You are reading Part 4. Click here to start at Part 1, or view all parts here.

He was sitting with his back to me, so I started with the outlines of his shoulders, then the back of his head, his shabby greying hair, then finally down his torso to his butt. It wasn’t often I had a naked guy sitting in front of me, but here it felt like just another weekday.

“Forget about hands, and forget about faces,” the teacher said. “You won’t have time, and they’re not important, anyway.”

It was just past noon, and around a hundred of were sat on the floor in a circle, in the corner of the CEXx tent. A naked stranger laid out like he was sunbathing in the centre. CEXx (pronounced Sex-ex) was a large, mysterious tent, hidden in one of the backstreets of Tankwa Town, and probably one of the most interesting. But not many people even knew it was here. During the day they ran lectures and discussions such as “Sex on Drugs” and “Kink 101”, but once night fell, the tent turned into the Play Zone; a sexual playground for the hedonists. Just across from us I could see the infamous Dome, a large tent where couples were invited to indulge in “anything goes” at night. We were sitting in the Petting Area; what happened on this floor at night I didn’t know exactly, certainly something kinky, but right now it was the day, and the hundred of us had gathered for something slightly more innocent: Nude sketching lessons.

Lynesha P was sitting beside me, scribbling away. I glanced over at her sheet. Her sketch was scruffy, busy. Mine, more like a stencil piece. But they both resembled the same muscular back and shabby head of hair. How about that. We were both artists now.

The next volunteer was a young hippie with Jesus hair, after him, a voluptuous blonde with long wavy locks and milky white skin. By then I felt like I was finding my inner Picasso, but Lynesha P had other ideas.

“Speed dating starts in five minutes. Stay or go?”

Earlier in the week, she and I had been flicking through the guidebook looking at all the different events we’d been missing – pancakes, pasta, topless parades. But when we’d turned the page onto “Silent Speed Dating”, both of us nodded that was a must-do. Even though neither of us really knew what it was.

I nodded and flicked my head towards the door. As I folded up my masterpieces and got up to leave, I gave a love bracelet to the girl next to me who’d lent me a pencil, whispered a thank you to the teacher, and the two of us tiptoed back out onto the Binnekring.

Silent speed dating was at a camp called Vagabonds, right in the centre of town. Run by a bunch of crazy Scandinavian kids, they offered everything from morning dance parties to cacao ceremonies to sweat-outs in a full size sauna they’d hauled into the desert. The day before I’d walked by and was given a massage in their “spa” by a charming Californian gal, noting how tranquil and unassuming the camp was. But today, it was packed full to the brim. Evidently everybody in Tankwa was ready to speed date in silence.

A young man hopped on the tiny stage in the corner and clapped everyone to attention.

“You’re going to walk around with your hand up until you find a partner. Then we’re going to play the music for two minutes. There is no talking! Look into your partner, and see what you see.”

Everyone paired up pretty quickly. Within a few seconds I locked eyes with a petite sandy blonde, like a mini Jennifer Aniston. They hadn’t told us to hold hands, but there came an urge to hold my palms out, and she placed hers in mine.

“Time starts now!”

The tent turned silent. Yoga music began flowing out of the speakers. At first, it just felt like a staring contest. Her eyes were small, and dark, frosty blue. Every ten seconds she turned away to giggle, then stared back at me nervously, like we were at a school prom and it was the first time she’d danced with a boy. But thirty seconds passed, and her eyes changed, from smiling eyes to nervous eyes to curious eyes to startled eyes. When’s the last time you stared into a stranger’s eyes? Have you ever? It is an unnerving, naked, electrifying thing. At first it felt like the time couldn’t pass quickly enough, but by the end, it felt like two minutes had passed in a flash. When the music stopped, we embraced each other tightly. Then we looked at each other and hugged again. We had shared something, although we didn’t quite know what it was. But, we couldn’t talk about it. We didn’t even have time to think about it. We were already being told to hurry up and find a new partner.

My next partner was a tall guy with large green eyes and a kind face. A young Nicholas Cage – the City of Angels version. He had a face with a permanent smile but as our “date” started and the seconds ticked on, I noticed how much sadness his eyes showed. I guessed, that smile was hiding something, pain that hadn’t passed yet. You see people’s eyes all the time, but how often do you actually look inside them, study them, see the colours swirl, try to read the story they tell? Or let others do so to you? You don’t realise how vulnerable your eyes make you, until you have a stranger staring straight into them, reading your life story.

My next partner was a young Asian guy. Right away I guessed he had a background similar to mine. Asians were scarce at AfrikaBurn; very few things in Tankwa Town were customary to our cultures. But that’s what made it intriguing. For us, just being there was almost a form of rebellion. As the music started and we looked into each other, it was instant brotherhood. I’d seen those eyes a million times. Everything he’d been through in his life, every piece of self doubt, every question he’d asked himself in the middle of the night, I felt like I already knew and understood. As he let on a smile and a knowing nod, I knew he was seeing the same. He was a dreamer like me. He was also from a place where his friends and parents were probably wondering what the hell he was doing at a place like this. But we didn’t care. We were here. The music stopped and we grinned and hugged triumphantly. Like, man, I knew I wasn’t the only one.

My final partner was a young African woman, with small eyes, big cheeks, and a childish smile. We held hands. As the music started she tilted her head slightly to the side, her eyes curious. As I gazed, somehow, I could tell she had a child. Her eyes reminded me of my mother’s. I searched her eyes, trying to see why. But all it did was make me realise how after all these years, I’d never really looked into my mother’s eyes. After all these years, maybe I still didn’t even really know her. Underneath just being my mother, what were her fears, insecurities? What did she think about at night? What were things she secretly wished for? What made her happy? What did she want to be when she grew up? I’d never taken the time to look, see who she really was. A tear rolled down one side of my face. And this woman standing in front of me, squeezed my hands, gazed, deeper, wanting to know more. Another tear. Her eyes were sad now too, but loving. She squeezed my hands again. I smiled. The music stopped.

She opened her arms and I smiled with relief as we hugged, wiping the trails from my cheeks.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you so much.”

As we broke, I saw Lynesha P smiling at me adoringly from the corner. I smiled back and shook my head, as if to say, don’t even ask. I’m fine. But as everyone searched for partners for the next round, I took a seat outside and watched from a distance. I couldn’t handle another round. Plus, I’d seen everything I needed to see.

“That was the most amazing thing…” Lynesha said as we walked out after it was over. Her eyes were as wide as her grin. “You were so emotional! I don’t know if we’ll ever get to do anything like that again.”

Now walking back in the sunshine amongst the crowd, it did feel like we’d been through something. Something a little bit magical, something nobody else would understand. Even if that were the only memorable thing I did my whole week in Tankwa Town, it would’ve all been worth it.

My Ranger shift that night finished at 9. I hadn’t made plans with anyone, so I wrapped up in furs and wandered down to State of Bliss. It was quiet, only a handful of people lounging while someone tinkered on the piano. I took a seat on the floor and unwound. My feet were weary from the hours of walking – between the daytime fun and my night shift, I’d covered the entire town at least three times over already, and the night hadn’t even begun.

