Credo Mutwa, Cultural Appropriation and a Road Trip Through Time.

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Art Work by Credo Mutwa

I’m that woman, the one that moved to South Africa and had it on her tick list that she wanted to spend some time with a serious Sangoma. Seven years later after a few serendipitous meetings, the power of intention caught up with me. With the reminder that things of this nature should unfold naturally.

I had been permitted to go on a journey to Credo Mutwa see. A man who seemed to live somewhere within myth, legend and the astral. I remember when I first learned about the ideas of The Shaman, that in ancient and indigenous cultures that there had been seers and dream walkers who had been able to collapse time and the multiverse and communicate in other realms and dimensions. That here in the earthly realm they could sing to whales, call the buffalo and tame all the wild things. They could read the wind, decipher the sky and made magic with their words and healed with their potions. The Shaman in these terms seemed too magical to be human. Too other to be real. Too astral to be earthly and yet here I was on a journey to meet a man who for all of the above was true.

The power to be able to manifest such a meeting was not lost on me. Yet at the same time laid awkwardly within my consciousness. After all, it had only been eight years earlier that I had arrived for the first time in Southern Africa. That I had been told by a white man with a gun that “You wait and see you’ll be racist within a year. You don’t understand what it’s like” I still don’t understand what it’s like and I’m still trying to figure out where my own biases leave me in the realms of racism a concept I don’t even believe in. Why can’t we just call it what it is skin shaming? My knowledge of sub-Saharan culture was nil to zero and for years any “educated” person I bumped into endlessly seemed to proclaim that there was nobody here before the Europeans arrived. It seemed grossly naive at best, and convenient fairytale at worst. All the time while being asked about Scotland and how one might love to go there one day because it was “So ancient”. It seemed a perverse conversation on a continent that possessed all of human history. I was waiting to be invited to find out more, yet the conversations never came and it never seemed to be my place to cross the lines and take that which had not ben given to me.

You see coming from the west it has always fascinated me the lengths that one might go to, to find themselves. For decades now I have witnessed the hippy trail take people on an enlightenment trip East or into the depths of Peruvian jungles to commune with the plant medicine there. In the ever-increasing illusion that there might be somewhere better than here. Denial apparently is not a river in Africa and even though it is not my place, I often beg to differ. For years now I’ve been trying to find out the names of indigenous festivals, to be endlessly told there aren’t any. I’ll admit there is a high probability that I am asking the wrong people. However, it seems more than puzzling combined with quizzical that there are no commonly known seasonal markers. That festivals appear to traverse human life spans rather than earthly movements and that is absolutely all I know about that. That the books I have been afforded seemed woefully inadequate to inform me beyond the writers own misinformation. How do I know these things? I intuit them I suppose. That I am looking to unravel a far greater mystery a much bigger origin story.

Yet here I was on my own ego trip to commune with a master of consciousness knowing that there would be no time. That maybe I would catch a glimmer of a frequency or a shard of insight. That the most that I might be able to hope for was to bathe in his energy field for a while. After all, he was ninety-eight and we had been warned that he may not be as coherent as in previous years. This warning posed deeper questions… Yet we’d been permitted to impose ourselves. Only time would tell us what it meant and it seemed to big a question to not be answered in person.

I’d seen him on a documentary once at a place that had been re-named Adam’s Calendar the world oldest stone calendar that marked the movement of the sun. A structure so old that it’s placement could account for the continental shift. The documentary has been deleted from YouTube now for reasons that are only known to its maker. That is how I came to know of Credo. He had been initiated there a long time ago. Yet still, the name of that place eludes me. As it should. There are secrets that are supposed to be kept, so as to not give their power away. If there is one thing I know through my indigent whiteness is that there are some secrets that need to be earned. That don’t come out of nowhere that a wisdom keeper has to bestow on you. You can’t get there unless you fall through a rabbit hole or two and only they will know when you do.

