I found myself standing in front of a rotten red Škoda Favorit. A piece of junk from the 90s, barely suitable for driving, yet some people still used them daily. The car was small. Really small. On paper, five people could fit in, but in reality, four was the limit. At best. There just wasn’t enough space.
That’s why there was five of us. Five people with more luck than brains, each with a big backpack. Besides that, there was also a big foldable tent in the trunk, along with a box of food, a portable electric stove, a big kettle and some cutlery. B also managed to squeeze in a full size mattress, although how he did it is still beyond my understanding.
B was a young punk with a huge smile, messy hair and a few dreadlocks on the back of his head. He was a good guy, always there for you, if you were his friend. He was with his girlfriend, L, who wasn’t too keen to go on this trip.
M was a rather muscular dude, who I met just yesterday. He looked intimidating, but when you got to know him, he was the sweetest guy. Not when he rank though. With alcohol in his blood, he turned into a monster. Last night, he almost broke into an empty truck in the parking lot of a supermarket. He also smoked a lot of weed. Last but not least, there was D, who you already know from the Viennese squat story.
After the debauchery of last night, I found my breakfast burned to charcoal. Thanks to that, I wasn’t particularly looking forward to driving for 6 hours to some hellhole somewhere in Czechia. Neither one of us was in a suitable state to operate the vehicle safely, yet nobody but L seemed to be bothered by this. Before we got into the car, I smoked the first joint of the day with M and D.
There I was, in a poor excuse for a car, with 4 other people, sitting in the VIP middle back seat, squeezed between D and M. Since there was no space in the trunk, we had to have our bags on our knees. As well as B’s and L’s bags. Nice. Comfortable. As we drove out of the village, B said that the front windows would have to be open at all times, because the engine’s cooling was broken. If we wanted to get anywhere, we had to keep the heater blasting. In the middle of the summer.
We stopped for the first time after an hour. The backseat crew needed another joint. I was getting hungry, but I didn’t mind it. As long as there was weed, things were bearable. We got back in the car and went on.
The sun was in full force, it could’ve been 30 degrees outside, even more. It was so hot that M’s shirt was soaked to the last thread. The blasting heater also added few degrees to the temperature, despite the opened windows. I felt like vomiting, and crying, and getting out of the car and reconsidering my life choices at the same time. The windows made the journey comfortable for B and L in the front, but for us in the back, they caused havoc. Winds blew all around the cabin, with strong currents meeting exactly at the point of my head. I had to roll it in a sleeping mat, otherwise I would go mad.
Some time passed, and we reached Brno. That wasn’t our final destination, but it was a good excuse for another joint. We bought some coffee and snacks at the gas station and off went again. Considerable kilometers were still ahead, and we wanted to get there before sunset. The journey should’ve taken us four hours without stops, but we were already three hours in, and not more than half of the distance was covered. My head was about to explode any moment from the wind, so I frequently asked to stop and we always smoked a spliff.
That made it about seven joints when we finally reached our destination. Where were we going, actually? Some shitty local crust festival. I wasn’t sure. I didn’t care anymore. All I cared for at the moment was getting out of the car. And eating something. I was literally starving. I had the munchies, but I also didn’t eat anything substantial that day.
We came to the festival to cook for the wretched visitors who were so lucky as to be part of the madness. B organised Food Not Bombs (free food for the homeless, and anyone really) in his town… Well, organised. He was the only one doing the cooking and everything else. He did that, and he also went to some festivals in the summer to collect money for the cause, making pancakes and soups there.
“We don’t cook today Paulie, sorry. It’s too late, nobody will eat anyway.” said B when we arrived.
“Shit no. We do cook. I will eat. I’ll cook from water and air if I have to, but I’ll cook myself a dinner.”
“Okay, but it’s your job then.”
Say no more. Cooking is my natural habitat. But first, I needed a joint. When we built the tent and unpacked, I got right to it. There was no time to waste. I cut up leeks, onions and potatoes. I put them into the kettle, along with some water and whatever spices I found, and I waited. The small electric stove we had was not powerful enough. We didn’t have a lid for the kettle, and the soup-in-progress didn’t look like boiling any time soon. I just got it as hot as possible and prayed. We smoked another joint.
