Artswells: a bubble of art and magic

Artswells. You hold a special place in my heart. A green foresty one filled with artists, musicians, gypsy treeplanters, decorated with colourful old rag bunting. My favourite festival, I've been telling everyone I met the past year. I couldn't agree more. I come home under the moonrise, shooting stars, northern lights. We scream with delight after jamming in the cold all night, when the sun rises over the mountains and the moon sets like a giant orange ball behind the trees. Early morning smoke over the river vanishes when I kick my boots off and hide under a blanket. 

Wells is so far away, a full day road trip away. Driving through forest fire smoke, thinking what on earth are we doing? As we arrive in the tiny town of wells, the big lake awaits to wake up our tired bodies. Cold water swims are espresso for the body, getting it ready for a festival of dance and art! A familiar feeling comes over me as we roll in through the magical little town. Surrounded by mountain green, a patchwork of river and pippi longstocking houses brings me right back to last year, frolicking around the festival. I left feeling so inspired, and now I'm back! 

Music pops up everywhere, like an endless jam going for four days and nights straight. The awesome mix of people makes Artswells what it is. Drunk punks, blessed coast hippies and everything in between. If Artswells was a drink, it would be kombucha with whiskey. Every single person you meet is so freaking talented, it's mindblowing. From accordion players to tattoo artists, herbalists and poets, everyone is an artist in Wells. 

When everyone is weird, we all become normal. When you can all be yourself completely, there is no judgment. It's a magical place they created in Wells. A bubble of art and joy, music and play. The skies stayed clear of smoke, but the fire inside of me is going crazy with inspiration to create. Oh Artswells, you did it again. 

Blessed Coast: Triple Hippie Certified

Holy shit. I didn't think it would be possible, but I'm all hippied out. I am sitting in a pub in Vancouver, drinking beer and eating poutine while writing this. Loud music, sports on big screens. I needed this. To balance out the extremely airy fairy hippie weekend I just experienced. In Squamish, one of the most beautiful places I've ever been (think: 360 degrees mountain views, a rushing river of glacier water, eagles and black bears) hundreds of mostly naked people gathered for Blessed Coast festival.

The name says it all: hippie galore. I was there last year but didn't remember it to be so hippie. Like, too much. People yelling at each other: YOU ARE BLESSED! YOU ARE LOVED! I can't count on both hands how often I had to set intentions and realign my chakras. Thank goodness I wasn't the only sarcastic person there. I met another Belgian girl and a whole bunch of sceptics. Perfect. Most of the weekend was spent jamming in camp, laughing and inventing ways to describe what the hell was going on. Triple hippie certified food was being made: organic, vegan, nutfree. I was about to make stickers saying 'triple hippie certified' and sticking them on every single person at the festival. The stickers would be biodegradable and vegan friendly, of course. 

The craziest thing at the festival might actually be the fact that I did not dance at all. 90% of the time the music was spiritual, soft, with conscious lyrics and no beat to be found. So when the Light Twerkerz organised a twerkshop, I went all out. Upside down, on a bus, on the floor, in the air, you name it, I twerked it. Women would walk past the group of us twerking our lives away, saying: "this is not authentic". I explained them there is nothing more authentic than shaking your booty. The music turned into hiphop and while some people moved away from the stage because it was 'too intense', we danced until we had to run to the river to wash away the dusty sweat. "This is our night", we said," finally we will DANCE!" But the next act was yet again a band singing sweet songs of being blessed, gratitude and light. All freaking night. 

If you think all I did was twerking and making fun of hippies, you're wrong. I attended workshops, too. Like the church of reggae yoga, magical menstruation talk and breathwork where I actually had to leave after ten minutes because people were breathing so intensely they were letting go of demons, purging and having orgasms. By breathing. My god. 

My crew of sarcastic friends and I were so happy we found each other. That's what my Blessed Coast was all about: hanging out with friends, enjoying the gorgeous scenery and seeing the whole thing as a great camping trip with entertainment on the side. I had a blast, but if I wouldn't have found my awesome crew, I would be chain smoking and binge drinking by myself, just to keep me sane. Blame it on my crown chakra, it's out of alignment.

Please excuse me for my rant, but I promise you, it's a blessed one.

