Rip has walked from Santos with a box of fresh food all the way up to the only parking spot he could find near main beach.
Schoolies rocks! A voice calls out.
Rip keeps walking through a big group of drunk school-leavers mingling on the pavement. He stops to listen to a busker outside the Beach Hotel playing a bluesy set on a slide guitar. His vocals are poignant and Rip sits on the concrete to absorb the sounds. His loose jeans are more grey than black from the salt and sun and there’s only one button holding his shirt closed. He knots his long hair at the back of his head and flexes his feet. The crowd swills around him: so many groups of people, couples, families, holiday- makers. New Year’s Eve is three days away and the morning is already loosened with booze fumes. He watches those who pass him, absorbed in their own conversations, dramas and realities. Like little bubbles bumping into each other, he thinks, his head rocking to the music. He sees a man, his skin tanned to leather, hair greying and free, the kind that’s a regular rather than a rarity around here. He’s handing out pieces of paper, some people take one, others give him a wide berth and shake their heads.
Hello, young fella, the man says, squatting down to be at eye level with Rip. His earlobes are stretched around stone discs and his hands, gnarled and arthritic, are clustered with rings.
Rip shakes the man’s hand, staring at the jewellery that hits a note of familiarity; he feels he’s seen the earrings before. He notices the clearness of the man’s eyes and can’t seem to look away.
You did good, Rip. This for you. The man passes a piece of paper into Rip’s hand.
How do you know my name? Rip calls out, but the man has disappeared in the crowd. His skin bristles and he rubs his arms to get heat back into his body. Did I just imagine that or did he really call me Rip? He opens the folded paper, expecting a petition against the dreaded Coal Seam Gas invasion, threatening to sweep everything good from these parts, but there are only two lines: Be humble for you are made of earth. Be noble for you are made of stars. Rip looks around to see if anyone else is reading one of the flyers so he can compare, but there’s no sign of the man or his offerings. These words strike a chord. Huh, Rip says out loud.
He gets up from his seat outside the Beach Hotel, waves to the musician and heads down the alley—Bangkok Alley he calls it for its un-Byron mix of Thai restaurants and street eating opposite wire mesh fences and garbage bins. Rip pops out of the alley and crosses the road; the traffic’s moving so slowly he doesn’t even need to look. ‘Why would you drive on a day like this?’ he wonders.
Rip finds himself in a tattoo parlour, looking around at the walls adorned with pictures, symbols and colourful images. There’s a girl in the chair, her arm, gripped by the tattooist, covered in ink. His gun is buzzing, his artistry etched for eternity onto her fair skin—from these supple days to the time it wrinkles and breaks at the slightest touch.
The tattooist sings along to a reggae tune and speaks to Rip over the noise of his gun. Can I help you, matey?
Rip looks over to the girl and the plastic wrapped around her arm. I think I want a tattoo.
The man laughs. There’s no thinking in here, he says. You want one or you wouldn’t be in my shop. No one ends up here by accident.
‘This will be for life,’ Rip thinks. He glances at the scars on his wrists. ‘Just like these.’
You look like a surfer, the man says, scratching his at his armpit. Let me guess, you want something like a wave or a palm tree.
Actually it’s some writing, Rip says, getting into the big black leather chair.
With his arm freshly inked Rip walks out onto the streets. The wrapping up of 2012 is a few days away, foretold by conspiracy theorists and New Age spiritualists as the end of time. He listens to a bunch of dreadlocked hippies on the sidewalk chewing the fat about the Mayan Prophecy and the fifth dimension. He moves to read a noticeboard on Byron Street. There are ads for everything—motorbikes, vans, surfing lessons, garden services. He balances on his toes to read an ad on a faded piece of paper:
WILLING WORKERS WANTED for an organic farm in the Byron Hills. All food plus accommodation plus $$$$ in exchange for work. Come and experience paradise! Call Asha 0408 997—
The last three digits of the mobile number have been faded by time and rain. Rip casts his eyes to the other ads but nothing grabs his attention so he moves on. On the breeze he catches the edges of a steady, deep bass. It enters him like a serpent in his blood.
A certain play of winds brings surfers rushing to the ocean to feel that hallucinogenic intimacy of a board slicing through a wave. After months of rehabilitation, Rip is finally joining them, feet gripping, muscles taut, his whole body bending and curving to meet gravity, as if he is part of the vast water that moves beneath him. It is overwhelming to be out here, so far away from the hospital that consumed his life for so many months. Man. He flicks his wet hair back just in time to see Kai on his red and black short board snaking towards the shore.
