Reykjavík Grapevine - 14.07.2006, Side 27

I was more excited for the events coming up later that night, a
ritual that has lived with Roskilde for some time now.
When the festival is over and people have little need for
their tents, a great many feel that taking the tent back home
would be needlessly complicating things. Add to this the fact
that most of the festivalgoers never want to see the inside of a
tent again after the freezing nights and sweat-drenched morn-
ings they were forced to spend, and you’re left with a whole
lot of useless tents. And what better way to put the pointless
structures out of their misery than completely destroying
them?
Veterans of Roskilde had been intriguing me with tales of
the destruction since the second day, recounting how gangs
of up to a dozen young men had roamed around the campsite,
bearing the skeletal remains of already-gutted tents as weapons
and approaching them, only to ask politely “Oi mate, can we
wreck your tent?”
This year, people were even more forthright, often simply
running up to a tent and getting underway with its demolition
without giving so much as a bellow of warning to any inhabit-
ants that might still be inside sleeping. An extremely drunk
kid I met was stumbling between two tents brandishing a can
of lighter f luid. When I asked him what he planned to do
with it, he just stared at me, bewildered and paranoid. A short
silence followed, during which he no doubt deduced that my
concern for the safety of festivalgoers and my own drunken-
ness meant I wasn’t one of the completely useless volunteers
roaming around the campsite. He then proceeded to wander
toward a collection of tents a short distance away while I
watched soberly, swearing I would interject as soon as he tried
something stupid.
However, he never reached the tents. Another guy with
a baseball cap jogged up and spoke to him in Danish before
leading him away.
“He a friend of yours?” I called and took a swig of my
cherry wine.
The second guy turned around and smiled. “Yeah. We just
sent him out to get some lighter f luid. We’re gonna burn our
tent. Want to… come and watch?” he slurred drunkenly.
“Sure. Why not?”
I walked with them, attempting to decipher their speech,
only to fail miserably. Like many Icelandic people of my gen-
eration, I spent most of my Danish classes doodling band logos
and staring out of the window. My limited knowledge of the
language does definitely not extend to understanding heavily
intoxicated Danish natives discussing the intricacies of setting
fire to their tent.
When we finally got there, the Danes introduced me to
about five or six of their friends, who were busy pulling sleep-
ing bags and other camping paraphernalia out of a largish,
blue-and-white tent. There was a sense of urgency to them, as
if they had to burn the whole thing down before they recon-
sidered their actions, but judging by the drunken guffaws and
gleeful lustre in their eyes, reevaluation was the last thing on
their minds.
With the tent emptied, there was only one thing to it. The
second Dane, who had introduced himself as Åge, staggered in
a circle around the tent while hosing down the base of it with
the lighter f luid. A friend snatched the can away from him
and gave the inside a couple of healthy spurts. Before I could
ask how they intended to start the fire, Åge’s friend, the very
drunk one who had bought the f luid, pulled out one of those
grill lighters with the trigger and safety on them, wavered
around for a second as if about to fall over, and touched the
f luid with the f lame on the end of the lighter.
The lighter f luid turned out to be a waste of time, as the
sudden crackle of incinerated material and swiftly carrying
f lame revealed the tent to be mostly polyester. Åge’s friend
took a quick step back as the others laughed and opened beers,
while Åge, evidently the leader of the group, produced a joint.
The tent needed to be relit several times, as the f lame quickly
burned out, but once the groundsheet caught fire, the whole
thing burned steadily for about twenty minutes or so, although
it was impossible to say how long we really sat there, slowly
letting the laughter die out as the tent collapsed softly in front
of us.
There is no escaping the mesmerising effect of an open
fire on the human eye. So enraptured were we that it took us
a minute or two to notice the people staring at the burning
structure, and I found myself amazed at how unconcerned I
was that a safety volunteer might arrive. I just couldn’t under-
stand how this was a bad thing.
A couple huddled together at the edge of the light, the girl
pointing wide-eyed to the air above the fire, where wafting
embers of polyester were being tossed into the air, carried up-
wards by the heat. I looked to my left, where Åge’s friend was
busy throwing up on the grass. Åge simply watched, smiling
calmly before he noticed me watching, and grinned mischie-
vously, showing perfect teeth.
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