29 April to 3 May 2019

My reason for going to Cape Town was to stay put for a month or so, hike, read, and relax after a few months of steady travel. Things didn’t work out exactly as planned. The locals I met, besides infecting me with an unpleasant dose of paranoia with their frequent warnings, kept mentioning AfrikaBurn which I had never heard of. My curiosity was piqued.

The promise of artistic and personal freedom with a heavy dose of hedonism, epitomized by the “Burning Man” extravaganza launched in 1986, has since created international, annual, franchises of sorts.

AfrikaBurn is one of them and follows the same principles: radical self-expression, communal effort, self-reliance, freedom, and leaving no trace, to name a few. Which,  I would learn, offers attendees an opportunity to express themselves and do things they likely couldn’t, shouldn’t, or wouldn’t do elsewhere.

For one week “Burners” display their creativity in the forms of their extraordinary, functional, “mutant vehicles”, large wooden structures/art pieces (to be ceremoniously burned), colorful attire or none at all, and engage in mostly drug-induced revelry, while inviting the fierce wind/sand storms to strip away any remaining inhibitions.

Since I am no fan of crowds, using drugs, wearing costumes, and wild partying it would seem obvious to most that AfrikaBurn may not have been an ideal event for me. Yet I found the creative environment very appealing.

Usually people spend an entire year preparing for AfrikaBurn, where they will converge in the requisite barren, isolated, desert location, Tankwa, Karoo. Despite its starting date in a mere ten days, I decided, if at all possible, to go.

Getting a ticket, transportation there and back, and supplies would be difficult. The 13,000 tickets are strictly limited and were already sold out, rides were organized months in advance, and I had no camping equipment of my own.

The event is expressly designed for participants only, not spectators, and any options to join a project this late were extremely limited.  However, the official website stated an ongoing need for volunteers. This proved to be the open door I’d been looking for.

I contacted Sarah, in charge of coordinating volunteers, and expressed my interest in lending a hand despite my lack of a ticket, transportation, equipment, and a camp to join (Complete self-reliance would be difficult given the harsh environment.). She was sympathetic to my plight, if not overly optimistic, and suggested I use Facebook as a resource. My experience with social media is limited, but using various online venues I managed to find rather quickly a ticket and a one-way ride (I figured getting back to Cape Town would be easy enough with 13,000 attendees). All I now needed was a camp to join. Those I knew of were already full.

I decided to check out Couchsurfing and found the “Burning Couch” camp listed.  Lydon the organizer, from Cape Town, was friendly but made it clear that free-loaders were not welcome. I convinced him of my sincerity and soon a flurry of WhatsApp messages connected me to our group. Menus were planned, shopping trips were organized, and meetings were attended.

The people I continued to meet in Cape Town uncannily fell in one of three categories: they were going to AfrikaBurn, they wished they were going to AfrikaBurn, or they’d already been to AfrikaBurn. They all expressed delight that I was going, but kept focusing on the subject of costumes. Costumes? I was still lacking a sleeping bag, a tent, and even the most basic camping supplies. My concerns for survival seemed markedly out-of-place.

I kept Sarah abreast of my progress and remaining obstacles. She graciously gave me the number of a friend willing to lend me AfrikaBurn essentials like a 25 liter container for water, cooking and eating utensils, lamps, parasol, and “fairylights” generally used to decorate Christmas trees and patios, but worn at night to avoid getting run over by mutant vehicles. I went out and bought a tent, a goose-down sleeping bag to ward off the night-time temperatures, and enough food (none requiring refrigeration) to ensure I would not go hungry.

It took me several days to obtain, organize, and pack my gear, but now, the day before departure, I was ready (the AfrikaBurn website was excellent and in addition to many tips provided a list of “survival” items each of which I had dutifully crossed off upon acquisition.) I had goggles for the sandstorms, multiple scarves, also for the sandstorms, and a range of clothing for the variable desert temperatures. But still no costumes. I figured I’d wear my regular attire with some creative flourish and fit in well enough.

Marcos from Uruguay, and his British friend, Victoria, both in their early thirties, had flown in from their respective home towns the day before, specifically to attend AfrikaBurn. They picked me up punctually at 5am in front of my apartment. The plan was to arrive at the gates when they opened at 9am. We had exchanged many messages back and forth after our initial contact on Facebook, but it was our first meeting. I was impressed with their reliability and relaxed, friendly manner. Marcos’ mother was Brazilian, his dad was from Argentina, his grandparents came from both Portugal and Italy. He possessed five passports and was in the process of obtaining a sixth. Our conversations largely pertained to travel, but a comfortable silence filled the time too.The last stretch prior to reaching Tankwa, on rough gravel roads, was notorious for flat tires. Fortunately, we were spared and the drive went smoothly, despite Marcos deciding that this was the perfect occasion to drink and drive for the first time in his life.

Entering AfrikaBurn was like entering a parallel universe inspired with ample doses of Peter Max, Mad Max, and Victoria’s Secret (despite the scorching African sun, there was no shortage of exposed flesh). The atmosphere was festive.

Marcos and Victoria dropped me off at my camp and we wished each other well. They were giddy at their much-anticipated, now finally here, days of non-stop drinking and dancing.

