Thursday

Day 1: Thursday

Diesel is a bitch. R11,84 per litre. R600 gets us half a tank in Lucy our trusty green Landy, and the six of us are off – leaving the gleaming green metropolis of Johannesburg for the dust-bowl that is Northam.

The long and winding road (N1) has roadworks in abundance. Turn up the stereo man! Blast “Crosstown Traffic”! Vent our frustration, carry our eagerness to Limpopo, sing our way through this traffic! Godspeed us, Black Emperor!

Three hours later and already we’re sweaty and dusty. It’s a bad combination. The sweat trickles, the dust sticks to the trickling sweat, stopping the said trickle dead. The dusty sweat-trickle solidifies. Suddenly you’re in a mud field all of your own. This is Glastonbury for the sunburnt.

Our campsite is on “Freedom Road”. Or “Lane” or something. All I know is that it looks awfully far from where we need it to be – on the stage, or at least within spitting distance. But no, somehow we’ve ended up some 10 minutes walk (20 minutes while drunk, 30 minutes when drunk and in the dark), from the action. That’s ok, we reason, the walk will… uh, burn calories and introduce us to the other campers. The other campers are blasting either Metallica or sokkie treffers at us as we walk on by. The other campers seem slightly strange. Maybe this is why no one turns up on the Thursday.

The second reason no one turns up on the Thursday is due to the fact that the Wishlist bands have centre stage. They will have no names but for “Wishlist Band” printed on the rather well thought-out programme. They deserve no names. They are Pick 'n Pay items. They are the bottom of the barrel. They are the homeless shelter's sustenance. This is an early sign. Unequivocally, with little shame, these acts are terrible. The first band we see features a female singer dressed in a black wedding dress. Holy “Pows!”, Batman! They sound something like the following equation: Creed + Evanescence+ Nickleback + Horror = The Most Boring Thing In The History Of My Brain.

Instead of staying around the Most Amazing Myn Stage and The James Phillips Main Stage, we head over the Koppi to the Sipho Gumede 206 stage, which, guessing by the name, will offer more “urban” fare. The layout is both genius and retarded – the steep slope, dotted with rock and grass offers a good seat, but also a veritable cliff-face to the imbibed. I decide to cross that horrific injury when I come to it - or it to me.

The rest of Thursday is spent drinking atop the Koppie, warming hands around the campsite fire and trying to sleep with the cries of “Oppi!” confirming our location. We know, buddy. We know.

Friday promises more in the way of people, music, dirt and beer. All hail the weekend.

Wait, hold on. I have not one, but two(!) anecdotes to share.

The first concerns a young man named Dewalt who stumbles upon our small circle asking "Did I hear you guys speaking about the Lord Jesus Christ?". We answer: "No, dude,". He doesn't mind. Soon he's kneeling in an oddly suggestive way and staring deep into my eyes. "What do you know about The Lord Jesus Christ?". "Uh, I prefer Gandalf," is the first thing that pops into my head. I resist. I do not want to be sat upon by Dewalt. I mumble something non-commital, Dewalt mumbles something about "fokken communists".

The second, which follows about ten minutes after the Dewalt incident, involves corporate bribery. "What do you know about Levis?" asks a young lady, dressed in a black 501 shirt and kneeling near our twice-invaded circle. "Uh, I prefer Pep," I mumble. She grunts something like "Fucking communists,". We did end up with free t-shirts though. Levi's wins this round.