In South Africa, a Shaman is known as a Sangoma. Credo is not just a Sangoma he is a Sanusi. In fact the last Sanusi. A Sanusi is the highest-ranking of the Sangoma. A Sangoma that has been called nine-times to the path. I’m still not one hundred percent sure exactly what that means. Though I think it’s got a lot to do with leaving, breaking and surrendering all at the same time. It made me considered the lost Shamans of Scotland and if there was still full knowledge of such things? If the second sight, that I had been brought up on might take us somewhere beyond tarot card readings in the kitchen, ghostly sensations, the time jumping qualities of visioning and insense laden rooms with crystals.

Magic is not for sissies and when I think about the idea of this although it might seem trivial I often think of Gandalf. How amazing that is and yet at the same time how incredibly inappropriate. Yes, I was heading out into the wild as culture vulture ticking off the box on the to-do list. While rolling dice with the deeply profound and hoping to get away with it. What was wrong with me? I’d spent most, if not all of the last seven years ducking the idea of ‘social responsibility’ refusing to impose my privilege on the unsuspecting masses. An active observer and unwilling participant. Yet now here I was ready to grab the cherry all for my very myself, in a deeply hypocritical style that would smooth and serve my ego in ways the devil would be proud of. Yet still, I was here on this journey?

What if something deeply profound happened? What if Credo really had something to say? How might it change my life? It was not my first journey into the unknown and I’m old enough now to know little changes about me except my mind as it expands.

It made me think about my mate Christian, who had been the last person that I had known to have an intimate understanding of alien consciousness. He had never fully shared the full extent of his knowledge and I often regretted that the opportunity for that conversation had been lost, when he accidentally drowned in 2012.  What had always struck me was he died very shortly after he had re-named his boat, New Moon. Now it seemed more pertinent than ever.

We were meeting Credo on the day of New Moon in Leo the day that the divine feminine supposedly officially took control. There were strange circumstances (of course there would be).  He was delighted to see us when we actually arrived and was as you might expect a ninety-eight-year-old to be. He talked in rhymes and riddles connected to fact. You had to listen hard to get it. I followed as best I could. It was the frequency that was the main thing. The light beaming through his soul and the portal his brain created to other worlds that seemed energetically tangible. The conversation ended and my questions continued.

What a strange feeling it was to be Kuruman and just like that time looped back on itself and the deeper connection became clear. The next day we visited The Kuruman Moffat Station and it all seemed to make a little more sense. I had ended up exactly where I had intended to be for a massive chunk of my life on the trail of David Livingstone. The village that I grew up in had a connection with the man due to one of its past residents Jame ‘Paraffin’ Young who had funded much of David Livingstone’s journey to Africa. I had learned of this great adventure at school and here I was standing somewhere I had seemed to be destined for most of my life wondering if I might be the only person to have come all the way here from there? Time collapsed and I wondered exactly what I was supposed to do with this strange predicament. It felt deeply symbolic as I considered my relationship between Scotland and South Africa and most specifically these two places Kuruman and Wemyss Bay.

We then drove to Kimberley. A place for obvious reasons very close to my soul. Where I was able to buy myself a Kimberley diamond.

I had fulfilled two life long dreams in one accidental journey. This is how the magic presents itself in the fulfilment of dreams and intentions set long ago. Both of these things came in pure flow to the point where it was mindblowing.  Was this the power of coming to meet Credo?

You probably considering why I might dare mention David Livingstone and the extraction economy in an article about Credo? Or how Scottish woman might be audacious enough to presume that any or all of these things are connected? And yet they are. I don’t know exactly how yet! All the information is there. I have to follow the breadcrumbs to find the magic. As my rapid response to flow, state is teaching me.