Fleetwood mac n cheese

This summer I was going to take it easy, leave room for long hikes and camping trips. But then festivals happened. And I can't say no to dress ups, silliness and dancing under the stars. So as soon as Bass Coast finished, I washed my clothes and dusted myself off for Burn in the Forest. Back to back, when you're on a roll you might as well keep rolling. The road trip was sweaty and bumpy. Every drive my car seems to let go of something. By the end of it, I'll be on my own. This time, it was the gps that gave up. So lots of stopping and smiling: excuse me, do you know where I'm going? I didn't, but somehow I made it to Burn in the Forest. 

Men in tutus welcomed me, blowing bubbles in my face. Hello, sweet festival life! If Bass Coast is for dancing, this one is for rolling on the floor laughing. So many silly things happen in one weekend, it's hard to recall even half of it! Every camp does a million things, so the fomo is real. On Fryday the number one question we asked ourselves was: will it fry? So fryers got a-sizzlin' and blocks of chocolate, brie, pickles, bacon, donuts, everything and anything got thrown in those makers of magic crispy goodness and out came the fried mess of pickle flavoured chocolate melted bacon dipped in brie. Yum! 

Baby cheetah camp offered a furry place of 24 hour purring sounds to nap off the fried food coma. Workshops on merkin making and nipple tassels, naked lube wrestling happened and horny men wearing nothing but a giant horn. When I thought my face was going to fall off from laughing, three girls dressed up as pineapples surrounded me. Would you like to enjoy the 360 degree pineapple experience? Uhm yes, of course! While one girl rubbed a pineapple on my arm, I got to smell the sweet golden fruit and simultaneously a shot of pineapple liqueur was poured in my mouth. All while they sang: this is your pineapple song, it isn't very long. And off they went. I actually cried tears from laughter. 

Never was I hungry, after gifts of Dutch stroopwafels (I received a little waffle necklace after doing a splendid interpretive waffle dance while waiting in line), viking feasts, glamorous tea and cookies with the empress and the marvelous fleetwood mac n cheese party. 

Thirst was quenched even before your cup was empty. Guns and rosé, wine and cheese, ceasars on the beach, spiked mimosas for brunch, a little coffee with your baileys? Yes, there was booze and food aplenty, but that's not what it was all about. It's the moments of happiness you share with this group of people you call your family for at least one weekend. Blissful river floating, story telling, love letter writing (yes, there was a postman!), sunrise dancing, waking up in a cuddle puddle, experiencing life in all its silliness together. 

Magical memories and sweet friends were made. A glimpse of pure openness, generosity, inclusivity, being fully aware of the bubble of fun and freedom we created. All good things come to an end and the journey must continue, inspiring me to take this wonderful experience with me wherever I go. Burn in the Forest turns the fire in my heart into a spectacular show of fireworks. Cheeks glowing, soul sizzling with delight. But body in need of a detox. 

Space toast for breakfast

Two weeks ago I left the lush Comox Valley for dry and dusty Merritt. The journey from island to mainland. A ferry ride salty with goodbyes, straight into Vancouver's traffic jams. Welcome back. I left the island but not the pace. Slow tunes singing along in between the honking smog of busy city streets. Vancouver family welcomed me with birthday hugs and dinner, a home to come home to. Heart overflowing with love, I left early the next morning, too early for traffic to be jamming my jam. 

Merritt appeared after many a mountain pass, little screams of delight whenever I drive through majestic mountain views. Jimi Hendrix blasting out of my open windows, letting in freedom and dust. The Bass Coast site in full build up mode. Welcome home. Again and again. When you travel, many places feel like home. Because of the family you made, the memories that fill your mind with sweet butterflies, the times you shared on the land. Merritt, as dry as it is, holds a place in my heart. Wild roses and sage brushes form the landscape. The best sunsets I have ever witnessed throw pink golden spotlights on the sandy mountains. Gravel roads and prickly thorns, a fast flowing river to wash away the day.

A festival had to be built. Tying thousands of ribbons to catch strong winds, a main stage with a space ship, a cantina for Sunday soul sessions, decorations and installations for extended forest frolicking. Bass Coast, I missed you. Your quirkiness, craziness, you absolute beauty of a festival. Run by women, it's all in the details. Like a big open air living room that welcomes people to connect, dance, swim, chill, run around naked, a house with doors wide open. 

Nothing beats thousands of awesome people coming together to play. Nothing is serious. Mornings are for skinny dips, baileys coffee and mushroom honey. Burlesque workshops and the famous twerkshop gather a floor filled to the brim with booty shakers. Most of the weekend, I was dancing and laughing so much, I forgot there was gravity to be maintained. Babe Coast made me fall in love about 135 times a day. People looking so handsome there was almost something indecent about it.

