Rave Revelry and the Reckoning

Memoirs of Mayhem Episode 2

This trip report feels like it spans lifetimes, a jagged thread yanked from memory’s tangle. This chapter rewinds years before the elephant saga of episode 1—back to a time my friends still marvel at me recalling with such clarity. They call it a gift, this sharp-edged memory, and I wonder if it’s leading us somewhere big. Could an “AH-HA!” twist lurk just ahead? {elephant - connection - memory?} Who knows?
Just don’t ask me anything from 3 days ago.

The words flow freely onto this digital page; I don’t outline or plan my essays. I start with the first sentence and let the story unfold as it wishes to be presented. Most insights within these lines emerge during the writing process, making them as new to me as they are to you.

Thank you for riding along.

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Stacy’s 16th birthday lands like a spark in a dry field. We’re stuck in a coal-mining town—a grim, grimy hole with over 20 collieries choking the air. It’s the kind of place that dares you to dream beyond its soot-stained edges. Unless you’re a sports nut, your options are limited: get high, skateboard, repeat. That’s my vibe. The boys are all English and cute and they make a fuss since I’m the only girl who skids knees, unlike the other ‘posers’.

Stacy’s different: soft-spoken, petite, a shy flicker of light in the gloom. Life’s dealt her a rough hand, and confidence eludes her even more than me, especially in English. But peel back the quiet, and she’s a blast. She’s dating this 19-year-old oddball—pale as death, hair to match, a wannabe gangster strutting in baggy jeans, Nike Cortez, and Fubu shirts. He tosses around “homeboys” and the n-word like he’s auditioning for a bad rap video. Lame doesn’t cover it. Still, he’s got one redeeming trait: he’s a hookup for ecstasy and LSD—ZAR 15 a pop. That matters soon.

The plan ignites when Stacy’s sister, Landa, invites us to Johannesburg for the weekend. She’s got a husband, a baby, and a promise of our first clubbing experience. We arrive at Landa’s Friday night, dressed sharp, buzzing with anticipation—only to learn Landa’s staying home. Fair enough, babies don’t party. But she’s prepped us: a hand-drawn map with an “X” for the club’s drug dealer, plus tips to charm the bouncers past the ID check. Stacy, officially sweet 16, and I (15), get dropped at this trance club—an old farmhouse squatting on the city’s fringe, pulsing with promise.

We fork over the cover charge, leaving us with ZAR 80 between us—more significant than it sounds. A winding garden path leads to the house, where a few brave souls huddle outside despite the biting winter chill. The patio’s sealed off, a makeshift haven with a bar, corner-shop fridges brimming with fruit and snacks, and wooden tables scattered like islands. It’s got sidewalk-cafe vibes, but Landa’s map is useless here. We’re fish out of water, claiming an empty table to gawk at the scene. The crowd seems older than we expected—late 20s, 30s—draped in black like they’re mourning their youth. Three women steal the spotlight: mid-calf fishnets with lace trim, black platform stilettos clicking, mini skirts hugging tight, V-neck bodysuits clinging. One rocks a leather-and-leopard bomber jacket, her Pulp Fiction bob the most avant-garde look I’d ever had the pleasure of admiring. They ooze cool, sass, danger.

Then we spot them—two guys, stupidly handsome, gliding through the crowd like they own it. Levi’s 517 bootcuts, square-toe loafers, and white broad-collar shirts crisp as new money. They’re dealing, as smoothly as restaurant managers taking orders. We watch, mesmerised, as they sell pills at a nearby table. When they finish, we wave them over, hearts thudding as they saunter closer. Yep, these are our guys.

Nate and John pitch their stock: “triple x” from Amsterdam, ZAR 80 each. We’ve blown some cash on a shared drink, so we’re short. But they take a liking to us—two kids in over our heads—and comp us each a pill. They slide into our table, and soon, the ecstasy kicks in. A warm flood crashes over me, senses sparking, walls crumbling. John’s voice cuts through the haze: “Wanna dance?” I’m on my feet before I answer, following him to a double door—a bank vault heavily soundproofed tight. Unsuspecting of what I would find on the other side.

Beyond it, darkness swallows me whole. Pitch-black, hot, humid—like stepping into a void. I can’t see a thing, but everything else screams louder. A solitary, ethereal female voice floats in the darkness, accompanied by delicate, airy synths that shimmer and fade. An intimate hush envelops me, where each soft note seems to echo through the silence, inviting me to pause and simply exist. At that moment, the absence of rhythm allowed my mind to wander freely, and I felt like a lone traveller adrift in a vast, reflective soundscape.

Goosebumps claw my skin, sharp enough to sting. Each bump presses outward, a raw, electric dance of thrill and ache rippling down my arms and legs, lingering like a bruise you can’t stop touching.

Then—bam—strobes ignite, and the track explodes at 133 bpm. Bass throbs deep, vibrating my bones, laced with crystalline synths that swell and glimmer. The beat’s pulsing through me, blurring where I end and the sound begins. Eyes shut, I’m untethered—the music’s a force, sculpting my moves, painting emotions in neon streaks. Time melts in that dark, leaving only unity, a rush of freedom, a high too big to hold.

It’s too much. The MDMA’s grip tightens, and nausea slams me. “I’m gonna be sick!” I blurt to John. He’s quick—steering me through the throng to the ladies’ room, holding my hair as I retch, sending a cleaner for water and Powerade. He stays calm and sweet, guiding me to the sink after, handing me gum. I’m too fried to feel embarrassed.

