Die Antwoord is to your eyes and ears what a rusted nail is to a bare foot — once the initial pain and panic subsides and the tetanus shot administered. Well, maybe not like a rusted nail. Actually, I’m not really sure what they’re like. Immediately after viewing the video clip for their song Ninja, I cleaned my face and called a South African friend.

‘So, this Die Antwoord …’ I asked with interest. ‘Oh yes, aren’t they wonderful! Have you seen the interview where Yo-Landi has a mouse on her shoulder?’, she squealed with delight. ‘Errr, no’, I answered and quickly hung up. Die Antwoord walk a very blurred line between reality and LSD induced comas. They recently played to a packed audience on their first Coachella festival. Maybe we’re the ones in an LSD coma? In what other mental state can Justin Bieber be a worldwide phenomenon? Big up Die Antwoord.

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We drank into the early hours of the morning. The air was still pleasant and warm. Drum beats and guitars floated towards us over easy hills and dusty streets. It carried us to a tiny intersection lit by a small open fire. Around it swayed groups of travelling musicians. An erected telescope stood a little further on a grassy patch. A man was speaking to a small group while pointing to the sky with a green laser pointer. We sat close by the fire watching musicians play out of tune guitars and various bongos.

Everyone smiled and rocked in and out of consciousness. Our feet were filthy from the streets. We pressed our sweaty eyes against the telescope and saw more stars than we had ever seen before. We began talking to a local woman and walked her, arm in arm, to the nearby discotheque in the trees. We bought drinks, removed our thongs and took turns to dance. The sun rose and we headed to the beach. We swam in its luke warm waters and fell asleep in the dunes.

When we were awoken by the heat we wandered into town and feasted on fish and cheese empanadas. We returned to the beach which by this time was crowded with families, friends and couples. They lounged and drank mate in the scorching sun. Another travelling band begun playing reggae on a make shift stage. A group of beach volley ball players stopped and danced while everyone clapped politely in between songs. This continued until sundown. We started to drink again.

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We pulled into a small settlement; a place with twenty or so small houses concentrated together with a tiny store. I walked to the outskirts and looked at the land falling in front of me. I passed caged pigs and cow skulls lying in the dirt. On numerous occasions I’d read that Patagonia houses a ferocious wind like no other land. To quote Bruce Chatwin: ‘it is a wind so fierce it strips men to the core’. Trees stood ripped and battered at some angle; one side bare, the other clutching at what branches remained preventing them from being ripped from the truck. The tops of the trees bent and cracked as if in an invisible arm wrestle. They had struggled with the wind since saplings.

I met a man named Mario who ran a small pizza shop. I walked past twice before noticing. Mario was tall, slightly overweight and grey. He was contagiously happy. He rewound a tape sitting in an old tape deck, removed it, turned it and pressed play. Before it had a chance to begin he turned the volume knob and asked me in broken English ‘you like dance?’

Before I could reply a booming sound raced from the speakers. Mario started shuffling beside the counter and when I noticed some fellow bus travellers advancing towards the door I started dancing too imaging what they would think, me dancing with a 50-60 year old man in a Patagonian Pampa pizza store.

A shadow drew closer from the small hall. It was Mario’s son. He was also tall and looked simple with his shiny black hair combed forward. He had broad shoulders and looked as if he’d done a lot of lifting in his younger days. I think he was as surprised as I felt seeing his Father dancing with a Gringo. I couldn’t help but see the funny side. He retreated back to the hall without as much as a grin. Mario looked at me, looked back down the hall and smiled which made me smile.

Mario began telling us about his life on the land. He’d lived on the land for 28 years, had the store more or less the same time. His son was my age but looked much older. He showed us pictures of his first truck, hiking, branding, riding and various father son moments.
He did not mention his wife nor have a photo of her. I didn’t ask.

We clambered back on the bus and sunk into a dirt road. It was wide and disappeared into the horizon. I stared at it until dark.

