In the shadow of Uluru, an unprecedented football carnival was quietly held for young First Nations women from remote communities. More than sport was at play.

On a luminescent green island floating atop a sea of red dirt, a scene replayed itself as if on loop. 

Two young women —  'Kungkas' in Pitjantjatjara — shuffled reluctantly toward a ball-up in the centre of the Yulara football ground. 

Each had travelled hours, in some cases days, to be there.

Yet in that moment, there was a first day of school, don't-get-caught-trying awkwardness.

Then, a ball was hoisted into the still air.

Attempted indifference was quickly betrayed by a piercing focus. 

Two bodies leapt and collided.

Fully present, full-bodied commitment.

Determined, uninhibited effort.

Gravity, time, all suspended in one freeing moment.

The night before, dust-coated vans rattled and bounced to the back of a nearby campground.

One bore a smashed back window, a casualty of a rogue rock from an unsealed road a few hundred kilometres back. 

Young women emerged, nine or so at a time, weary from the drive but alight with the possibility of what was to come.

Baker Boy boomed out a Bluetooth speaker over the hiss of onions and sausages on a trailer barbecue. Uluru stood resolute, watching from the horizon.

"Thank you mob for all coming here. We've never had this before," said Peggy Naylon, a director of the Ngaanyatjarra Pitjantjatjara Yankunytjatjara (NPY) Women's Council, who lives nearby in Mutitjulu. 

Gathered before her were groups, soon to become teams, from remote communities stretching across a vast region between the Northern Territory, South Australia and Western Australia.  

The following day, they would have the opportunity to play Australian rules football. A totally unremarkable thing, rendered so remarkable by the context.

Each team would represent the remote community they call home.

The sort of community that, at that very moment, was being picked apart in national debate by people thousands of kilometres away, who would likely never set foot anywhere near them.

That every player was a young First Nations woman was profound. 

"These young women are trailblazers. They didn't see their mums play footy. They haven't seen their older sisters play footy," said Cassie Nugent from the NPY Women's Council.

Distance, education

For the 120 young women from 17 remote communities, distance was by no means the only barrier to playing, but it was nonetheless significant.

The drive from Kiwirrkurra alone, considered one of Australia's most remote communities, took around 17 hours.

These are communities where houses are often severely overcrowded; where access to clean water, regular healthy meals, healthcare and mental health support is not guaranteed.

They are also places of deep-rooted connection.

"When I'm out bush, my mind is clear. It's like you're free," said Cecily Luckey from Imanpa, two hours east of Uluru. 

"When you're in town, it's like you kind of lose everything."

Sitting under a camp tarp shielded from the heat, the Anangu woman spoke of a beloved home parched of opportunity. 

"Some of these young girls at the moment, they're not going to school because there's not much happening. No opportunity, no support," she said.

The recent youth violence on the streets of Alice Springs and subsequent curfew held a cracked mirror up to decades of failed policy.

Student attendance rates at remote and very remote schools in the Northern Territory are the lowest in the country. 

Something as simple as football can't fix the underlying causes, but in Luckey's eyes, it could be enough to tilt some back in the direction of school. 

"In town, a lot of young people start doing things that's not good, like drinking, stealing, fighting," she said.

"This could help them maybe get out of town and come back into community... so they can be connected to the land, to the culture and families."

Chasing the wind

On the morning of the first game day, footballs were kicked about the campsite compulsively, ricocheting off vans and swags.

"Normally all the fellas are doing training at the ovals, and the girls don't have anywhere else to kick around," said Shalaylee Coombes from Imanpa. 

She said for some women in communities, there can be a sense of shame attached to playing football.

In the face of such rare opportunity, that soon ebbed away. 

The Yulara football oval might have a claim to be among the most picturesque in the country, but its surface is an unforgiving, uneven patchwork. 

With the carnival favouring an abridged AFL Nines format, shaving cream from the local IGA was used to mark out goal squares and a jaunty centre circle.

None of it mattered.

Once play commenced, a thrilling whirl of spins and turns and nonchalant excellence quickly took over.

Goals were determinedly sought but almost apologetically scored. 

A player from Kaltjiti (Fregon) baulked an opponent, pushed off another, then snapped effortlessly from a makeshift boundary, before collapsing in laughter with a teammate.

Matches were umpired by players from other communities volunteering between their own games.

Someone live-streamed one of the matches to friends on Facebook. 

Joylean Miama and Cherelynne Smith from Kaltukatjara (Docker River) on the NT/WA border took advantage of a free hair spray colouring station.

The gold and royal blue of the West Coast Eagles pooled in beads of sweat on their foreheads.

"The first time when we played, we had shame. But we did our best," said Cherylenne Smith.

"It's amazing to meet new people from other communities and make friends."

"We love playing footy. It's not only a boys' thing."

"It felt like you were chasing the wind. It felt like you're happy," said Joylean Miama.

Old shadow

Yulara is the closest tourist launching pad to Uluru, though it's all but swallowed by the sprawling Ayers Rock Resort. 

If the setting inspires a certain cross-cultural awe, the surname of an 1860s South Australian premier glaring down from dozens of signs offers an ever-present colonial reminder.

In the town centre, tourists smile gingerly at First Nations women selling artwork on the footpath and move hurriedly past.

Sitting in a café opposite, during the football carnival's brief midweek exhale, a group of administrators discussed how to be less bureaucratic.

"You can have all the money in the world and still put on a terrible experience for people if it's not nuanced and it's not driven by community," said Sue McGill, director of the participation growth team at the Australian Sports Commission.

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