As I zoned out to the music, I noticed one of Grizzly’s friends appear at the lounge entrance. Tall, slender, melanated, beautiful, wrapped in a bright orange fur jacket you could see in the night ten miles away. She spotted me and tip toed over.

“Heyyyy! Mind if I sit with you?” she whispered.

“Course not, what’s up.”

“Chilling. Where Leslie at?”

It was odd; normally I bumped into Grizzly three or four times a day, but I’d been out on the playa since morning and hadn’t seen her once.

I shrugged.

“No idea. Maybe we’ll catch her tonight.”

After three or four songs she started gathering her things.

“I’m gonna head to Atypical. You wanna come?”

“Bet.”

Atypical Bar was the coolest bar in Tankwa Town. At least I thought so. The first time I went there was on Day 2, to warm my hands on the open fires outside, and one of the camp members came around with marshmallows on sticks for us to roast. I ate around six or seven and thought I was on my way to heaven. The next night, I learned their bar had a full menu of cocktails on offer all night every night. No other bar in Tankwa was blessing the crowd with free liquor like Atypical Bar. And tonight, it was hip hop night. The place was booming. Drinks flowed at the bar, marshmallows were flaming outside and the best music in Tankwa Town was blaring from its speakers.

“This is my shit!” Orange Fur yelled as we waltzed in at the top of a Pharrell classic.

The mood was jolly that night. The dancefloor shook harder with every song, conversation around the marshmallow fire was full of love, people flooded in off the Binnekring. It felt like all the friends I’d made in town found their way to Atypical Bar. Gin and laughter flowed, but often I’d look around and find myself thinking, Grizzly would love this. Between songs I’d turn to the entrance hoping to see her walk in, but she never did. It was an unforgettable day, unforgettable night. Just one face away from perfect.

“One bag!”

“One baaaaaaaaag.”

Friday had arrived. Most people were in bed nursing hangovers, but myself and four other burly fellows had volunteered for the Friday morning Ice Slinger shift.

“One bag!”

“One baaaaaaaaag.”

Nothing is bought or sold in Tankwa Town, but there is an exception; Ice. Several years ago, a bout of food poisoning swept through the Burn. Toilets were overflowed with vomit and diarrhea, and people were laid up in their tents with food poisoning for days. It was just another reminder that out here in the desert, food goes bad quick. Ice keeps the beer cold, but more importantly keeps the steaks fresh. So, Tankwa gets three truckloads of ice delivered daily, all sold at the Ice tent to keep the town chilled and healthy.

Of course, the Ice trucks don’t unload themselves. That’s what the Ice Slingers are for. Every morning the ice line stretches into the hundreds, as Ice Slingers muscle the bags off the back of the trucks and into people’s cooler bins.

Before the shift started, the four of us were handed gloves and briefed by the Ice Master.

“You two in the truck,” he said, pointing at us. “You two on the ground.”

He was a portly man, and fun, the kind you’d want as an uncle for your kids.

“I’ll call out the order and you fetch ’em. But remember to throw the bags! Don’t slide ’em. Ya understand? Don’t slide ’em! And move ’em quick!”

We pulled on our gloves and flexed our biceps, ready for a morning of hard labour.

“And one more thing. I’ll scream out the order – three bags, five bags, whatever. But if the order is for only one bag, I want you to scream out after me, one bag! Keep ya on ya toes.”

The line was already out the tent and winding down the Binnekring when we opened for business. People came armed with cooler bins, backpacks, trolleys, ready to cart their hauls of ice back to their camps.

“Six bags!”

My comrade was a young French guy, looked like a small Daniel Craig. From the back of the truck we threw them to the boys on the ground, shaky at first, throwing six, dropping four. But we found a rhythm quickly.

“Nine bags!”

The line moved quick. Even though we were in the back of an ice truck, we worked up a sweat. It felt glorious, getting blood pumping through the muscles on a Friday morning. I hadn’t had this much fun all week.

“One bag!”

“One baaaaaag!”

Two bags. Five bags. Eleven bags. Three bags. One bag.

“One baaaaag!”

The line moved and moved, more people arrived, bought more ice, we changed trucks and kept going. Each truck we’d swap jobs with the other boys, from throwing to catching. Throwing burned your biceps, catching smashed your wrists ’til they bled, but we screamed one bag with all our might and loved every minute.

After an hour we’d run through the whole queue. We pulled off our gloves and leaned against the trucks, pumped up on endorphins with grins on our faces. The Ice Tent was still open for another hour, and people drip fed in every five minutes, but the hard work was done. We sat on the back of the trucks and chatted about our week, like four blue collar workers getting ready for the weekend. Which is exactly what we were.

When our Ice Slinger shift ended, the boss man gave us each a 5kg bag as a reward. As I was living on chocolate and biltong, I had no use for a bag of ice. But he insisted I take it. Everyone needs ice, gift it to someone. I knew exactly who.

In the backstreets of Tankwa Town is a camp called New Beginnings. New Beginnings was relatively unknown, but those who knew about it loved it. Because New Beginnings offered what every single person in Tankwa Town dreamed of. Hot showers.

The walk to their camp was longer than I expected; I arrived almost breathless.

“Is this the New Beginnings crew?” I asked, dripping with sweat, a fresh bag of ice in my arms. They turned and looked at me, a few of them nodding with smiles.

“I’ve come to gift you a bag of ice.”

Suddenly their eyes turned to glitter as they eyed the bag in my hands. Some of them whimpered with joy. The thank you’s came so fast I couldn’t keep track of them.

“Least I can do. You’re doing God’s work out here.”

And it was true, they were. The New Beginnings shower is like any other shower, but out here in the desert it might as well be a suite at the Radisson. It’s a standard showerhead hooked up to a huge metal water tank, heated with flame. There’s a gun that dispenses bio degradable soap. Flick it on, and you’ve got a winning hot shower to wash your sins away. But there’s a catch. It’s outdoor. Not only outdoor, it’s basically on a stage. If you’re going to shower, you do it on display for all of Tankwa Town to see. But after a week in the desert that was the last thing I cared about. I stripped, stood on the little wooden platform, flicked the water on. Piping hot water rained down onto my face and down my naked body. A week of dust and sweat and dirt and grime washed away, each second bringing out longer and louder moans of unashamed ahhhhhh. People in line looked, passers by on the street looked. But there’s something liberating about being naked in front of people. First it feels terrifying, then a little odd, and then, the most normal thing in the world. By the time I stepped off those wooden slats, I didn’t just feel clean. I felt fearless.

I walked into Atypical Bar that night as if I’d done it every Friday Night for the last ten years. I handed over my cup to the bar, they mixed me a blue tonic with gin. I said hi to the familiar faces standing at the fires out front, on the dancefloor, sitting around on the couches. Five days ago Tankwa Town had been a complete mystery, but now, it was as if we really lived here.

