McLovin in Cape Town

As some of you may have heard, I got robbed on my own street last night by three guys who pulled up with their car, the hatchback bandits. First, they drove by, stopped, and asked me where Church Street is. I told them I'm not familiar with streets around here, so they pulled a U-turn at the next intersection and sped away. I made it halfway down my street and they came speeding back, stopping next to me on the sidewalk. A guy from the back gets out, grabs my arm while threatening to pull out a weapon in his jacket, and says "Get in the car, get in the car". I back up, and say "I'm not getting in the car", then drop my backpack and grocery bag. The guy hesitates, then grabs my backpack, gets back in the car, and they make their getaway. Now you're probably wondering, what's the damage? My Camelbak backpack (which I was quite fond of) contained my Macbook Pro laptop and charger, my iPod, Columbia jacket, glasses, and house keys...let's say $1,500. But, I was fortunate to walk away with my cell phone, wallet, most comfortable pants, apple juice, and shrimp flavored ramen noodles. All is not lost.

The loss of money is definitely a bummer. But luckily, I see this incidence from a new perspective. I still have my life, running water, and comfy pants, and can probably earn the money lost in three weeks. What really makes me angry is the loss of all the pictures and movies I have taken here in Cape Town, the masterful collection of music on my iPod, the Word document I had saved about teaching methods and techniques that were inspired by different university professors, and all of my past essays. But these "challenges" are laughable when compared to those of Lily and other Kayamandi residents. In the end, it's about perspective. Samuel L. Jackson's character from Pulp Fiction, Jules, has a few words to say about good, evil, and perspective:

"There's this passage I got memorized. Ezekiel 25:17. "The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is The Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee." I been saying that shit for years. And if you heard it, that meant your ass. I never gave much thought to what it meant. I just thought it was some cold-blooded shit to say to a motherfucker before I popped a cap in his ass. But I saw some shit this morning made me think twice. See, now I'm thinking, maybe it means you're the evil man, and I'm the righteous man, and Mr. 9 millimeter here, he's the shepherd protecting my righteous ass in the valley of darkness. Or it could mean you're the righteous man and I'm the shepherd and it's the world that's evil and selfish. I'd like that. But that shit ain't the truth. The truth is, you're the weak, and I'm the tyranny of evil men. But I'm trying, Ringo. I'm trying real hard to be the shepherd."

Quoting Pulp Fiction makes me feel pretty badass, and while I'll never be able to exact revenge personally, at least I can make fun of the thieves behind their backs. I mean these guys were a bunch of fuckin' amateurs - they let me go with wallet and cell phone in pocket. So, a) if they had any skill in the art of theft they could have taken my atm card and withdrawn all the money from my account in 5 minutes time; and b) let me get away with a phone I used to call the police. I mean, come on, that's absolutely pathetic. It would be like taking money from the register at a bank, while ignoring the vault, if you were to attempt a robbery. BURN!

My night did not end there. Eventually the cops showed up to take me to the station for all the formalities and to file a complaint. First we drove around Rondebosch and the surrounding areas to see if the thieves were feeling risky enough to double down their bet. We drove around for about ten minutes, when they got another call on the radio, causing them both to go into high alert mode. The one cop looks back and asks, "Do you mind if we make a detour?" What did he think I was going to say - no officer, I would rather not pursue this call that may be a life-threatening situation for someone, thanks for asking though (sarcasm). He turns on the flashers and puts the pedal to the metal, like the Millennium Falcon going into light-speed. Meanwhile, I'm in the back seat, having trouble digging the seat belt buckle out of the cushion, slightly freakin' out. With the tight roads, high speeds, and cars ahead simply ignoring the siren, I didn't exactly feel safe. Talk about suspense - I have no idea who or what we were apprehending at top speeds, the adrenaline was pumping. The car was a manual and there were a number of speed bumps around the neighborhoods, so the car was bumping all over the place (it was kinda like that one stationary-car-rollercoaster thing that used to exist at funscape, for all those lucky enough to know what I'm talking about). The driver didn't see one of the speed bumps that we hit at a pretty high speed, and he was courteous enough to look back and apologize once the car touched back down. Finally, we get to the scene of the crime, where six cop cars are surrounding this one small sedan. We didn't stay for long because the situation was very much under control.

