The title to this little essay is an aboriginal name from the Outback in Australia. There is no written language in the aboriginal culture, so every one is free to spell it as he sees fit. I spell it as DID-GER-RE-DOO, a musical instrument. So keep that name in mind while we spend a few minutes in Fiji, New Zealand, New Guinea and the Northern Territory of Australia where we will find the DIDGERREDOO. And a wild west hat and a necklace of little pine cones.
 
FIJI
My companion at the beginning of the trip was Ron Carr, no relation, but a fine fellow. Ron came to us from many years in Rates and Tariffs where he dealt strictly with numbers. When we sent old Ron out to deal with say the Papua New Guinea’s of the world, he made friends and came back with those people on his side. And so I’ll tell you a story about Ron Carr – never to be mistaken for my wife. Or I, for his wife. Later.
Fiji is a long, long trip from here. First we go to California with a change in airlines at Los Angeles. In Honolulu, there is a midnight departure for Fiji so resting was out of the question. Early the next morning we arrived at one of the two main islands, Suva, and arranged for air transportation to Nandi, the other main island.
Fiji is not far beyond the International Date Line. To digress for an instant on the Date Line, sharp eyed accountants occasionally will find that we charged meals and lodgings on the same day in two different locations. It’s not that we ate so well or slept around; the Date Line makes that happen. For example, we may incur expenses on say Tuesday, then cross the date line where it is Tuesday again. So we have a duplicate set of charges for Tuesday. Well in any case, the last thing on our minds as we stumbled to bed in Nandi was the accountants in New York.
So we enjoyed a day or two in Nandi to unwind from the New York trip. The Fiji administration treated us very well indeed. And we learned that ethnic strife had invaded Fiji. Increasing numbers of Indians were moving to the Islands and the local natives were most unhappy.
So it was time to return to Suva where the Airport was located. No planes flew that day and we were forced to drive the 100 miles to Suva. It was one of the worst trips that Ron and I had ever experienced. Rock slides and washouts at rain swollen creeks were only two of the problems. At the end after it became dark, Ron and I both sensed that we were being led into a trap – sort of a New York mugging. Well, it didn’t happen so we spent a relieved and pleasant night in Suva.
 
NEW ZEALAND
Early the next morning we caught a Japan Air Lines flight for the trip to Auckland, New Zealand. The stewardess had at least two helpers with her although we were the only passengers in the first class section. On the other hand, I didn’t see any other passengers in other sections of the plane. The Fiji – Auckland part of that route was not a big seller.
The three stewardesses spoke little English; but they intended to furnish first class meal service. We couldn’t communicate with them so they brought what every American man wants for breakfast – or so they thought. It turns out that Japan Air Lines served us 30 second boiled eggs. Oh, maybe it was 45 seconds, but not much more. With three anxious stewardesses hovering over us to see how the Americans enjoyed their breakfast, we ate. And we said it was mighty good. Well, they eat their fish raw, don’t they?
At Auckland we took a limousine about 75 miles to Rotorua. The steam comes out of the ground in Rotorua so people come from all over New Zealand to treat their arthritis and other ailments. The town also has a large concentration of Maori, a sort of aboriginal grouping. When they allowed us through their steam baths and their schools as well, the Maori women who conducted the tour wore a little clothing or they wore nothing at all. There was nothing sensual about it and they were not showoffs about it. It was normal for them and they jokingly suggested that the two American visitors were prudes for wearing all that clothing. I believe they were joking. But Ron did have a lot of clothing on.
 
PAPUA NEW GUINEA
We’ll skip Wellington because not much happens there except for Andy Turpie, a prince of a man. We passed through Sydney and Brisbane and wound up the next day in Papua New Guinea. Ron wanted for me to see the far edge of his territory. I’d say it was a little beyond the edge.
Papua New Guinea was the scene of heavy fighting at Rabaul and Bougainville where we took many casualties from Japanese guns as well as from malaria and other diseases. It is about the world’s worst place to fight a war. The Aussies and the armed forces of the United States will not soon forget that war.
Our major escort was John Solomon, an Aussie who was on leave from his main job in Brisbane. All the staff in Papua New Guinea were on leave from their telephone companies in Australia. And they were a lonely lot. They were paid well but there was no place to go. They worked during the daytime and went to a men’s club of sorts for food and plenty of beer. They didn’t tarry coming home at night because of some brazen robbers who viewed the Aussies as rich people.
As I said, there was no place to go at night. There were no restaurants in Port Moresby. Wives were not encouraged to come to Papua New Guinea. So they stayed home. And so it was night after night at the “club” where even by Aussie standards, they drank a lot of beer.