You see it is ancient culture and it is ancient wisdom. There are no clocks to set magic by. “A wizard arrives exactly when he means to” Did I mention that JRR Tolkein was born in Bloemfontein.  There are always clues. You must follow those breadcrumbs. So you can imagine my amazement that David Livingstone ended up in the town where Credo Mutwa would live 100 years later. That the poster boy of colonial adventure and religious imposition might be completely outshone by a great holder of ancient South African wisdom. After all, in South Africa Credo is a living icon.  A revolutionary figure that whispers magic into the hearts of all of South Africa’s children and way far beyond.

Kuruman too was home to one of the most powerful freshwater springs in the world. The spring is known as The Eye of Kuruman. Which is far less menacing than it sounds if you discount the bad landscape architecture that has been imposed on this natural power source. You see the land has stories to tell us. Wants of its own. The land is sacred. It calls us. It pulls us close. We have to be able to listen to it and see what grows there. To eke out what information is necessary among the profundity.

Then just like that, it would appear my trajectory might have radically altered. It’s taken me over two months to write this it might be an indicator of the rapid-fire of manifestations that have taken place in my life since then. Significance and meaning connecting dots faster than my neuro synapses can process them.

Radical Curator

It recently occurred to me that curatorship is philosophy for the material world. For a long time, I have known that the way that we understand the world is through objects. Whether it is an ancient Egyptian monument or through away plastic bottles. Each and every item that survives beyond its immediate use tells a story.

What I have always understood is the Curators have a unique say in whether an item is deemed important or not kept or discarded.  Collected or disposable, recorded or overlooked. If we look at objects in the 100-year time frame, everything becomes fascinating. Everything changes, especially in the age we are in. Cassette tapes are collectables, vinyl is coveted and art pieces these days have even become instantly disposable on purchase, even at a high sales price. How is that possible? What does it say about us that defunct technologies are one of the most craved things on the planet? How many people are out there right now looking for white MacBook to reconfigure?  It’s wild what objects can tell us, about fashion, about culture, about people and even economies. Objects even have the ability to tell us about resources and extraction industries as mining? Can you imagine in a thousand years from now that someone might be breaking down your old phone to find out the specific configurations of its components and where they all came from? That somehow something as mundane as an old phone might offer an incredible source of information as the 21st-century human condition. That it might tell us of trade routes and lost civilisation. That we can use these things to look back through time. I’d love to say that curatorship is all themes and colours yet it is so much more than that. It’s away of seeing both into the future and back into the past. That the things that we collect now will tell future generation what was important, the things that we valued and the things that spoke to our souls. That beyond pen and paper there was a human story to be told.

It’s so interesting to me that even now the white middle-class male might still be top of the pecking order for art collectables and that despite our technologies and global connectedness women are still a novel feature. That land right is barely a footnote in our planetary evolution. That climate change is hardly on the agenda. Then sometimes I look forward to telling my children that I grew up in the age of plastic. That our generation will be remembered far more for our wasted than for what we valued.

That’s wher the Radical Curator comes in. What if we valued people more than objects? The human story over things? Life over the inanimate? The Earth over resources? After all it the only true resource we have.

 

Afrikaburn 2019: Ephemerpolis

IMG-3251It’s been a longer road than most to get here for me, having lived in South Africa for nearly seven years the existence of Afrikaburn came into my consciousness in whispers; about a party in the desert where they burned things, big structures, just like Burning Man. It sounded interesting, and yet, chaotic scenes of Burning Man and the average American heading out into the desert in search of survival skills for the apocalypse still felt strangely experimental. Combine that with a group of white South African’s that were used to being cleaned up after and it almost certainly felt like a joke. Radical self-reliance? How is that even possible in the middle of the desert with no water?