I felt a bit like McLovin in Superbad, cruising around with two cops, joking with them between the pursuit. After that whole charade, I heard "79 Albion Road" (my house) come from the radio. The cop looked back and said, "Well, I guess the call just went out for your complaint" with a bit of a laugh. That means the thieves had about 25 minutes to get away before any police units were notified. If you were at all wondering about the police system in Cape Town, I think that says it all. Later they asked how their driving was, to which I replied, "A bit crazier than what I'm used to. But I'm from the suburbs, so it doesn't really count." He says, "What? Like NASCAR?" I joke, "Are you trying to call me a redneck?" It was some good fun and helped to distract the fact that I just lost some serious moolah.

Now, I think it's fair to say that I've had the full Cape Town experience.

Kayamandi Township II

Back in the van, Selwyn drives us around the township, making four particular stops. First, he maneuvers his giant van through the dirt avenues that link the condensed shack area in the heart of Kayamandi. Like the master of suspense that Selwyn is, he hands out plastic bags to a number of kids who immediately flock to the van, yelling “Laduma, Laduma!” Without telling us what’s going on, he backs out of the spot to the pavement roads, and tells us we’ll find out later what happens with those bags. Next stop, we meet about 20-30 kids in the street where Laduma tells the leader of the group to get his guys ready, again leaving us wondering. Next he stops at a heavily secured house whose appearance stands apart from all that surrounds. This is the home of a beneficiary of state mismanagement, an ugly site of government corruption in a developmental housing tax program that has become a major failure. Selwyn tells us the owner is shameless of his greed despite the deplorable environment that surrounds. He tells of another of his many initiatives, a program that replaces firewood ash with toothbrushes and toothpaste for dental hygiene, as the former breaks teeth down over time.

Thirdly, he drives to another upper-class house in Kayamandi, where a white family chooses to live because of the attraction of Ubuntu and tightly-knit community. The father of this family is a wealthy lawyer who whips around a Land Rover, but is still a fundamental part of the community – every Saturday, he allows students in the township to use his printers because such technology and public facilities are rare. The family says that they choose to live here because you cannot find relationships so genuine anywhere else. He has been nominated by the community to be mayor of Kayamandi. Lastly, we return to the large group of kids who are now assembled in a team of six with goals for a short game of street footy. We played to three with a soccer ball that was dead flat, and it was a heated affair. The kids ended up taking us down 3-2, despite some late-game goalie heroics on my part. After the game, the kids all surrounded you, jumped on you for a piggyback, and ask to be lifted up to the sky. They held your hands, arms, and legs, anything they could get a hold of really. You feel like Jesus walking through a tunnel of palms waving, as your followers sing “Hosannah, Hosannah”. My apologies for the sacrilege, but the sad thing is, for a lot of the younger kids, that may actually be how they perceive you.

As we are finishing the Kayamandi loop and heading back to the shack area, Selwyn reveals his “learn-to-earn” methodology that will hopefully teach children to earn money rather than beg for it. The kids had to fill their grocery bags with trash collected from around the township in order to earn an apple. The gains are threefold: keep the township clean, instill the concept that rewards require work, and feed hungry children. This seemingly insignificant apple project works to curb the culture of begging and replace it with incentives for innovation, ingenuity, and creativity. But before we hand out the apples, there are still more destinations on our tour. Dusk has set in at this point, which, according to most tour operators, is incredibly dangerous and something to be avoided at all costs. With my camera in the front pocket of my hoodie and kids swarming all around, in the dark of night, in the middle of shacks in Kayamandi, I was shocked at how safe I felt. Moving away from the vicinity of our tour van, we enter a house that is typical of all the shacks surrounding us – a very small two-room shed without running water or sanitation. The grandmother who raised twelve children in this home was at church, our next destination, but Selwyn informed of some of the children from this home who had gone on to complete university degrees and enter the professional field. It’s quite perplexing to understand how the persistence of human will can prevail against such overwhelming adversity.

