I am one of the last people who should attend a festival full of hippies, far away in the desert of the Tankwa Karoo, an event called AfrikaBurn.
But the hippies were awesome. The rich kids with daddy’s 4×4? Not so much, but fortunately they were few and far between.
I’m really not a big music festival fan. Sleeping on the ground, 24 hour music and highly questionable toilet facilities is something I never enjoyed as a youngster, and most definitely don’t enjoy as something resembling a grown-up, having essentially turned into a “grumpy old man” at age 41.
I can live with “kids on my damn lawn!” but loud music filtering into my quiet space is something I really struggle with, and it’s most likely linked to the ADHD as much as it is the grumpy old man.
I love the idea of AfrikaBurn though, even though it’s definitely not my scene. Flung off on remote plains cradled by ancient mesas, a few hours from Cape Town, The Burn is an amazing, environmentally conscious, community driven blast, operating 24 hours a day (loudly) for a full week.
Just don’t let anyone tell you otherwise: most people go to AfrikaBurn to do a shit-ton of psychedelic drugs.
That’s not even a slight problem as far as I’m concerned. If you want to wander off into the desert with a bunch of like minded people, partake in all of your favourite vices in a safe environment, blast music that bothers absolutely no one 24 hours a day, and leave no mess behind when you’re done, I am totally in favour of that idea.
I say ‘safe environment’ because not only are there paramedics on hand in the event of an emergency, but the entire community, with the one exception of our German camp-neighbour “Sven,” look out for each other’s best interests. Sven was far more concerned that someone’s vehicle might block the sunlight from reaching his very portable solar panels.
We also had no choice but to overhear Sven’s admissions to multiple women that he had come to AfrikaBurn to find “the love of his life,” completely oblivious to the fact that there was likely not a single woman who travelled to AfrikaBurn in the hopes of committing to a lifetime with a pedantic fool who has zero consideration for others.
Sven spent every night alone in his rooftop-tent, and eventually left 2 days before the event finally wound up.
While I’m most definitely not the life of the party at a music festival, there is one thing I can do really well: I can camp.
And not because I spent half a million Rand on an off-road caravan like my former boss and his “Tina van Wyk” style wife, who felt the need to replace their quarter million Rand caravan using money earmarked for staff bonuses, and writing it off with The Taxman as a “promotional trailer.” I’m sure you can guess why I resigned.
Nope, it’s because I have been collecting all kinds of camping crap for years, and when all put together for a few days, make for a really comfortable stay completely off the grid, however unattractive these mismatched, but incredibly useful items, might be.
Ice box, shower, solar lighting, gazebos and a fridge, as well as the little camping essentials like a Leatherman, jiggler hose and extra rope and gas, all of these items finally being unpacked from their ammo boxes to assist friendly neighbours in one way or the other.
But putting all the little camp extras aside, we had one thing that many other campers did not: cold beer. Kept at 3° day and night thanks to a deep cycle battery and the power of the African Sun; making friends became very easy.
I have special admiration for our neighbours Fen and Tom. A Dutch/British couple around the same age as us – Fen celebrated her 40th birthday the day she arrived at The Burn – waiting in the queue for 6 hours.
They ordered their entire camping kit on Takealot from London, shipped it to a friend, landed in Cape Town, picked up a rental car and their Takealot boxes, and headed straight for The Burn, stopping only to shop for supplies on the way.
Tom isn’t even his real name, but my neighbour at home is named Tom and my ADD brain has decided that everyone in my life who occupies the position of ‘neighbour’ will be remembered as Tom. Unless of course you are Sven, in which case I will make a mental riddle to remember your name, so as to avoid you in future: “Sven rhymes with men but Sven is more of a hen.”
Fen and Tom could not compete with us in terms of camping equipment, but these two made us look like grandparents watching the younglings play.
Sleep till 10ish, wake up, have breakfast, get ready and go party, come back at sunset for dinner, get ready in new outfits, go out and party again, and come back at 4am for a bit of sleep, in preparation to do it all over again.
We were usually in bed by 8pm, and up again before sunrise, often in time to greet Fen and Tom on their way home.
And the other very cool neighbours who’s names I cannot remember at all (there was an André somewhere in the mix, who was somehow a Buddhist).
The hippie dude who looked exactly like Tommy Chong, even camping in his van and flying a Tibetan Prayer Rug: a prayer rug that for 3 full days I believed to be the Vierkleur – the flag of the Old Republic.
I was aware that AfrikaBurn was all about radical self-expression, but I didn’t think this would extend as far as The Vierkleur, and “Tommy Chong” and I had a good laugh once we got to know each other, and he showed me the last yellow strip on the flag/rug which had previously been obscured by the tie-down on the van.
And let me not forget “The Dutchies” who woke up early every day to go for an hour long run in the desert, and went out again on their bicycles just before sunset. The Burn really is for everyone.
If you’re squeamish and have no interest in the toilet set-up at The Burn, I suggest you skip this section.
I am scarred for life, and I like to believe I have seen some things. Apparently, an AfrikaBurn toilet was not one of them.
In short: a massive plastic container with a “housie” on top, already more than half full with you can guess what by the time we arrived, with a potty looking directly down on the ‘creation’ below. What’s worse, the housie is not enclosed, and leaves your head exposed to the festival, allowing you to lock eyes with multiple party-goers in the queue, all lined up to perform nature’s necessary function after you are done.
A strategically parked car, a hole in the ground and a little stool managed to solve the “number 1” problem and save us a fair amount of trauma, but the body’s demand for a regular number 2 leaves you with little choice but to knuckle down and deal with it. I refuse to describe the smell, but I’m sure you can imagine that for yourself.
I must however give credit to the cleaning crew. Volunteers (!!!!) driving around with a tractor and trailer all day, music blasting, party going on, having an absolute blast cleaning after 10 000 festival goers, and doing it both willingly and with a smile on their face. You are better people than I am. I take my hat off to you and whatever natural or chemical vices kept you going.
Would I go again? Not in a million years.
Is it something that everyone should do at least once in their lifetime? Also, no.
BUT, but… if your idea of fun is partaking in a load of illicit substances (that for the most part shouldn’t be illegal anyway), partying 24 hours a day for a full week with like-minded folk, and possibly throwing in a bit of dress-up while you’re at it, then AfrikaBurn is the festival to go to. Well organised, environmentally conscious, full of awesome people and miles away from the neighbours. You’ll have an absolute ‘jol,’ but you will be permanently dirty (absolutely do not forget to pack the bio-friendly wet-wipes).
Myself? I write this a week later from The Bulawayo Club, a far cry from last weekend’s dusty tent, where my good man Lincoln is only too happy to take care of any request I might have, provided it is legal and accompanied by a generous tip. In American Dollars. Cash only please.
This is admittedly the life I prefer, however rare my occasion for a visit might be.
