Another Saturday. Sweltering fucking heat in Cape Town. Secret rave time. We jam, jam, jam until the first guys from SANParks rock up to shut the party down.
Arriving at Libra Season, a doef doef jol in the mountains of Hout Bay at East Fort, the parking lot is very empty, so we get a rad parking spot and greet the awesomely friendly and kak funny car guard. Fuck, I forget his name though.
My old study buddy from Shitty Varsity, Kirsty, has driven all the way from Strand to pick me up in Retreat. A truly lovely, soft-spoken, chilled-out, and beautiful human, who recently reached out after seeing a poster of me advertising Fokof Lager at Die Naguil in Paarl and says she needs some help matchmaking. I say, “Why don’t we date?”
Tom, aka Tom Buize, aka Thomas the Dank Engine, has packed Labels. Stella from Kirsty’s side. And in my bag, loads of MDMA, weed and some ecstasy, and so we venture in, cooler box in tow, spliff in mouth. I’m brushing my freshly washed hair to make sure I look, you know, fly…
Up at the dance floor, it’s still sparse. It’s the beginning of the gig, and Cuzzin is throwing down some minimal beat, I think, well that’s the vibe.
The dance floor sits in the ruins of some sort of old fort. Face brick, industrial feel to it. A couple of Kirsty’s friends arrive, and I switch over to Rekorderlig, a Swedish PERRY. Perrys or Perries, or is it PEARIE? Made from pears, as opposed to apples like ciders. Even though it’s mango-flavoured, this pear-based cider slaps the witch’s tits. Delicious. So fucking delicious in the sun. All that’s missing is a nice tall glass with ice to cut through that sweetness.
Midsekta are up now, jamming some very dubby, filthy drum and bass. Luke, from Midsekta, sports these awesome round—not steampunk, because I fucking hate steampunk— Scott Summers red glasses. I ask if I can wear them for a photo and proceed to act like Cyclops.
Myself, Tom and Dan find ourselves all jamming, pulling off the most retarded moves we can think of while double parking with a joint in one hand and a Rekorderlig in the other.
Enter the SANParks people. But they say it’s all good and head off. The party goes on.
At this point, we’re still waiting for my friend Savannah, who’s also keen for this secret jol and go looking for a mate. By the car guards, Gangsta Lloyd comes out and makes a decision. I’ve got about 500 bucks on me and tell the guy, if they come again, I’ll give them R500 to just leave us alone. Another gentleman comes up. I can’t remember his name. He accepts my R500 and says nothing else will happen. He doesn’t identify himself as an official. I’m being fucking stupid. For all I know, this can just be another guy taking my money and going off on his lunch break.
Back on the dance floor, we jam. More and more fashionable, beautiful people. Some boho, some AfrikaBurn styles, but lots of scantily and beautifully dressed hotties, male and female. New friends, acquainted friends. Everyone’s fucking jamming.
About 45 minutes later, another two guys arrive. Next thing we know, the party’s shut down.
What fucking bullshit.
The music ends abruptly, and we’re told to head to the new location, a friend of a friends’ house. Unfortunately, my crew and I—Tom, Savannah and Dan—don’t make it there, as we forget to drive in convoy with the crew to the house (or mansion, or estate, I can’t remember).
Instead, we try the beach bar in Hout Bay. It’s full of stuck-up millennials to middle-aged Hout Bayians. Really ruffles my fucking feathers. What the fuck is up with the Republic of Hout Bay?
We leave and head off to Striped Horse.
But for throwing a secret party, big ups to the Libras, alongside Mel, Chrissy, and all the other organisers. Stellar fucking turnout. Next time, I’m keeping my R500. SANParks mase poes.