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.