It was well past midnight when she walked in. I was sitting on a bench by the DJ, sharing a joint with a wacky trio I’d befriended. The guy sitting next to me was dressed like Willy Wonka, and had motioned for me to come sit with his crew as he lit up. As we sat there laughing about nothing, I saw her wander in off the Binnekring. I watched her for a moment. She was alone, looking lost, perhaps searching for a friendly face. I handed the joint back to Willy and went up to greet her.

“You.”

I smiled. We stood out by the fires, talking while warming our hands.

“I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I know! Nah I did think about you yesterday, and today,” she smiled.

“Liar.”

“No really I did! Where have you been anyway. Let me guess. Working.”

“Yeah, I was on Ice Slinging this morning actually.”

I showed her the cuts on my wrists.

“Mister hard worker.”

“Wanna walk?”

I went back inside and shook hands with Willy. He gave me a hug, I handed him a love bracelet. He examined it like a raw diamond, then hugged me again.

“Love your work, by the way,” he grinned, nodding at Grizzly standing outside.

“It’s nothing like that,” I smiled.

He nodded and pursed his lips, bro style. We exchanged smiles again, bumped fists and turned to go our ways.

Grizzly was waiting for me by the fires. I raised my eyebrows at her, saying, where to?

“Let’s check out the cinema?”

Sweet Love Cinema was just a few camps down. It was a large tent, open air, a projector up front playing non-stop movies all through the night. Laid out in front were fifty or so bean bags where people came to chill, sleep, smoke, pass the day or night. It was always packed when I’d walked past, but on this night, at this hour, it was barely half full. Grizzly and I slipped into the back row, put our feet up. She snuggled against me as we hid under our scarves, braving the breeze blowing in behind us. It was an old sixties slapstick playing. Grizzly watched as I lay there gazing around the tent. How much work it must have taken to build this, put it all together, just for the people. How many more places like this were hiding around town that I hadn’t discovered yet? I realised how much I was going to miss this, how I wasn’t ready for it to end yet. But tomorrow was the last day. In 24 hours, this would all be over.

As I snapped out of a doze one more time, I caught Grizzly’s eyes starting to close.

“C’mon. I’ll walk you home.”

The Binnekring was particularly cold that night. Grizzly and I loitered along it, slowly. This stretch of desert, blazing with lights, music, crazy costumes, drugs, artwork, would have been a spectacle to anyone on any day of the week, but to us it had just become “that place down the street”. We walked and talked like it was just another quiet seafront boulevard.

“So you didn’t drink for a whole year? Why?”

I looked at the ground, thinking.

“I guess, I like the challenge of it. You know, my Mum told me something my grandma used to say. There are four things that break a man – womanising, drinking, smoking, gambling. So there’s this Asian thing where they say stay away from those things and you’ll be successful.”

“Is that why you’re successful?”

I looked up at her, surprised.

“I’m successful?”

“Well you’ve like, travelled all over the world and everything….” she trailed off.

“And you speak Spanish. You got cool points for that.”

“Oh yeah, cool points?”

She looked at me and smiled.

“So many cool points.”

It was silent in the campground by the time we got to Grizzly’s place. Grizzly lived in a group camp right on the corner of 9ish Boulevard and Atlantis. Atlantis, Butterfly and Cherry Blossom were considered the “nice” streets of Tankwa’s suburbs. Up there, all the camps had big windproof canopies to pitch their tents under, proper kitchens, water tanks, and electricity generators. It was a little different down past Fata Morgana and beyond. There you started to see a lot more beer cans in the dirt, open fires, tents held together with duct tape. I flicked on my torch and we tiptoed through the camp to her tent.

I laughed when we got there. Her tent was barely the size of a sleeping bag, not tall enough to sit up in, and almost falling over. She pulled back the flaps.

“And that’s where I sleep.”

She had a “mattress” made out of her clothes, a sleeping bag on top, the rest of her stuff all stashed on top of each other. On the first day it would’ve looked rather charming and cosy, but after a week in Tankwa, it was barely standing. I shook my head.

“Grab your sleeping bag. Come stay with me in the hood tonight.”

Somehow to Grizzly, “grab your sleeping bag” meant “grab as much stuff as possible”. By the time she was done the two of us tiptoed out of there with half her clothes, blankets, pillow, food, all stuffed under our arms as we headed across the campground.

“Not in Atlantis anymore,” I said as we passed Cherry Blossom. “You’re now entering the ghetto. From here on it’s all drug dealers, Tankwa Town mafia. I mean look at that!”

I pointed to a pile of trash one camp had left out by the road. “It’s a hard life down this way.”

When we reached Fata Morgana, we turned off at my intersection towards home. Adrien Brody’s hippie tent was lit with flashing blue Christmas lights, as always, just beside it, the Dutchies van with the lights out, their bicycles resting against their bonnet. My tent was hidden from the roadside by their cars, but as we walked off the road and cut between them, there it was, sitting proudly in the dirt.

“Welcome to my mansion.”

I pulled back the flaps and we dumped all her stuff. I was surprisingly tired from the short walk, and collapsed into my pile of clothes.

“Oh my god, it’s a mansion for real. You can actually stand up in here.”

Grizzly started unravelling her stuff and fixing somewhere to sleep. As she lay out her pillow and unrolled her blanket, she suddenly stopped and looked up at me.

“Shit. I forgot my sleeping bag.”

“Are you serious!”

“Should I go back and get it?”

“Yeah, right. This is the hood, remember? You think you can go walking out there alone?”

Grizzly groaned, nudged me over and claimed half my mattress. I opened up my sleeping bag and whooshed it over us. Exhausted, we lay huddled together, laughing at the tragic bed we’d made. Usually it was hard to stay warm even with a sleeping bag all to myself, but with her laying against me the desert cold all but disappeared.

“I can’t believe it’s the last day tomorrow,” I whispered. We lay staring at the high roof of the mansion. “It feels like we’ve been here forever, but it also feels like…we just got here.”

It had crept up on us somehow; weird that we’d say goodbye in just one day. But, as we’d find out, a lot can happen in one day in Tankwa Town.

…to be continued.

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You are reading Part 3. Click here to start at Part 1, or view all parts here.

The crowd was already huge when I arrived. I’d thought I was early. Thousands of people sat in a huge ring, surrounding the Temple of Ixam. It was scheduled to burn just after sunset.

‘Burning’ was talked about often in Tankwa- on the Binnekring during the day you’d always hear people screaming about it – don’t forget there are two burns tonight! But nobody ever talked about what they meant, or why we did them. It was just something we did. Each evening, people gathered to watch as various artists set fire to their creations and watched them crumble in flames. Some artworks stood several stories tall, and the burns were magnificent – the biggest blazes you’d ever seen – sometimes taking over an hour to fall to ash.

The artists had requested a silent burn that night. All camps had been ordered to shut off their music, and viewers had been asked to stay silent as they watched. As darkness fell, a group of young men dressed like hunter gatherers, long staffs in their hands, finally set the temple alight.