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Harm Reduction Moment:

After vomiting on MDMA your body is already under stress—dehydrated, low on electrolytes, and experiencing a heightened sympathetic state—which can amplify the drug’s effects.  

In a hot bath, bed or environment like a crowded dancefloor or on a hot summer day, your body dilates blood vessels to increase blood flow, often heightening sensations and making the drug’s effects feel more intense.

This places additional strain on your heart and kidneys. This heightened physiological stress accelerates serotonin depletion—one of MDMA’s main effects—setting you up for a brutal “Steak Knife Tuesday”—two days out, when the crash hits with depression and anxiety that cling like damp rot.

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Back at the table, Stacy’s spilling our lives to Nate—ages, hometown, the works. MDMA’s the real truth serum; the CIA missed the memo chasing LSD. No secret survives it. The guys, 19 and 20, lap it up—intrigued by our scam into the club, Landa’s hands-off vibe. Nate offers another pill; we split it. Hours blur into a haze, details slipping until sunrise cracks the sky.

They propose a botanical gardens trip when we leave the club. We ditch Landa’s pickup, waiting as they cash up post-closing. Another shared pill, a shower at Landa’s, some fruit snatched, and we’re off. The drive’s a sleepy drift, the ecstasy’s afterglow smudging the edges. Johannesburg’s sprawl fades to green, and we stumble into the gardens still lambasted—rushing, cooked, teeth chattering. Nate picks a spot under a tree, its branches drooping like they’re tired, too. A stream gurgles nearby, and John’s tossing pebbles, each splashes a dull thud against the high.

We split another pill, and all four of us are busting gums. Stacy’s eyes roll back, lids fluttering like moth wings; she’s barely there. My jaw’s locked tight from gum-chewing, grinding without it—a dull, throbbing ache. I need a smoke— but I’m out. Nate only has weed, but I don’t do stoned, I couldn’t roll one if I tried anyway. He points over a hill: “Shop’s that way.” Stacy can hardly stand, legs wobbling like a newborn foal, but we set off, stubborn and strung out.

It’s endless—20 kilometres in our heads, maybe a fraction in truth. The shop remains a mirage, always beyond the next rise. We pass clusters of elderly folks—grey hair, golf hats, disapproving frowns. We nod politely through chattering teeth, but they smell the wreck on us. One tips his hat, a rare kindness; the rest turn away, lips pursed tight. The sun’s a Caribbean liar, beating down hard in midwinter, sweat beading on our brows. We’re dragging, fading—then, out of nowhere, she appears. The leather-and-leopard lady from the club is laughing like she’s in on the joke. “Look what the cat dragged in!” John crows. Her name’s Cat, of course, it is.

She’s a lifeline—offers water, steers us right. We were close, but not close enough; we’d have wandered forever. The shop’s a squat little shack, and—a twist of fate—no cigarettes. Stacy, who doesn’t even smoke, scowls like it’s personal. I can’t fathom food, jaw screaming, but we grab Powerades for the electrolytes, and lollipops to keep the grinding at bay. We pay, pocket the change, and stare bleakly at the trek back—until a tractor-pulled “train” rumbles up, carts big enough for four. Nate and Stacy cram in, Cat and I take the next, John perches on the edge, feet framing my hips. I lean my head on his knee, the lollipop stick jabbing my cheek.

We roll past the same elderly crew, and John’s sing-song taunt rings out: “You can’t ride the train, ‘cause you didn’t pay… we got lollies and change!” We giggle, delirious, but the sun’s sinking fast. Time’s up—my boyfriend Andy’s grabbing me from Landa’s in two hours. Back at the house, Nate offers lines of Khat. Stace takes one, I decline - lines are taking it a bit too far for me- he dangles another pill. I shouldn’t. I’m 15, my voice still a whisper—I take it.

Andy arrives, 20 and steady, greeting everyone while I slump in his car. I catch my reflection in the side mirror—darkness, a traffic light’s red glow bouncing off the door. Mosquito-like shadows swarm, huge and buzzing, trying to claw in at the back door. I know I’m hallucinating, the MDMA and sleep deprivation twisting reality, but my throat locks. Silent screams ricochet in my skull. Andy gets in behind the wheel, and I clamp shut—talk, and he’ll know how fucked I am. Shame’s a wet rag over my face.

We stay at his parents’ place in Jo’burg East—they’re out of town. He runs me a bath, steam curling up. I shouldn’t get in, not this trashed, but I do. Next thing, I’m shivering, teeth clacking like castañetas, convinced I’m freezing. I can’t move, limbs are lead-heavy. Andy checks, dips a hand in, yanks it back—“It’s scalding! Look at your skin!” Angry red streaks bloom across me, but I feel ice. “I’m getting out,” I mumble, hauling myself up—then black. I crumple, my right foot jamming into a bucket between the bath and toilet, a trash-bin coffin. Later, they’d call it “the night I kicked the bucket.”

I regain consciousness half-dressed in Andy’s bed, his face unimpressed. I don’t get any sleep—just rushing, shivering, wondering if I’m dying. Exhaustion’s a brick on my chest, shame a sour tang in my throat. The morning drags us back to the coal town, bleak and boring. Andy’s quiet, disappointed; I’m in the doghouse, a mess still reeling from the ride.

Fuck… Tonight’s a school night!

Fuck it, I’ll pretend to be comatose in the morning.