Here's a photo of the communal water source where many of the residents find their only source of running water. Selwyn told us that kids learn to balance jugs of water on their head early on, so that by adulthood, their neck muscles can balance around 55 pounds. The stereotypical pictures of African women balancing containers on their head should be understood, in Selwyn's eyes, as a crime against humanity:

The religious aspect of the township was perhaps the most fascinating. Forget about the soulful worship of the Harlem gospels or the New Age church nonsense, the piety in this tiny, one-room shack church was more passionate than anything I have ever seen or heard of. The function of the Church is a bit different than your average Christian denomination. At any of the 65 churches in this one township, people raise papers containing the names of loved ones that have fallen ill, whom they pray for recovery. On the wall of the church there were different representations of religious iconography, including the Star of David, the Crucifix, and pictures of Jesus and other saints. For 1.5-2 hours every night, the congregation jumps and sings the same hymn repeatedly, as the priest and deacons pound on this deep, booming hand pillow. The tin and wooden planks that form the structures are useless in containing the massively audible songs. Remember, this is one small room with anywhere between 40-60 people moving constantly. Essentially, it’s like doing a Richard Simmons routine in a sauna. While we watched outside, a woman left the congregation to vomit. If there is anyone deserving of a “Jesus is my homeboy” t-shirt, I think she makes a praiseworthy case (pun intended).

To our surprise, Selwyn then led us into the church and we were accepted like nothing unusual had happened. After spending about five minutes jumping, hands raised, and confused whether to focus on the Star of David or odd Jesus pictures, we leave the premise sweating. Standing in the yard outside looking in, someone in our group asked if our intrusion was at all offensive or disrespectful. “Had we stayed for another five minutes,” Selwyn responded, “they would have stopped the song to say a prayer for you.” The undivided acceptance is similar to the taboo of knocking on doors; of course they welcome worshippers with open arms. Ubuntu, after all, is about shared humanity, whether expressed in a church, home, or soccer game, or among people of different racial, religious, or economic backgrounds. And if things aren’t hectic enough in this depiction of church life, the constant turnover of membership is quite a common phenomenon. The belief here is that if your prayers for sick loved ones go unanswered, and the people die, that means that the specific church is to blame. So they move on and try another…

            In this atmosphere of physically condensed worship and the passionate aura of song, the potential for revolution became so clear to me. There is a very well done documentary about song in the revolution against apartheid called Amandla! A Revolution in Four-Part Harmony. Music and song are one of those incredibly powerful forces that people often fail to recognize as a potent aspect of social change in the past. For the 1920s in Harlem this was jazz, or blues in New Orleans; in the ‘60s it was gospel for freedom fighters, folk for activists, or even rock and roll for anti-war Vietnam protestors. Being in that little church shack, you felt a passion that could translate into self-sacrifice when circumstances reached a boiling point. Selwyn foreshadowed the potential for revolution among the township communities, arguing that the forsaken promises of the Mandela era are resulting in deeply suppressed tensions. Yes, kids are escaping the township to go on to university, but the dismal economic state of the country and growing unemployment is often a betrayal to the rare successes. Economic subservience remains, expectations for change are swelling, and the body of qualified, unemployed individuals from these communities is ripe for revolution. Before every fears the next apocalypse in South Africa, remember these musings are only based on one day in a township and the generalizations of an experienced tour guide. Without a proper study, such speculation is unreliable at best.

For the final leg of our Kayamandi experience, Selwyn brings us to the gathering of a youth choir practicing in the house of the lead member. He wanted us to meet some of our peers to understand what motivates them and the challenges they face. In another room packed wall-to-wall, song is again the feature, and its resonance was as strong as the church’s. The group formed a circle and spread those of us on the tour throughout the circle. They sang one complete song, and midway through the second pulled Alie in for a solo. Then I get reeled in by one of the group leaders, and was forced to bellow out a soulful solo, “When you pick up your self” with the chorus response “by the side of the Lord”. I must admit I was quite eager to flex my pipes in front of my biggest singing audience ever - I knew that my fifteen years of training in the shower would come in handy at some point. The volume of the song was commanding, loud, and full, and you could see in the faces and feel in the chorus that sense of deep passion and pride that characterized the whole of Kayamandi. The main singer of the group, who has been doing this for fifteen years, had unbelievable talent. Selwyn advised the group to create a video instead of pursuing outside recognition through CD format, because having the visual of the chorus atmosphere can affect an emotional response more profoundly. Selwyn’s micromanagement and personal advice to individuals and groups in Kayamandi is admirable, and by no means taken for granted in this community.

In my final blog about the Kayamandi, I’ll give my reflections and conclusions formed about the experience, and maybe even include lessons that can be learned. Also, you’ll discover something about Selwyn that many of you will fail to believe, but it is something that I am completely sold on after spending 10 hours with him.

