Shambala 2008

Shambala 2008

01 September, 2008
by: Lowri

Shambala. Even the name is heavenly. According to Tibetan Buddists, it's a mythical kingdom hidden beyond the snowpeaks of the Himalayas. For our purposes, it's a magical little festival in middle England - an escape from the reality of work and cities and money – a wonderland where everyone smiles and all you need is love.

For years now, the Shambala Festival has remained a closely guarded secret. It's not billed as a secret then shouted from the roof tops – it's the real deal. The organizers want to keep it on the down-low. They use absolutely no advertising. Those who frequent it guard it preciously. Whole swathes of individuals have completely missed out because it happened to pass them by. Others have been lucky enough for the event to somehow become entangled in their lives via word of mouth, whispers in the dark - and now will go no where else.

It began with a party, as these things so often do. 150 people in a field with a farmers trailer as a stage. That was eleven years ago. The beauty of Shambala is that it's grown organically - through friends telling friends telling friends - which effectively means that everyone there is linked in some small way. It attracts lots of families – and the reason this endures is that everyone who goes is so utterly chilled. Alternative folk, lefties, hippies, forest people, fairies, activists, party fiends, naked festival kids, fluffy free party bunnies. It speaks volumes that absolutely everything my irresponsible friends managed to lose was returned to Lost Property. It doesn't occur to you to worry about getting robbed. You are amongst friends. Parents give their kids a marmite sandwich and a quid and let them run riot for the day, meeting other little ragamuffins and generally causing havoc. It's the kind of place that impels you to turn off your phone, kick off your shoes, put on a hat and talk to whoever you are sitting next to.

Friday night, as darkness shrouds the campsite and stragglers rush to erect tents, the whole festival is quivering with that special pre-party tension. People are swigging from cider bottles, daubing themselves in glitter, wrapping their kids in yaks wool blankets, washing down fair trade cake with organic chai. The Beat are rocking the casbah on the main stage and a Chinese dragon is winding its way through the crowd – held aloft by a chain of people. Nicky Blackmarket makes a surprise appearance in the heaving dance tent, injecting some classic old skool jungle for the committed. One of the crowning glories of the site is the forest area – which has been turned into a Woodland Art Trail. Nets are stretched between trees providing a massive playpen for the hundreds who are chattering amongst the branches like monkeys.

There is something undeniably glorious about dancing with the people you love beneath a 200 year old oak as sunlight tickles your skin through its canopy. Variety is the key to any good festival – and Shambala provides for all. If you want to go loco you can. If you want shanti shanti then it's all there. Back at the festival, a gang of cheetahs have commandeered a loud haler and are organizing people-rodeo. Everyone seems to be totally getting into the swing, men are prancing around with screaming women on their shoulders while their antics are marked out of ten by a panel of giggling judges. It's the tail end of the Festival Olympics – which involved peanut shot-put and other shenanagins. People watch smugly from hot tubs while a mobile sound system beside the lake kicks out classic hip hop. Others sip mead from the medieval village and nod approvingly. The sun is beating down on the sea of smiles.

Elsewhere, a game of full-contact, balloon croquet is going on. The protagonists line up clutching balloons and mallets. They fill their lungs with nitrous then race to push their ball through the futile little hoops. It gets way out of hand. Rugby tackles and dirty playing are rife, other player's balls whacked way out of range amid screams and it ends in a giggling pile of piss artists.

The Saturday night carnival has long been one of Shambala's trade-marks (yes Rob da Bank – they did it first) and tonight's is peopled with Ghostbusters, Ooompa Loompers, troops of jungle animals, drag queens, fairies, top-hatted gentry, grannies, beauty queens. They congregate at the lake before winding their way round the entire site, pulling in people, drowning out sound-systems, the drums and whoops making the kids dance around like dogs before a storm.

Musically Shambala has always been underground. They feature festival bands who only really play in fields, global musicians from the world music stage, leftfield djs, alternative poets, dancers, performers, drummers. Gypsy-punk, ska, funk, dub, reggae, afrobeat, tablas, bongos, djembes. Gadjo – a Barcelonan gypsy-ska outfit - send the crowd into a frenetic jumping mess as they close the geisha tent on Sunday night and shout in beautiful, lilting Spanish-tinged voices: 'This festival is amaaazing!'.

As darkness falls, we are nestled in a random geo-dome when a dreadlocked gent stumbles in. His name is Captain Grimace. He clears his throat. Words begin to tumble rhythmically from his mouth, foul and hilarious tales about stuffing swans into unicorns and cutting tails off peacocks. He commands the crowd with a rendition of Johnny Cockhands – the poor boy who 'had cocks for hands and shit for brains'. He tells us in rhyme how he tried to blow MD up his girlfriends bum with a biro, regales us with disgusting, depraved humour until we are all utterly helpless. 'And this one's for old Johnny Cockhands!' he screams, punching the air while everyone goes berserk.

Was there a programme? If such a thing existed I never clapped eyes on one. But that's the beauty of it. Roaming round, seeing what you see, doing what you do. No planning, no rushing. Relaxing into it, letting the river flow and dancing as it carries you with it. The Sanskrit meaning of Shambala is a place of peace, tranquility and happiness and that's exactly what it is.


Follow the links to read my reviews of Secret Garden Party and Bestival. 

Lowri