I’ve been living in the shadow of Afrikaburn here in Observatory in Cape Town for the last four years. Afrikaburn has revolutionised my own life, bringing me friends and acquaintances that shared my left-wing views of a radical community-based future that encourages us to love more and live my life alongside these desert dream weavers. The broke ones, the desperate and the daring all trying to find a little piece of paradise here on planet Earth. Here in Cape Town, with all the Mother City has to offer. I often joke that certain areas of Cape Town are the places that we come to escape from escapism. Yup, it’s a fucking thing all those beachfront bars all over the world are a constant and continuous reminder that the awe-inspiring gifts of planet Earth are never quite enough to soothe us. Sunshine and Blue skies = Desert.

What does all that have to do with my first time in the desert anyway?

I’d attended Tankwa Town meetings. I’d read the guiding principles and the survival guide. I’d consulted with Burners been to De-compression as well as some smaller burns and even been out to the Afrikaburn site for a meetup. I knew about theme camps, grants, plug and plays and regionals and I felt it was something I could certain thrive through. If I’d been more committed maybe I would have contributed more and yet as a radical curator was it really something I wanted to give that much energy to? I’d been observing from the sidelines for a while and curatorial decisions are very difficult for me. Helping, harming? Vanity project and self-gratification are all warning signs I look out for.

Secondly additional cash I had some, accompanied with time and so maybe it was time to see what all the fuss was about, and finally head out into the desert to find all these radically self-expressive, self-reliant people who really were really doing out here in the desert.

It was only on buying the tickets didn’t I truly begin to understand how much this little adventure was going to cost me in South African Rands of course. Everyone had said that even with a free ticket it would cost about R4000 to go. It’s an expensive party to attend on the basis of radical inclusion in country built on inequality. It wasn’t just the money either it was the time collecting and buying all the stuff you needed and the fact that unless you were an ultraorthodox ethical consumer you were buying straight into the capitalist trap. First aid kits, toilet paper, wet wipes, water, dry-packed foods, road snack and of course costumes. Already I was baulking at the idea. Only a few months earlier I was standing up for climate change and now I was running round with a millennial desperate to buy plastic fast fashion in order to grab at instafame. I did my best to brace myself against and yet I still got sucked in. The woman who buys natural fashion that lasts yet seems to have a soft spot for acrylic knitwear. Oh well. I wonder when the eco-nazis take power if this will be the kind of interrogation that we are up against. All of a sudden I wasn’t sure what I was heading into the desert to learn? As my microplastics would painfully outlive anything that I might gain there, even me. The quiet guilt permeates me even now.

Eventually, after a lot of shopping we were ready to hit the road, of course, I had to pick up a hand made musical table of Andre the Crystal Sound Healer before I could pack my own car.

By the time I’d hit the road to Tankwa the radical inclusion had already begun. I’d been invited to stay at a theme camp that I had had absolutely nothing to do with until the point of my invitation. I had however picked up and to some degree rescued the theme camp organisers on the same stretch of road I was driving along now after a car crash. They were not returning the favour of support in a very amplified and appreciative way.  I was grateful that my plan of scratching out a patch of dust had turned to co-creative fluff and it was a positive reminder that wherever possible to pay it forward. I arrived at the camp and was almost immediately welcomed once Tash and Peter remembered who I was and then introduced to the rest of the team.

“Welcome Home” it was obvious it was a burner greeting and I wonder how many people really knew how much truer that was than it might be. After all, everyone is African and more importantly the rumour is that everybody in genetically 10% Khoi San. We were all returning home. Literally to our earliest ancestral home,  where we had endured as a species out here in the desert on the oldest part of the Earth crust. Where Dinasaurs had almost certainly roamed here in the pre-life geography.  Where up until century ago you could still have watched great migrations of animal life and humans too. The flat desolation of the landscape opened up questions for me far deeper than the transidentatl shift of a party. Why here in this place, were we practicing radical anything without understanding the very landscape around us.

Then all of a sudden it was back to the here and now. I had a stretch tent to sleep under, a kitchen to cook in, water and shower and a functional waste system. When I think about where I could have ended up it seemed like a major miracle and the word I used to reinforce the good feeling was “pleased” and grateful to be included. Everyone was welcomed here and love seemed to permiate and I wondered how long it would last? I’m incredibly impressed to say that it did.