The Temple of Ixam was dome shaped, a couple of storeys high, made of straw and wood. Later I’d learn it had been standing for several years, built to honour the indigenous people of the desert. The fire started slowly, but within minutes it was at full blaze. Thousands watched in silence as the flames roared. The loudness of fire is peculiar – something you don’t really notice – but hits you hard when you experience it. What hits you even harder is the beauty. It’s more breathtaking than we realise. If you don’t believe me, take a look at the people’s faces next time you’re around a fire. How they simply stare at it, watching it dance, mesmerised. It captivates people. When the temple finally toppled, the crowd roared with delight, like some kind of triumph. I felt it too.

But while the flames captivate us quickly, they lose our interest quickly, too. As soon as the temple fell, the crowd began to disperse, looking for wilder things the night had to offer. As I turned and headed back to the Binnekring myself, I saw friendly faces approaching.

“THERE HE IS!” they shouted as they saw me.

We laughed and hugged.

“We’ve been looking for you!”

Tania and Claire were another two people I’d met on the bus. They’d been sitting in the seat in front of me, our friendship christened with the sharing of a peanut butter bar.

“Come out with us tonight! Meet at our camp at 8?”

In the 72 hours I’d been here, hope and trust had suddenly re-emerged as the essential survival tools inside the gates of Tankwa. Cellphone reception didn’t exist. If you were to meet anybody, anywhere, you simply had to give a time and place and hope they would make it, trust they would make it. But that was refreshing too, not living through a screen anymore. We made plans face to face. We had conversations face to face. Nobody ever finished an introduction with “I’ll text you”. It almost felt like we were becoming children again.

I arrived at their camp late.

“Oh here he is,” they groaned lovingly, as if they’d given up on me showing.

One drink, then we headed out.

“Okay Brendan, the plan tonight is, we have to find the ship,” Claire said as we waltzed out onto the playa.

“The ship?”

“Yes! Last year all of my coolest nights were on the ship!”

“What the hell is the ship??”

“Haven’t you seen that big sailing ship, that drives around the playa at night?”

As usual, the playa was pulsing with noise and lights that night, like some kind of drug filled Disneyland. DJ’s sat atop mutant vehicles in the distance, passionately thumping out sets for the little crowds that gathered. People roamed in groups of twos and threes, dressed extravagantly, covered in lights and laughter. It was the hour when all leftover heat from the day had dissipated; the desert air was now cold and numbing, even with the alcohol and long fur coats, your fingertips chilled if you didn’t keep them buried in your pockets.

It didn’t take us long to find the ship, which was actually named The Flying Dutchman. It was a huge trailer modified into a pirate ship on wheels. A DJ booth was set up in the middle, and people sat around it on the deck and chilled, while others danced in the sand under the huge sail built from LED lights.

“That’s the ship!” Claire screamed. We marched towards it. “Now we just need to wait for space to get on.”

There was a decent crowd commanded by the DJ when we arrived. Some wandered by on the playa and stayed, others danced for five minutes before drifting on to somewhere else. As we sifted into the crowd, I caught a glimpse of a girl sitting up on the ship deck, alone, by the mast. She was facing away from me, I could only see the back of her head. But I already knew who it was.

I walked around the front of the ship and caught sight of her face. She looked bored, or high, maybe both, her eyes staring aimlessly into the ground. Perhaps she was having a spiritual moment, or an epiphany, maybe an introspective awakening. All were reasonably common in Tankwa Town. I walked up to her, and she looked up, her face morphing slowly into a smile as she saw me.

“Hey Grizzly Bear,” I laughed. “Can I come up and join you?”

“Of course! Get up here.”

I climbed up and sat beside her on the deck.

“What are you doing up here all by yourself?”

“I dunno, I was cold. I don’t even know whose jacket this is.”

She was wrapped up in a fur coat three sizes too big for her. I shuffled over and offered my arm, and she snuggled up next to me.

“My friends are over there,” I said, nodding my head backwards. “They’ve been talking about this freakin’ ship all night. I need to find them a space so they can jump on.”

As we both looked back at them, a friend of Grizzly’s jumped up to sit with us.

“Oh, this is Anton.”

I shook his hand and introduced myself. He was tall, with long Jesus hair, looked like a young Edward Norton. I guessed he was part of the ship crew.

“Ooh. I got an idea. Anton you see those two girls over there? They’re obsessed with this ship. Go over and say you’re the ship’s owner, and you would like to invite them both on deck as VIP guests.”

He looked over.

“Those two?”

“Yeah.”

He squinted for a second, then grinned and started walking over.

Grizzly laughed into the sky as he left.

“That’s so good.”

We both turned to watch. From a distance we giggled as Anton walked up to them like a Bible salesman, his hands animated as he talked. Claire’s face turned from puzzlement to joy, within a few seconds they were both following him over. As soon as they came around the nose of the ship and saw us, we all burst out laughing. They climbed up and sat beside us.

“Made it to the ship,” I grinned.

Claire was right. The ship was pretty cool. We sat up there for hours, chilling in the desert night. Every few songs, the ship would move. We’d watch the ship crew jump into action, do all their safety checks, then as many people as possible would climb on as the driver revved up the engine and drove us fifty metres to a new spot on the playa. You could barely see ten metres ahead, so someone would walk in front with a torch, making sure we didn’t crash into an artwork or a pile of bicycles. Alongside us, the rest of the crowd walked. But the DJ never stopped playing, and the people never stopped dancing.

I pulled out some of those healthy snack balls from my bag, the kind made from dates and coconuts and other hipster stuff. Grizzly took a bite and nearly spat it out.

“What the hell is that?”

“Healthy food.”

“That’s nasty. You got any like, real food?”

“What, like a New York pizza slice?”

She laughed and punched me.

“What part of New York are you from anyway?”

“Well, I’m Dominican, so…”

“Wait…you’re Dominican?”

“Yeah.”

I switched to Spanish, and she laughed, and we chatted in her language for a while, asking all the important questions, getting to know each other. It was the first time we’d actually sat down and talked to each other for more than five minutes.

A pretty blonde girl jumped up on deck and sat on the other side of me. I guessed she was from Sweden, Norway, somewhere up that way, the way her eyes had that piercing blue. Turned out, she was Danish.

“So how long you two been together?” she asked.

I looked to her, my eyebrows raised.

“You’re a couple, right?”

Just as I was about to shake my head, Grizzly jumped in.

“Yeah we are.”

“No we’re not,” I laughed.

“Babe, stop playing.”

“Oh really, we’re a couple? Where did we meet?”

“At school.”

“Where did we go on our first date?”

“To a restaurant.”

“What did we eat?”

“Spaghetti.”

We both started laughing and didn’t stop, while the Danish girl stared at us, trying to figure out what kind of drugs we were on.

When’s the last time you sat around and laughed with strangers? It’s special. It’s not something you can plan, it’s one of those things that only happens when it happens. And it happens on the road, but not as often as you think. Being rare makes it precious. And being precious makes it beautiful. But for it to happen in the middle of the night in the middle of the desert in the middle of the week in a place like this? It was the most rare, precious, beautiful thing in the world.

Eventually Grizzly jumped down off the deck to go somewhere, and I lost her in the night. But the Danish girl and I sat there talking, about what had brought us here, and what we were looking to find. When it got to 3 am, I told her I’d be heading to bed soon. It was getting late.