Kayamandi Township

Yesterday, Tuesday May 22, 2012, I had one of the most bizarre and fascinating days of my life. Because I have quite a lot of free time in between finals, I decided to spend the day wandering around Cape Town. As I was about to hop in a minibus, my good friend Flaxman calls me and asks me if I want to do a township tour. At first I put down his offer because I already had the township experience early on and with SHAWCO, and didn’t want to pay a guy who would just drive around and provide the normal tour guide bs. He said it was free of charge, so I said what the hell, I’m in. Little did I know I would be getting a tour from undoubtedly the most reputable tour guide in Cape Town, with an amazing lunch included, for about 10 hours. Our guide, Selwyn Davidowitz, had given similar tours to Danny Glover, Mel Gibson, Barbara and Walter Cronkite, and actually turned down Chris Rock in his career.

      Selwyn was one of the most personal, genuine, and intriguing people I have ever met (for reasons I’ll later explain), but gave us a free tour because he had a stake in the future of Kayamandi township, and all other townships for that matter. He has been involved with Kayamandi for close to twenty years, implementing community development initiatives and becoming an important figure in the community. The kids all affectionately yell “Laduma”, or “GOAL”, as we drive and walk by. After the World Cup, Selwyn was given this nickname, and it stuck. Selwyn had three purposes for the tour: 1) To dispel myths about township life, 2) To have us intimately engage with people of the township, and 3) to reveal current conditions and expectations of the future (which are quite alarming, according to his understanding). Before witnessing the inhumanities that characterize life in these environs, Selwyn would take us to the place of his college years, a place well known for its wine, rugby, and high culture. I’m referring to Stellenbosch, the former bastion of Afrikaner Nationalist sentiment, where the political party that came to power to design and implement apartheid emerged. To give some perspective, Selwyn recalled a common epithet of the late rugby coach, who used to say, “A black will never wear the Green and Gold”, meaning the rugby uniform of the national rugby team. His statue still stands next to the rugby fields, a testament to the past and enduring symbol of rugby as a white-only sport. This exercise in witnessing unimaginable disparity – between that of Stellenbosch and Kayamandi Township – profoundly amplified the tour experience in a way that is possible in very few places around the world.

      We arrived in Stellenbosch, where Selwyn had planned a lunch at a small, intimate bakery. The Panini, desert, and microbrew were individually the best foods I have eaten my entire stay in Cape Town – and Laduma paid for it all. During lunch, he gave us the entire, condensed history of South Africa, explaining what forced the Afrikaner government to impose such drastic racial measures upon coming to power in the 1940s. He also explained customs, etiquette, and social expectations that we should adhere to in Kayamandi, but most importantly, he described the cultural philosophy of Ubuntu. One of the most unique features of township life, Ubuntu loosely means that your existence is dependent on the relationship you have with others. In other words, my hardship is our hardship. Ubuntu is a spiritual ethos as much a social force for efficient communal organization; this, in my opinion, is what separates traditional African lifestyles from Western conceptions of the world. Selwyn highlighted the presence of Ubuntu as a community unifier, an arbiter for conflict, and place township residents can find solace amidst the destitution that surrounds them. Selwyn encouraged us to walk into people’s houses without knocking, because to knock would be like saying to the homeowner, “Are you be proud of your house?” when in fact they always take pride in their homes and have nothing to hide. Ubuntu is revealed in the hours after residents return from work, when the streets are filled with people talking, church services taking place, and groups of children free to roam and play. The absence of electricity in many homes, and thus lack of TV, means that the only source of entertainment is each other. Ubuntu is an overwhelming feeling that you can only fully comprehend by visiting and immersing yourself in the daily life. We were lucky enough to have a glimpse of this, and even participate.

Following the lunch, we drove around Stellenbosch University, whose beauty is comparable only to that of Stanford, according to Selwyn’s opinion anyway. En route to Kayamandi, we stop to pick up Lily, a township resident, whom we would later discover is featured on the South Africa segment of CBS’s 1,000 places to see before you die.

