This year’s Rustlers Valley Easter Festival became a battle between the ravers and the hippies, reports SUZYBELL
A WOODPECKER screeched as 900 Gemini twins howled at the half-eaten moon. Yup, the rave scene has infiltrated this once laid- back hippie pastoral happening – Rustlers Easter festival. “It’s just thud, thud, thud, thud,” moaned the hippies. “The record is surely stuck,” brayed another, as she lolled about on a grass mat sipping chai (tea) and waving around a fat joint as if she could direct the show.
“Have you signed the petition yet … to legalise it. Did you know the stuff is indigenous? It’s a renewable source – non- toxic fabric, paper, oil, fuel, medicine – inspiration, holy sacrament … fully.”
Dr Hoffman butted in, suggesting a trip to Goa with a choice of Durban DJ Jessica and her pet white rat or special guest Micky (Israel, Japan, Goa) at the SpinOut tent.
On the way a scrap of a man in faded apricot shawl with a battered silver kettle chanted in a weak voice: “Chai-chai”. Hippies drank loads of chai by the fire, but it wasn’t long before the question was asked: “What’s in this chai?” Unsuspecting souls asked: “Can chai really give you a buzz?” Yep. It’s natural stuff. Herbs are potent, man. So you don’t have to take straight amino acid in a clear bottle or concern yourself whether it’s safe to snack a yellow and purple tablet that has no writing on it, because if you aren’t into rave you aren’t into hardcore drugs. So sip that chai, sister, and enjoy.
Still, the hippies are restless. But are they willing to cut their hair, swop their crystals for chemicals and sell their hippie happiness for shimmering yet seductive self-destruction? The subcultures seep into one another, unconsciously. Nevertheless, hippies are spraying their dreads for luminous evening glam and ravers sit with hippies to chill out, whether spiralling up or getting stoned.
A Hare Krishna devotee with a trendy number-one cut confided in me that he had hardly slept all weekend. And it had nothing to do with tripping on the serenity of Krishna consciousness or yogi tea, more because of the “very disturbing vibrations” in the dusk- until-way-past- dawn music. The hippies, too, were not at all happy that they could not sleep, never mind sleep in. Because this year didgeridoos have been replaced with hardcore house and techno thumping its way through their tie-dyed dreams.
And while this year’s layout may have been intimate for some, it was hellish for others. Previous years saw the techno tent about 2km away from the main stage and the surrounding 4 500 campers. The Hells Angels kept a sublime silence on the subject. But they left early. Perhaps it was the rain, the mud, and the very madness of it all.
“Cut your hair off man, it’s liberating. It’ll reconstruct the fabric in your soul,” burped a freshly shaven baldy. “When you cut your hair, you cut away the sadness of your past. It’s all stuck in your hair, man.” But surrealism crept in as those with white eyes and shining faces attended early morning drumming workshops and Tai Chi classes.
There were cleansing ritual saunas after sunset, fireside jams at midnight beneath the willow trees and all-night tribal gatherings in the tipi circle with sangomas from the Nkukumuhi ancestral valley. Perhaps this is what it was originally all about. The philosophy anyway – the Starseed generation. If only those who were manically swopping Xmen for Sunshines knew of the magnificent aromatherapy massages and healing hands so nearby. If only the five-year-old boy selling “oil balloons” in pretty pink Durex boxes knew of the Earth Warriors’ kiddies’ adventures at the Greenfield activity site. But then again he was on a vital social awareness mission of his own, however unconscious it was.
In many ways the festival was less flamboyant this year. Not a performance artist in sight. No delicious Queen of Tarts, no risqu body-painting. Even the Emithini tent, as terrific as it is as an enormous T-shirt tent, was nothing more than a terrific tent. Last year it bristled inside; this year it was a flop. The Lodge was closed, the loos were unisex (for minimal environmental impact) and the line- up of music for the main stage was not all that enticing.
Exciting sounds came from three hot Cape Town bands – Nine, No ID and Asazi. Just Jinger (Johannesburg) were strangely popular with their tame Christmas carols. So where were the Springbok Nude Girls, Squeal and the wondrous Wonderboom boys? And how come the faceless belly dancers at the Comet Cafe had to dance in the dark? And will rave take over, as the hippies fear? Or will hippies cross over and “become the dance”? Will the ravers of today become burned out, seeking solace in gentler pursuits? Perhaps some will hike somewhere into the amphitheatre of the breathtakingly beautiful Maluti mountains which, alone, are worth my five-hour journey from Durban.
Perhaps it’s just that eco-festivities whether rastas, ravers, hippies or Hells Angels, are in short supply. Consciousness is still very unconscious, and it’s still very much one big mindless mother of a party. And Rustlers Easter Festival is not simply “a fairy freaky farm to frolic in the hills with trancy attitudes and easy vibes”. It’s certainly that, but it’s slowly becoming much, much more.
The Equinox Spring Celebration is held at Rustlers Valley in September. Other festivals and workshops include: E-Scapade, Shamanic Journey, Beyond Massage and Permaculture. Tel: (05192) 3939 for details