You’re
taking your wife to Rainbow Serpent?!’ the hipster law student asked, his eyes
trailing from Yair’s kippa to my scarved head.
‘More
like she’s taking me,’ my husband replied with a grin to the incredulous looks
from around the table.
In the shadows of the backyard barbecue dinner, I looked
down at my wedding ring with a smirk, amused at the other diners’ bewilderment
at an orthodox Jewish married couple venturing to Rainbow Serpent, Australia’s
famed alternative music and lifestyle festival in outback Victoria. Frummies
going doofing? Yeah, right.
Perhaps
it was Yair’s thick Israeli accent that led to the presumption that it was the
natural choice of the Israeli to
embark on this rite-of-passage at Rainbow Serpent, rather than the demure,
Melbourne-born, Caulfield-ghettofied Jewgirl that sat beside him. An assumption
that all Israelis yearn for the fabled freedom, dancing, drugs and debauchery
associated with this four-day long weekend. A Chinese whisper murmured from
seat to seat on the incoming airplanes, scribbled into dog-eared Hebrew
guidebooks, slapped onto the noticeboards at local shwarma joints – all
drenched with an imagined paradise of an escape, open and warm.
Indeed
Rainbow Serpent is a sun-splashed, dusty paradise of sorts, where the colours
of each person’s individuality is celebrated and cherished. Tattooed scalps and
bejewelled torsos walk hand in hand with dreadlocked fairies and crewcut
robots, as wide-eyed hipsters tip their straw hats towards their noses,
shielding a sneak peek at the décolletage of a topless beauty. A smashing of
subcultures erupts at festivals such as Rainbow Serpent, and it’s within the fragile
boundaries of each clan that I feel most welcome. A feeling that tugged on my
soul, even before I chose to ‘live within the lines’ of orthodoxy. Perhaps
that’s why I’ve always felt so comfortable at these events. Leave your
prejudices and judgments at home, and come to these dusty plains to celebrate
life, to celebrate living. The length of a skirt’s hem, a shirt’s sleeve, a
lock of hair, is banished to irrelevance. I am at home. Free.
In
today’s world of blurred identities and an enmeshing of cultures, wide-scoped
assumptions are still held, bubbling beneath the surface. Everything goes, yeah
sure, in theory. Yet chinks in the status quo are often met with uncertainty
and hesitation. To the dinner guests’ surprise, the scarved and sleeved wife
was dragging along her superfrum Israeli husband to her favourite summer
festival. Digging in my heels, I made sure that no smug married lifestyle nor
religious observance was going to get in my way. We were going to Rainbow –
religious style.
***
‘Welcome
and Happy Rainbow,’ the smiling herd of Rainbow Serpent volunteers ushered us
to the camping grounds. Having staked a secluded spot within a fenced area on
an online map, it was now up to my navigation skills in finding it on the
ground.
Driving
towards the enclosed area, a straw-hatted, rainbow-panted volunteer waved us to
stop. ‘Sorry mate, that section’s closed,’ he apologised, and pointed to the
less-populated grounds behind us. ‘You can camp there, there’s heaps of space.’
Charged with the thankless job of guarding access to the fenced area, he had
probably heard a number of excuses from others to get in to this prime festival
real estate. But this was going to be a new one…
‘We
need to camp there actually. It’s for
religious reasons,’ I tried to explain, feeling a little ridiculous as the
words bumbled out of my mouth. Yet I was not about to elaborate on the halachic
restrictions of carrying on Shabbat (tiltul).
‘You
know,’ he started saying as we eyed the empty camping area that ran along the
inside of the fence, ‘it’s only cars that can’t get through.’ Dusk was settling
on the dusty plains, and we didn’t have much time to pitch the tents in
daylight.
‘Just
no cars?’
‘Just
no cars.’
‘Camping
gear ok?’
The
volunteer shrugged and smiled. We were in.
***
We
awoke to the ferocious winds of country Victoria. Hot, furious, and whipping up
everything in its wake, it imposed a harsh quiet on the camping grounds
stretched out around us. The festival was to start today, and most people were
still on their way. Yair’s tefillin straps cracked in the gusts, his tallit
billowing across his back as he recited morning prayers. I settled into a
camping chair, my back to the risen sun, warmth spreading across my neck. See?
I said to myself, it’s not that hard
being religious. This lifestyle, governed by ancient structures and hard-edged
legalities, was a choice, and now I can mold my previous life around it. Simple.
***
Sunset
was approaching as we were waiting in line for a
two-dollar-three-minute-shower, a refreshing delight after being dusted with
dirt from an afternoon of dancing. Throwing friendly nods of recognition to
other members of the tribe, an invitation for Kabbalat Shabbat prayers was
extended to the entire queue, for ‘the most spiritual and uplifting hour of
your life!’ I raised my eyebrows at the claim, but appealing to the
festival-goer’s soul is what brought most of us here. Subconsciously, at least.
That
night, the dance-floor bass throbbed across the darkened campsite, a rhythmic
lullaby pulsing beneath our feet as we trudged back from the Kabbalat Shabbat
prayers; as we ate our canned tuna in the dim of a flashlight; as we turned in
early for the night, cocooned in comfort.
The
unrelenting sun chased us from our tented sweatboxes the following morning.
Seven thirty. It was going to be a long day. Fanning ourselves in the shade of
an umbrella, we changed positions with the moving sun, carefully rationing our
bottled water to last us the entire day. My skin, hot and prickly, was
beginning to burn, as we debated the merits of lathering sunscreen on Shabbat
(another halachic no-no). Friends came and went, all shaking their heads at the
strict observance Yair and I had chosen to apply to ourselves. And at the
cooler hour of dusk, we ventured beyond our camp to the festival hub, wandering
amongst the market stalls and tented shade. Made
it. Shabbat was over. It was time to dance.
***
‘Where’s
your boyfriend?’ a new friend sidled up to me outside the Chai Tent the next
day. I was taking a break in the eucalyptus shade.
‘My
husband? Yair’s on the dance-floor. Over there,’ I told the friend, a tall,
shaggy Sydney-sider.
‘You’re
married? Didn’t pick that!’ he laughed. I smiled. For once my scarved head
didn’t give me away. We talked and talked, and after much chatter, he then
realised I was a religious Jewess. And for once, it didn’t phase him. In fact,
my head covering seemed more like a fashion accessory than a point of
difference here at Rainbow Serpent. On most days, the scarf makes the first
impression for me, often morphing into an invisible cloak of sorts, locking any
curiosity or interest out.
How
do I know this? I know, because I too use to think like this. I didn’t have
time for the ‘religious’ ones. I found them boring, and all too similar to each
other. They didn’t have the life experience nor the textured insight and
conversation I was seeking when meeting new people. And now that I’ve crossed over
to the other side, how interesting and lonely it’s become. The head covering
brought with its soft fabrics and delicate patterns a stifling assumption that
I too don’t possess the life experience, the depth of understanding and
awareness of the world that would be required in a stimulating
conversation.
But
here at Rainbow Serpent, anything goes. Everything goes. On arrival, I slithered
out of my perceived cliché as fast as I could, yet as we packed up the tents
and equipment at the festival’s close, the stereotypes came back out of the box
to settle on our shoulders. Yet for that Australia Day long weekend, reality suspended
and hovered over us for four magical days: first impressions were banished as we
reveled in creativity, inclusion and splendour.
