DROR EYAL found himself between racists and radicals at this year’s controversial Klein Karoo Nasionale Kunstefees
`KAFFIRS wil alles oorneem; kyk hoe lank speel hulle!” [Blacks want to take over everything; look how long they play!] screams a man to my right. Short brown hair, clean shaven, T-shirt, shorts, Metlife Kaktus op die Vlaktes stick-on tattoo on his cheek. “Waar’s die Springbok Nude Girls? Hierdie is kaffir musiek. [Where are the Springbok Nude Girls? This is kaffir music.]” comes from three sweetly dressed teenage girls behind me. Minutes later, beer cans start flying towards the stage. The first one narrowly misses one of the backing singers. As the second one flies through the air, people start catching on to the night’s main event: beer-can tossing.
Before long Miriam Makeba is dodging missiles while people around me start screaming, “Kyk daai hoere! [Look at those whores!]” at Makeba’s dancers. Others, visibly disillusioned with a culture they don’t understand, chant for the Nude Girls, Battery 9 – anything young, male and white.
Despite being reported as having been the work of no more than eight people by festival director Pieter Fourie, the truth is that the majority of the crowd did not relate to the African sounds, and disapproved vocally.
Elsewhere on the field, a young coloured girl bursts into tears: “Stop it! Leave her alone!” There are still two songs left on the playlist when the speakers go silent. Makeba’s voice floats across the field, exhorting the crowd to wake up and realise that “this is the new South Africa”; that change is necessary. She asks them to stop throwing cans, warning that they might hurt someone. She stresses reconciliation and a large part of the audience claps and cheers.
Minutes later, a large man rushes past security and grabs the microphone. He starts singing. It’s an obscene ditty about a man who likes little boys. He is midway through the song when security manages to haul him off stage. The crowd stares in amazement, but it’s just another cultural interlude at the Kaktus concert, where anything might happen.
Started in the spirit of reconciliation, the Kaktus op die Vlaktes concert turned out to be one of the most controversial events at this year’s Klein Karoo Nasionale Kunstefees (KKK). The crowds waited patiently while The Jazz Hounds, Mynie Grov, Worsie Visser and Jack Hammer did their thing. They even bopped along to Valiant Swart’s infectious rock. But when Amanda Strydom started singing “Amandla … ” they showed their displeasure by throwing beer cans at the stage.
There were many problems at this year’s festival. Some were the result of bad organisation. Others highlighted the growing difference between the prejudices we think we have overcome and those that actually have been overcome. If the KKK is any indication, we haven’t achieved much. Is this “die nuwe Suid Afrika”? If so, why is there such limited Afrikaans culture being represented at the KKK? Not Afrikaner culture, but Afrikaans the language.
Why is the festival so white? There were very few coloured productions on offer. What happened to the Afrikaans-speaking coloured community? This so-called “Afrikaans” festival in the Karoo is an Afrikaner festival, not an Afrikaans festival. Supposedly put together to preserve die taal (the language) it seems rather to be preserving white Afrikaner culture. The only nation being represented at the Klein Karoo is the Afrikaner nation.
A couple of decades difference in time and a few cultural differences, the old Afrikaner culture and the new may not be that different. If you thought of the former as a Voortrekker mumbling to himself and of the latter as a VCR with only one tape, you may not be that far off.
But it’s not just all about beer cans. Something else was evident at this year’s festival: a subversive element is slowly slipping in. The aesthetic of several artists poked fun at the crumbling edifice of Afrikaner culture – subverting the images, distorting the holy icons and braaing the sacred cows.
One such group of artists are Bitterkomix’ Anton Kannemeyer and Conrad Botes, whose satire of Afrikaner culture has earned them a place in the hearts and pockets of Afrikaans and English youth. This year’s festival saw the launch of their seventh issue, with its caricature of the South African condition taken to pornographic extremes. Krismis, Bloedrivier, sexual cravings for black women, the homosexual tension in government schools and other psychoses are pushed to the limit as these two artists manipulate their pens as satirical weapons against the past.
Not content with merely writing about the sacred cows, underground author Theunis Engelbrecht and his Naaimasjiene stepped onto the Kaktus stage to an audience of passed-out boere and a scattering of young alternatiewe Afrikaners up past their bedtime. Having only recently been unbanned in their former incarnation as Randy Rambo en die Roughriders, Die Naaimasjiene used this opportunity to rant and rave to the masses about the joys of blasting the farm and lambasted such cultural institutions as Jong Dames Dinamiek established under National Party rule.
The crowd stared as Die Naaimasjiene simulated sex acts and got down to some heavy rock. The crowd stared as Die Naaimasjiene broke down cultural taboos and barriers. The crowd stared and wondered where their parents were. The parents slept. Things may have been changed on a national scale, but out here on the periphery time moves a bit more slowly.
Moving slowly through Oudtshoorn was another outfit out to mock the old order. The No Parking group perform street theatre that informs and questions, unmasks and satirises. With no monetary gain in sight, these boerepunques are out to challenge the system. Why? “Because”.
Resonating to the times they live in and dressed in shabby out-of-date clothes, No Parking wandered through the overcrowded street wearing masks and carrying a sign bearing the legend “Regte Boere gooi Lion [Real boers throw Lion (a brand of beer)]”, the other side claiming “Gentlemen throw Castle [a brand of beer]” and the question “Wat gooi jy? [What are you throwing?]”. Why? “Because it takes a real man to throw beer cans, out of the anonymity of a crowd … at a 67-year-old lady,” comes the reply. Some people applaud, some people throw cans, and some take photographs.
Another group using visual theatre to shatter myths was the Dutch-based Dogtroep, who transgressed and trivialised the dichotomies between male and female; power and death; cannibalism and humanity. Not content with merely changing perceptions on one level, Dogtroep’s workshop challenged the whole concept of a particular language, performing its entire piece without uttering a single word. They shrieked, whispered, cried and raged.
“Daar sal ‘n skip kom vol moffies uit Holleland meet jou terrein laat niemand toe sonder ‘n invitation hou vroue en kinners weg. [A ship full of faggots will come from Hole land and measure your territory and let no one enter without an invitation and keep women and children out.]” proclaims a work by Garth Erasmus. A red “Afrikaner” is stamped on to the foreheads of some of Liz Hugo’s portraits. These artists’ exhibitions at the festival could not have been more appropriate, coming at a time when questions are being asked.
The comments book at the door of the gallery holds the answer. It’s a child’s exercise book with a couple of ruled lines. But between the lines are the words and thoughts of the hundreds of people who these artists have touched, people who have come to the cultural event of the Afrikaner nation.
“Ek bid vir julle. [I pray for you.],” writes KJ. “Sies julle. [Shame on you.]” reads Piet Pienaar’s comment. “Nie kuns nie. [Not art.]” “Morsig. [Messy.]” “Vulgar! Brrr! Kuns?” asks Ms Naud from Bloemfontein. James Small wonders “Kuns of politiek? [Art or politics?]”. “Vieslik, Godslasterlik, walglik! [Terrible, blasphemous, disgusting!]” says Mr Botha.
So what does it all mean? It means that kultuur doesn’t come in a yoghurt; it means that the revolution is progressing slowly; it means that there are some provocateurs out there doing damage; it means that we will be back next year.