

Our camp was around 10km from Uluru, so our guides drove us to the base of the rock. As we approached it, a thick mist surrounded the lower half. It looked magical. We then commenced the 9km walk around the rock - without our tour guides, who simply said they would wait for us at the bus. Frankly, this came as something of a relief. It was far too early in the morning to take in anything other than the surroundings and, to be honest, they were both a pair of twats. I have met many, many marvellous people in this country. But you cannot escape the fact there are a significant number of Australians who are brash, arrogant, loud and bigoted. The sort of people you see puking up outside a Walkabout in London. These guys were those guys. With dollops on.

As the sun rose and the sky grew brighter, you could see the colours of the rock change. It was spellbinding. My words cannot do justice to the experience - the cool air, the colours, the sheer size of the god damn thing. It was simply incredible.

Opinion is divided about how far Uluru goes into the ground, but it could be as much as 9km. What we do know is that it is millions of years old and was formed as a result of underground rock pressing against itself and rising upwards over an inconceivably long period of time. That's about as scientific as I can be, I'm afraid.

I was accompanied for the majority of the three-hour walk around the rock's base by the Finnish student in our group, a very friendly guy called Jera. He never stopped talking, which occasionally became annoying, but generally he was lively and interesting company. At some points he would randomly start whistling or singing Abba songs (you had to be there). I had already suspected he might be a friend of dorothy, and this was providing further evidence. So I skirted around that issue by asking why, as a Finn, he liked a Swedish band when there was a lot of rivalry between the two countries. He replied that he didn't mind their nationality, and stressed he liked nothing more before a night out than having 'the girls' round for a good Abba singalong and some wine.

I don't think I have ever heard a statement from somebody that so categorically confirmed their sexuality. It started to make sense now why he kept letting his leg rest on mine during the bus journey. The naughty side of me then started to consider what to do next. Let's face it - a blow job by the side of Uluru would make a story I could tell down the boozer for decades. Then I realised I wasn't that sexually attracted to him and how deeply embarrassing it would be to get caught. It would also be rather disrespectful to the indigenous people.

Talking of this land's ancient inhabitants, we encountered several examples of Aboriginal art on the rock. An explanation of the art's meaning was also provided, during which I was startled to discover that the local Aboriginal translation of the colour yellow is 'wanka wanka'. I will never be able to sing 'Come on you yellows' at a Norwich City match with a straight face ever again.

We completed the walk close to where streams of tourists seek to climb the rock. Why people, of all ages, do this is completely beyond me. It isn't illegal, but it is advised against - and with good reason. In the last 50 years, 38 people have died climbing Uluru. Countless more have been seriously injured. To put that statistic in perspective, Australia's famously deadly spiders have not killed anybody for more than 25 years. For all the talk of this country's snakes, sharks, crocodiles, jellyfish and so on, the fact remains that climbing Uluru is the biggest threat to tourists. None of these people would swim in a croc infested river, or put their hand in a nest full of red back spiders, so why the fuck do they climb this rock?

I can only assume it is done for that story down the boozer effect, to say you've actually managed to do it. It's an ordinary man's 'I've climbed Mount Everest'.

If people want to put their safety at risk to climb to the summit of a rock where the only thing they will be able to see is miles of desolate wasteland, fine. There is, however, another reason why I certainly would never scale Uluru.

This rock is in Aboriginal land and is one of their most sacred symbols. It is without fear of exaggeration the spiritual equivalent of what the Vatican is to Roman Catholics. As such, the Aboriginal people ask that nobody climbs all over it. They can't stop anyone from doing it because the Australian Government protects the 'right' of people to climb it. So all Aboriginals can do is respectfully ask that you don't.

I personally think that one of the most basic, fundamental rules anybody should follow when visiting somewhere is to pay due respect to local values and custom. Nobody could possibly climb Uluru without realising how offensive is to Aborigines - there are signs pointing it out right at the bottom of the climb - and yet thousands still do it.

Why does this happen? I can only assume it is because those who climb think the reasons for Aboriginal objection to be a bit daft. It is a rather eccentric sounding, but equally true, fact that the local Aboriginal people get genuinely upset if anybody is hurt while climbing Uluru. Members of the community go into mourning. I'm honestly not making any of this up. I don't know about you, but I consider this reason enough not to climb. Ok, by our values it sounds daft, but that misses the point. It's about respect. I wonder what the British tourists ignoring all of this would think if Aborigines started coming over to London and climbing up the altar of St Paul's Cathedral. And then photographed each other at the top before taking a piss ahead of the long descent down. I rest my case.

The tour bus took everyone else back to Alice Springs, but thankfully I was spared a return there. I had booked myself into the local 'resort' for the night as my flight back to Sydney in the morning was from the nearby airport.

After an afternoon sauntering around the resort's absurdly expensive facilities, I went back to Uluru on a separate tour to see the sunset. We were given free champagne and it was all rather splendid. I then adjourned to my hotel bar, where I spent the evening losing at pool to a posh student and arguing with a Dutch guy who didn't smoke dope, whom I branded a disgrace to his nation's heritage.

It had been a fantastic, albeit long, day.