Journals

  July 7, 2009   I have no expectations, and am altogether too nervous and excited…my girl friends have told me this will be like summer camp for socially just grown ups, or alternatively, my own personal love-in. The men in my life are uber reluctant about me journeying around on a bus with some dudes. To my crush, it makes me officially non-commitment material. Hadn’t I heard? Women obviously go nomadic to fall madly in love and ride off (in a school bus?) into the sunset. The men type relatives were no better. They were either a) petrified that a bandit of nut jobs were going to do all sorts of crazy things to me, or b) found it insanely hysterical that Miss Priss could last more than two days on some broken down buss.   What do they know.   Luckily, my first point of caravan contact was Melanie, the girl who gave me and my big old backpack a ride to the event. According to her, this is going to be an amazing, epic adventure for all time. She went on last year’s caravan and the experience is “life changing.” Crap…that can mean a lot of things. I mean really…witness relocation programs, debilitating illnesses, jail time, hallucinations…all of those are life changing events too, and none of which I really want to experience. I don’t know. Maybe I’ve gotten ahead of myself *again* and the life changing event will be me losing my doubting ways, which will usher in a whole new era of wanderlust, forever more abandoning any sense of trepidation.   Pfff. Right. And purple monkeys will start flying, serving up mojitos at the next party.   Back to the event: Maybe five or no, let’s just say seven seconds into the door, I’m put to work, unloading the boxes of merchandise (cd’s, movies, books, shirts, pamphlets etc) and setting up the table. Obviously the table will be my ‘job’ on the caravan - chit chatting with folks as they peruse the offerings. That, and giving a five minute personal narrative about the reasons I was compelled to join the caravan, and why Cuba continues to be an important issue for concerned U.S. and world citizens.   Sometime that night I discover things move quickly, and while I am traveling on these particular roads: * Woody will continually prove himself to be the person I have never met. Woody is his own man, and I am fairly sure that I will never, ever meet anyone remotely like him in a million years * Sandino will be providing the sound track for the entire caravan (Amp Live, Rainy Dayz Remix = first day’s set) at roughly 10 decibels above the deafening level of normal ear health * I will have absolutely NO personal space the entire journey. Better yet, if I want to spare my nostrils and the nostrils of others, we will all learn/master bathroom timing.   So it’s funny that maybe 10 minutes into the drive I hear this really weird, alarm clock type of sound, coming from the front of the bus. Woody, catching my worried eyes in the rearview mirror, yells back to me, “Don’t worry, it’s probably just the door.” I’m thinking, “Woody…doors don’t make alarming sounds unless something is wrong,” but decide that since I am not sitting near the door/potential harms way, I‘ll just keep that tidbit to myself. Next thing I know, and before my mind can drift off into space and away from the alarm, I see Sandino’s mouth moving. (because I’m down one sense/my ears haven’t adjusted to the deafening level of music, so I have to rely on sight).   Sandino: “Okay, we gotta get each other’s numbers.” Me: “For what? You mean like, if we get lost from each other?” Sandino: “Not if, but when.”   Awesome. We’re not only going to be getting lost, it sounds like it might happen a lot. Thankfully we do make it to Rita’s house - a Cuba Caravan supporter - in one piece. The real luck here is that we arrive before daylight has escaped, so I can clearly see all of the various gates, bars and locks in the neighborhood. Using my super urban skills to ascertain the situation, I decide to bring every last shred of my belongings with me, and to insist that the boys lock the door. Woody, in only his way, assures me that the bus will be fine on the street (there’s a padlock on the door after all), Rita’s little guest house is tucked in the back of her property, and besides - they know all sorts of girls, who according to him, could donate/replace the entire contents of my backpack in no time. Wonderful. I mentally skip over the part about underwear, deciding they might not know women who wear underwear, and that it might be best to save that particular conversation about my own brand of acceptable hygiene for another day.   That first caravan night was evidently dedicated to me learning Sandino and Woody… something that helped me calm my nerves. While I wouldn’t classify Sandino as a hippie, he is a hybrid of sorts, with his heart in all the right places. Part indie free spirit, with the requisite long hair, silly stories about Burning Man, and intense passion for all things music, and all the way Chicano with his dedication to the community and social justice. Woody on the other hand is hippie through and through. I mean, come on, it wouldn’t take but two seconds to assess from the frohawk, classic chipped tooth, mess kit full of home grown sprouts, and beautiful hippie energy that this boy is truly out there. And then there’s me. So I suppose that might be why Rita looked me over one good time and whispered, “you know you don’t have to sleep out here - you are more than welcome in the main house.” Wanting to appear like I was all down for the cause and hardcore, I told her I was just fine and would most likely stay up talking to the boys anyway. Besides, the boys seemed harmless/funny/crazy and were already starting to grow on me.   In the next installment: *Weapons of Mass Distraction *bus break down? *Woody: one man’s migration to my bed   Running vocab list: Chippie = Chicano Hippie Frohawk = Afro Mohawk