Just like his father, 50 years earlier, he simply walks over the sand dune and vanishes. The search goes on for weeks, unsuccessfully.
Uluru is halfway between Alice Springs and home. Toby Tjupurrula and I buy a sandwich at the hotel before travelling another 240kms on the rough sandy track towards Western Australia.
The ‘Rock’ is always such a mysterious riddle. No matter the time of day, its ever-changing livery is inspiring. At times it is ochre, turning later to burnt sienna, still later a deep magenta before finally, blackness. Toby grunts as we pass Kata Tjuta, that other iconic piece of the local landscape.
Uluru is bursting with visitors. Locals call them “minga tjuta”, many ants – a delightful euphemism for the seething mass, equipped with cameras, flyscreens, hats and sunburn, milling at ‘The Climb’. They ignore the signage, identifying the area as a sensitive site for the Traditional Owners; many still aggressively asserting their ‘rite de passage’ to what has been labelled as an Australian icon.
Bob Laser wants to meet up with Toby Tjapurula and I. We have more than an inkling about the visit! He accepts the Pitjantjatjara/Pintubi’s quite strict entry conditions, and a permit is issued. We know about his father’s final trip, fifty years earlier, a trip with a younger Toby, and his still unsolved disappearance. The legend of Laser’s Reef, a supposed fabulously wealthy gold deposit, continues to tantalise.
Bob is sitting outside my shack, rolling a smoke as Toby and I arrive. He has the billy boiling and welcomes us with a brew. He discusses the trip, explaining the route, his father’s maps, our role in the expedition and wanting Toby’s encyclopaedic knowledge of secret and sacred sites to avoid. Two days of detailed discussions ensue before we leave.
Bob confides the need to find a certain waterhole. His father’s journal talks about a northerly walk over the dunes from there. Toby is a non-verbal participant in these preparations.
Three days of high, spinifex-covered sandhills. Toby calls a halt and points. He breaks into a liturgical chant as we follow him through the scrub, jaws dropping as the waterhole appears, complete with lush grass, spindly gums and ducks enjoying the watery luxury, in the middle of a bloody desert! Bob’s excitement was palpable.
We pitch camp. Bob reviews his plans and his dad’s old journals. The next morning, he and Toby walk up and over the adjacent dune. They have provisions for a few days. I have watercolours and three days at my disposal.
A week passes. The old Pintubi’s absolute command of his surroundings tempers my mild concerns.
On day ten Toby returns, by himself. “Dat whitefella bin rama rama,” he explains Bob’s madness, an insistence, on the fourth day of his quest, to continue by himself. “I bin waitin’ but nutchin.”
My satellite phone triggers ground and aerial searches for weeks. Bob fails to materialise, and the obvious parallels with his father’s disappearance reignites furious media speculation.
Toby returns to his country.