Travelling from Silence Up to Eleven

I found myself driving along the spectacularly spiral Hinterland roads en route to the largest folk festival in Australia and my first festival ever. Just me and my three lil’ siblings who were all under 18. Oh yes, I was the chaperone. The unqualified adult.
Or rather, the total loner. Something that became obvious once the sibs shot into the festival sans me. But with 120,000 people attending each year I was bound to make friends somehow, right?
Woodford is a sweaty, dusty, but also gloriously twinkling village with the majority of festival goers donning earth toned yoga pants with confident bare feet moving at their own casual sunshine coast pace. Bathroom stalls were peppered with instagramable graffiti; profound words, environmental protests and a number of comments about how the people of Woodford were the nicest people in the world. I though it was happy hippy hoo-har until I found myself in a small group trying to get into a sold out all male burlesque show.
Curtains were pulled tight, stage managers were enjoying pointless power trips while we jeered at the injustice of the fact that there was clearly enough standing room for us. We were sure that the ‘power’ would fall. After all, this was Woodfordia; it’s all about peace and respect. Surely ‘the man’ had to cave.
They called security instead.
Some of us were unfazed, bantering with the security who were humoured by our plight. As time ticked by, only myself and a girl called ‘P’ remained. Dressed in a straw hat, bags from a days shopping and the strongest natural tan I’d ever seen, P was eloquent, savvy and hilarious. When the show was over, knowing I was solo and new festival-goer, she took my hand demanding that I had a proper Woodford night out.
Turned out Woodfordia nights were full of mischief. Chatting up apparent band members before dancing with intoxicated ravers who would never remember. Following street performers to out perform them. Finding self-proclaimed artists creating street art out of rocks and stolen pot plants that P and I were more than happy to acquire. Sharing life stories and receiving the kind of advice that you can’t help but take on because its from a stranger with good intentions.
Tiptoeing back to the tent as the sun was rising, careful not to wake the sleeping sibs’, I was left with a realisation that Woodford had become my rabbit hole. It wasn’t just about connection with others; in the midst of playing outside of the norm, I’d remade a connection with myself.