“Are you serious? 3 o’clock is late?”

“Well, yeah. What’s late to you?”

“I’d say around 9 or 10. You can’t even see the sun yet!”

I thought about how different her week in Tankwa was going to be, compared to mine. Some people were here only for the night; they missed pancakes every morning, all the lunchtime events on the Binnekring, the daytime dancing. But who knows what crazy and magical things they saw in the sunrise hours. But that’s what made Tankwa incredible – it really was somewhere for everyone.

It was well into the morning hours when Claire, Tania and I finally left the ship and headed back towards the Binnekring.

“I think we’re going to call it, Brendan,” Claire said. “Enough for one night.”

“You guys go ahead. I’m gonna take a walk.”

We swapped goodnight hugs and went opposite ways, them back to the tents, myself up along the Binnekring. It was unusually quiet for the early a.m. It seemed all the shenanigans the night before had worn people out some, the energy now a lot more mellow. Still, every camp buzzed in its own way. I stopped in at State of Bliss, which was also quiet. Stephane and I chatted for a minute, before I shook his hand and wished him goodnight.

It was a long walk home. State of Bliss was on the opposite corner of Tankwa, strolling slowly, home was almost an hour away. I didn’t mind. I had nowhere to be tomorrow, and long walks in Tankwa Town were never dull. I decided to turn off the Binnekring and walk along the Buitekring, a quieter street that ran along the back of town. I was sober now, and wrapped so tightly in furs that the chilled desert air wasn’t discomforting but refreshing. Camps were smaller and private back here, but even at this hour, little groups huddled around fires, played music, continuing to enjoy the night with less extravagance but just as many smiles.

As I turned onto Lady Davina Boulevard, hitting the final stretch towards my tent, I thought about how much I loved the nights. But I also realised, I loved the days more. That was where the real conversations were had, the connections were made. The night was where you celebrated new friendships, but the day was where you created them. I peeled open my tent, gave myself a quick bath with some baby wipes, then tucked myself into bed. As I lay there waiting to fall asleep, I decided tomorrow I’d wake early. I’d seen the nights. Now it was time to indulge in everything the Tankwa days had to offer.

…to be continued.

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You are reading Part 2. Click here to start at Part 1, or view all parts here.

The light woke me up.

I was wrapped in three layers of clothes, expecting the desert night to be arctic, but I’d slept through the night comfortably. I hid inside my sleeping bag, staring at the peak of my tent. The grey was slightly brighter on the east side, illuminated by the morning sun. I looked at my phone.

9 o’clock.

I grabbed my water bottle, sucked furiously on it for a few seconds, then pulled my cooler bin over. It was filled with survival foods; biltong, cookies, protein bars, dark chocolate. Nothing that needed to be cooked, nothing that could spoil. I nibbled on bits of everything, waiting for my mind to wake up, thinking about what today might bring. But it was too early for any imaginations. I lay back down to read.

Just that week I’d started a new book, The Forest Through the Stars. It was about an eight year old girl in pyjamas who showed up on a young lady’s doorstep one night. The lady believed she was a runaway, but the girl claimed to be an alien from another galaxy who had simply borrowed a dead girl’s body. She had been sent from her planet to learn about earth, and was not allowed to return back until she had witnessed five miracles.

I lay there burning through pages, hunting impatiently for clues. Was she an alien or not? I knew I’d probably only find out in the last chapter, but it didn’t stop me hoping. I was so engrossed I didn’t even notice the wind at first. But it was the third or fourth gust that made me put the book down. Winds roared across my tent, blowing the peak almost as low as my head.

Back in Cape Town, I’d made a hasty decision to splurge on a proper storm proof camping tent, rather than a $40 throwaway from one of the budget stores. When I unpacked it, the girls at the hostel had laughed at how huge it was, asking if I was secretly packing for a party of eight. But it didn’t seem so funny anymore. I lay there nervously, watching in suspense as my tent struggled against the wind, waiting for the beams to snap at any moment. Alien girl was searching for five miracles, I was only hoping for one: For this tent to survive the morning.

Somehow, it held its ground. At noon when I finally left for my shift, I could hardly believe it was still standing.

The scene outside was exactly as I’d pictured. The fierce winds had turned half of Tankwa Town upside down. Dust, finer than sand, zoomed through the sky like fairy dust. Without goggles, keeping your eyes open for more than three seconds was retinal suicide.

As I walked the streets, each block had become a graveyard of tents, one after the other, strewn across the dirt in pieces. They had told us the desert sandstorms took no prisoners, but sometimes I’d wondered if it would really be as bad as they’d said. Now I knew the answer.

But even disregarding the tent wreckages, the campground looked different to me. I was oriented here now. After studying the map the night before, I now had a picture in my mind of how this place worked. It was bigger than I had realised, the size of ten football fields, easily, and laid out neatly in blocks, like Manhattan – three streets across, thirteen streets down. The streets ran alphabetically; Atlantis, Butterfly, Cherry Blossom, Disappear, Evanescent, all the way down to Moment.

As I passed each intersection I searched for the street sign, making sure to memorise each name. Someone had said the night before, we’d have 12,000 people in here by the end of the week. It really was like a real city.

On the way to my shift I stopped by Atlantis to give a hello to Byron. He was milling about outside his camp, looking busy. He held up his wrist as I approached, flashing his bracelet, grinning. We shook hands, a chinwag here, there. Then, as I left his camp, I saw Leslie approaching in the distance. I shouted out to her.

“Leslie!”

Her hair was big, as usual, her eyes bright, her smile automatic when she saw me.

“Did you say Grizzly?” she laughed as she walked towards me.

“No I said your name, weirdo. That could be your playa name though. You know, like a grizzly bear.”

“Yeah, could be!”

“So what you doing tonight, Grizzly?”

“Dunno. I’m sure you’ll find me though. What about you, what you doing right now?”

“I go on shift at 12.”

Her eyes rolled.

“You actually are always working! Mister hard worker.”

She was right, it did feel like I was always working. But secretly, I loved it. It gave the day routine, but also meaning. Something to make me feel like I earned my place in this town.

That day, I had signed up for Greeter duty. I arrived a half hour early. I was met by three girls huddled inside the Greeters tent, sipping tequila while taking shelter from the ever-growing dust storm. It was vicious now. Standing outside without goggles was almost impossible.

“Hi!” they screamed as I walked in, as if I were a long lost friend they’d known since childhood. The Greeters tent was small, with only a single bench, flanked by a small table with some coffee and cookies. They shuffled over and made a space for me.

“Ninja hey? That’s a cool name. I’m Savannah,” one said, puffing on a joint before passing it onto me.

They each wore safety orange vests, with heeled boots and fishnet stockings, running all the way to their bums which were hardly hidden.

“So where you staying, Ninja?”

“On my lonesome,” I replied, passing the joint along. “On Fata Morgana.”

“I know that place! Our friends are camped there. We should all go hang out. We’re all at Potato Heads.”

“Potato Heads?”

“Yeah it’s a camp where we like cook potatoes for people.”

“Cool. Is it nice?”