What the big news was that burner culture and politics was at the forefront of conversation. The camp had originally been set up as Sentella International Camp that represented another regional burn that Tash and Pete ran in the north. The Sentella International Theme Camp had been rejected as being to Plug and Play. It was somehow clear that organisational politics was at play. Which seemed weird to me, as the Tankwa Town Town Hall Meeting I had attended they wanted a camp that supported internationals. Hmmmm? So instead it was now The Potatoe Heads and we gifted potato meals every day.

At first, I couldn’t figure out how it worked. “The Theme Camp”, as an entity. How radical self-reliance fitted in with a  group of people that had just driven from Joburg or thereabouts and all the other internationals that were at the camp. It would appear that no-one at the camp had built the camp and that service providers had brought the tent and the water and that the farm owner had a profitable business serving the burn and of course he should. It made me wonder about the circular nature of the South African econonomy and what was being fed back to the locals. Who was hired and where any excess money flowed out here in the desolate landscape? Was that something that was even considered? The main news was still we had a camp and water that allowed us to thrive here. Even if radical self-reliance seemed to come with money.

The Potatoes Heads were gifting potaoe based meals each day between 12 and 3 every day. The communal effort in that process was combined with both bringing potatoes, as well as cooking, seving and cleaning up after. Given that I didn’t know to bring potatoes I headed up one of the daily meals. Which I must say I was incredibly proud of creating a new recipes Peasent Potaotes Gratin, boiled potatoes with a milk, garlic, onion and cheese sauce, yes nothing like potaoe grain but hey.

Due to the nature of our camp and the fact that it was integrated wth a regional burn, many of the camp attendees were already burners. Which lead to a lot of burner culture conversations.  Almost all the camp members that I spoke to had signed up for ranger duty, which I didn’t know I could do until it was too late to do the training…. It really impressed me that a lot of first time burners had commited fully to that element of participation and civic responsibulity, that they were deeply invested in finding a new way of being and integrating as a community. It was also very interesting to discover burner names and find people negotiating that for themselves. That they could be somebody else.

The conversations also focused alot around the guiding principles and how they contradicted one another. How navigating them was an arts practice in and of itself. I talked to a few burners about what had grivitated them towards The Burn, some of them having been to Black Rock. One person told me it was the art, another couple were into community building and leading intentional drug taking.

Radical Self Expression is from what I can sense the main driving force behind a big party in the desert. It is an extended sense of freedom and liberation for those who can afford it. For me it was far from revolutionary and how could it be? A whole load of white people using their privilige to create a space of radical self-expression.  It reminded me of life in the Capital of Panem. It was less than representative of  Afrofurturism than you might hope in 2019. I watched and a wondered how many of the people here parading about in unicorn leggins were actually into it? Much like so many of the things we do were trying it on for size. Maybe its more about radical experimentation? That you can pretend to be someone else in this escapist mirage, That you can pretend to be someone else in this escapist mirage, where no photogrpahs are taken (without consent) and the adoptation of a burner name can guarantee anonymity. It became clear as the costumes wafted by that it was all they were, a fancy dress show, only to be rivalled by the drudgery of office day wear. The parade made me think back to freshers week, it was fresher week with no social ramifications. What happened in the desert stayed in the desert, because for the most part everybody here was attempting to be free. However they would go home put on clothes they didn’t like, for a job that they hated, in the hope that one day life might become the desert. Isn’t that what millenial and influencers are all about? Selling the dream as opposed to living it?

