Religion: Rainbow

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.