“Yeah we’re set up real nice. If you ever go camping with Victoria, everything has to be real nice.”

“Who’s Victoria?”

“Me!” the other girl beside me said, raising her hand. Her smile was playful, hair dirty blonde, fell freely across her face. They almost looked like sisters.

“So, anything big planned?”

“Yeah! It’s my birthday tomorrow,” Savannah said. “I’m turning 21!”

“Woo. And you’re having a party? Are you doing 21 shots?”

“Probably more like 21 drugs.”

The three of them chuckled and proceeded to rattle off 21 different drugs with ease, counting them on their fingers like some kind of pop quiz. I hadn’t heard of half of them.

When their shift finally ended, they farewelled me with hugs and selfies before going on their way.

“Come visit us at Potato Heads Ninja! Don’t miss my birthday!”

“I’ll find you,” I smiled, not knowing if I would or not. Besides, I didn’t have time to think about that. It was time to work.

Greeters were the gatekeepers of AfrikaBurn. They were responsible for patrolling the gate, welcoming new cars in with big smiles and funny dances, and of course, manning the Virgin Gong. Any time an AfrikaBurn virgin arrived, they were briefed by Greeters on the principles of Tankwa Town – and then invited to ring the Virgin Gong. I fell into the role with ease. The virgins rolled up starry eyed anticipating wonder, and we welcomed them to the promised land of radical possibilities. Unbeknownst to them, just 24 hours earlier I’d stood in that exact spot and rung the gong myself. But as I’d been learning, things change quickly in Tankwa Town.

The storm continued all through Greeter duty. When our shift finally ended, I anxiously rushed back to my tent and see if anything was left of it. I crossed the open desert from the Gate to the campground, just as I’d done the previous morning off the bus. But of course, everything was different now. For one, I actually knew where I was going.

I got to Fata Morgana and peered around the Dutchies’ van. My tent was still standing proudly. I unzipped the front flaps and ducked inside to get lunch. Things didn’t look so great on the inside, however. Before I’d left that morning, I’d opened the window flaps so the wind would blow through the tent instead of against it, hoping it would increase chances of survival. And maybe it had, but now everything inside was covered in a one inch blanket of dust. Cleaning it would have been pointless. The winds were still raging, it would be brown again in no time. I made peace with the fact that tonight I’d be sleeping in a bed of desert sand.

When I stepped back outside, Naked Adrien Brody was standing by his truck, fiddling with some tools.

“It’s still standing,” I smiled, nodding at my tent.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. It’s going to be fine,” he said, matter-of-factly. “The beams on those tents are fibreglass. They’re made for storms like these.”

I looked back at my tent, flapping hopelessly, like a baby duck, trying to fly in a hurricane.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Believe me. It’ll be just fine.”

Somehow, I knew he knew what he was talking about. I felt good suddenly, anxiety free. Pleased that my investment in a flashy tent had paid off. And I’d finished work. I looked over at the Dutchies’ van. Their bicycles were gone, meaning they’d left to go exploring for the day. I decided to do the same.

I’d been wandering the playa aimlessly for almost an hour when I bumped into Paris. Paris wasn’t his real name, but it’s what I called him. Names were hard to remember, hometowns weren’t. Paris was a harmless soul, another I’d met while standing in line for the bus back in Cape Town. He was soft spoken with a kind face and kind demeanour, oozed black French style, from his denim clothes to his mini locs to his unmistakeably French accent. It was a welcome surprise to see a familiar face. The wine bar was nearby. We pulled out our cups and went for a drink.

The wine bar was a central point on the Binnekring. It was huge, for a start, and with boppy tunes and free wine on tap all day, it was always full. We waded through a sea of bodies to get to the bar. Behind the bar stood a shelf lined with huge barrels of sweet South African wine, along with three smiling faces to disperse it to Tankwa’s endless line of thirsty mouths.

“Red or white my brah?”

We both asked for red, and handed our cups over. He flicked the little tap on one of the barrels and we watched as the wine trickled out.

One of the things that had drawn me to AfrikaBurn, probably more than anything else, was the idea that the society existed without money. Tankwa Town boasted a “gifting economy” as one of its core principles. Nothing was allowed to be bought or sold, no advertising, no sponsorships, no business. Money simply did not exist in Tankwa Town. Over the years I’d become disillusioned with a world where literally everything revolved around dollar bills – the only kids who got good educations were the ones with money, kids who got medical care were the ones with money, people went to jobs they hated for money, now even water cost money, people murdered, lied, cheated, scammed people just for money. Was there anywhere on earth where people didn’t just spend their entire lives jerking off over money? I searched, but never found. And then I heard about Tankwa Town.

Two weeks earlier, I was sitting on a sofa in my hostel courtyard, chatting to a local Capetonian woman sucking on a cigarette. It was cold that night, and the two of us were huddled in our sweatshirts, braving the cold to get a better wifi reception outside by the office. When I told her I was in town for the Burn, she mentioned she’d heard about it over the years, but never learned what it was.

“So people spend all this time building these artworks and making these events, just because?”

“Just for the culture, I guess.”

“C’mon. With an event this big, someone’s making money somewhere. I mean you paid money for a ticket, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So?”

“Well it’s a non profit. We’re contributing to something. Renting a big ass desert for a week, for one.”

“Look, I’m an artist. If it were me, I’d tell everyone I was making a big artwork, get donations, make something huge…for my portfolio. I just…I know human beings. Nobody does something for nothing.”

Yet I was a human being, and many a time I’d found joy in doing something for nothing. But now that I was here, her words stayed with me, turned me into a skeptic. I was always observing, looking for the catch. But there wasn’t one. Tankwa Town didn’t just support a gifting economy. Gifting was gospel here. People lived and breathed it. Total strangers walked up to you on the playa and gifted you candy, hugs, crafts, for no reason at all. The Binnekring was an endless line of camps that had brought entire lounges, spas, kitchens, eight hours into the desert, cooking up feasts all day, just in the spirit of giving. No branding, no Coca Cola advertisement on the wall. And even right here in this bar, he handed us our wines and didn’t ask for a thing. Just sent us away with a smile.

We stood out in the sun and sipped our wines. Talked. It was cool, but after the second cup, the vibe had become crowded and heavy.

“We need a place to chill,” Paris said. “You know somewhere?”

I thought about it.

“You know what. I do, actually.”

It didn’t take us long to find the Potato Heads camp, nestled somewhere along Cherry Blossom. When Paris and I spotted it, we waltzed in like homeless people off the street. Their camp was big, at least twenty people, with a huge chill-out spot in the front with lawn chairs and bean bags. A small group was lounging in the middle. I found it odd, and refreshing, that none of them questioned who we were or what we were doing there. They just smiled at us, like walking in off the street was the most normal thing in the world. Because in this part of the world, it was.

“Savannah around?” I asked.

“I think she’s sleeping,” one of them said.

“Oh. Mind if we chill here with you?”

“Of course!”

They shuffled to make space for us. We introduced ourselves. Paris had already started rolling a joint before we’d even learned their names.

“So what’s going on here?”

