I'd seen a little handwritten poster at a travel agency advertising a didgeridoo-making/playing workshop involving a homestay. At the time, I'd written the number down, but when the time came towards the end of my Byron stay to set it up, I couldn't find the number. I searched everywhere, including a bit of public recycling bin diving that made me the butt of a few jokes. I went back to the various travel agencies, but could not find the poster anywhere, which led me to wonder how legit this experience would be... possibly even more legit than the other workshops (no homestay) advertising with professionally printed bills, I dunno. Eventually, I found it on a many-folded credit card receipt, stuck between two plys of my quickly distintegrating orange wallet (well, it is pretty much grey now, in the spots where it isn't transparent.) I gave the guy a call, and set up a time.

When the day arrived, I was feeling a little burnt out of the Byron scene. Said bye to Dave, the last remaining member of the Surf Crue, as he embarked on his Alternative Tour to Nimbin (that cheeky monkey). After an afternoon of waiting amongst a new set of faces, I finally spied the blue van I was looking for. After making him promise not to laugh at my growing mass of baggage, we loaded up the stuff, and hit the road.

The gent's name was John, but his traditional name is Jalum, which means "fish". Yes, he can swim. He is a member of the Bunjalung People which traditionally live a little further up the coast. Turns out he runs an Aboriginal Gallery in Brisbane (the name of which is now en route to Canada - sorry John!), and was back to prepare some blanks for a workshop as well as accomodate my little adventure. He used to have a gallery in Byron, but with the trendiness increasing, so did rent. At the same time, the didj kind of went out of style among tourists, which meant less income, so he bailed and did other things. We wound our way back into the hills, past Bangalow and even Lismore, finally arriving at the little farm property after dark. Over the course of the drive, and during dinner with he and his wife (Jan?), we chatted about Aboriginal culture and its place in Australian politics over time. Learned that the didj was traditionally used only for ceremonies, and only by desiginated members of the community. As well as the reason for sacredness of various sites I'd seen. Also learned some disturbing facts about treatment by the government: that until 1967, the Aborigines had been classified as flora and fauna; and that sand was still being pumped from Aboriginal settlements to maintain the beaches of the Gold Coast.

I was shaken awake the next day by John to select the termite-bored chunk of Squiggly Bark Gum I'd be using for my didj. In the daylight, I got a chance to look around the farm. Thirteen acres surrounded by green hills, bounded by cattle paddocks and a little creek containing platypus (I never got around to checking THAT out). Old horses grazed in the yard, and there were little groves of pine, banana, and palm. Apparently, John used to run workshop retreats up here on a more regular basis, and had at one time run a work/farmstay for Aborigine convicts (light crimes) as an alternative to prison. 80% of Australia's prison popuulation is Aborigine.

Over the next few hours, I whittled the log down with a piece of industrial strength band-saw blade, exposing the aged red-layer beneath the white, chiselled out the tips, sanded and lacquered. John affixed the mouthpiece of bees wax, and had a blow, so I know it can at least produce the sound.

Next, I sat at a table to practice circular breathing, blowing into a hose dipped in a jug of water to illustrate the broken stream of air. To put it lightly, I can surf better, it will take practice to get the hang of inhaling quickly with through the nose while exhaling with your cheeks and jaw. Also having a bit of trouble over-riding the tightened embrouchure of the trumpet with the relaxed of the didj.

Eventually my time was up, as John had to drive back to Brisbane. The ride back was quiet. I was starting to sweat details of upcoming legs of my adventure, and when I was dropped off in Byron, it looked the same, though I knew no one familiar was left. I wasn't long in this little Purgatory, as my bus arrived in the midst of a windstorm, leaving me in a scramble to find my ticket with papers being whipped about. I loaded up my surfboard, didgeridoo, two recycleable shopping bags, backpack and daypack onto the bus, and began the seven hour journey to Port Macquarie.