BETWEEN A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE

The corrugated gravel road between Usakos and Henties Bay is one I know well. December holidays at the coast, for as long as I can remember, have involved driving this road. This time, however, it is May. Instead of simply admiring those magnificent granite mountains from a distance, I am headed straight towards them at a snail’s pace of 30km/h. I have loaded my little Toyota Yaris with a tent and a cooler box filled with Tafel Lagers, on a pilgrimage to a techno music festival at the foot of the Spitzkoppe.

Techno music is not on my regular rotation if I am completely honest. But I was not going to let that stop me. I have never been one to shy away from firstly, a music festival of any kind and secondly, an excuse to camp. And while I could easily write a thesis on my experience of the 3rd instalment of BAR-HP, I have opted to round up the highlights instead of bombarding you with every intricate detail of my weekend’s itinerary. Because you are going to the next one (I am sure) and you are going to create your very own unforgettable memories.

SET UP CAMP AND SETTLE IN

The early bird gets a good camping spot, so I show up around noon on Friday and scout the grounds for the perfect place to pitch my tent. Proximity to a loo is essential, but also not too close and definitely not downwind. You want to set up a short stroll from the music tent for drink refills and recuperation, but not so close as to catch all the traffic stumbling past your campsite at 4am. It is a delicate balance. On my walkabout I run into Melkies, one of the organisers and a talented DJ. He suggests a cosy spot on soft river sand between (you guessed it) a rock and a hard place. Perfect base secured!

At this point, none of my friends have shown up just yet, so I proceed to try and set up my Rubik’s Cube of a tent by myself. It is barely out of the bag when a heaven-sent soul from Otjiwarongo offers to help. I love festivals for this very reason: kind-hearted, open-minded and eager individuals congregate. That, and cold beer, is an accepted form of payment. I have only been here an hour and already made a friend.

A SEXY TECHNO DUO CALLED COYOTE

At 9:30 on Friday evening practically everyone is on the dance floor under a massive beige stretch tent. Against the granite backdrop, the DJ booth is crowned with lights. In the centre of the halo, behind the decks, are two brunette babes from Cape Town just starting their set. They call themselves Coyote, and I have never heard of them before, yet I am front and centre in a crowd of techno heads, absolutely in awe of the beats they are dropping, or the disks they are spinning. I do not know what to call it, obviously, so I will simply call it brilliant.

Safe to say that everyone on that dance floor is basking in the vibes, hands in the air and feet stomping up small clouds of dust. Everyone except a couple in my periphery, standing right next to the speakers, one of them trying to engage the other in a conversation amidst 120 beats per minute. I did some research among my peers and can report back that it is widely unacceptable to drag someone into a dialogue when they have consciously positioned themselves close to the speakers. If you want to chat, do so off the dancefloor, way back. It is festival etiquette!

CATCHING UP WITH OLD FRIENDS AND MEETING NEW ONES

Two beige stretch tents make up the main area. One being the dancefloor – twice the size of the chill tent right next to it. In its shade is a massive ground sheet keeping throw pillows and pallet-wood coffee tables out of the dust. Everyone is lounging around in their Saturday best. Yes, that is right, Saturday at BAR-HP is where all the stops are pulled out and outfits are immaculate. I am sporting a custom-made pair of shades, bedazzled to the nines in a technicolour spectrum on the frames. Some noteworthy looks include a steam-punk-meets-Burning-Man barefoot goddess in a floor-length black skirt, a skin-tight leopard print catsuit paired with an unmistakable Crystal Birch hat, and of course a couple of mad men in bizarre printed tights.

Every time I return to the chill tent from a refill mission and resume sitting crosslegged on the ground, I am chatting to someone new. Old friends from high school who I have not seen in years are here, and we catch up like no time has passed. The next time I am back with a pair of scissors, politely requested by artist and new-found friend Nambzee, and we are cutting up his extra canvas to make coneshaped hats. With my 75-300mm lens and the perfect vantage point under the chill tent I capture some candid shots of sun and dust-kissed faces playing cards and dancing to the first DJs of the day. Behind my viewfinder I have the fattest grin, because I do not think I have ever seen so many people so utterly happy and unapologetically themselves.

A NOT-SO-SECRET SECRET DANCEFLOOR

Around noon the festival fills up with day-visitors. You can spot them from a mile away because they have recently showered unlike the rest of us day-ones who exclusively rely on wet-wipes. While they have missed out spectacularly on the vibe that was Friday night, my whole gang of friends is finally complete.

The music is picking up pace, so we set our sights for the dust dance floor. At which point I realise that if you have not been parked in the middle of the crowd since sunset, you become bound to the borders. There is no way me and my entourage will be able to squeeze into the prime spot of the previous night. On a quest to find the only fire at the festival (fires are prohibited for the sake of the dry veld that surrounds us) we stumble on a somewhat secret dancefloor merely 20 metres from the official one. A string of primary coloured light bulbs dangles in a zig-zag above our heads, four boulders wrapping us in a cocoon, and right in front, projected onto the rock backdrop of the whole festival, is a constantly shifting show of graphic patterns, swirls and colours. This must be what heaven is like at night.

SLOW-STARTING SUNDAY

Slow from the starting blocks on Sunday, everyone is a little more groggy than we would like to admit. The air is crisp but that is nothing a coffee can’t fix. Perched atop one of the boulders surrounding my brilliant camp spot, I sip on a steaming cup of French press coffee with my back to the morning sun, facing the magnificent Spitzkoppe. In the distance, echoing from the granite, classic 80s love ballads and the odd Mumford and Sons play from someone’s car stereo. If you do not have coffee, the vibe in the air this morning is sure to warm you up.

It seems everyone is in a rush to pack up and head back to the city for a shower and a nap, which is entirely understandable. However, my friends and I have opted for a more relaxed departure. Once the dust settles from those eager to end the weekend, we leisurely deconstruct our campsite, pack our cars and stroll to the main area to savour the last smidgen of the festival that was. The one and only fire is still smouldering from someone’s breakfast braai, so we stack some more wood and proceed to braai boerewors, filling our tummies with boerie rolls after two days of meagre meals. There is no more techno bouncing from the boulders, there are no bare bodies around the pool, no dusty feet on the dancefloor, yet at this moment I can finally take it all in.

In a blink it is all over and I am back on the corrugated road in my little Yaris at 30km/h. The reflection in my rearview mirror is testament to the fact that in every recollection of this weekend, be it photographic or from memory, the magnificent Spitzkoppe is always right there. In the corner of your eye as you boogey to techno, the backdrop to every photo, completing the symphony, the driving base behind the beat drop that was BAR-HP.

Charene Labuschagne

Photography: Charene Labuschagne & Ricardo Richter