“Lynesha’s about to do mushrooms, first time,” one girl said, nodding at the girl beside me.

“I’m thinking about it,” she smiled back.

Lynesha P was an Indian girl from Johannesburg. She had big eyes, her smile was innocent, her hair platted and tied up like Princess Leia. I watched her twirl the mushroom between her fingers. In the other hand she held a bar of chocolate, presumably as a chaser. I took it and stole a piece.

“Don’t eat it all!” she cried.

“They don’t taste that bad!” another girl said. “You’ll only need one piece.”

I watched her twirl the mushroom between her fingers one more time. Then she popped it in her mouth like a gummy bear, unphased, like she’d done it a million times.

On the other side of me, Paris took the chocolate and passed me his joint.

“You put tobacco in it?”

“Of course man. I’m French.”

“You guys need to quit that shit, man.”

I hit it once, softly, and passed it along.

As evening approached, someone suggested we hit the playa and try catch the sunset. That roused the group. Everyone got up, filled their cups one more time and put on their fur coats and lights as we dripped out of the camp in twos and threes. But, people move slowly in Tankwa Town. By the time everyone was accounted for and we made it to the playa, the sun had long gone, leaving only a trail of leftover pinks and oranges.

Luckily, sunsets were merely the beginning of nights on the playa. Once darkness fell, the playa really came to life. We turned on our headlamps and started to roam.

Tankwa Town at night is a different world. At any one place, you were surrounded by 360 degrees of madness, like a devil’s amusement park, straight from a movie. Mutant vehicles became nightclubs-on-wheels scattered across the desert, covered in neon lights, speakers blaring. The artworks all stood tall and illuminated, people used them as meeting points, selfie spots, landmarks. From a distance, the Binnekring throbbed with music, dancing, cries, laughter, flashing lights, stretching magnificently for what seemed like forever, rivalling the best nightclub streets in the world. Sometimes you’d get to a spot and see it in all its glory, stop, and remind yourself, we really built this place from nothing. It’s all for us. And it’s all for free.

Lynesha P and I were the last ones standing that night. Some retired to bed, some we lost in the madness, but that was the norm on the playa. As the night wound down, our legs begged for rest.

“I know where we can go.”

The day before, halfway through my Ranger shift, Super C and I had walked into a small camp hidden in the far corner of Tankwa Town. It was so unassuming, most people would’ve walked right past it. Had we not been on duty, we probably would have too. But once I stepped inside I knew I’d found a new home. The name was State of Bliss. The open air tent was split into two rooms, tea bar on one side, bean bags surrounding a jazz piano and mic on the other. We had chatted briefly with the “owner” Stephane, who’d invited us in to look around.

“Come back at 11,” he’d said to us. “The jazz lounge will be open then.”

When Lynesha P and I wandered in late that night, it was full. I said hi to Stephane at the bar, and we filled our cups with hot milky chai before heading to the lounge. We snuggled close to armour ourselves from the desert cold, leftover winds still blowing from the storm earlier in the day.

My face was still caked with dust, I hadn’t showered in 48 hours, and my legs ached from two endless days of walking. But it was no match for hot tea and live jazz, in the middle of the desert, brought together for no other reason than to show us what the joy of music and giving looks like.

As she pressed the keys on the piano, Lynesha P lying against me, I listened to every note, every word. All I could think to myself was, this is it. This is exactly what I came here for.

...to be continued.

Click here to go to Part 3.

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When the bus dropped us at Welcome Road, none of us were really sure what to do or where to go. There was no booth, no person, not even a sign. Around us was nothing but desert. That was the irony of Welcome Road – it was hardly welcoming.

I looked around. In one direction was the gate, where we’d just come through. In the other direction; tents, camps, maybe a kilometre away. I guessed that’s where we were going, but how to get there? There were around thirty of us, all staring at our piles of belongings. It seemed we were all thinking the same thing. Surely we’re not carrying all this stuff over there, are we? Why did the bus drop us here?

A pair of orange vests walked by.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for free camping. Where is that?”

“Straight ahead,” said one, pointing towards the tents in the distance.

“And how can we get there?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“You walk.”

I looked at my stuff again. Three bags, 30 litres of water, a mattress, a tent, cooler bin. Sixty kilos, probably. I looked up at the campsite in the distance. Between us, nothing but dirt and tumbleweed. It’d be three trips, at least.

I picked up half my stuff and started walking.

The sun was heavy. Not suffocating, but just enough to make you suffer. My face dripped within minutes. Moments later, my arms burned, both from both sunshine and work. Sweat beads rolled off my forehead like marbles.

The campsite had looked huge from a distance, but suddenly small when I got there. Lots of empty space, camps half put up, only a small sprinkling of people walking around. It was the first morning of the first day, after all. I dropped my bags and took a moment. A moment not to just catch my breath, but to survey what was around me. If this was going to be my home for a week, I needed to choose my camping spot strategically, carefully. The right location, a place where magic was easy to manifest. The right neighbours, the kind that would lift your spirits in the morning, have good stories and food and love to share. I wandered and visualised camping in each open spot, like choosing a desk on the first day of class.

After twenty minutes, I found it. An empty block, just off an intersection. It offered nothing magical at first glance – perhaps that it was on a corner, and near to the toilets – but just looking at it felt right. A couple of hippie gentleman were already camped up there, but no one else.

“Is this space free?” I asked.

He was a middle aged guy, South African, looked like an old Adrien Brody. Perhaps not quite as handsome. And he was naked.

“Yeah it’s all free. We’re just putting up a little fence here, but that’s all yours,” he said, waving his hand alongside him.

It was perfect.

I fetched my bags, dropped them. Then I turned behind me, to look at the street sign.

Fata Morgana.

Remember that name, I told myself. Fata Morgana was now home.

When I arrived back at the bus stop to fetch the rest of my stuff, half the people had gone. The rest were loading all their stuff onto a rickety pickup truck. I took a look at the driver, gauging his friendliness. He looked jolly enough.

“Excuse me, where are you heading?”

“Atlantis and 9ish!”

“Could you give me a ride, I can’t carry all that stuff. I’m on Fata Morgana.”

“You know how to get there?”

“Yeah,” I lied.

“Then it should be cool. Jump on!”

I loaded the water, the mattress, the cooler bin, the tent, as relief flowed through me. As everyone loaded their stuff and jumped on, space became tight. People sat on bags that were on bags, bodies hung off the sides. I jumped onto the footstep on the passenger door, holding onto the window.

“Everybody on?”

We drove out into the desert, myself hanging off the side of the truck, face blowing in the desert air. I’d watched garbage collectors do this on the way to school as a kid, wishing I could join them, thinking about how cool it must feel. 30 years later my dream had come true. It felt even cooler than I’d imagined.

After dropping everyone at Atlantis and unloading, the driver drove me on to Fata Morgana. From a distance I saw my bags cooking in the sun, wondering if half my belongings might be melted by now. As I went to shake the drivers hand, I pulled a bracelet off my wrist.