A wacky group of eccentrics, drinking their whiskies and swallowing their pills. Dance floor moves kicked up the dust, throwing energy balls around, losing all track of time until the morning comes. The sun rises over zombie faces, still dancing, can't stop won't stop. I am one of them, drowning in my big fake fur coat. But the bass keeps me up, and the dancing is only really done when the music is turned off. We linger, hiding ourselves behind sunglasses, giving last hugs goodbye. 

It felt like the festival happened in five minutes, too fast too soon. So I stayed. The river massaged my sore bones, dust and sweat washed away. Others sticked around too, so we gathered under the stars for jam sessions and late night talks. Letting it all sink in. So much joy, music, dancing. So many new friends. I left Merritt with a family I can always come home to. 

Happy festival summer!

Rainbow delirium

My darlings, 

(I'm in Australia, so everyone is a darling)

It's been a while since I got into the blog zone, I know. I've been in a strange limbo between consciousness and sleep for the last two weeks. Pretty much as soon as I touched Australian ground. Arriving in smoking hot Brisbane wearing thermals and woolen outfits: no. Don't do it. 

My dear friend Maggie picked me up from the airport and after 29 hours of trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in my plane seat, I was dying a million deaths of desire to run away from any planes, straight into her arms and join her to the first pub in sight. 

After three days of jetlagging like a professional, I made my way to Melbourne. My new partner in crime Julia gave me a lift to Rainbow Serpent Festival. As we entered the site, we disappeared into a giant cloud of a different world. Goodbye reality, hello rainbow! I was happy as a blossoming flower to be dancing at this colourful party again. Where costumes can never be over the top, music is non-stop, people are non-stop. And after days and nights of happiness and confusion, everyone is just dwelling in their own soup of madness. There is even a name for it. It's called Messy Monday. 

That's after four days of Rainbow. Now imagine spending eleven days at that festival. There are no more dreams. There is no more reality. It's all one big blurry slice of paradise. The best way to describe it is like walking through the poppy fields of Oz and falling asleep without even realising it. 

I tried to shift fluidly from dreams to reality by getting on the free train to Melbourne. My body had no sense of time so I slept, got myself together and moved all my bags (how did one backpack turn into backpack plus three giant bags? The magic of traveling!) on a tram to my fabulous friend Chloe. In fifteen minutes she turned me from a dirty hippy into one of those well-washed dignified people you often see in cities. And so I'm back. Back in my beloved Melbourne, where it all started three years ago. Walking through her streets fills my head and heart with memories. 

Shivers of excitement.

I'm back.

Moustache fest

There are three things in life I can never get enough of: music festivals, great food and facial hair. When all of that comes together, there is no way you can wipe the ridiculously big smile off my face. WOMADelaide was like a dream coming true. I was working for the Gourmet Goons who owned a wonderful foodstall at the festival. Exactly, the guys with the furry upperlips who picked me up from Kangaroo Island. They served fabulous meals like kangaroo burgers, fish noodles and tofu with sataysauce I would love to take a dip in.

The Goons invited over some friends from Byron and all of a sudden I was living together with seven other cool kids. We shared a house and spent our days preparing food and drinking corona like there was no tomorrow. While chopping up strawberries and onions and all other vegetables and fruit you can think of, we danced around and sang along to oldskool hiphop tunes. And the best part of the job: we got to dress up like men, moustaches and everything.

No need to say I had the time of my life. Working hard but playing hard too. Let's not forget we were showing off our moustaches at one of the best world music festivals in the world. So after our shift we had time to get rid of our leftover energy by dancing to Jimmy Cliff, The Cat Empire and The Herd. Or just strolling about in our fancy shirts and ties.

Mona Foma

When the center of Hobart bursts at the seams with art, you know you're in the right place at the right time for Mona Foma. This Festival Of Music and Art was the most cultural start of my Tassie trip I could have wished for. There was eighties music as well as dub step dj's and lots of hipster things happening. The time span did pose a serious dilemma about how to style my hair.

Spanish band Los Coronas made me dance my legs off, as did Pretty Lights at the shed party. There was an orchestra that played music for one of my favourite books of all times: 'The Arrival' by Shaun Tan. They made me shiver and melted my heart. And Aussie band Graveyard Train knocked my socks off. Six men playing men's instruments just as they were born to do. I'm all about that.