The Balloon Ride

                                                                                 By                                                           

Ann Marie Hill-Brixey

A faint luminous glow is beginning to appear. Only the gold edged clouds above the outline of the distant hills, heralds the dawn. There the sky is pale, almost translucent. In the western sky, the moon, a silver sliver, and the multitudinous stars still adorn the dark purple sky.

Six vehicles bouncing along the deeply rutted track; transport the still sleepy passengers. Arriving at the site, we are fully awake, feeling somewhat battered, but excited and eager for the adventure ahead.

At our destination, we find people milling around, it looks like chaos, but we quickly realize each person is playing a well, orchestrated role.  On the ground are several large, brightly colored fabric packs, with thick, long tails spread on heavy blue tarp. Close by are the large wicker baskets, which will carry the passengers and the pilot.  After a large fan partially inflates one of the tails, a flame is directed into the gaping maw.  Within moments, the large expanse of colored fabric morphs into a balloon. All over the site more and more balloons appear.

“It is time,” our pilot calls to us.

Ground crew members help as we, cameras in hand, clamber into the basket. Soon, our balloon, of gaily-colored chevrons, rises gently into the air. One by one, others follow. Bright, rainbow colored balloons fill the sky, these enormous orbs render the moon and stars obsolete.

Ascending quietly, we float gently above the plain. The wraith-like mist swaths the earth below in a veil like spun silver. The sun rises fully into the fuchsia sky, and the entire landscape is awash with gold. The moment is surreal, I feel exhilarated. Soon the sky glows bright orange, promising another searing day. We have left the noise and bustle of the launching site behind. Silently, peacefully, these giant, gaily colored orbs glide over the wild African plains.