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Osv Aldo Furrer Vigneaux welcomed me into his small kitchen with enthusiastic hand gestures and a warm smile. He was stocky, balding and bounced when he walked. It was unassuming and homely. There were several medium sized pots on the stove and a young woman at the sink. It opened to a larger guest area that was filled with natural light. We spoke about his many dips and liquors. He had particular favourites and passionately informed me of the flavours and the inspirations of each. I was particularly interested in the pink coloured liquor containing a rose petal. He assured me I could taste it but first wanted to show me his ‘baby olive trees’.

Ovs’s eyes widened and glinted as he gently fingered the young saplings leaves. ‘You see the Greek olives? They are much larger than the Argentine olives.’ ‘When did you start the olive farm?’ I asked. His eyes narrowed, ‘Oh, many years ago. It was at first a hobby but then I suffered, how you say … a breakdown. I was ordered to stop working and change lifestyle.’

Curious, I pushed ahead, ‘What were you doing before the farm?’ ‘Ahhhh …’ he said, eyes widening again, ‘I was engineer at global firm. Very stressful, but we don’t talk about that now, we eat!’

I tasted while Osv spoke about his wife and daughters. They had moved from Buenos Aries and now lived on the farm. He seemed happy and I admired him. ‘Now …’ he said, reaching for the pink liquor ‘this is special present I make my wife for 25th wedding anniversary.’ He poured a small amount in a shot glass ‘you must smell first. Smell.’ It smelt sweet like a warm spring evening. ‘Now you taste’ he said raising his glass. ‘Cheers.’

It tasted like perfume floating in the air and I told him so. ‘Haha, yes, yes, wife very happy.’ He laughed. ‘You are very happy, no?’ I questioned.
‘Yes, happy and fat!’ he said giggling his stomach. We both laughed.

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I’m writing this sitting in the driveway of one of the most magnificent hostels and neighbourhoods I’ve had the privilege to visit. Seagulls fly overhead, and in front of me, to the end of the driveway, lies a view of the Pacific Ocean. The sun reflects against the peeling white paint of the hostel and neighbouring garage. It radiates heat but not enough for me to feel uncomfortable.

A steep sharp cliff sits on this side of the road. It shadows a busy road and light rail that runs between here and Vina del Mar, another beautiful beachside town. If I listen hard enough, I can hear waves crash against the shore and trains slowing at the nearby platform. The sky is a perfect bright blue.

To the hills behind streets twist and bend around brightly coloured houses. Elderly men collect shopping from small shop fronts and slowly return home in the heat to prepare tasty local dishes. The kitchen fills with grandchildren and flustered parents in anticipation of the upcoming feast. His wife, moistened handkerchief in hand, hugs and snatches at her grandchildren running through the small brightly lit kitchen. A football lies just outside the kitchen door. Frustrated mothers yell at their boys to move it across the courtyard — she doesn’t want Grandma falling over them.

The courtyard, while small, houses a small table and four chairs. It is saturated with the smell of cooking. The smell overflows into the street and down towards the sea. It is just a wonderful, wonderful place. [photos by Allan and Roger Soutaris]

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So I scoured the internet in search of an answer to this question: Who or what is Chris Dane Owens? And I found these choice quotes, instead: 1. It will take me hours to recover from the disorientation this video has induced. It’s like it’s 1985 all over again. In Narnia.

2. What you need to know is that Mr. Owens will live forever — until the dragons rule the earth again (or the first time, whatever )— and that you are going to watch this video more times than you can imagine. You may dream of this video, but the dream won’t be as good because it won’t be this video. 3. What if someone you were dating sent you a link to that video with the lone note, ‘Makes me think of us?’ Wait! That wasn’t good enough? Apparently this is only the first in a trilogy of ‘romantic fantasy music videos’. Now you can dream of all three romantic fantasy videos, but the dream won’t be as…

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