Friday night
Benjamin Adam and Marthali Brand
Two hedonists arrive in Edenvale to dance the night away at that notorious old classic, The Doors. The Red Bull for the evening has already been consumed, and as they head for the dance floor with their usual enthusiasm, Kurt (rest his soul) croons the opening bars of Smells Like Teen Spirit … oops, sorry, that was last week. Cut.
The sun is disappearing behind the mountains that surround Rustlers Valley, and with it disappears the heat. The thatch toilets to the west look like the ruins of Urquhart Castle in Scotland. A few metres to the north, a scene from Dances with Wolves, an honest to goodness tepee drifting in the mist.
We walk to the tepee village to sample the veggie stew we’ve been smelling all day. Instead we find baked sweet potatoes with bean sauce – R2 deposit for the plates. The exotic charm of the Native American camp and strange food is spoiled when the woman serving us answers in an Australian drawl. What happened to the Hare Krishna cuisine of a few years ago? We were looking forward to the lecture on how they slice the carrot so that it feels less pain.
Vague chants emanate from the river, but we’re too intimidated to ask those weird Native American South Africans if we can join the sweat lodge. Perhaps it will be more accessible when, as a mushroom-selling lass tells us, the Valley returns to its African roots with sangomas conducting the ceremonies. If we’re not gonna sweat, on to the rest of the festivities.
The road to the three music stages takes you past the campsite, appearing like some luxurious refugee camp, a blanket of smoke hanging over everything, barefoot people in old clothes wandering around aimlessly. Until a sonic confusion hits you as Corsa sound systems vie with each other to play the ugliest tunes the loudest. How can you commune with nature when 2Unlimited prevents you from communing with your closest neighbour?
The Comet Cafe: it’s the Crap Gag Half Hour, and a quartet of improvisers amuses us with their smash hit I’ve Got Me Some Sweaty Onions. We stroll to the Metasonic Stage. On the way we discover the source of that weird glow in the mountain: a B-grade alien spacecraft prop built from recycled plastic containers. Convinced this is where the rave is at, we reluctantly decide to take a look inside (we have a column to write, after all). Turns out it’s a walk-in wood-and-string sculpture illuminated by strobe lights, no ravers in attendance.
They’re all at the Metasonic Stage, a series of tents (a chill-out space, a Day- Glo room, a space bar and a dance floor) arranged around a huge log fire. Not our scene, but the tin flowers in the trees are a nice touch.
Let’s try the World Stage. The strains of The Voice, with guest artist Steve Dyer, are a welcome relief from mindless “trance”. This is more like the old Rustlers: real live music on a real stage, different genres enjoyed by different people without worrying about your image.
The Valley seems to be suffering an identity crisis – four years ago it was Sinead O’Connor and REM; this time it’s techno crap. There’s a new variation of apartheid: the senseless rave bunnies at the top stage, the top camp, the top stalls; the older, more traditional Rustlers groupies being pushed further down the Valley, to congregate around the tepee village at the river. But the upside is that the tepee residents are more willing to interact with festival-goers than in 1995, and they seem less pretentious, although that may just be because they fed us.
Benjamin decides to go to bed, in retrospect a wise move. A moustachioed troubadour gives us an ear-splitting version of Bob Dylan’s I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight. The Hare Krishna next to me looks up and smiles. And then the rains come down. Or was that Saturday night?