With just two weeks to Rocking the Daisies, possibly the whitest music festival in South Africa, I am watering my flower crown and revisiting The Kooks’ back-catalogue (because let’s be honest, they won’t play any of their new stuff, it’s shit).
I’m also brushing up on my Afrikaans, because you know that the #wheresisthelove Stellies crowd will be there and I want to be ready to be able to explain white privilege in English and Afrikaans. Just in case.
In between offending people with my liberal views, drinking Black Label and talking about feminisms with my best friend, I expect to encounter the following people in what will undoubtedly be a lovely and very educational weekend:
Why anyone thinks it is okay to wear a Native American headdress while being neither a warrior nor of First Nations origin is beyond me. You have fought no wars, you have conquered no people. Your only fight is against the patriarchy, and if you insist on wearing that badly made headdress so that you seem ‘interesting’ then you have submitted to the objectification of the male gaze. Also, bindis. Unless you are actually Hindu, take it off.
Once upon a time a flower crown was a gendered item of headgear (much like the Native American headdress) but in the liberated 2014/2015 era many a man has worn flowers around his head and indeed in his beard without feeling emasculated. While they are dime a dozen, there is something charming about a well-made flower crown. Those tacky things made of out red plastic from Jagermeister, however, do not fall into this category.
You are not skiing. You are not sky-diving. You are not surfing or doing anything go-pro appropriate. You are at a music festival. This is not a difficult thing to do (take a moment to acknowledge the privilege in this statement, Daisies tickets were BLOODY expensive this year). The tool with the go-pro will get up in your face during Milky Chance’s set, will probably try to film up your skirt with one of those selfie sticks (note to self: no skirts this year) and will be generally invasive of your personal space. Feel free to deck him for me.
At Daisies, ‘older guys’ constitutes the 28-35-year-old crowd. These are men who have failed to notice that their metabolisms have slowed down, resulting in a beer boep whose magnificence is only augmented by the lazy slouch made possible by those uncomfortable camping chairs South Africans love so much. They will ogle while you set up your tent and then make socially unacceptable comments when you emerge hungover and in pain the following morning after a long night in the Electro Dome.
This is the common sound of appreciation for music in a public space emitted by white females between the ages of 18 and 25. I am one and I have been working on my ‘woooo’ for three years now. It is appropriate to ‘wooo’ whenever someone good looking comes on stage, when the band play ‘your song’ and when you get to the front of the queue for the ladies’ bathrooms.
“I remember in 2013 when it was so cold, and I just froze the whole weekend, this is so much better, you wouldn’t know because you weren’t here…” And on and on in a similar vein, ad nauseum. Just nod and smile and accidently spill some of your beer on this person to get them to shut up. (I actually was at that Daisies and it was so, so cold. So I packed for the arctic last year and ended up spending the weekend in my cozzie. You never can tell with Daisies, eh? I’m, like, so meta).
There is a special kind of smugness that goes with being the friend of someone in a band, especially if they can organise you one of those VIP tags and you can use the nice showers for free. You will pass these smug individuals waiting for their cool (clean) band friends as you trudge weary and filthy to wash off in the dam. Also, let’s face it, everyone in Cape Town knows someone who knows someone who is friends with one of the members of Al Bairre.
This guy is someone you might trip over on your way to your tent at 4am, convulsing and calling for a girl named Storm and also his mum. Give him water, turn him so that he doesn’t choke on his vomit and remove all sharp objects from his person. Be sure also to give his friends hell for not looking after him.
There is a cross-over in personality here. Unfortunately for these cats, no one is going to sleep with someone who thought that a onesie would be sufficient clothing for the whole of Daisies. Sorry, but you smell like old cheese and wet sheep. The other side of the onesie wearer is the dude who brought one shirt for the weekend and then tied it around his head, Rambo-style, bearing his chest to the elements and going home with a likely diagnosis of skin cancer to follow. If you are going to be that guy at least wear sunscreen. No one is attractive when burnt.
Seriously, you can’t share my tent.
If you barge in front of me and then fail to know the lyrics to every song, I will kick you in the shins.