I had always heard of bush doofs, and honestly, it sounded like some proper hippy shit. But when my name spawned in a mysterious meta server promoting an addy-to-be-confirmed neck-of-the-woods DNB-electro-psych doof to end all doofs, I knew something temptingly chaotic was on the horizon. My native Aucklander self thought, “Fuck no, that is not me.” My seven-year Dunedin-vetted self, though? “Fuck yeah, that is me.” I swear I felt the call of the wild right then and there: the blood in my veins started pumping, heart racing, nose twitching, lungs hungry. With an open mind, I clicked "Going". But could my mind be opened even further?
Bush doofs might be a modern thing (the term popped up in ‘92), but let’s be real – Woodstock walked so doofs could run. It’s all about peace, love, and controlled madness set to a mind-bending soundtrack. The word ‘doof’ is just onomatopoeia for the sound of the bass of music, and honestly, if they had the tech in the 1960s they might’ve been pumping that shit too. It’s not often you get to dive into a raw, free-spirited community, and I figured this was my chance. I had no idea what to expect as a bush doof virgin. Neither did my mates. So, like Max stepping into his boat to find the Wild Things, into the wild we went.
The plan was as solid as it was gonna get, and thus, the wild rumpus would start. The coordinates dropped and we were on our own to find the way. The location? Unreal. Somewhere in the whop-whops of Central Otago, the sun beamed down, mountains stretched for miles, and one stage perched in an open field while the other three were deep in native bush. Imagine the midsummer night host from Saltburn, but add a little Mad Max dystopia. No reception. No distractions. Just us and the wild.
It was as if we were put in a time capsule, taken back to our once primitive days as big-foreheaded, chest beating neanderthal-esque creatures. Isolated and untouchable, neither prey or predator. At peace at the top. That is, until you see a phone. Imagine showing a phone to a caveman: it’d be eaten or smashed against a wall, or chucked into the fire like my mum did that time. No signal? No problem!
Don’t be a brain-rotted scroller at a doof. Find the balance between living in the moment and capturing memories. Respect the fact that most people are absolutely waved, and that especially means don’t wave your phone in their shit. Consent always matters. Some photos are best left un-snapped – events like this can be reputation-ruiners. So, embrace the lack of service, disconnect, and let yourself get lost.
Biggest piece of advice: PLAN YOUR OUTFIT, DOG! The night before the doof, I chucked some random clothing in a bag without a care in the world. I was so wrong … I would end up caring – a lot (I’m just a girl). This weekend was all about the nomadic lifestyle; we ended up getting ready by a river with no mirrors and only each other's guidance. Trying to get ready in 26 degree heat was a very moist task; several outfit changes later, I finally landed on something that made me feel bush doof as hell. I only packed my hiking boots for this trip which turned out to be the best decision of the outfit. I ended up walking loosely 21km.
Coupled with a pair of jorts, I truly felt like a Werner Herzog going out into zee nature. I decided to take a risk as a ginger and wear only a bikini top paired with a scarf and newsboy cap to try to give sun smart. No hat, no play. At a doof, you’ll never be the weirdest, wildest, or most interesting thing out there. Crochet, goretex, Furries, Patagonia, Birkenstocks, Red Bands, knits, RM Williams. Shoes? Optional. Be ready to see a lot of dogs out there and maybe get yours out too.
That day – you name it, I saw it. And sometimes smelt it.
Everyone is rich in self-expression, with “everything” on display. My style advice? Be yourself, but tap into your hippy, alty, druggy, granola-core vibe. Everyone has it, so don’t be a snobby bum. Overall, no one really cared because it was so chill. So long as you didn’t bother anyone else, no one bothered you. It was liberating – a temporary escape into a different reality.
I like to think of myself as open-minded, but when I saw my first set of free-range boobs, I was in awe. Just hanging loose in the breeze like it was the most normal thing in the world. That was my moment of realisation – this wasn’t just a party; this was a full-blown psychedelic social experiment. And that was just the opening act. The main event was a symphony of substances, beats, and raw human energy that carried us through the night into a kaleidoscopic trance.
Be prepared to lose your mates (and your minds) and always have a meeting point. Despite the chaos, I never felt unsafe. The event was well-equipped with a medic tent, plenty of food and water, and high-quality toilets. Friendly volunteers were always around, ready for a good yarn. They provided insightful and engaging education on safe practices. Their service throughout the night was exceptional – definitely a valuable presence (just a lil shout out to the homies).
Bush doofs and drugs go together like first-years and Scrumpy hands. Acid tripping, pure ecstasy, ganja, alcohol – hell, even a bitta horsey. Expect it all, but don’t be that guy. If you’re gonna dabble in the chemical arts, know what you’re getting into. This shit has been happening since the dawn of time (don’t fact-check me), and if Jesus was out here turning water into wine, life has always been a party.
Get your drugs tested. Doofers do drugs. For legal reasons, I was SO sober that night. For real-life reasons, I ended up sitting under a tree sweating absolute balls, spiraling into a kaleidoscopic void of my own. But like a phoenix, I rose from the ashes, did some mindfulness, and rejoined the living. Others weren’t so lucky. Humans lay scattered through the bush in various states of consciousness. Yet somehow, everyone seemed content, floating through their own minds. Moral of the story? Know your limits, don’t mix recklessly, and for the love of the Wild Things, don’t try new shit (especially psychedelics) at a doof. If alcohol is your vibe, no glass, no littering, and sometimes you gotta turn the wine back to water.
Would I go again? Fucking aye. See you where the Wild Things are. Bush doofs: a place where mushrooms might change your life, where you lose yourself to find yourself, and yeah – maybe a place to catch a view of a few rogue titties too.