Journals

    July 12, 13, 14 Santa Barbara + Pasadena + Cal Earth?   One Stop Girl Apparently, one of the easiest ways to infuse drama, tension and a round of I-told-you-so’s is to pick up a new caravanista who heard us speak at an event.   There were so many signs that this was going to be part telenovela, part luchador extravaganza in the making. Things like, the host lady with the lead feet issuing warnings. Or the fact that we just met One Stop Girl at the Monterey event and she’s jumped on the caravan bus all set to go with bongos the next morning. Even though my eyebrows are archin’ hardcore, Woody and Sandino think everything is peachy, and Yogi is being his characteristic quiet/cool self (does he speak English? I still really don‘t know).   So I suppose the ultimate tip off that it wasn’t going to work and would be a short lived memory was probably the conflict of wills between Sandino and One Stop Girl. That…and the classic question, maybe a couple of hours into the ride to Santa Barbara: “so where are we going…to Cuba?” I just looked out the window because there really was nothing I could do other than scream, laugh, or cry. Shaking my head seemed like an entirely too apathetic response. Mainly because the bus, the event, EVERYTHING said we were on a caravan, campaigning and bound for Cuba. How the destination was unclear is beyond me. But don’t get me wrong. One Stop Girl is cool, with a good heart. Perhaps wandering her path, but a good spirit nonetheless. I suppose it was apropos that her good spirit departed our path on the next stop: Santa Barbara. Yup. We woke up in the mountains of Salinas county, headed down to an event in Santa Barbara in the afternoon where she decided that was her final destination, and then me and the boys kept driving direct to Los Angeles. One Stop Girl’s final words, scribbled on the bus: “It’s closer then (sic) you think.”   La La Land If I had more than two seconds to rub together of peace and quiet, I’d probably say I am dog tired and drained. All the loading and shifting of heavy medical aid into the bus. Events, people, smiling, talking, discovering…all of it makes my brown behind tired. But there’s one thing I didn’t count on…slactavists. Thanks to an event not coming together in LA, we have lucked into two whole days with nothing on the agenda.   Because the event fell through and I suppose with it, the community that would have housed us, we head over to Woody’s house to regroup and figure out what to do with ourselves. As this is my second of four passes through LA this summer, I decide to ditch the caravan + caravanistas completely and do my own thing. Joe’s coming to pick me up and we haven’t seen each other in years. Had it been a different period in my life, I suppose it would be a romantic rendezvous. This time, though, I’m solely seeking good times, to kick back a little, and be in a different space with different folk.   Peace of mind reclaimed, I reconnect the next day with the caravan boys. Tonight’s main event - Woody’s belated birthday party in a warehouse space. He keeps talking about these people, his friends, who all seem to be a part of a dis/organization - Food, Not Bombs. Something about community cooking, gathering reclaimed + farmer’s market food and spreading the abundance with everyone. It isn’t until we hit the party that Woody actually brings up the A-word. As in, A is for anarchy. Great. Like this caravan and all those Central + South American stamps on my passport don’t have me flagged and placed on some sort of government list with red ink.   Silly me. Turns out these peeps are not the pamphlet touting cult group, spouting about an evil government. They are mainly a bunch of really chill, bicycle co-operative types. Microbrew? Got it. Drum kit with electric guitar and amp. You know what’s good. And as I’m all about having a nice time and enjoying our precious moments of freedom, I - yes me, am playing my little heart out and having fun. Finally.   Maybe it was the music. Or perhaps the good brew and much needed free time. Alls I know is we end partying at some middle of the night/morning hour, I’m passed out on a couch, and wake up viciously scratching all over. Woody casually remarks, “yeah, we need to get rid of that thing. Ever since we found it on the street…” I can’t even be surprised at this point. Of course it‘s a curb alert couch filled with mangy fleas. What I should have remembered was the saying about a thing happening more than once…   Cal Earth? Moving from the party in a bedraggled sort of way, let’s say it’s 3 am +/- and we pop into the desert just shy of Joshua Tree. Right. What? We were just in LA for our brief reprieve (one day + two nights) and here we are, at Cal Earth. Land of the domes, earth bag homes. Opening my eyes on the bus after passing out, I realize we’re in the middle of a dirt/sand road and I see Ulises…walking bear feet in the pitch black darkness. Ulises, Woody‘s friend. Someone you instantly fall in love with because he’s just that genuinely good. He reminds me of Cheech and Chong (not sure which, so let’s just go with both). Next thing I see is a house. Phew…we’re not actually sleeping in a dome.   Wrong.   We’re being walked to these little hut-like structures that look like tiny adobes. A whole bunch of structures with no doors. No doors mean no locks which do not mix with my Black City Girl instincts. Woody must see the fear in my eyes because he spots one lone dome with a door, and suggests we sleep together - there are two sorta sleeping nooks. Cute. His and her dome quarters with a door, no lock, and…   RED FREAKIN’ ANTS!   You’ve got to be kidding me. I fall asleep/pass out at a warehouse party only to wake up covered with fleas, then head to the desert spotted with domes, and apparently every red ant has figured out the coordinates of a forgotten granola wrapper in my pocket, descending on my sleeping flesh in the worst way. I can’t really think of a more disorienting way to wake up, especially considering that I feel unsure if I am still drunk or if this is just some new version of a hangover. Swearing I’ll never party/caravan like this again, I begin wandering around, looking for a bathroom. That’s when I see all the other folks rising. People who have apparently also spent the night out in the domes…yes, there are more random/uncommon/wise/good/true folk hangin‘ out here. Because we have nothing to do with our day out in the middle of nowhere while traveling on a civil disobedience caravan, I decide to spend my time with Woody and Ulises’ friend, Brian. A beautiful soul with more books than any wanderer I’ve ever seen. Brian, with the uniloc.   I think it’s kind of crazy that my new found version of bliss is passing books and stories back and forth the whole day in the shade, sewing cowrie shells in each other’s locs and sharing reclaimed grub and more brew for dinner. It‘s so peaceful out here in no man‘s land. But because it‘s a caravan and you sorta gotta keep moving forward, the boys make a smart decision to rest up for a few hours and head out and off in the middle of the cool night - away from Cal Earth, and bound for whatever awaits in Arizona.   Up Next: *praying for death, or “Gee, 105 degrees is awfully hot on a bus with no air conditioning.” *Racist attack by tourists amongst Tibetan prayer flags. Really?   Vocabulary list: Slactavist = Slacker activist. Uniloc = One massive ‘dread’ loc.   Sandino’s music play list: Julian Marley, Zion I, Manu Chao, Todos Los Muertos, B Side Players