Roskilde Music Festival 2012

My parents never sent me away to sleep away camp during the summer when I was growing up. I am sure if you asked them they would say that they were looking out for my best interests and my mother claims that only parents who don’t love their children send them away. At the age of twenty-three I finally broke free and got to go to summer camp! Well sort of. I volunteered at the Roskilde Music Festival in Denmark for two glorious weeks at the end of June and beginning of July. It was insanity at it’s best.

Most of you reading my blog will have no idea what Roskilde is, so here is a basic breakdown. It is the biggest music festival in norther Europe and over 100,000 people attend every year and it is almost entirely run by volunteers. There is an overwhelming feeling of community and caring for those around you, although when a drunk Danish teenage girl who was sitting next to me one night told me that she had just gone pee sitting down and I didn’t even notice, I wasn’t feeling so communal. Over 200 musical acts performed this year, so I quickly forgot about the peeing drunk.

I arrived to the festival grounds the morning of June 25, dragging my suitcase through the mud, feeling relief when I saw my Danish friend Nina, that I had met a year earlier when I was working at the Wiz-Art Short Film Festival. (She was the one who also scored me the job at Roskilde and I am forever grateful to her for it.) I was assigned to help build The Urban Zone at the festival. I did my best to work with power tools and not cut any appendages off my body, but it is safe to say that I was better at just painting things.

"Mhahaha someone gave me power tools!" Photo credit: Marianne Falck

Clearly I was having too much fun painting. Photo credit: Marianne Falck

 Our work days were from nine in the morning until close to ten at night, with long breaks for lunch and dinner. In exchange for work we got to sleep in little wagons with bunk beds, three meals a day, snacks, hot showers, free entry to the festival and most importantly five beers a day.

Working Hard

Break Time on the Plaits

Russian Graffiti Artist  

Russian Graffiti Artist Painting the Urban Zone

During the first week it safe to say that I gladly made an ass of myself in front other volunteers with my bicycle riding skills that normally meant I had to stand on something to mount a borrowed bike due to my short legs. (People took pictures of it. I told them it wasn’t my fault, we don’t ride bikes in America.)

Me looking slightly retarded, riding a bike in the rain. Photo credit: Nina Bischoff

 My teammates were slightly impressed with how much Danish culture I knew, but were horrified when I mentioned Nik and Jay and how much I love them. I regaled them with my stories of adventure, that involved Norwegians dressed as a penguin and crap super heros, like Robin and hippies that kissed me for no reason in front of the mess hall. This was all before the festival had even started.

Warm up was from July 1 through July 4, which featured Nordic bands. I went to a show by Copenhagen DJs on the third night that was at the skate park that we had at the festival. It was amazing to be surrounded by thousands of people dancing to the same music, there was an electric energy there that you couldn’t help be a part of.

One the first day of the festival The Cure was the headliner at the Orange stage and I was beyond excited. I went with some of my Danish friends and unfortunately they sounded great, but lacked enthusiasm, so I wondered off and did something else. The next day I had a slight break down about my hair and went into town to get it cut, as the last time I had more done to it then the sides shaved was when I was in Ukraine over winter break. I asked the lady cutting my hair to do something trendy and that wouldn’t be popular in the States. I then went and got dark brown hair dye and dyed it in one of the bathrooms in the festival, keeping check on the time to make sure that I didn’t miss Jack White.

New Hair.  Photo credit: Marianne Falck

 I again went with friends to see him and the whole time I danced and sang along, but when he started playing Seven Nation Army the fourteen year old inside of me died in sheer bliss. The Saturday night of the festival posed some massive scheduling conflicts with Bruce Springsteen and Bon Iver playing at the same time.  Bruce started first so I watched him and he became the new love of my life. I don’t care if he is older then my father. I ran over fifteen minuets before Bon Iver started playing and the arena that could hold over 17,000 people was over crowded with drunk and high pushing teenagers, so I gave up and went back to Bruce. I was not going to have my feelings on Bon Iver tainted. Sunday I decided it was to be a day of rest like any good Christian, just perhaps not in the way that most people think of it.

