rocked the daisies

the main stage

I arrived home yesterday and could only explain how I felt as being hit by a bus. The past 72 hours had been long ones...I will recount the story from the very beginning.

A few months ago, Quinton, the director of our program, sent an email that included a list of dates and events that students on the program usually like to participate in. Included in that list was a music festival called Rocking the Daisies. I looked it up and it seemed really great. Only later, did I find out that it was the same weekend as Yom Kippur so I didn't think it was appropriate to go. As the weeks rolled on and the festival came closer, I was talking to other Jewish friends about their decision of whether or not to go. Most of my friends who had decided to go were planning on lying to their parents about it, and I didn't think that was right. I wasn't going because I didn't think it was right, not because of what my parents thought or expected of me. But on Thursday afternoon, I was lying in the sun listening to live music on campus and I decided I really wanted to attend. I had plans to celebrate break fast with my friends, but I felt like for me, the right decision would be to buy a ticket and go to the music festival for the weekend. 

arianna and meg setting up the tent

Within twenty minutes of making this decision, my cell phone and room keys broke. An angry sign from God? Perhaps. But my friends here convinced me it was the right decision, so I bought a ticket and began to plan for the weekend ahead. My parents, too, were ok with the choice I made. My dad had spent a good portion of his younger years festival hopping, following the Dead, and my mom just wanted to make sure I wasn't planning on fasting there as she didn't think that drinking on an empty stomach would be a good idea... I am not quite sure this would have been the response any of my other Jewish friends on the program would have received, but in keeping with my Dana and Andrews seemingly non-traditional parenting techniques, I was far from surprised.

 We left on Friday afternoon for Cloof - the wine estate where Rocking the Daisies was held. The venue was an hour and a half away in Stellenbosch (a.k.a. South African wine country). Upon arrival, we were immediately transported to hippie land. We parked the car, lugged all of our stuff to the campsite, and set up our tent. We picked a spot that was on the main path, close enough to but far enough away from the port-a-potties. Yes friends and family, I spent the entire weekend relieving myself in port-a-potties....

Shortly after setting up camp, we made friends with the people around us. Frank, our neighbor, was already on shrooms and had just walked the 40 miles from Cape Town to Cloof. He works as a professor at a university in East London, about 11 hours east of Cape Town. I think I spent a while after Frank told us this envisioning my professors at Columbia on shrooms at music festivals...but I'm pretty sure that was an impossible as my imagination could only stretch so far.

We hung out with Frank and his friends outside the tent for a while, and then left to go to the area where the music was. I spent the night with my friend Arianna. We meandered around...were offerred lots of psychedelic drugs, danced in the electronic music tent, and then found the "recharge station," which was essentially comprised of human dog beds. I fell asleep, sprawled out on the dog bed, for about a half an hour, as Arianna had a good people watching session of all the creatures existing around us. When I woke up, she suggested we go back to the tent and call it a night. I agreed, as I came to the conclusion that dubstep music should only be listened to when on drugs. I assure you no sober person enjoyed the electronic music station...I can only describe it as nails scratching a chalkboard while someone else simultaneously bangs on it. 

frank comes into our tent late at night

Although we left the music area, don't be fooled that the campsite was quiet. When Meg and Loreal returned to our four-person tent turned accommodations for five people and all their crap, we were all still up. Frank later came in, questionably not wearing any clothing, and talked to us for what felt like hours about the amazing trip he was having. He was speaking in words and sentences that made little sense. His stories included unicorns, "amazing colors," and explanations of his relatives. When he left, we all attempted to sleep but I'm pretty sure no one was successful, as we were all awake when a strange man who called himself "tall and cool" came to our tent and asked us what accent the tent was speaking at 5:15 am. 

Around 8 am, we all gave up on sleep and exited the tent, ready to rock the daisies. By 9:30, the heat was starting to become unbearable. We sought shade wherever it was available, but lying on the grass was far from comfortable because of all the burrs and thorns that called this lovely variety of African grass (do not confuse this with the copious amount of other African grass that was being smoked by the festival goers) home. There was a watering hole, also known as the dam, but the cleanliness of the dam was questionable. At one point I was so hot that I lost feeling in my arms and fingers...that was interesting.  

the dam/watering hole

According to reports, it was 32+ degrees Celsius in the shade at Cloof, which is around 90 degrees Fahrenheit. I am sure you can only imagine how it felt in the sun. If I had to describe it, it would liken it to the feeling of my skin burning itself off. It was far, far from pleasant. Meg and I fell asleep in the shade in front of the main stage, and when we woke up it was, thank God, a few degrees cooler. At this point, I was over the festivals. In my book, the daisies had been rocked. Luckily, I found my good friend Elin who is able to put a positive spin on any situation, so we spent the rest of the night talking and reflecting on the crazy experience that was the weekend.

Sunday morning I woke up to sweltering heat. The tent was beyond any heat I had ever experienced. I was ready to leave, but the rest of the crew wasn’t so I spent the morning people watching, and mainly pondering the question of why adults would bring their young children to such an event. In the few hours I spent waiting to leave Cloof, which had seemed to transform itself into the Sahara desert, I learned a lot about my friends drug experiences over the weekend. Firstly, I was then informed that the people selling drugs, “the magical orange tent,” were former Jewish Israeli citizens who have basically removed themselves from all documentation, gotten rid of their passports, and travel from festival to festival selling psychedelic drugs. I was glad to know that fellow members of the tribe were also making God proud this weekend… I was regaled with stories from my friends on acid. According to one of them, everyone around at the festival was a scary clown or rainbow human with scales.

the only shade i could find

By Sunday afternoon, Cloof wine estate had turned into a huge pile of trash and smelly port-a-potties. I could not have been more ready to leave, but during the drive home recognized that I learned a lot this weekend:

1.              Psychedelic drugs sound terrible and never do them around people you don’t like

2.              At the end of a three day festival, port-a-potties are really, really, really gross

3.              Bring a portable air-mattress when you go camping

4.              You will never want to drink alcohol in sickeningly hot weather

5.              I’m really happy my dad stopped going to festivals when he was young…anyone at such events at age 30+ is weird

Since returning, Rocking the Daisies is the talk of the town. I may not have had the greatest time, but when I came home and felt like I was hit by a bus based on the lack of sleep and dehydration, there was no denying that it was quite the experience.