Yet radical self-expression is necessary, as fucked up as that sounds, especially here in South Africa where the remenant of the propoganda state are still very much cut into the pscyche along with the accompanying religious abuse. How else you going to get yourself free if you have never witness a straight man parading about shirtless under a pink fluffy coat, in spaceship covered tutu with leapard print underpants over the top, in a sombero and a pair of glittery sunglasses. How else are you meant to discover that society is a construct that we have inherited rather than created. That there are different ways to be in the world beyond your financial productivity, that your true value is greater than what you own and who you are have been constructed largely on how people have rejected you. Imagine you just belonged and that in fact you were able to feel more at home in the desert with no faciliaties than you do in your mantion in Camps Bay.

Sparkle Pony? What’s that. I think I might be one. Not every burner is aware of the guiding princples. That there is an ideology that informs this party.  That you a supposed to turn up prepared. Though I do love the idea of someone turning up naked with nothing but glitter. Sparkle Pony is a laughable idea. A party based on the priciples of giftin and radical-inclusion and particiaption? I’ll be your Sparkle Pony, that seems like a party throw down if ever I heard one. Yet somehow a term a shaming term has come into play for people who might embrace those those priciples fully. If it were me I’d get me a posie of Sparkle Pony Police and start riding round town as part of the communal effort. Hmmm yes guiding principles can be tricky little fuckers especialy when there are more than a few. Maybe the Sparkle Pony Posy could embrace fun, the frolicking and freedom of containing microplastics exspecially bought for the occasion drifting accross and peremiating geological time. I love being able to think about time in this way. Leave No Trace an absolutest idea that intends to educate and yet denies the truth that our age may well become synomus with plastic should our digital technology and histories be lost. I like the idea of fast forwarding through time to schools in the future “From 1907 – 2030 we can see that plastic deposited around the globe and much like the carbon based fuels of the steam age there residue premiated everthing. There dust is still found in some of the most remote locations on earth and we have yet to discover the larger imapcts on the ocean floor and how these generation managed cause mass extinction even within the moast ancient Earthly life forms’.  On that note I too keenly signed up for making my own glitter emblased tutu for Tutu Tuesdays. An deeply embraced the delights of plastic fantastic gifting.

An imaginary town on the in the desert with Sparkle Pony Bandits, taking over civic responsibility from those pesky Rangers. Civic Responsibility, so much easier and so much more fun when everybodies vested interest is to have a good time. Imagine that if life and the greater structures of society where based on the idea of good vibes only. Is that even attainable beyond a week in the desert? I wonder? It makes me think beyond what is created and how restorative justce might play out if the party continued. It also feed back into the idea Adreinee Brown idea of pleasure activism and makes us wonder about what we think society is all about anyway? At this point my mind is exploding, imagine if we could get everybody on  the same page, in real life? That everything can get better, if we work together. That’s the amazing news, for the most part across human society it has.

It was hard for me to grasp the idea of immediacy in an imagined environment. After all what is immediate about fantasy? After all the buring issues of the day had all been put on hold so we could head out into an experimental society in the desert. Where impact of the positive impact of the party was far more understood to be vibrational that it was practical. I consider pleasure activisim. It is true Burners were a special breed, especially here in South Africa. That out here we were living on the edge, a wild untamed kind of existance that made us extraordinary. Maybe I’ve had a far to extreme life to find people playing at survivial a immediate. I mean after all at anytime you can call in the instacrew to document the process at any time. Though I speculate if it was real survival it might represent a Blair Withc scenario, where everybody just walk round in circles, whenthere is a perfectly ggod stream to navigate. Maybe this imaginary hardship of one week in the desert take the urban human to understand of deeper humaness and yet how? When out here on the playa we are doising ourselves with drugs in order to connect. Meanwhile I’m still advocating for conversation as a means to heal as a means to connect. What is truly real about the burn is the spirit of collaboration. That we are all here to help one another. That without one another we can never truly thrive it’s the way the we relate that brings the greatest highs.