Lily’s segment starts at 3:46 in this video:

Lily is an incredibly strong-willed woman, whose past is not atypical in township life. The determination and perseverance she showed when pushed to the brink of poverty, rising to international fame (attracting people like Mel Gibson, Danny Glover, others), is nothing short of pure inspiration. I will try to summarize her story, which she told in about 45 minutes – she had much more to say, but was cut off by Selwyn. Lily was born in Kayamandi, but was forced to leave early in her youth with her family to Johannesburg in the Eastern Cape. She recalled being constantly alienated as an “outsider” from the Western Cape and persistently terrified by the animosity she received from others. Her teacher molested her, and any pleas for help were responded with disbelief and further discrimination. She was in a foreign place, surrounded by hostile people, and helpless. After nearly four years, her father had passed away and her family somehow saved enough money to return to Kayamandi (Lily’s thick accent made the details a little difficult to follow at times). Soon afterward, an arranged marriage presented a ray of hope for Lily – a chance to have a home of her own and a man with a stable income. Within a few weeks, she realized the marriage was a grave mistake, as she was confronted with domestic abuse and the realities of a male-dominated society. She reflected that this period was a living hell, again leaving her always afraid. She managed to get a job as a debt collector, despite the fact that she was not on the interviewee list, had never interviewed before and had no grasp on etiquette, and lacked the presentable clothing like those who had gone before her. (The details get a little fuzzy here, I apologize). 

             At some point she lost her job and took a financial risk on a small stove top (that is shown briefly in the video). Again, against the wall of abject poverty, she did anything she could to make money in an honest fashion – pride is immensely important in township communities. She was divorced, unemployed, had two children to provide for, and just enough money to purchase ingredients for scones, the saving grace that catapulted her life. Because her scones became so popular in Kayamandi, she continued to make more on that small stovetop, expanding her homestay restaurant, which she named “Once Upon a Stove”. Gradually becoming a master of traditional cuisine, and getting in touch with Selwyn, she traveled to Toronto for an international food expo. Eventually, CBS recognized her story and her “Once Upon a Stove” homestay restaurant, and that is where she is today – a person recognizable as a member of the “1,000 places to see before you die”. Again, this extraordinary opportunity came completely out of the blue for me. Truly something ethereal.

            Lily continued to tell stories as we left her house, slowly making our way into the van and then heading to a community center established by Selwyn. He runs a dance program, which is based off a model in Harlem, that pays for children to go to better schools if they can commit a full year to learning dance (the movie Take the Lead is based on this program). The program has multiple aims: to get kids away from drugs and off the street, to instill virtues of discipline and commitment, and also to encourage the boys to have more respect for their female partners. The kids are chosen by their ability to commit, to prove they could adapt this commitment to education, not by aptitude, tests scores, etc. The five of us on the tour provided a unique opportunity for the kids to showcase their talent to someone from outside the community. After they put on a few dance numbers, they asked us to join, and taught us a few moves. As I would find out here and the rest of my visit, participation is far more fulfilling than being a spectator at Kayamandi.

            What did I mean when I said Lily’s past was not atypical for the Kayamandi community? Well, to put it simply, Lily’s case is the slimmest-of-the-slim minority. Although Ubuntu brings joy to a desperate place, the existence of horror is unavoidable for some. Male chauvinism and the abuse of women are borne out of the tribal tradition of the circumcision ritual that occurs when boys turn 18. Nowadays, the friends of boys undergoing this ritual get them intoxicated beyond belief so that no pain is felt in the circumcision by knife. Following this archaic medical procedure (which has a 2% death rate due to the use of a communal knife, possibly infected with HIV), boys become men by surviving “in the bush”, without medical treatment and by their own devices. This time period is also an indoctrination session, hereafter they are “taught to see any woman as a bitch”, according to Selwyn. The cycle of male dominance in the home is perpetuated, allowing rape and domestic abuse to go on unabated. Later in the night, Selwyn explained how Friday nights could be a terrifying experience for women, even young girls. Upon receiving the week’s pay on Friday, men will head to the bar to get loaded on beer, and rape is widespread in this context. These are broad generalizations, and the supposition that all men in Kayamandi have a penchant for sexual violence is an injustice, however. One of the girls who danced for us earlier in the evening, maybe 15-16 years old, was the victim of gang rape. In a related tangent, another boy in the dance program, also very young, had dropped out and fell into a drug habit for a few months before returning to the program. It is amazing how useful and attractive a simple dance program can be in the lives of such disillusioned youth. 

            As we piled back into the van and headed for the next destination, a boy flagged down the van to talk to Laduma. The kid had been an original teacher at the dance center, who had been a student at the University of Western Cape, but dropped out because he failed an audition. Selwyn, like a concerned high school counselor, tried to give the boy some direction because he hated to see stagnation in people with such talent. As we drove off, Selwyn explained his deep concern for the kid who we learned was gay, for homosexuality is almost universally condemned. The reality in Kayamandi, as well as other townships, is that tremendously talented individuals can become enslaved to their own communities and there is an absolutely giant obstacle to real opportunity.