My fellow “Burning Couch” campers came from all over the world, were mostly traveling on their own, and in their twenties and thirties. Our number grew with each day. Apparently Lydon had difficulty turning anyone away. Amongst the dozens, there was: Jose, a chef, with large portraits of Einstein and Dali tattooed on each calf. He twirled his Daliesque moustache while tirelessly assisting anyone attempting to cook with the finicky propane stove.
Linda, a self-professed stoner. It was only a matter of seconds after she awoke before her stash of marijuana appeared and a joint was passed around. Yet, she always managed to have a cup of tea ready for anyone tired, thirsty, or in need of some comforting conversation.
Bernalee, nineteen, from South Africa, had been nervous about AfrikaBurn’s reputation for drug use and relaxed mores, but decided to go anyway. My initial impression of her being overly sheltered, and fragile was shattered when she told me of traveling to the U.S. to bicycle from New York to Florida, by herself, only weeks after learning how to ride one, and her hitchhiking through Honduras and El Salvador alone. Bernalee’s aversion toward drugs was never an issue. (Neither was my lack of interest.) The atmosphere was refreshingly non-judgmental and once her concerns were allayed she relaxed.
Johan, an exchange student from Amsterdam, was quiet but clearly wise and extremely thoughtful. He was instrumental in helping me drive heavy stakes for my tent into the concrete-hard ground–crucial given the strong winds–a grueling, painful task. He had an oversized thumb, not from hammering, I presume he was born that way, which in no way hampered his agility, but immediately brought to my mind the protagonist in “Even Cowgirls Get the Blues.”

Everyone in our camp was remarkably easy-going, helpful, generous, and kind. Time was spent as we chose, but all were encouraged to participate in a rotating preparation of dinner and eat together. And we did.

During the heat of the day many of the “Burners” sought shade under a tarp or visited one of the many theme camps. They were marked on a map, with opening hours, and catered to virtually every interest, need, desire, and fantasy. While some people were dancing to the electronic waves of sound, others were finding their inner spiritual animal, freeing their sexual inhibitions (so I was told), getting intentionally “bad advice”, charging their cell phones with solar power, sipping Ethiopian teas beneath a bedouin tent, or learning how to repair a bicycle. Some were opting to take showers with the washing done by hands other than ones own. For the modest, private showering was available elsewhere. Others were sipping pink bubbly from long-stemmed glasses in the cozy “Marilyn Bar”, complete with swivel stools, decorated with larger-than-life posters of, naturally, Marilyn Monroe. Some spent their time driving around in mutant vehicles. And everything was free, except the ice.

Night time most people sought wild revelry, and I sought my tent for sleep. My efforts, I would quickly learn, were futile. The incessant, deafening, pounding sounds, calling it music would be a stretch, started around 10pm and continued until 7am. The bass beat thumped through my torso and echoed like a jack hammer inside my head. I managed to sleep at most a few hours each night. My mood each morning was less than cheery. Those who had chosen to have a sleepless night with the aid of mushrooms, who knows what, and youthful energy were appallingly good-humored and would remain that way for the duration. I politely hid my crankiness as best I could. Drinking very strong coffee helped.

The slot I had chosen to fill as a volunteer “Greeter” coincided perfectly with a blinding sandstorm. I stood on a road completely exposed to the elements welcoming newly arrived Burners with my best smile hidden between large plastic goggles (similar to those I wore on lab days in high school) and sheaths of fabric to keep the sand out of my mouth, nose, and ears. Fortunately, people’s delight in finally arriving to AfrikaBurn bolstered my enthusiasm. I offered them hugs and danced a Chaplinesque two-step for several hours. Fighting the relentless wind and sand was exhausting. After my shift, I headed directly to my tent where I didn’t budge until dinner, fours hours later.

Camps ran the gamut in size and creature-comforts. Some consisted of elaborate dwellings complete with gazebos, couches, dining tables, and chandeliers, others, like the one I joined, were basic camping experiences with a tarp covered eating area and a propane stove.

Toilet facilities were shared by the entire AfrikaBurn community and called “loos with a view”. They were seats atop huge tanks that required some stairs to reach. When one sat just a head and depending on how tall the person was, some shoulders, would be visible. The seats faced out in the direction of the surrounding expansive desert, thus the “view.”

The climax of AfrikaBurn is aptly, the ceremonial burning of the towering wooden art pieces. A large audience gathers and a solemn silence fills the air while the carefully monitored flames begin to roar, and some courageous souls run naked around the periphery. After the fire reduces the piece to ashes, spectators wander off into the darkness.

Despite AfrikaBurn’s guiding principle of participation, admittedly, I engaged in only a few workshops suited for the less adventurous, like the Ethiopian tea tasting. My participatory role was my stint at volunteering, taking photographs, always welcomed, and my many conversations, which included reassuring two teen-age boys that their fear of LSD was not something they should be ashamed of. My wanderings were never dull.

But after four sleep-deprived nights, with a stream of events and people–no matter how lovely they were–and hearing that the approaching weekend would be when the real partying began, I began looking for a ride back to Cape Town.

I found one with a woman rabbi from Toronto.