Ok so this photo was taken at an earlier time then that Sunday, but it looked similar. Photo credit: Marianne Falck

The Monday and Tuesday after consisted of us cleaning up, breaking down what we had built and goodbyes. Tuesday night we also had an end of festival gala for the volunteers. It was refreshing and odd to see everyone showered and in their genteel attire. Everyone was asking everyone else if they would see each other next year and when I was asked I just shrugged, smiled, and said, “who knows where in the world I’ll be next year.”

People Carting in Beer

Resting In Between Shows

Peeing Drunk Into A Trash Can

   

Schedule 

Feel Free To Be Who You Want To Be

I would like to sincerely thank everyone I worked with at Roskilde and for letting me be the token American on your team. It is an experience that I will never forget and I am sure I will see all of you again at another festival. Again a massive thank you to Nina! 

Born In The U.S.A.!

Being an American living abroad on an anniversary of September 11th is an odd experience and perhaps has given me a broader perspective of the events. It’s a day that to sound totally cliche, but every American remembers exactly where they were and what they were doing. 

I am no exception. I was 12 years old and our grade was spilt into our respected two groups that had all of our meetings together. The morning had a strange feel to it as kids were randomly getting pulled out of school, so we knew that something was going on. A little before noon they put us in to the two 7th grade science classes and told us what had happened. I didn’t even know what the Twin Towers were before this, but I knew it was bad. The one question I had that day was, why?

This morning in Tbilisi I woke up to my alarm going off on my iPod to and the date came up. September 11, 2012. This feeling of just wanting to be alone came over me and in America where it’s “safe.” It is a day that I don’t like to talk about, mostly because I think if I had to pin point where my childhood might have ended this day would be as close as I could get. When I was getting ready to go to a meeting I tried deciding on to wear I was going to go with my red cowboy boots, navy cardigan and light grey dress (I try not to own white clothes. I destroy them) to show support for America.  

I read an article the other day about how Americans often lie when they are traveling about where they are from out of fear and how we need to reclaim pride of our nation. So when I was on the metro coming home this evening Bruce Springsteen’s “Born In The U.S.A.” came on and I rocked out to it mouthing the words and dancing a little. I didn’t care who starred at me, if there was one day to say “I am an American and  proud of it” today was the day. Maybe signing the Star Spangled Banner would have been more appropriate, but this is me and I will reclaim my Americanness in anyway I see fit.

Also the events of that day have made me push my boundaries. Horrible over generalizations were made because of it, like “all Muslims are terrorists,” “the world hates America,” and so on.  My parents taught me to think for myself and I started to question this almost right away, unfortunately, maybe, for them this had fueled my desire to travel. When I first started traveling solo I was careful for a little bit to “hide” my Americanness, lying and telling people I was from Canada. Now I’m completely open and honest because I have never gotten a negative response from anyone, beside maybe someone from England or Australia. Generally I find most people, especially in Eastern Europe where I’ve traveled the most lately, to be curious, over welcoming, and wanting to know everything. I also am compelled to visit countries that people generally cross off their travel lists because of miss conceptions. Being surrounded by two Muslim countries and Muslim territories in Russia may put some people on edge. When I walk by a Mosque I look at it with curiosity and wonder about the unknown of them to me, but I never see a training ground for killing or hate.

One of my roommates this semester is from Iran and without a doubt is one of the most interesting people I have ever met. I sit like a child listening to him talk about his travels around the world and most of all about Iran. It is such a misinformed subject in America and people tend to write it off as every citizen from there hates us. For the most part they don’t hate us, just our governments don’t like each other to put it simply. It is not as restrictive and primitive as the media makes it out to be. There is Facebook, sex out of wedlock, drinking alcohol, free thinking, consumerism, and more similarities then differences between the people of the two nations. 