Here's a video of scenes from this year's AfrikaBurn

AfrikaBurn Music and Arts Festival

             Freedom Day. Undoubtedly the best public holiday known to man (besides Dog Shirt Day, of course) just passed this Friday, April 27. Coincidentally, the weekend hosts one the most freedom-loving, hippie utopias in all of Africa, the AfrikaBurn music and arts festival held in the middle of the Karoo Desert. For four days, ultra-hippies, or maybe just ordinary people who decide to embrace a new identity for a bit, are free to trip on acid or ride around on a bicycle completely naked, but are required to abide by one rule: the use of money is strictly forbidden. People are encouraged to participate in the “gift economy”, which functions on the basis that you are supposed to bring something to offer, no matter how humble or exotic. Gifts range from free hugs, fruit, massages, homemade jewelry, and instruments to condoms, drugs, and giant communal tanks of red wine.

Although my festival experience is a bit atypical, I had two guiding principles:

1.     Drug Free is the way to be

I do this as a life choice, but I also really enjoy watching people trip on acid and dance in extremely creepy fashion.

2.     Utilize the day drinking strategy to avoid the morning hangover, thus fully maximizing the length of each day’s adventure and having full energy to lose it on the dance floor. It’s a very scientific, and calculated formula for success.

That may classify me as a “nancy” in the eyes of some of my peers, but that wasn’t the case at the Burn. There is no social pressure, no stereotypes, and little inhibition, instead it’s just the “you do you” mentality. If you want to join the topless parade, go for it. Or maybe you want to lather glitter on your mustache, you go Glen Coco! Not for you, Ok understandable, how about challenging a opponent to dance karate? The giant collection of abnormality can give you a powerful sober high, the moment when your face is glazed with a dumbfounded smile as you realize how rare an environment you are in.

Getting my spiritual vibe on. This is what I ran around the desert in for four days:

      Now that everyone thinks I’ve immediately transformed into a giant, gibberish-talking hippie, I’ll remind everyone that I plan to work for “The Man” next year. I’m referring to the government operated Americorps program, an organization characterized by its militarily structured discipline and civic engagement mission. That, along with the reality that I take showers daily, converse in the common parlance known as Bro-talk, and smoke fools on the footy field instead of the green stuff, delineates me from the ranks of the dirty, lazy hippies (Dude, “free-spirits” is the preferred nomenclature).

     

      I’ll try and recap some of the interesting things I saw and did at the fest:

·      Puns/Play on words were a common theme on the many of the camps, pieces of art, and costumed vehicles. I think my favorite was a vehicle that was made to look like an ambulance, which read “Ambivalence” and “Mental Health Services”, and had the classic psychological evaluation chair on top.

·      Rode on several theme vehicles: One that looked like a giant snail, one that looked like a giant tree and had hammocks on top and hanging from the sides, and on that was a chopper-car hybrid.

·      Got invited to a topless parade by an absolute goddess (although the invitation to the event and the nipple cover workshop was probably directed at the girl I was with)

·      Was gifted a giant drum which I played alongside the DJ’s beats, in a massive parade to a point in the desert where 1,000 participants were organized to sit so that an aerial photo could be taken to resemble Mandela’s face. My midday inebriation was not conducive to proper rhythm, so I went from person to person offering them a whack at it.

·      Listened in to an intimate acoustic performance at one of the themed tents of the festival’s main circle, and was absolutely mesmerized by a singer who mine as well have been an angel. It was completely refreshing after listening to the bass heavy, “trance” electronica music. A favorite of acid trippers, this DJ bullshit featured almost nonstop for the first half of the festival, not a fan btw.

The last bullet reminds me of the main dilemma that played out throughout the weekend – the case of the lost bag containing a $300 camera and Nalgene reservoir that I was quite fond of. It was Saturday, the first full day of the festival, and I packed my Aim High Running Camp drawstring bag with the necessary survival gear – Nalgene reservoir, camera, dried fruit and cigarettes to gift, and enough mixed drink for a solid midday brown-out. Between the Mandela aerial photo parade, riding on the chopper hybrid mobile, and dinner back at the camp, I lost the bag. The in-betweens were a bit fuzzy, hence the brown-out. After dinner, I went to the tent for a two-hour recuperation nap. Before dozing off, I angrily ranted to Petra about losing my bag and repeated multiple time “I am so mad, I can’t believe I lost my bag” – it was the maddest I had been in a really long time, and I searched the entire tent quite aggressively to no avail. After the nap, I reacted more rationally about my loss, although it did put a slight damper on the rest of the night.

