I arrive at the campsite; this is going to be some happening. I can feel the Rasta man vibration in the air. Setting up the tents was hell, to many cars, to close to my tent poles. I’m glad that’s over with, and I’m gladder that nobody saw me scraping that car.
My photographer and I are rolling our first joint, somewhere far from our encampment. “This is it man, total relaxation, this is the feeling you’re looking for, fuck it, throw your notepad away, you’re done”. My photographer is an optimistic man, from time to time. He also is a very drunk man, his body can’t handle alcohol and he’s had plenty on the drive over.
“No man, fuck it, I’m going to the festival, this can’t be it” and that was that, we parted ways as I picked up our stoner, Chris, who was also a part of our trip.

The trip to the festival was a disappointment; no reggae bands yet, just a MC and a DJ. We decided to check out the craft market we heard about. Terrible paranoia crept upon us the moment we entered. Every stand had it’s own music. Which in some way all had very, very loud bass. We rushed through, clearly not drunk enough to handle this. A drunken mind can shut out all the noise and focus on the important stuff. Sadly, a drunken mind decides for itself just what the important stuff is. My findings are that this mostly results in pussy and beer. A good combination, unless you’re drinking one from the other. I’m straying from the point.

Terrible gibberish at the campsite; money makes the world go round, so does self-made beer. These Belgium’s are weird people. Their language is almost identical to mine; however I don’t understand a thing they are saying. The true Reggae Feeling is C. What C? What are you talking about man? You’re useless, all of you.

My photographer and myself find ourselves reunited somehow, at the craft market. My mind is in such a state that it can filter out all the music. This did result in buying a terrible Hawaiian shirt together with my photographer, but hey, chick must think we are hot now. I mean, look at us.
After leaving the craft market, we return to with our journey. We were searching for something, it isn’t quite clear what it was. But man, are these girls hot. I decide to look at the thing in my hand, a yellow coke bottle… What is this? Reggae Geel coke bottles? What’s the use? Why? Why would a big ass corporation like Coca Cola be interested in a reggae festival, what’s the point? I can’t grasp is, fuck man, what’s next… This is the end. Next thing you know I’ll be putting on a rubber in the shape of a coke bottle. Fuck man, why not? The fuckers will get away with it.

I find myself at the campsite, totally relaxed. The boom box is playing the Toy Dolls this has to be the Reggae Feeling, escaping the mayhem and craziness of a festival, the conversations that you forget only seconds after they end. Escaping from the never-ending reggae with some British punk. Yes, this is true relaxation. It might have been the guy who I’ve never seen and pressed a joint in my hand, only to pass out seconds later. I don’t know.

Well well, that’s that..
Beer more beer, why the hell here?
Ok give the man paper and some towels.

This morning has been rough; to say the least… now after finding some shade and beer the recovering has began. Just lost three bucks in poker, which is quite the accomplishment seeing we were playing for cents. I lost the Reggae Feeling, or I might never have found it. My appointed photographer is rambling about truth and the lack of it. There is no Reggae Feeling.
This is quite disturbing coming from a black man with a dreaded mohawk. Fuck, he is the closest thing we have to a Rasta. The search goes on. There will be no stopping. I did realise that there are less drunken idiots here then at a regular festival. There might be some connection.

There is some truth…. somewhere.

Fucking wasps, everywhere. What do these little fuckers want? I found the cocktail bar and ever since they are bothering me even more. My drink of choice is a Rasta safari. But in my other hand I’m holding my vodka caffeine. Bloody brilliant combination if you ask me. My photographer is out of collision, due to too many THC, eating in a horrible deadly fashion. He’s tripping by the campsite. I think we won’t see him for the next couple of hours. He needs beer, that’s right it’s a bloody festival. What is this Reggae Feeling, I wonder. Maybe I’ll find it, later, after organising this mess, these terrible notes. My photographer deemed it necessary to make some additions. So many possibilities.
Maybe it is the feeling of relaxation when retreating with some punk music. Every pie has it’s own flavour. I didn’t go backstage. The big fucker at the entrance said my press pass wasn’t valid. And since it wasn’t, there was no point. I didn’t think of the possibility that they wouldn’t believe me. And why would they hide the Reggae Feeling back there.
It’s fucking Woodstock in 2004. There is almost a religious aspect to this festival, the almighty Jah and king Rastafari, the terrible dictator who some Rasta’s believe is Jesus. They are the Jews and Ethiopia is the Promised Land. Holy mount Zion.

What is this terrible thing eating me from the inside. My vision has gone blurry, my balance is gone and I can’t make a coherent sentence leave my mouth. My liver has gone on strike. Who can blame him? He’s been working hard for two days now. My photographer is still missing, have you seen him? He’s black, just like you. Terrible gibberish around me about lighters, why? It’s not that you need it; your cigarette is lit.

The night ended in a blur and when the morning came most tents around mine were already gone. My photographer was packing his and offered to help me pack mine when I recovered. I needed to take a dumb, but the toilets were all messed up. Man, they threw one over and put it back up, shit was coming from under the door. Fuck this I thought; let’s go. After packing the stuff we drove back to our home. Making a stop only to take a dump at the nearest gas station. Did I find the Reggae Feeling? I don’t know. Maybe it was the feeling when entering a trance like state while Skanking. Maybe it was the common feeling of togetherness that this festival had over it. Who knows? Frankly, who cares?