They had told us, make sure you take gifts to AfrikaBurn. People will do kind things for you, you’ll want to acknowledge them. Back in Cape Town, I’d befriended a Tanzanian craftsman at the local market who worked with beads, and asked if he could make 50 bracelets for me. They were simple, but beautiful, beaded with the words “Spread Love”.

“Man, thank you so much. What’s your name?”

“Byron.”

“Seriously bro, saved my life.”

I grabbed his hand and put the bracelet around his wrist. He twisted his hand around, staring at it in awe, trying to read what it said.

“Oh man, that is so awesome!”

He opened his arms, offering the hug of all hugs.

“I won’t take this off man,” he said, admiring it again. “It’s too cool.”

Byron. I’d remember the name, make sure to pop in to his camp and say hi whenever I walked past. Already I could tell, this week, it would be all about the little things.

As he drove off, I noticed a couple with a campervan lingering around my spot.

“Yeah that’s him,” Adrien Broner shouted from his tent, pointing at me.

I turned back to the couple and smiled, my eyebrows raised.

“Are you camping here?” they asked.

I nodded.

“Uh, we just wanted to know how much space you needed. Do you mind if we camp here beside you?”

“Yeah! Of course. I’m alone, I just need that little spot. I can even leave you a little backyard,” I laughed, pointing to the area beside them.

They were Dutch, I forget their names, but the girl was a carbon copy of Minnie Driver, her boyfriend could’ve passed for a young Paul Walker. A little less surfer boy, but just as handsome.

“You want a beer?” Minnie asked as I unpacked my tent.

“Sure.”

Once Paul had parked his camper perfectly parallel to the road, he came over to help me pitch. It only took us a few minutes. Once standing tall, I stood back, sucked on the Corona and admired it.

Home.

The three of us spent the next hour sitting outside their camper, sipping beer and snacking on a bag of biltong. It seemed none of us knew exactly what to expect for the week, or really even knew what we were supposed to do. I suppose, that’s why we were here. To experience something new.

That evening, I was rostered on for Ranger duty. Rangers are like the police of Tankwa Town, but the kindergarten version. We walk around in orange vests, our only weapon is a radio, people ask us for directions, stuff like that. In the weeks leading up to Burn, it’d been said everyone was supposed to volunteer. That’s what makes Tankwa Town a town. Not everyone does, but I had signed up to volunteer for something every day. As my first time there, I wanted to be a part of everything; to live and breathe this town.

When I reported to the Ranger HQ shed, a little early, I was greeted by a pleasant lady. She called herself Peaches.

“And what’s your handle?” she asked.

“Handle? I don’t have one.”

“Well you need one, it’s like a nickname, a playa name. Should be something a five year old could say.”

I looked at the board in front of me. Each timeslot was scribbled in with different nicknames – Boogeyman, Northwest, Tigger, Serenity.

A playa name, I thought. It came to me quickly.

“My handle will be…Ninja.”

“Ninja! That’s a cool one. Grab yourself a vest and a radio. We’ll brief your shift in a few minutes.”

As we neared 5 p.m. the Ranger shed had filled. Everyone was chatting, chirpy, buzzing for their first day of duty. Some I recognised from the training in Cape Town, but most were new. But it was only now I was seeing how Rangering seemed like serious business, people treated this like a real job. I put my serious face on.

During the brief, I was assigned to The Horn, and partnered with a young man by the name of Super C. Super C was a cheery guy with curly hair, caramel coloured skin and a strangely deep voice that didn’t quite match his face. He laughed often, usually at the end of an unfunny sentence, a boyish smile constantly spread across his face. It made things easy though. He talked a lot, so I didn’t have to.

The Horn is right in the corner of the map, shaped exactly like it’s named, pointing into a secluded edge of town. It almost looks like nothing would be out there. To get into the Horn though, you need to walk along the Binnekring.

The Binnekring is like Tankwa Town’s Broadway, or Vegas Strip. All the main theme camps are here, the bars, the clubs, the food camps. As you walk along it, the activity is electric – non stop dancing, laughter, drinks, food, lights. It’s the heart of the town. Not only that, the Binnekring opens out onto the playa, the huge ring of desert filled with artworks, so big you can barely see the other side.

Super C and I started our walk. The bars on the Binnekring were just opening, sun setting behind them, as more and more people came out ready for the evening. Everyone was giddy, ready for Tankwa Town’s first night, all dressed in their long fur coats, big sunglasses and strings of neon lights. Outside one bar, people were lounging on bean bags, sipping on drinks among some mellow music. In the crowd, I saw a familiar face smile at me. I smiled back.

“Hey you.”

“Heyyyy.”

Her eyes followed me as I walked over. Her hair was big and wild, her mocha skin covered only by a black strapless bra and some baggy pants.

“Is this your camp?”

“Nah,” she laughed. “Just chilling here.”

She had a thick New York latina accent, just like in the movies. It was almost as if she was putting it on.

“Sorry but…I totally forgot your name.”

“Leslie,” she laughed.

“And you’re Brendan, right?”

“Wow, you remember. Impressive. But actually my name is Ninja now.”

“Oh okay, Ninja,” she laughed.

Leslie was the first burner I ever met. When I’d arrived at the bus stop in Cape Town the night before, she was sitting there alone on the curb in the middle of the crowd, surrounded by her big water bottles and oversized suitcase. “Mind if I chill with you?” I’d asked, as she cleared a spot beside her. We sat and talked for a minute, before the bus arrived and everyone got up in a frenzy to load their things. But when we got off the bus the next morning, there she was again, right next to me, and as I walked through the campground later that afternoon, there she was again, walking in the opposite direction. We stopped and chatted, laughed about how we kept bumping into each other. And now here she was again.

“I’ve gotta go, I’m kinda like…working.”

“Okay, mister hard worker,” she said rolling her eyes. I rolled mine back.

“I’ll come catch you later.”

Sun set quickly in Tankwa Town. By half six the town was dark, the music was loud and the lights were out. The Binnekring overflowed with people, their smiles at full mast, as high on life as they were on drugs. Every now and again someone came up to us asking directions. Super C helped them out. Me – I had no idea where we were most of the time. These streets were all new to me too, I was as lost and excited as everyone else.

At around half seven HQ called us in for dinner break. Super C and I loitered back, and while he went off to his camp to eat, I stayed at HQ and studied the map. If people asked me questions, I wanted to be able to answer them. I hated the feeling of telling people I didn’t know. As I memorised the streets, I took a moment to flick through the guide booklet, stopping at the back page:

Rising like a dusty mirage out of the Karoo heat, there’s a city that many call home. It’s a manifestation of our collective imagination and the culmination of our collective efforts. It comes and goes, and ebbs and flows. It’s transient, temporary and transitory. It’s neither here, nor there.

It is real in its unrealness.

Sinking into the sands of time, every artwork will be taken down or burned, every camp will be packed away, and every vehicle dismantled. The city we manifested will disappear, remaining only in our minds. What a beautiful, astounding, priceless thing.

When I’d decided to come here, I’d been unaware of how big it was, how dedicated this community was. But now it was suddenly hitting me, after seeing it all with my own eyes. I was about to be a part of something far more special than I had imagined.

…to be continued.

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