Obviously they’re Robotsby Dylan Rooibokkie / Images by Lani Spice / 05.10.2012
The bad news is we’re in Kimberley. Some sort of dusty dry horror story in which I’m struggling to fathom whether its crappy mall infesting, rugby hair gelled, super short shorts wearing inhabitants have any idea about the world that exists beyond the pink flamingo vlei on the edge of town. The retardedly awesome news is: despite said creatures, one night here and everyone is super hyped! One whiskey drenched, drunk as hell braai with the raddest homies sends us full steam into the liquor fueled dog show that is the 2012 Maloof Money Cup… in fucking Kimberley, again!
After the most exquisitely scenic drive that… oh wait sorry that’s wrong. After a kak long expedition through the Karoo desert in all its dry, beige glory, in a backseat that would have made most tinned sardines feel like they were at the Mount Nelson, (goddamn skate trips), we pull into the skatepark. This park is plaza style slick sickness! It’s the only attractive feature this diamond shit hole has and is fortunately situated right next to the raucous campsite, which is right next to the big hole, ooooh aaaah.
We hook up with gangs of homies, criminals, fiends, skollies, tattooed reprobates of the purest calibre… all skateboarders, obviously. Fuck diamonds I thought, we’ve come for this here smooth marble. Additions to the park this year, (last year being the first Maloof event, go read Rick’s amazing article Room 107 if you care to be better informed), have made the way for even more mentalness to ensue. Feeble grind the new handrails on either side of the hubba like steezy as fuck JP du Preez did in the All City Contest, you’ll be heading to a baby bum smooth marble manual pad. Backside powerslide that like also steezy as fuck Jusy Kotze (last years Am winner) then cruise over to the the creme de la creme obstacle – an A-frame kicker onto two round rails! Yolo bizatch!
After some self pickling in Tent City the CT skate crew shuffled over to the three story high granstands to witness a demo illuminated by powerful stadium spotlights. Like some ominous police light exposing every detail, but in a good way. The American commentator’s voice is now more painful than that ringing in your head a day after a trance party’tjie. Luckily much needed refreshment comes in the form of an anonymous CT skateboarder repeatedly heckling: “Shut up jou vet poes!”
Jesus what’s that!? Aaah its Saturday morning. Rising from our graves adorned with the kind of hangovers you could name battleships after, I immediately indulge in my solid homie-hair of the dog. Shot bro, ja much better.
Conditions are perfect as we hit up the park for our adrenaline fix; the pro street, vert and mega ramp competition promises to fulfil all desires. The American pros are killing shit on the street course. Lizard King belts past with more style than a full Vogue collection. Collin Provost nonchalantly board slides up the gap-to rail. ‘kin hell! Upon more cruising around the park I can see these dudes are so chilled and easily approachable – to the point where Lizard even ran across the park after a board that darted away from a rider who missed his trick, just so he could have another go before the 3 minute jam sesh was over. Local SA heroes Mosey Adams and Dlamini Dlamini showed thug steez amidst the top skaters in the world. This years Am winner, Kanya Spani, wowed the judges with his ninja swagger while Simon Stipcich took a close second with the commentators praising his clear passion. With the way he partied the night before you would easily agree.
Meanwhile on the seemingly insurmountable mega-ramp, the likes of PLG, Andy Mac and Master Bobby B must have smoked some mad sticky icky to be drifting the hugest 540s with ease. I’m sitting on a grandstand thinking, what in god’s hell are we doing here? Riding on little pieces of wood trying to outdo one another. You fall off you lose points, it’s ludicrous dammit. As my brain rambles on my eyes are still focused on the real reason we’re here, which is to be part of a bunch of free spirited fuck-ups living life so hard. The atmosphere is addictive and it hits me like the floor hits a poor mega-ramp skater landing just slightly off target – being weird must just be a side effect of awesomeness. This crazy event is having tons of cash thrown at it (many thanks to the media tent for the buffet ‘n beers, cheers) all in honour of something that started in the heart’s of peeps not so keen on doing their homework. What now?
This cool sense of community continued at the the Protea Hotel as Tyler B Murphy, owner of the epic Sins of Style hand pokes tattoos onto the likes of Braydon Szafranski and Figgy. Everyone just chilling together, and by that I mean Braydon screaming: “someone get me a beer ‘n a shot now!” This is just before Tyler drizzles “honey” on the punk rock skater’s ribs.
Oh apparently Lil Jon played but we couldn’t give a fuck. Meanwhile Tent City is grooving hard to the Skull Candy DJ truck banging actual good hip hop and the response showed. Mad shout outs to Revolution for the heavy beerpong battles and Vans for the kick ass hotdog stand – skater charity in its tastiest form. While all this is happening, my band Black Lung secretly sets up a gig in the middle of the drunken chaos. From the first distorted guitar strum we’re super stoked as the crowd blows up, a frenetic mosh pit erupting, thanks you fucken champs! There will be no lack of profanities tonight, dick fuck bitch heads!
After the intense gig a cathatric crowd wittingly decides to burn… everything. Tyres puffing on black smoke and orange glowing stacks of hay bale is where the party is now, or at least until we decide to hit the infamous Halfway House! Pulling in hotter then a junky’s spoon, everyone is buying everyone else tequila and I’m sure I heard our tomorrow selves whimper with fear. “Please Jesus, no more.”
Vert results had PLG smiling all the way to the bank, winning it again with vert legends Bob Burnquist and Andy MacDonald taking 3rd and 4th. To be honest, I just wanted to see the Pro Street and on Sunday afternoon it’s about to go buckwild, again. Do u know what a dad grab is? Well you would if you saw us laughing at countless dads carrying their kid’s boards as if handling poo with fire on it, pinki erectis and all!
“Ok DJ turn it up, here we go riders, three, two, one!” Andrew Reynolds frontside flips over the rail… in real Life! Brian Herman laces an a array of stylish flips down the big 4set. The home crowd roars as Durban’s Dlamini Dlamini rips the park, pronounced “Delaani” by our simply fantastic commentator. As the elimination-style rounds continue with increasing breath skipping, it’s down to Canadian Ryan Decenzo and Brazilian Luan Olivera, with Santiago already firmly claiming 3rd. Obviously they’re robots, they must be, trick after trick with bewitching professionalism. I would hate to be the judges, surely drowning in a pool of holy shiiaaaaat!
Brazilian Luan Oliveira cooly takes the $100 000 prize with amazing frontside flips both ways, nollie bs flip and the switch bigspin heel bangers down the stairs. It’s sadly at this point I must insist on whomever decided to reward the Am contest with a mere R8000 slap in the face, to go suck a whole bag of grown up dicks!
Anyway, this smooth and unforgettable event – clearly burned into our melons via shrivelled retinas thanks to that bastard of a Northern Cape sun – left us with a great sense of… what? Awe? Sunburn? Regret? (Sorry Mr Liver). Whatever it was I would most formally like to conclude that it was the shit! See ya next year Kimberley, you cheeky little fuck!
*All images © Lani Spice.