Driving through the tunnel at 2am on Sunday morning was when I officially knew that I would be home soon… and by home, I mean, fucking Vortex, bro.
You know what I love about myself? I’m almost 25 years old and I’m still willingly camping out without a tent or a sleeping bag, or food for that matter – it’s like I enjoy testing myself without studying. It’s like a pop quiz. On repeat.
Oh, and hi there, I’m Custard X, thoroughbred Capetonian, laugh-generator and your province’s favourite white nai.
I have lost count of how many of these trance parties I have attended. That being said, I have no memory from ages 20-23 and I blame the economy – not the edibles they sell at these events.
For me, Vortex is where you’re able to release all your pent-up frustration accumulated during the month at your crappy desk job. It’s where you’re able to say, “Fuck you, Mr. Sir” I am losing my poes this weekend and I MIGHT be back bright and early Monday morning.
There was a sign as you drove in through the entrance that read, “Turn your Bluetooth on” this was so that energy could be easily transferrable. Everyone was wearing their horoscopes on their sleeves. A dude was selling shark-tooth necklaces by the gram. I bought 2.
I saw a group of outstanding citizens dancing around a whole entire loaf of bread. A fucking loaf of bread, bra.
Remember when I wysed that I had no tent or sleeping bag? 6am was approaching and this old Bert was tired! I didn’t know where to sleep so I walked around the dancefloor to see what I could borrow. I located a beanbag, which I moved to where the fire was. Myself and a rasta cuddled up on this one-man beanbag and attempted to sleep for at least an hour.
The task was impossible.
You can close your eyes but you can’t close your ears.
Lying on my back, I managed to push the rasta off the beanbag so that I could get some comfort. I rested my shoes against the base of the fire to squeeze out as much warmth as I could. I heard rumours that everyone at Vortex is so kind and what-not – where were those kind people when I woke up with my fucking Vans stuck together?
The heat literally melted the souls of my shoes together. Naaiers.
Sunday funday was rather exquisite though, no lies.
It made me realise that it actually doesn’t matter which Vortex you attended or how long ago you attended it, because the vibes are the same. You can easily just slot in with a gaggle of ethereal grannys or a gang of Grassy Park’s finest. It really doesn’t matter, ouens are accepting and the atmosphere is contagious.
I’ve never been a psy-kop but I really enjoy this aspect of Vortex.
You may or may not see me at the next instalment – just make sure you have an entjie or two.
All photos courtesy of Joffree Hyman Photography.