I lost count of the hours and joints at that point (actually, a lot sooner), but the soup was finally ready. I had no idea what was going on around me, at this so called festival. It was dark outside and I was trying not to fall asleep standing. I had the privilege of the first bowl, and after that, we served to the public. More than 20 people were waiting in line at that point, because the word got out that there will be free soup. I guess I wasn’t the only one hungry, after all. We passed the bowls to those waiting and we smoked another joint meanwhile. I was done, finished. I didn’t know how I got there, what I was doing, or why there were people thanking me. At one point, somebody came to me and put a tiny piece of paper on my tongue.
“Here, take this. It’s the best soup I’ve had to this day.”
I put the paper on my tongue and I fell asleep. No – I turned off.
I’d been woken up by B in the middle of the night. Everything was dreamlike, and I didn’t know what was going on. I was super numb from all the weed I smoked throughout the day. B opened my mouth and put another piece of paper inside. I immediately fell asleep again.
The morning was… Well, hard. I smoked a joint. I took my skateboard and went to the supermarket to get some breakfast. Most of all, I needed to get the fuck away from everyone and everything. I looked at the sky – it was red, green and blue. Nice.
I skated through the sleepy town, and wondered if the citizens were aware of the debauchery of last night. I wonder if they approved of the things that happened there, or if they even cared. As I looked at the people who strolled the morning Saturday streets, I wondered if they would have liked my soup. Actually, what happened with the soup?
I bought a mango in the store. A ripe and juicy mango to counter the filthy and sick place I would spend the next 24 hours at, and I got back to the festival. People were already waking up.
“Good morning L. What the hell was last night? Where’s B? Where’s everyone?”
“Morning Paul. It was… Interesting. They still sleep.”
“Do we have some of the soup left?”
“Soup? No. It’s finished. People loved it. They kept asking for more long after there wasn’t any left. I don’t know what you did, but you have to cook it again today. Everyone is mad for it.”
The rest of the day went by slowly. I scored some weed with a discount, because the vendor loved my soup. Was it that good? I smoked weed and observed people. Honestly, I hated the music, so I was trying to numb myself as much as possible. Ideally, I wanted to pass out. It didn’t work out.
I wasn’t able to cook anything in the evening, and I didn’t particularly want to. It was up to B that day. I strolled around, observing. It was a freak show. After the festival, I believe that European rednecks are a thing, and they meet on crust festivals in Czech Republic.
I couldn’t sleep that night. At all. I was up until sunrise, even though all my friends were already passed out long before that. I observed the people and I listened to their conv… Sounds. Let’s leave it at that. The tipping point came, when I noticed a guy who looked like a horse. And sounded like one. I figured I couldn’t stay in that place any longer, and remain sane at the same time. I gathered what little belongings I had, and I went ahead to better days into the sunrise.
That’s what I should’ve done. In reality I just waited for the others in the town square. I was done with that festival. Anticipating the 6 hours in the back of the car with tornado around my head, squeezed between two people, I had no interest in unnecessary interactions with anyone.
On the way home, we smoked joints with D and M again, and we called it a day when B dropped us off at the train station. D and M lived nearby, but I had to spend another three hours in the train. I rolled one last spliff, smoked it, and pondered about what I just went through.
What was the purpose of that festival? Why did I go there? To learn something? If so, what? What was the point? Was the experience as a warning? Against what? Against becoming a crust-loving redneck? Should I’ve reconsidered my life choices in regards to my friends? Or the interests I would pursue in the future? Did I go there to see the red, green and blue sky? Or because I wanted to cook the best soup these people ate in their lives?
Was this whole place just a fake plastic cowboy village for people who wanted to let go of being human, or was it actually authentic, so authentic that I couldn’t handle it? Were they really disgusting, or was I just a judgmental fuck? Were they just monsters hiding in human skin? Was I one of the monsters?
Finally – was the the guy with the horse face real?
I don’t care to find out.