The early summer sunlight pierced through the thin morning mist of the Northern Territory.
From a high vantage point, the stands surrounding the first parade ground of Red Tide Territory were already overflowing with crowds.
This wasn't a chaotic and noisy refugee camp but a slowly undulating sea of people.
Rows of dark cotton clothes swayed gently in the wind, like unending tides, stretching to the horizon.
Even in the distance, the hillsides, bare ridges, and tree branches were filled with human figures.
To secure a vantage point with a clear view of the parade, some had set up camp here three days in advance.
Yet the air was free of any sour decay, replaced by the aroma of baked potatoes heated by charcoal, the faint sizzle of butter melting on an iron plate, and the unique sweetness of malt sugar wafting in the morning breeze.
Vendors weaved through the crowd, carrying wooden boxes on their shoulders. As soon as the lids were opened, children flocked around them.
