The didgeridoo is a wind instrument indigenous to the native population of Northern Australia; according to anthropological records and theories, the instrument is a venerable invention, dating back 1500 years. There are all sorts of fancy names for the type of droning instrument this is, and musicologists (like most scientists) have formulated a rather impressive name for it. Among musicologists, ethnomusicologists among them, the didgeridoo is classified as a brass aerophone: odd, since wood and brass are two different elements all together. Ah...musicology! Such a discipline! "Brass" obviously means something different in the language commonly spoken by musicologists. Of the instrument itself, the didgeridoo is crafted by humans with extensive help from boring termites. Because termites are vital to the production of such instruments, it is no surprise that termite boring techniques influence the particular sound of the instrument as well, as boring termites eat their way through the wood, moving straight through in a linear fasion, spreading out in a radial manner towards the...well...the non-mouthpiece-end of the instrument. Termites: I can't say that I want to live with any of them in my home, but they are fascinating insects: strangely cute and...among those living in Northern Australia, musically inclined. Life (with such things in it) is quite a wonder. The didgeridoo in this photograph does not exist in Australia, though termites were—no doubt—involved in its construction. The didgeridoo in this photo exists in a Čajovná (tea house) in Prague. The tea house in question is Šiva (Shiva) exists far from the native territory of Australians (unless they're Busabout Torists) and even farther from the range of Australian termites. This does not prevent the instrument from being played, however. One of the waiters at Šiva (he has appeared earlier in my gallery) is Tomas. He speaks little to no English, and I was able to communicate with him using a combination of Czech, Russian, and sound effects. We developed an abiding friendship, and on various quiet days, I'd spend hours at Šiva, engaged in sound-effect-laden conversations with Tomas. I snapped this photograph during one such conversation. I was at Šiva with Pavl and someone else. Tomas was bored, and after serving us, he joined us with his didgeridoo, and I was able to actually talk to him through Pavl...a nicely loopy translator. This is one of the images from that day, and I can still feel the warmth of it. I'm still in contact with Pavl. I wish I could have remained in contact with Tomas...ah, but I at least have two photos of him. I wish I had one more: one potentially taken as I'd left the Czech Republic all those aeons ago. I found this photo among images I'd emailed to people. It languished in an email account I scarcely use anymore, and I'm glad it's still active. I saved the image and I've posted it here. Tomas is a good didgeridoo player and a really nice guy, with some of the most crystalline glasses I've ever seen. I miss his conversational sound effects: he makes a rather entertaining sputtering, vaguely musical flutter-valve noise, which I commonly translated as a reference to someone being four sheets to the wind in terms of drunkenness. This sound was often accompanied by a lolling head-motion with the eyes rolling back into their sockets. Apparently, this gesture is an accurate mimic of drunken Czechs, though I'm not quite sure how the oh-so-appropriate flutter-valve sound fits into it. An aspect of Czech intuition, I suspect. For those interested, you can find another view of Tomas: HERE As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you're all having a great week.