This isn’t a day for hate, but remembrance and understanding, because without exposure to experiences and ideas we will never know what we are missing. Not so long ago people were not so fond of the Irish and Italians, but without them there would be no Guinness or any Italian food that most of us love. I just want to ask one thing of you on this day of remembrance, go and talk to someone from a different culture that you normally never would. It doesn’t have to a conversation filled with politics, just things you would talk to a friend about. You’ll probably be surprised. If you aren’t motivated by what I’ve said, think about me in Georgia and how when I first got here I knew no one.It always makes things a little bit easier when a Georgia wants to know more about my culture and share some of theres with me. There are probably thousands of Emilys out there right now who are away from their friends and families and that one person could make all the difference and change their perspective.

 

And Bruce Springsteen for your listening pleasure.

Is This The Line?

Physical abuse is something that I do not agree with, especially when it involves a child and disguised by calling it discipline. I’ve never been a parent, but I’ve grown up living in a house where a day care is run and I have a brother who is 11 years younger then me, and I’ve never felt the need to hit a child. In Georgia, unfortunately not everyone feels this way. 

According to Unicef 79.8% of children under the age of eleven and in the eleven to eighteen year age range that number drops to 44%, but that is still alarmingly high. 19% of children in the report, were physically disciplined before their first birthday and 90% of four to seven year olds were. The most common punishments were reported to be shaking, pulling hair, twisting ears, and smacking on the bottom with a hand. “Just over a fifth of respondents (to the survey) 21.5% reported that they had repeatedly hit their child ( beat him/ her up). Eight respondents admitted to trying to choke or suffocate the child and 6 burning him/ her.” 

(You can read the whole report here: http://www.unicef.org/georgia/Violence_Study_ENG_final.pdf and the article which is a little easier to read and takes less time to understand here: http://www.unicef.org/georgia/media_11332.html )

I was back in my village this weekend to visit with my host family and to deliver four backpacks with school supplies and some clothes to one of my old students’ family, who are very poor. I walked to their house, paying close attention to make sure that I didn’t drag any of the straps in the mud, as it had down poured the night before. I reached the house and I heard screaming by the mother at one of her daughters and what was the mother hitting the daughter and she cried out after every hit. I only stood there for a few seconds before I went in the gate. The youngest daughter came out of the house and was over joyed to see me standing there and yelled to her mother that I was there. The screaming by her stopped and there was sounds of shuffling inside. All the adults put on a happy face to see me, but I also noticed that the bedroom door was shut. I wanted to be out of this situation as soon as possible. Teach and Learn with Georgia told us during orientation that we are never to directly intervene with domestic violence, for obvious reasons. I handed out the backpacks to the two children who were in the room and the youngest daughter was the most over joyed about it. The middle daughter was pleased and modest. I was offered coffee and juice and I refused both. I didn’t want to take anything from this family who had so little. 

The oldest daughter came out of the bedroom after she had regained composure, but her face was still red and she was wiping away tears. I should also mention that she is about fourteen. She looked ashamed when I looked at her, because she knew that I knew what had happened. I however did not know what caused her mother to hit her, but I highly doubt it justified her actions. When I was there the mother also got mad at the middle daughter (age 11)  for doing something minuscule wrong and angrily took her in the kitchen and I saw her rase her hand threateningly before closing the door behind her. Coffee did appear for me at one point and I didn’t drink it. It was the one rebellion I could perform against her for treating her children in such a way and I told her harshly that I didn’t want it when I left.

I wanted to take her children with me, but there are currently no laws to my knowledge against corporal punishment in the home. Sadly his isn’t a secret in the village by any means. My co-teacher last semester would tell me what students had a “hard life,” which she sometimes went into detail about, but always meant they were being physically abused. No one speaks out because they are too ashamed and they have to live in such a close knit community for most likely their whole life, where they would be shunned for reporting such actions to the authorities. Out of the four children in the family, the three that I taught last year all showed signs of abuse and neglect. It is easier then I want to admit, to write off things, as they are extremely poor, like their unkept appearance at times. I had even witnessed the mother swat at the children before. The question is what to do with this knowledge, being a foreigner in a country with nonexistent child protective services. How long is one suppose to wait, until there is a visible bruise, a broken bone, or a dead child?