The rough ground pressed into my knees as I peered up the hollow log. Jacinta held her small pink hand mirror to deflect the sunlight through the opening in the fallen tree trunk. Out of the dimness shone a pair of wide eyes, encircled by tawny fur. The bandicoot’s sanctuary suddenly became his jail. I brushed aside nostalgic childhood memories of my guinea pigs, as this miserable little rodent was about to become our lunch. Although I felt uncomfortable about the kill, I conceded that the Aborigines had lived in harmony with their environment much longer than white man.

Unlike urban Aborigines, the 500 Tiwis on Melville Island, Australia’s second largest island, have developed in isolation. They retain many of their ancestors’ skills and crafts, but have adopted contemporary tools such as axes, cigarette lighters and outboard motors. Yet their basic hunting techniques have changed little.

Francis took over from Jacinta. He checked the position of the cowering creature using a piece of broken mirror, then cut a hole half way along the log using a 20th century axe. This time it was bandicoot. Next it might be goanna (iguana) or wallaby or possum, each of which would be quickly dispatched, unceremoniously thrown onto a wood fire, cooked until tender-ish, then deftly dissected with the help of the serrated edge of a pandanus palm leaf.

Other foods from Nature’s supermarket include carpet snakes, death adders, green ants, fruit bats, fish, mud crabs, dugongs and crocodiles. “Go on, try some,” urged Francis, holding a spindly leg with an encouraging smile. This was no time for sentimentality. I tentatively accepted the blackened meat, and gnawed at the tough, unappetising-looking flesh. Bush tucker doesn’t taste wonderful, but it keeps you alive. It tasted like smoky chicken.

Normally, this Aboriginal land is off-limits to strangers, but, thanks to an initiative by the Tiwi tribe, a window to the past has been opened. Dubbed “A glimpse of dreamtime”, the Tiwis — in conjunction with Australian Kakadu Tours — have embraced a brand of tourism which couldn’t be further from the kitsch wood carvings, plastic boomerangs and quaint bark paintings.

I took a half hour flight north from Darwin in a six-seater aircraft, followed by half an hour jolting around in a 4-wheel drive, and arrived at an African style, tented safari camp at Putjamirra, overlooking the Arafura Sea. As inviting as it appeared, I resisted the temptation to go paddling in the clear water when I saw the crocodile warning sign. At an unprescribed time during the morning two members of the tribe came to the camp from their nearby settlement of Woolawonga. They invited me to join them foraging for turtle eggs and crabs along the beach. “We’re not doing this just for you,” explained Thomas. “If you weren’t here, we’d be hunting just the same.

” You couldn’t call them guides; they seemed more like friends from another millennium, possessing an endearing blend of warmth and shyness. We strolled along the beach with eyes peeled for turtle tracks. It was nesting season and I watched Justin follow some tracks up the beach and pierce the sand with a long bamboo pole. When he felt the right squelch, his son, Anthony, got on his knees and scooped out the nest, removing 30 or 40 eggs the size of ping pong balls.

Turtles are a protected species in Australia, yet Aborigines are exempt from this law as turtles and their eggs have formed a part of their livelihood for so long. The unease I felt about the plunder was superseded by my curiosity and fascination.

As we walked through the bush the next day I stopped and watched open-mouthed as Francis took out a cigarette lighter, set fire to a bundle of dried fern leaves, then brushed the undergrowth with his flaming torch. Apparently, in the Northern Territory, sections of bushland are deliberately set on fire. The flames burn off the dry grasses and debris, but do not harm the fire-resistant trees.

“This is a cold fire,” said Francis. “It is just superficial because we burn it regularly.” This prevents the build-up of dead plant material which might otherwise fuel a more substantial and damaging inferno. Fires also encourage new life in the forest, as certain seeds need heat to crack them open so they can start to grow.

I spent the next morning slipping and sliding through a mangrove swamp, picking out mussels (togotaranga), long bums (prunga) — molluscs with extended spirals — and 12 inch mangrove worms.

Rachel swallowed the worms whole, but I resisted the temptation. I did manage one of the long bums, after cracking their two shells together to break them open, pulling out the intestines and eating the rest raw. Back at camp, Rachel laid out about 30 mussels in neat rows, and lit a brushwood fire over them. Within minutes the salty, slithery, seafood snack was ready.

On my last evening on Melville Island I watched a green turtle splashing in the shallows as the sun melted into the horizon behind the pandanus palms. I certainly wasn’t over-satiated, yet I did feel strangely privileged. The Tiwis had built a narrow bridge between two very different lifestyles which operate at opposite ends of human history. By offering a glimpse of dreamtime, they showed that the world’s oldest surviving culture has more value than simply being a quaint anachronism.