Hot air has been in the news lately—Bacolod clerico-political emanations; a balloon crash in Egypt (19 deaths!); the Balloon Fiesta at Clark.

Invented by the Montgolfier brothers, hot air balloons brought humans aloft for the first time in 1783, witnessed by Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. The sensational device quickly spread, reaching even faraway Manila. A mid-1800s print shows a grand procession of Nstra. Sra. de los Desamparados at Sta. Ana, Manila, two large hot air balloons rising above the belltower.

Balloon-making is alive and well in Thailand. I was at Si Satchanalai one chill November evening during the Loi Krathong Soi festival. Under a full moon from the terrace of a ruined temple, flickering candles drifted on slowly moving water and galaxies of small globes floated silently up, getting smaller and smaller and finally vanishing like golden fireflies answering the moon goddess’ call.

Equally unforgettable is an hour-long balloon ride over the Serengeti (“endless plain” in Maasai) in Tanzania. Bounded by mountains, the Serengeti is rolling grassland with scattered rock hills (kopje), as large as Central Luzon from Bulacan to Pangasinan. No villages, power lines, highways; only wild animals roaming free.

Balloon riders assemble at dawn when breezes are mild, before the stronger winds, updrafts and downdrafts of later morning. The enormous balloons—tall as 10-or-so story buildings—inflate with propane-fueled flame throwers, instructions are given, and passengers hop onto a wicker basket (16 people plus pilot). It takes agility, BTW. The basket is on its side so you have to hoist yourself up, then in and on your back. The balloon fills up, pulls the basket upright and you’re off.

A balloon can only rise or fall.  It can’t turn left or right or back up, but goes as the wind blows.  Wind direction varies with altitude and the pilot regulates the fire and/or vent at the balloon’s top to catch the right wind.

You float ever so slowly from treetop level to a thousand feet, often practically on top of elephant herds, wallowing hippos, fleeing gazelles, grazing elands, migrating zebras, panicky wildebeests (a lion is near), a wolf chasing a jackal, flocks of ostriches, towers of giraffes. You pass low over a tree-covered kopje, home of Serengeti’s largest pride, 40 lions strong.

The pilot has to be precise, not to land on something hungry and/or angry or on a termite hill which could turn the basket on your head.  He has to land by a road so you avoid hiking and balloon paraphernalia can be readily trucked out.

Champagne (sparkling Australian wine, really) awaits. Back in 1783 (supposedly), the first passengers were thought to be devils and would have been massacred were it not for champagne offered to pitchfork-wielding peasants. (God’s people don’t fly but champagne-bearing men can’t possibly be Satan’s minions.)  Tradition survives.

Toasts over, everyone is brought to a shady grove with elegant tables (stiff white tablecloth, china and silver—the works) and a full English breakfast (no kippers, though). Everyone gets a Certificate.

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