Oceania: Day 22: 7-25-94: Hot Air Balloons, Aborigines And Didgeridoos

I awoke bleary-eyed at the ungodly hour of 4:00 a.m. and met Rachel, Satomi & Titsumi in the lobby (the four of us were the only Contiki members going ballooning, but we were soon joined by several strangers). We took a long, cold bus ride into the outback, stopping occasionally so that the driver could release a helium balloon (watching its flight path allowed him to gauge wind direction, which, in turn, helped him determine our launch site). The driver (now our pilot) eventually chose a spot, and we helped him unload the wicker basket and deflated balloon. After the pilot attached the massive balloon to the burner, we spent the next half hour watching it expand as it slowly filled with hot air. Then it was time to load ourselves into the basket -- not as easy as it may sound, as it was on its side. As I hung on to the ropes inside the basket, it steadily began to right itself as hot air continued to flame up into the balloon. Soon we were off! Ever so carefully, we inched off the desert floor and began to hover over the ground . . . 1 foot . . . 5 feet . . . 20 . . . 100 . . . 1,000!

WOW!

The feeling of ballooning was very strange -- the hot air balloon wasn't as turbulent as a Cessna nor as hair-raising as a helicopter . . . this was something different. Exposed to the great wide open, floating along with the gentle wind currents, I experienced the surreal sensation of walking on air -- stable, yet vulnerable. As the sun rose over the distant mountains and reflected off the crimson desert plains, we sailed 1,700 feet high and had a birds-eye view of an outback dawn. My keen eye detected kangaroos out for an early romp and the tops of gum trees swaying silently in the morning breeze. All was at peace with the world below.

The sky was likewise illuminated by the sunrise -- a steadily brightening orange glow soon revealed other balloons adrift nearby. So that's what we look like, I thought, before returning my gaze to the desert floor.

-------------"Up, Up And Away, In My Beautiful Balloon . . ."------------

Suddenly, our 30 minutes were up (literally), and we floated down for a surprisingly smooth landing (save for a tiny jolt as we brushed the brush and hit the ground). Exiting the basket, Rachel, Tatsumi, Satomi and I were whisked off to our outback picnic breakfast -- we enjoyed an appetizing meal of chicken, egg & ham quiche, cheese & crackers, fruit, cake and a glass of pink champagne.

After breakfast, the four of us rejoined the rest of our Contiki compadres on the "Aboriginal Dreamtime and Bushtucker Tour." We took a bus ride out to the middle of the bush to meet a group of modern-day Aborigines who perpetuated the traditions, laws, belief system and lifestyle of their ancestors (although the cynic in me wonders how much of it was authentic and how much was just for show -- clearly, daily busloads of tourists must have some effect on "traditional" Aboriginal culture). They demonstrated how to hunt with boomerangs and spears (I attempted to throw a boomerang myself, but the results were rather pathetic!) and they taught us how they lived off the land (using plants, trees & rocks for food, medicine, tools, weapons, etc.). The Aborigines also introduced us to their painting style: Aboriginal art traditionally consists of only four colors (red, yellow, black and white -- hues readily found in the natural environment, mostly obtained from ochre and charcoal) applied in dots and symbolic shapes to whatever "canvas" presented itself (ground, rock, boomerang, etc. -- though nowadays, actual canvas is quite commonly used). The symbols depicted in Aboriginal paintings usually represent the natural world or the gods, and -- though some are standard -- many are personal to the individual artist. I was informed that every picture represents a specific story and/or location, and, as such, no artist would part with a particular piece until he shared its meaning. I would have loved to bring a painting home, but I couldn't afford one on my meagre budget (Judging from the prices of the artwork on display, the Aborigines have learned about modern commerce all too well!).

-------------------An Aborigine, Hunting Spear in Hand---------------------

Our Aboriginal Guide Adds To His "Human Hair Twine Ball"
-----------------------(Talk About Scalping Tourists!)-----------------------

----------------An Aboriginal Artist Paints A New Creation---------------

Additionally, I had the opportunity to watch a Corroboree, a ceremonial storytelling performance which is used to pass on Aboriginal Dreamtime Stories from one generation to the next (Dreamtime is White Man's translation of Aboriginal law and heritage -- it represents the past, present and future, starting before mankind existed and going "beyond time"). The Aboriginal men wore body paint, donned ceremonial headdresses and brandished spears, and the women wore body paint . . . and precious little else (they were "hanging out" in all their National Geographic glory). Several of the men chanted and clapped boomerangs together as the women and a few other males danced and reenacted Dreamtime history.

---------------------------Corroboree Ceremonial Dress-----------------------

----------------------------Dreamtime Ritualistic Dance------------------------

Before leaving the tour, I learned a lot about Aboriginal marriage laws and family structure. For example, if I were an Aborigine, all my brother's children would be MY children, and all my father's brothers and mother's sisters would be MY fathers and mothers -- somewhat confusing, but quite fascinating.

After the tour, Carl picked us up and we headed off for Ayer's Rock. We arrived after sunset, just in time to see Indiging, an Australian musical ensemble which keeps traditional Aboriginal music alive and well. Mainly instrumental, with occasional vocalizing, the music was enchanting and mystical -- just like the natural wonders (rain, wind, rock, etc.) it evoked. I had my first chance to hear a didgeridoo, an Aboriginal wind instrument (quite simply, a tree branch hollowed out by termites). The man and his twelve-year-old son who played the didgeridoos were incredible, blowing out other-worldly rhythms and animal calls.

By 9:00 p.m., after a nondescript supper, I was totally spent, and I crashed in bed.