BY Janet Smith
The boys in make-up exited the Drum Village in haste, the one lighting his cigarette off the other’s.
“Get thee away from the hippies,” chanted black lipstick, the rest of the human bundle of skinny leathers and big hair leaning in and cackling like Shakespeare’s weird sisters in their filthy trappings.
It was the last evening of Splashy Fen and the Final Big Drum Jam was getting warmed up around a bonfire in a deepening freeze.
There were just two girls in the half-circle – one of them a reliably earnest, happy blonde chick – and as the rhythms picked up, it was obvious this was indeed the antidote to the belfry bats.
After all, there were only those four goths at the festival, maybe five, swerving their way through the rich kids in beards with beers and pretty girlfriends in swinging bikini tops.
Out in the southern Drakensberg at Easter, there is nowhere more lovely than this farm near Underberg. Even the weather is only a state of mind, as thousands of campers roll up for a circus they’ll create as they go along.
An enchanted little boy, so taken by the delights, was transformed by a bear hat and moved through the crowds, roaring at everyone he met. And almost everyone roared back, equally smitten by the brazen joys of his innocent pleasures.
Down by the river, the grown-up children of the suburbs immersed themselves in the tradition of Splashy, stripping down and flopping into giant tubes to wallow in the moment. And up above High Fen, where there are two more enticing dams, a little girl in a flower garland made wide circles with her hands as she swam in its bright waters.
The village catered exclusively to the munchies. Most notorious was the Dominator Challenge, which set forth a 650g pure beef patty with loads of bacon, three fried eggs, fried onions, Cheddar cheese, lettuce and tomato for one hundred and fifty bucks.
The friendly biker girls next door handed over arm-length Slushies.
These are among the lures that have kept the festival in a dream state for 26 years.
But this year, it felt like the death of Peter Ferraz, the beloved septuagenarian who owned the farm and championed the beautiful revelry, had had an impact. He died last year, leaving a certain sadness in his wake, and while this may not have been the reason for somewhat smaller crowds, Splashy may well be experiencing an interregnum.
That didn’t in any way diminish Hot Water, the Cape Town band which is among the best in the country. They might even be the best – or that’s how it felt in the Grant Erskine Marquee on Friday night.
A wry tilt at Vusi Mahlasela, a blistering toyi-toyi, a little Arts on Main, a little bushfire, a spiky lick of Marilyn Manson and a scorching tribute to Johnny Clegg and Juluka at the end nearly brought the tent down. Ringmaster Donovan Copley, a soaring young star, seduced anyone who’d never seen them before, and their CDs slipped as quickly off the merchandise table as the must-eat chickpea fudge at the popular Atma wholefood stand.
’Tis no wonder they’ve played with everyone – from the great Johnny himself to giants like Hugh Masekela and Dizu Plaatjies – and have flown their lotus into cities around the world, including Womad in Spain and the World Beat Festival in Germany.
The Plastics, also from Cape Town, rampaged on a rainy Saturday night, while fire-eaters threw spells outside. A delirious performance of their great song, Kate, and a blinding cover of The Cure sealed the magic.
There was some experimentation at Splashy this year, like the heaving Ground Zero dancefloor which pounded deep into the early hours. But the Harry Gwala Music Showcase on Sunday morning deserved more fans for its driving, all-South beats.
Instead, it was the Sedgwicks marquee, which opened its stage to the angstiest of girly open mics, which got the attention.
Hire the caravan next year. Take the pretty gang. Splashy Fen is still huge.