It’s one of those blissful Byron Bay afternoons where the Pass cradles a sense of blessedness—something of the sacred is grasped, if not entirely understood, by each person on the beach and in the water. They walk, run, lie, saunter, surf, frolic and let their skin bake. All are thankful for something. A pod of dolphins joins the surfers, communing with the swell and the surfers bobbing on boards. The dolphins cavort and streak through the waves, their slippery shining bodies cutting the waves effortlessly. The sun glints off their dorsal fins and smooth cylindrical noses and Rip calls out to Kai.
Dolphins!
Kai paddles over to Rip, the bridge of his nose slathered with bright pink zinc. Just for you, bro, he says.
They dry off in the car park, stripping wet rashies from their bodies and chucking the boards in the back of the van. There’s a line of cars waiting for spots. Byron is not so secret in summer; it oozes pheromones that draw more and more admirers to its coastline and the town has absorbed the huge influx of tourists. Everyone just has to wait, but the strain is visible in the tight faces of locals; their expressions say, ‘Our resources are stretched, please go home and take your rubbish with you’. The less tolerant are more blatant: ‘Fuck off, we’re full’.
Rip peels back the plaster protecting his tattoo.
What’s it say? Kai asks.
Just some words. Rip rolls his arm over.
Hmmm … Be humble for you are made of earth. Be noble for you are made of stars. I like that. You’re not meant to get it wet, Kai says.
I know, but I don’t care. That was totally worth it.
It’s good to see you like this—happy. Everyone was talkin’ about you for a while, kinda couldn’t get over it. Kai looks into Rip’s eyes. You’re different now. Something’s changed in your eyes.
What, they’re open now, you mean?
Nah, something else. Kai vigorously rubs his head with the damp towel. Different from before this all happened. You look goofy almost, like all that stress is gone off your face.
That’s good, Rip says. Let’s eat then I’ll drop you home.
But you’re still coming, right?
Rip doesn’t answer as he gets into the van, still undecided.
There’s no room to sit inside so they cram onto the long bench outside Suffolk Park Bakery. Rip tucks into a fat chocolate brownie and washes it down with coffee.
This chicken mayo roll is so good. Kai bangs at his chest as lettuce gets stuck going down. You’ll regret it. It’s gonna be off the hook.
I haven’t said no, I’m just thinking about it.
There’s no time for that, we’re meeting back here at two. Everyone’s going, all your favourite music, mate, come on. After your year you need to let loose. Mayonnaise lands on Kai’s shorts.
I’m going home to water the garden and I’ll either be here at two or I won’t. Rip claps Kai on the back. That’s the best I can do right now.
What’s with you and this garden? I reckon you did get a piece of someone else in you.
It’s so cool watching things grow, it’s wicked, Rip says.
Kai calls to Rip as he walks, barefoot, back to his van. If you dog the festival to hang out in the hills and talk to your plants, I’m checking you back into hospital!
At the circle near the cop shop, Rip’s van joins the slow-moving traffic. There’s a bedraggled flow of people walking in the same direction towards sunrise and their destination—Belongil Fields—this surging stream heading to the festival, hoping for a way to wildness and a chance to reclaim what they lost in the battle to survive.
At the gates the crew in the vans and cars that have convoyed behind Rip present their tickets, submit to an alcohol search of their vehicles and are finally let through into the campsite. It’s jam-packed, almost at full capacity. Some people have one-man tents, others have set up fully functional homes with tarpaulins, armchairs, blow-up mattresses, tables, lights, even potted plants.
Rip and Kai pull up at one of the last free spots. It’s not nearly big enough for the four cars and the thirteen people climbing out of them, but it’ll have to do. A case of beers appears and everyone twists a top and cheers. As they do, the sky opens and a torrential downpour blasts the bay. Another uproar of cheers and whoops erupts across the campsite. Nothing, not even torrential rain can dampen the ever-hopeful spirit of this collected youth.
They walk between barricades towards the music. The woodchips that covered the path didn’t survive to the end of the first day and since the rain, the way is now thick with mud. The others have gumboots, but Rip’s bare feet slurp in the mix of woodchips and sludge. A few stragglers walk with them, losing their thongs and destroying their boots as they go. The path widens into out into a Midsummer’s Night Dream-type of world, a fluid bubble of celebration, lights, music and fleeting bodies, running, dancing, drinking, screeching. Night one of the festival and the mood is frenetic. Legs swathed in rubber gumboots of every conceivable design and colour jostle for position at the front of the four main stages while some have already abandoned control and are rolling in the mud—kicking and splashing into the deep mud pits and covering themselves and their friends in black. A bunch of girls revel in ballet leotards and tutus, crashing about in a mud pool near the portaloos, throwing mud pies at each other until all are covered and dripping.
