I have no idea where to begin. The mind-numbing colour-collecting cloud-lit sunsets?
The enormous mounds of tents and McGyverisms of camping ingenuity (the proverbial boer maak ‘n plan sort of scenario when you realise you’ve got everything except cutlery) or the ribbon rhythms of light that pounded the flat - and I mean flat - Karoo desert?
The loos with a view, which you trundle over to in the morning only to find beautiful naked women practicing yoga in the sweetened sunrise hours?
Perhaps the gazillions of bicycles caked with flowers, flashing lights, bits of tinsel and a horn?
How about the abundance of crazy cars zooting around the plains so peacocks swim before you and a double-decker bus pumps out beats that reverberate around you?
Or perhaps the towering sculptures made from wood and sticks and branches that stick out across the landscape and seem acutely unaware of their impending fate?
I think I’ll start with the flat tyre. The bursting sound and slow whoosh of the front right wheel, which the members of the gurgling Citi Golf tried to deny. Sigh. No more spares. Off into the night, squeezing your bum cheeks tight when you hear the faintest of stony scrabbling under belly.
We arrived in the evening, leaving dusk behind us in the city and arrived into a surreal world or neon lights and an orange glow above us. There’s no cell phone signal, no money-orientated currency and a temporary tented-town of people searching for something in the middle of nowhere. There is simply no way of comprehending it all.
FIve days later you leave and attempt to make sense of it all. It felt odd not paying for the coffee you patiently queued for at the Stasie Kaffee. They simply hand it over and you feel almost guilty for taking the first sip.
The burning artworks which so magnificently littered the desert lie in a pile of coal - along with half a campsite it should be added - and the entire town eventually disappears.
You could technically say nothing really happened out there. You pack up, burn up and sweep up any remnant for future archeologists and yet it stays with you. You have flashbacks of this costume and that burn and this guy with the neon tutu or falling off a basket-hammock hanging off the side of a fantastical car that you fail to find the next day.
There is a reason there’s such a commotion about Tankwa Town.
It’s just unbelievable.