John Solomon provided a stretch to the old days of Australia. As recently as during World War II, Jewish men were turned away from fighting for Australia. I believe the ban applied to all those with other than English sounding names. John Solomon’s uncle was turned down twice when he went to enlist because of his name. On the third try his uncle said his name was “Sullivan.” No trouble at all. He was welcomed into the Aussie Army.
John Solomon’s uncle was killed in Papua New Guinea and was buried in the main military cemetery near Port Moresby. For many years, his grave was marked by the “Sullivan” tombstone. In 1982, good sense had prevailed. The “Sullivan” tombstone was being changed to “John Solomon,” the namesake of our guide. John’s uncle was my age. He was killed at 22 years of age.
The people of Port Moresby chew betel nut which is a mild narcotic. I don’t know about the narcotic effects of the betel nut, but I’m here to tell you that it causes them to expectorate. The walls and streets are covered with spit or spittle. I’m taller that most Papua New Guineans but I’ve seen many tell-tale marks above my head. Perhaps when there is a brisk breeze from the rear quarter they may be able to reach that high.
As we sat drinking tea in the Director General’s office, one of the men turned down the tea because he said the water from the city pipes was not clean and would cause cholera or some other disease. As a matter of fact, two men who came down from Rabaul actually had the dread disease. Needless to say old Ron and I more or less pushed our tea cups off to the side and began to think better of our friends who drank Aussie beer.
On our last night in Port Moresby, the Aussies had a nice meal for us. With two Americans present there was a reason to celebrate down at “The Club.” There was also an element that wanted to drink the two Americans under the table. There are two fortunate circumstances here for the Carr boys from the States. In the first case, Aussie beer is potent at home, but when it is exported, it’s alcoholic content becomes something like 11% to 12%. And they drink great oceans of that 11% to 12% beer. Now the second circumstance is that Scotch whiskey makers decrease the proof of their product for use in the Commonwealth Countries. Whereas the United States may drink 80 proof (40%), the Commonwealth countries may drink 60 to 70 proof or 30% to 35%. Well, Ron and I drank Scotch delicately from the lower proof whiskey and the Aussie’s drank that hyped up beer from Australia. It was no contest. When John Solomon came to pick us up during the next mid-morning, he was forced to admit that only two or three of his men were barely recovered from the night before. This hung over bunch in Port Moresby bade us farewell and I suspect they never wanted to see another American traveler again. I blame it on their loneliness.
 
AUSTRALIA
Well one more stop with old Ron Carr. We reached Sydney from Port Moresby at say about 5:30 to 6 PM on a Friday evening. There was a big dinner that evening at which we were expected. Ron assured me that the Australians would send a car so that we could make our dinner date.
After we landed and retrieved our luggage, we noticed that every one else was gone. No car, no driver and I supposed we had to compete with every one else for a cab driver at the main terminal on a Friday night. So reluctantly Ron called our contact in Sydney. He said the car had left an hour earlier. When we were pondering this bit of news, one of us said that there was a fellow sitting on some steps off to the side of the terminal. We asked him if by some chance. He worked for the Australia Overseas Telecommunication Commission, he said, indeed, he drove for them. When we asked if he intended to pick up a passenger named Carr, he said he planned to do that. Then he showed us his routing slip which said that he was to pick up a couple named Carr – and he didn’t see any female. When we showed him our passports, it all became somewhat clearer to him. At any rate, he drove us to our hotel and then departed to have it out with the clerk who prepared the routing slip.
At dinner that night, the guests were speaking of a new, much tougher test for alcohol in the blood of drivers. The papers had reported that the police had parked a number of mobile vans around Sydney to be used as a sort of local lock-up until court proceedings could begin. In one of the first cases in point, a local business man had taken plenty to drink after work that day and became confused on his directions. He was lost. So what better place to ask for directions than at one of the mobile vans of the police? It only took the cops a minute to realize that he was not only over the new limit but the old limit as well. When he belatedly realized where he was, he attempted to leave. Unfortunately, he fell down the steps of the van. So score one for the Sydney police.
Now the small story about the Didgerredo. It happened on one of my last trips to Australia. At the outset, I will say that if I had to spend six months to a year in some location outside the United States, Australia would probably be the place. The people are friendly. The men and women seem to enjoy a pretty ribald sense of humor. It is a place I enjoy being – in spite of insults and put-downs from the likes of George Maltby, Randy Payne, John Hampton and Chris von Willer.
