Dispatch from the Dustby Karl Kemp / Images by Tyrone Bradley / 10.08.2012
Frankly, I feel cheated. How on earth did they expect us to write anything coherent during this debauchery? I feel like I’ve transported back to Nero’s reign in Rome. Between shots I recall visions of memories of ideas, speaking to Jaco and Peach from Bittereinder, waiting til the last hour of the night to see Beast. Just spoke to Louis from Taxi Violence in the queue to charge this bitch; they played a fucking balls to the walls set as well. They aren’t planning on breaking up by the way.
Living in the Kreef Hotel is exclusivity personified. People sneer that we haven’t earned our place at Oppi; I think they need to make more cash because Mordor is a fucking minefield. I’m gearing up for round 2 and the international (commercial) bands. Hopefully I don’t lose this phone. Lost everything else. P.S the dust… The dust…
The heat is killing off punters. Some of us have retreated to the shade but the die-hards are braving it for the bands. They make it seem easy. Oppikoppi is incredibly hyped up, more so than Earthdance or the World Cup Finals, but one thing that really isn’t exaggerated is the survival aspect. It really is a fucking trek, not for the faint hearted or the obese. The heat melts everything; tents, brains and objectives included. They promised us fucking snow in Limpopo. People aren’t walking around naked, but they are wearing condoms on their heads. I woke up this morning with cuts on my lip and forehead. I have no idea where they came from. People are saying that Oppi goes the extra mile to make the English whites feel like they’re having a bona fide adventure. I’m sad that I don’t speak more Afrikaans. They’ve catered for everything though; literally everything, from phone chargers to wheelbarrow taxis. More later when the bands start in earnest.
*All images © Tyrone Bradley / Red Bull.