Rock tent! Violet shouts. I’ve been wanting to see these guys forever!
They run into a covered marquee with thousands of others; riffs, guitars, bright lights and the smoky voices of the young band on stage swallow them. The crowd sways, some bodies moving slightly, others busting out to the blaring, textured rock. Kai, Rip and the gaggle of other guys drop into a syncopated rhythm of head-banging, hair-thrashing and general mayhem.
So glad I’m here! Rip screams to Kai.
The song ends and, at the first roll of drums they all know what’s coming.
Violet screams, I know where you come from, the fear is crippling me. I know you have to leave tonight, so now, I’ll just let you be.
And Kai bellows the chorus, It’ll be all right my friend, it’ll be just fine again. We’ll all run home together, it’ll be like we were never.
And if you make the great escape, then I can’t hold you back. If you could see to the end, would you live differently! shouts Rip.
By now the crowd is euphoric, their voices rising in a crescendo that fills all the way to the marquee roof: We’re not scared, no we’ll be fine. We’re not scared, not now. We’re not scared, no we’ll be fine. We’re not scared not now!
After scoffing down a plate of warm crispy kofta balls and red sauce in the Hare Krishna tent, Rip, Kai and Violet peel off from their friends and stray into the tipi forest—a dance area spread with straw around a DJ set-up in a big white tipi open to the crowd. The music here is less commercial; psy-trance mechanical glitching disjointed sounds weave magic in the bodies and minds of those gathered, they stomp, fit, jerk, judder, tick and slam through air and onto earth. Kai rolls his eyes, but Violet pulls him and Rip into the crowd.
I’m not into this! Kai shouts to Rip, who just smiles.
The DJ leads them all on a journey: a deep, spaced-out, mind- warping revolution through time, sound, anarchy, spirit-rising and into a track of perpetual grace that lifts the crowd higher, streaky chords and ethereal beats reverberating over their heads. Rip is lost to the rhythm, but still he senses someone dancing close to him. He looks to the beautiful woman next to him in a red velvet mini-dress. Her hands, painted up to her elbows with hennaed designs, twist expansively in the air like unfolding butterfly wings. He’s mesmerised.
Hello, stranger, she says, circling him.
Rip stammers, H-hello.
Long time no see. She stops moving; the crowd swirls around her and Rip can only stare into her eyes.
Have we met? he asks.
Don’t you remember?
He shakes his head. I was in a coma so my memory’s pretty rusty. True story. Anyway what’s your name.
She rests a hand on his arm. I’m Dream.
He blinks. Her auburn hair is shining in the green and red laserlights, her forehead is bejewelled with tiny sparkling pink and silver gems. And how do we know each other?
Dream twirls her hands above her head. We hung out for a while.
I’m so sorry, my memory is really bad these days. I honestly don’t remember.
One day you will remember, she says.
Don’t be cryptic, just tell me! Rip has to put his hands around his mouth to project his words against the lashing of electronic dubstep.
M83 is playing tonight, did you know? Dream kisses his cheek, he smells her hair and skin then she moves back into the crowd. See you when I see you, she mouths to him.
I’ll find you later! Rip yells after her. He tries to get back into the music but can’t and he indicates to Kai that he’s leaving.
Violet and Kai join him and they trawl through the excessive mud looking for more music. The festival is a mad, chaotic swarm that bottlenecks on the pathways between stages and areas. The markets are all closed for the day and the whole place is taking on a surreal feel as people wander aimlessly—lost, confused, drunk, drugged and now also cold in the midnight air.
Who was that redhead? Kai asks. She was smokin’ hot.
Violet swats her boyfriend. Watch it.
I was hoping you guys would remember, Rip says. She looked really familiar and she definitely seemed to know me, but I can’t remember where from. Don’t you guys recognise her?
Violet laughs. There’s always been only Sahara. I can put the record straight once and for all, Romeo: you have never been a ladies’ man.
But that’s about to all change, Vi. That chick looked really into him. Maybe you’ll bump into her.
That’s what I love most about festivals, Violet says, walking towards the folk stage. Something special happens where no one has a phone or any way of getting in contact with people, but you always somehow find the people you’re looking for. They just appear, or you’re in the line for the loo and your best friend who you’ve been searching for comes out of the cubicle just at the right moment. I wish the rest of life was like that—like one giant festival—always at the right place at the right time.
Rip nods, but his thoughts are elsewhere, scanning the crowd for a head of red curls.
The night is still young, mate, Kai says. Don’t panic, we’ll find her for you.