The next morning, I woke early and without hangover, and putting the pieces together from the night before I determined my bag had to be at the photo area. Upon arriving at the area, I found no blue bag in sight, but had reconciled the anger of the night before. I wasn’t going to let a few lost possessions ruin an amazing festival – actually, after hearing that friends from two different camps found cameras I felt that it was just part of the natural lost-and-fount festival cycle. The few remaining acid zombies still dancing to the DJ drone at 8:30am (literally played all night) intrigued my curiosity, so I decided to make my morning walk full circle to get a closer look. The main circle was quite desolate, due to the masses of slumbering hippies physically impaired by the night’s intoxication. All that remained were younger children riding bikes and the all-nighter rave champions. I walked past one of the two remaining DJ tents and was completely shocked to hear “MIKE!” come from Petra as she ran toward me. Unlike the dozen or so remaining dancers fueled by a long acid trip, Petra had survived on willpower alone, wanting to stick it out to see the sunrise with her friends who are experienced Burners. Then I popped over to another camp of a few friends to watch the “wake-ups”. Like witnessing a bear emerge after a long winter’s hibernation, it was quite exhilarating to watch my friends crawl through tent doors to the bright rays of morning. Ryan Marvin is the best to observe exhibiting this natural phenomenon, par excellence.

            The artwork and creativity was quite amazing, and rumor had it that some structures took up to a month to construct and the material costs could be in the thousands of dollars – all to be burnt in the last days of the fest. You come to realize that AfrikaBurn consumes a significant portion of some participants’ lives, especially for those who do both the Burning Man Festival in Nevada and AfrikaBurn in South Africa. For a ticket that can cost as little as $45, it’s quite the deal. The music was the only disappointment I had with the festivals, which was primarily DJ techno-trance-electronica kind of stuff – it’s not really my thing so I don’t know how to accurately describe it. Occasionally, a band/singer would prop up a stage for a nice organic jam, a refreshing interlude. I’ll thank my new Dutch friend Simon for his DJ skillz on the last night. The healthy mix of classic rock with songs that sounded like the Dutch version of Josh Groban or Andrea Bocelli, was a godsend for the group of us huddled around the campfire. The friends, some rolling on molly, the campfire, the stars, the whiskey buzz, and the festival atmosphere all came to a climax (well at least for me) as Neil Young’s nostalgic, simple “Helpless” came on. Later, we all headed out to the main circle to witness the big burns (literally where they would set giant art structures on fire). Making a perfect last night, the DJ’s played mash-ups of popular songs, again, much preferred to the unending thud of electro-bass. Flip man, I was in the zone.

            Accepting the loss of my bag and camera, but fully satisfied with my AfrikaBurn adventure, I was ready to leave the Karoo Desert after an outlandish four days. After a breakfast of bacon and eggs provided by our travel group, our overly zealous tour guide, who was really determined to embody the festival’s principles (i.e. “Leave No Trace”, “Radical self-reliance”), encouraged everyone to pick up any scraps around our truck. Like a dream, a modern miracle unfolded before my eyes: there, only feet from the campfire ring appeared my blue Aim High bag.  DURRRR! The anger that surfaced two nights before transformed into complete ecstasy, I immediately felt on top of the world. In the utter stupidity of my mishap, I recognized the classic-ness and hilarity of it. The ultimate drunken, characteristically-festival, blunder deserved a chuckle. The only thing is, I’ll need to borrow Petra’s pics, because my camera only has about five.

Message to some of the younger readers:

Alcohol pops up from time to time in some of my blogs. Although, it can temporary cause you to lose you mind and do funny things, I think the first time you should try it should be after graduating high school. No, I am not a D.A.R.E. representative, but as someone who went through high school alcohol-free, I can share the three reasons why I believe the wait is worth it. First, your high school friendships develop on a more genuine level without the booze. Second, alcohol does nothing but hinder your determination and ambition – especially for those athletes out there with big dreams. Lastly, it will make your college experience more unique, and in the end, more fun.

Remember, mountain dew can always get the job done! But, in the words of the venerated Kanye West, "This is my life, homie, you decide yours"...