I spent two days with those fellows and I stated that upon leaving them, my next destination would be Alice Springs, Ayers Rock and Perth. The kindest remarks were directed toward Perth where airline captains are alleged to have said upon landing, set your clocks back twenty years. Those guys are nuts. Perth is a lovely town.
Now about Alice Springs and Ayers Rock. It was pointed out by my antagonists that this was February, the equivalent of July in the Northern Hemisphere. In the Outback, the bugs swarm all over everything in July and every other month, as well. And the temperature was – HA, HA, HA, HA, going to regularly reach 115 degrees in Alice Springs and Ayers Rock. They were not so smart about that particular subject however, because the temperature at Ayers Rock snuck up on 125 degrees. Inadvertently my foot was moved from the shade to a sunny spot. It took only a minute or two until there was a burning sensation in my toes, as in the case of the old grade school hot foots.
And so I departed Sydney with the hoots and hollers about the bugs, the temperature and the not so great living conditions in the Outback. But in the final analysis, each one of my Aussie tormentors admitted that none of them had ever been to Alice Springs and Ayers Rock. For years after, I lectured them on the lure and romance of Australia’s Outback.
On one hand, Alice Springs is a town right out of Colorado at the turn of the century. On the other, it is a modern little city. There are places to assay gold diggings. Men from ranches come to Alice Springs to buy supplies and to shop for their families. A large home school radio network is located here, which serves a good part of the Northern Territory. It has two hotels and there is lively commerce in Alice, as it is called. I liked Alice Springs. It is a sprightly town.
I stayed outside of town in a modern hotel, restaurant and casino. It was impressive to see the aborigines gamble. They didn’t seem to eat. They drank and gambled. As it is said, there’s a sucker born every day.
And so it was down to Ayers Rock for a look around. Ayers Rock is a massive formation that turns different colors at various times of the day. Some of the aborigines worship there. I suppose after about 18 hours of looking at the Rock, there really isn’t much more to report. It is impressive.
Back in Alice Springs after the Ayers Rock trip, I found a very friendly store with the Outback hat, the pine cone necklace and the Digerredoo. The “D”, as we will call it, is about four feet long and has many insects and other animals carved into its side. Naturally, it is hollow so that the mellifluous sound may pour out of either end. Sometimes it is a baritone sound. At other times, it is alleged to be the sound of a large choir. It is hard for me to say what sound emerges from the instrument as I have not really heard it.
It is also alleged that the music of the “D” is best digested with a Rhythm Section. According to Cal Tuggle, who knows nothing about this woodwind instrument, two aborigines hold large flat rocks and beat them together to provide the Rhythm Section. The “D” carries the melody.
As best as I understand it, the instrument is held at either end and the proper tune is hummed into it. Obviously, there are no keys or valve openings as on a trumpet or saxophone, so the “D” player is free to improvise or even to fake the melody.
The lady who sold me the “D” said that aborigines would not occupy the houses that the Aussie Government had built for them. They slept outside. Similarly, she said the “D” players only played outside; never inside as in a concert hall or a night club. And she said that the rocks that supported the Rhythm Section had deteriorated in quality with a certain sponginess being found among them. Nothing throws a big “D” player off as much as a bad Rhythm Section, unless it is playing indoors.
Unfortunately, she had sold her last recording of several DIGERREDOO solos as well as her orchestral recordings which sounded, as she described it, much like the New York Philharmonic. I had wanted to send them to those NAY sayers back in Sydney, but I suppose we’ll now have to wait for the CD version.
I’m not aching to go back to Alice Springs, but it might be enjoyable. Perhaps there might even be a festival of DIGERREDOO players from all over the Outback. I’d like for those fellows from Sydney to be immersed in big “D” music. I have told them that they will have to sleep outdoors to appreciate the full effect of the magnificent music from the DIGERREDOO orchestra.
A final note. The lady at the store in Alice Springs said that my purchases would arrive in New Jersey in two weeks. She hit it on the head. And as for Maltby, Payne, John Hampton and Chris von Willer, they still have not gone to enjoy the thrills of Alice Springs and Ayers Rock. Mark down one for the Yanks.
E. Carr
January 4, 1998
Essay #7 (Old Format)
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I’d never heard of betel nuts before reading this essay, but apparently their use is incredibly wide-spread even today. The fact that chewing these nuts has been directly linked to way higher rates of oral cancer does not seem to be a strong enough deterrent.
Also, weaker scotch or not, I have it on good authority from my father that trying to outdrink Pop was always a terrible idea. Of course, drinking beer that’s as potent as wine probably didn’t help the Aussies much.
Small admin note: Looks like I can’t create new categories for some reason — working on fixing that.