As radical curator the art was underwhelming. It spoke to me less about fully actualised concepts and more about human labour. They reminded me of the quitisential Scottish folly that dotted the landscape of only the most extravagent Scottish estate. Yes folly in a  country with so much poverty and the extravangence to create soemthing to burn. I’ve always said that I work with the back end of the arts. That I am far more interested in what drives someone to create, far more than the creation itself. That exhbitions and artworks are just byproductos of a pschological process. I wondered about the people that built the structures had to watch them burn. How much ego, self-actualisation, healing and release was caught up in it? Far more than the beauty or symbolisms of the structure; it felt like such nilihistic creative pursuit. It was hard to find the motivation.

Burners talked about the burns as some kind of spiritual gathering and I wondered at the truth of that? Then I remember I’m for all intense purposes and indigent white person. I forget that that is what so many people are looking for the connection to the tribe or in this case the clan. (Even this choice of words seems bodly and very deliberately out of kilter with wider South African culture). Wood is fuel. Ultimately it seems like fuck tonne of effort to try and figure out what it is to connect our their beyond the realm of the digital nomads. That even an istamoment is be curated rather than lived.

The Khoi San were rolled out as you might expect for some kind of cultural cudos and understanding and yet there seems to be very little orientation on offer as to why they are there or indeed what the significance of the ceremony is. Is the silent ceremony simply silencing?  I wonder what they really make of all this? I’m sure it all feels rather strange.

I have watched the fires burn in my village on Guy Faulkes night. Where we celebrated revolution and democracy all at the same time. What a smart move it was of the overlords to let us burn something every once in a while to fuel and vent our destructive tendancies? While celebrating collectively and the commune? I forget that the children of colonialist societies have so little to connect to. Half histories, lost inbetween oceans and airport lounges. Is it any wonder they have to drive into the desert to feel like they belong.

Buying into the idea of equality seemed poetic for a party to based on radical inclusion. Money has over the course of history bought freedom and for some priviliges. There is nothing radically self-reliant about service providers. If this was real politics it’s the quazi left policies of a neo liberalist system playing out full force. A very long way beyond the socialist ideal decommodification.

Discover what it is to be free and to discover what it is to trade in exhange. That there is value beyond the material. What are we really trading anyway? Potaotes. Pancakes, Gin all things that don’t seem to belong in the Tankwa Karoo.

How does branding fit into that too? It’s hardly the dull drudgery of the socialist block? What was really meant was real world brands. Real world brands also made me laugh when it extended to branded drinks. So that one of my best memories was the image of one of my theme cmaps members being alomost permenantly in posession of Savanas in varying states of consumption. It was only when I got back and a burner friend pointed out to me how much she enjoyed spending aweek without money that it even crossed my mind. However the glut of spending that proceed that level of financial freedom seemed to permaiate though out and that that too had been the experience of the majority of attendees. Isn’t Afrikaburn after all selling an experieince. Why else are rich interns turning up in there droves talking about connectivity that took them a 16 hour flight to find in acountry with estimated 76% unemployment. Each One Teach One was adopted by Africaburn principle? Did I mentioned I learned how to make a tutu? Does teaching people to cook witout a recipe count? You can’t help but call bullshit.

Afrikaburn and Burner cluture cracks open far more questions about it’s very being rather than offer tengible global or community solutions.  It’s guiding principles represent the deeply tangible paradox for the the planet. Tanka Town tells us far more about our dystopian present that I want to build my way out of, than the utopian present that I want to create. It’s this curiosity that has lead me to investigate further; more out of understanding anti-human rhetoric than the idea that a new way of living in the desert.Premesthfors the theme for 2019 screamed far more about designed obsolescence than some mystical city lost in time. That the long shadows of a passing caravan might have a more enduring footprint on human memory and the earth crust than 15,000 non-present human connections experimenting with the idea of humanity, society and radicalism. Maybe I just want more of it in real life.

Old Beginnings

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It’s contradictory I know! Maybe it will make more sense when it’s done or even fully begun. This site is currently under construction, if you’re happy to just browse around for some basic information about Kimberley K. Stone please feel free to take a look.