Misteaken: The Experience that is the Burn

Here we go again, another post and this time on the very ambiguous Afrikaburn. I’ve been a fierce critic of this little pop up community for the longest time, based on two principles. One: The name. A spinoff from Burning Man, I still can’t understand why it would be named AfriKaburn. There’s way too much unpacking that needs to be done on that conjoined word. Two there’s a sanctimony it’s attendees carry with them that I can’t get down with. A complaint I heard from a purist not so long after getting back is that this year wasn’t the same. It somehow had been tainted by a new element that turned it into a festival which it is not. Damn! I missed out on the good old days!

Anyway, I went, loved it, fell into an unexplainable spiral and now know this:

Nothing can ever really prepare you for it.

I really enjoy feeling welcome in a place, especially if the welcome comes from a place of personal sincerity. There’s nothing like an embrace from a connection made from a natured honesty. A full acceptance of the self. I enjoy an encouragement which is of personal fulfillment no matter what the avenue one chooses to drive, ride or walk down. Basically I like genuinely nice people.

A night spent in jail, a full day at work and then the trek out to the desert. Eight hours later we’re in a muddy desert and have entered the sleeping community as the birds (had there been any) were about to stir. I’m tired, I’m muddy and I’m fucking scared. A little bitch; I had to have a cut on my pinky finger washed off using Listerine as the antiseptic, fearing an infection from digging one of the cars out of a muddy ditch for two and a half hours. We’ll go back there. We park the car and decide it’s time to go and talk to people, it’s only 04:00, they should be up anyway. Stop, listen… follow the music!

Two Afrikaans dudes with a battery powered music generator (I didn’t see what they were playing off, all I know is that it was fucking loud.) welcome us to their fire and hand us sachets of homemade honey. Kous and other Afrikaaner. It’s a bit gutting that I can’t remember his name. It’s a motherfucker cold and we’re only opening the vodka now, so we need the fire. We chill, make small chat and poke fun at the funny. Like an old Afrikaans guy saying: “Wasup my niggas!?” A few uncomfortable glances exchanged we stammer our laughs and lose our first man to the car. They’re nice enough chaps and we have at least two real jokes where we all find ourselves laughing. At last their battery dies and we take that as our cue to start exploring. The sun is approaching and we’re in the desert. Kous is sad and airs that we were there only for the music. I suppose disgruntling the locals isn’t a very good start to a four day adventure in the desert. Wait… Did I say happy Freedom Day?

Assume I am Carlton Banks. I actually have no place to speak real talk. By the time we’re into it I realise I am Carlton Banks. My sphincter is so tight I’m surprised that my sag is still intact and that I’m not wearing suspenders. First time going on an adventure this big without my squad. I barely know any of these people except for the one I’m sleeping with and even she’s still a rather new addition in my life. They’re loud and I’m just not that kind of brother. Except they're funny and having fun and I wanna be that kind of brother. It took Super Mum-Z two and a half hours to dig out the car, he allowed the polo 1.4 to help pull the Mazda out the ditch and then I stepped into a pile of mud wearing my favourite pair of skate shoes, that I don’t skate to finally give into the desert. At 07:00 O’clock I finally take off my shoes and socks feel the mud cover my feet and jeans, while Mile’s Davis played in the background to realise that my life at this point was pretty much a cheddar cheesy Hollywood fucking movie scene.

“I’m in the desert for the next four days. Fuck it.”

A first time club member I’m still anxious as the city wakes up. I greet with a handshake and enunciate every part of my name. The inevitable, "Punani?" Still comes, fuck it. We’re a pair it seems to me. I’m the Tourist; wide eyed with my camera and loving the spectacle that is the desert, she’s the Terrorist; inventing the plots and schemes on how to fuck with people’s perceptions. We’re actually suited to this climate. We eventually touch base with the other non-others and I finally feel like I can kick off my shoes, grab a beer out the fridge and talk shit about the game. Still I notice their eyes telling me not to get too comfortable or anticipating a statement to fuck with everyone’s mellow. We pick up on the shifts each time and the Tourist and Terrorist move onto the next exhibition or structure to snap or burn.

We love every moment out there and the fucked up moments are few and far between. There’s no fighting in the desert but if I could find the translucent skinned blonde haired fuck who ran into the Terrorist at full pace and quantified it by saying:

“I hit you really hard hey?!” then proceeded to run off into the dark. A man could very easily lose the use of his limbs.

Unprepared as fuck the free ticket was exactly that. I appreciate the opportunity to witness this rare glimpse of uncivilized society being extra ordinarily ordinary. Imagine Cape Town had an actual public art policy… Now don’t it’s a desert without buildings, just flammable art.

I have to admit that I love hating on the whites as much as the next cell number, but sometimes they get the party right. For a while I’m happy that I’m there without my friends, I love them and all but we’re all into similar shit and sometime’s don’t know what we close ourselves off to. But the one thing about my group of friends I do miss is that critical point of engagement and not accepting everything for its surface. While I agree with the spirit that the place is trying to invoke; that pure spirit of humanity: both acceptance and giving best exemplified in the gift economy. I still see the societal pressures of the outside entrenched in the fiber of a lot of these beings. At the end of the day this is a playground for the rich. Although the policy is of acceptance of everyone the poor who attend the fest are still made labourers, only getting the chance to participate because of the gift economy. Welcome, but don’t feel at home. I am the Tourist, lucky to know the Terrorist joined at my hip. I don’t know if I would have loved it otherwise.