This piece follows the exploits of people who love rock ‘n roll, inviting strangers from the road over for a cold one and debauchery of Roman proportions.
That last part is, of course, not true of all Oppi-goers, one commonality though, is the love/hate relationship with the dust.
Naturally the premier draw card on the “koppie”, is music.
If rock bands like Fokofpolisiekar, The Narrow and aKing don’t really float your fancy, the line-up also featured artists like Nakhane Toure, Yelawolf, Jack Parow and Nonku Phiri.
Over 130 instrumental and lyrical poets entertained the masses at the seven stages, including the “Travelling Wasgoed Stage”.
I thoroughly enjoyed the guinea pig that was: comedy at Oppi, including Schalk Bezuidenhout.
What a genius: I found his humour bordering on the controversial, but not transgressing the blurred line between hilarity and tastelessness.
Difficulty at Oppi:
Among the most difficult things at Oppikoppi (yes there are a few), is the varying temperature.
The days are hot as “Hot as Hell” sauce, while the nights would have Elsa asking whether or not she’s being paid enough to work in such conditions.
Another rife villain is the vile air mattress which, more often than not, does the opposite of what it’s supposed to.
It comes as no surprise then, that most Oppineers choose to avoid other hassles, such as putting up a tent, which is why many have opted for instant tents in recent years.
Contrary to popular conviction, these do not require you to “just add water”, or beer for that matter, you just remove it from the bag, throw it in the air and watch the magic happen.
Weird stuff happens at Oppikoppi:
So, while there we saw, among other things, a particularly ferocious-looking red spider, two fellow strangers wearing only shirts and underpants and post-Oppi scavengers.
The last entry refers to people who stay behind after most have left, and walk around picking up the often unbroken tents, gazebos, chairs, or other items left behind by campers possibly too lazy or hazy to pack up properly on the last day of the festival.
Now we mere mortals (a fact you quickly forget over yonder) return to the starless cities and enter, involuntarily, into a state of mind (and body) known especially for its blue hue, post-Oppi syndrome.
Symptoms include an unwillingness to return to the rat race, an inability to eat braai food for a while and, most explicably, a trail of sand and twigs everywhere the Oppi-goer treads, which recalls a particular scene from Kill Bill to mind.
The toughest healing process by far is that of the mind; to once again accept that the world does not allow people to walk around in onesies, have “onderbroek halfuur”, invite themselves onto others’ properties and randomly scream “OPPI”, waiting for the appropriate reply.
You would be arrested for most of these transgressions in civilisation and won’t be able to get off by nonchalantly saying: “Oppi bro”.
I must confess, however, that, in spite of all the consequences of leaving that sacred place of dust, it is a welcome prospect on the final morning.
You miss your soft bed, you miss your home’s food and, most of all, you miss a hot shower.
Oppikoppi, I love you; can’t wait to see you again next year.
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