Sat. 6-5-10:
Nearly $8 for recyclables, which include the old electric motor and cast aluminum found near our camp some days ago. Board a retired school bus, the free shuttle to the Mateel Summer Arts and Music Festival at Benbow Lake State Park in Garberville, just a few minutes drive. Having signed up for volunteer work at the festival tomorrow, today was our free day to enjoy the show.
The crowd is diverse- hippies, families, hippie families. Big bellies protrude from sports bras. Twenty-five percent sport dreadlocks. The vendors and music are plentiful- over 150 booths and 4 stages, lining both sides of a fairway along to the rushing Eel River.
We sit under redwoods on sandbags chatting with familiar faces. Duke is outraged at the oil leak, “It’s a terrorist attack, plain and simple. It’s a foreign-owned company that won’t let anybody else near the leak to help. They hope a Category 5 rains oil all the way to Ohio.”
Scott, the regular Wednesday chef at the Mateel, walks like a long-stride zombie, arms flailing, eyes barely open. His appearance reminds me of a story told of a previous year by another volunteer, when all the security crew had dropped acid together. His state is a result of too much work, though, too little sleep. “Could you please do me a huge favor”, he asks, on his knees in front of my sand bag, “Please take my place at the organic juice stand for 30 minutes while I go home and take a shower.”
I oblige, squeezing lemons in a press for one hour, at times barely able to keep up with the demand for $4 lemonades. Bob, the regular Tuesday chef at the Mateel, has hung a sign on the booth, “Lemonade with insults add 25 cents”. Multiple customers demand this additional service. Working across the table from me on the orange juice press is Duke, Ion serves as the cashier. Both are fellow Mateel meal volunteers.
Sarah browses the booths, finding a coat that she insists that I see. As she is very rarely impressed by clothing, I’m quite curios Her beloved coat appears like something a pirate would wear to a fancy ball, totally unique, and $950. The designer is a woman named Samiah, who has a clothing line of the same name, www.samiah.com. She insists that Sarah tries the coat on again even though I insist we can’t buy it.
Sun. 6-6-10:
Our volunteer shift at the music festival start mid-afternoon, both assigned to security, worst job at the event. The staff area is behind the main stage among redwoods and picnic tables. Food is provided but only with a meal ticket, one meal per shift. Starving and without a meal ticket, I beg the chefs, who provide an apple and a bowl of chip crumbs.
Scott needs help at the juice booth again. He’s on his knees begging again, looking even worse than yesterday. With an hour to kill before my shift starts, I oblige, squeezing oranges and lemons once again. A girl of about 7 years old assists me on the presses, learning quickly then noticing on her own when tasks needs to be done.
The security booth provides me with a green “Security” shirt. The radio booth provides me with a radio and a corded transceiver. My assigned position is the worst of the worst, the area in front of the main beer tent. Saturday is the family day, Sunday is the drunk day. Choosing to stand right in the middle of the traffic flow, I take the approach that the sight of a security guard with a radio will be all the policing that’s necessary.
As for violations, I only react to complaints. A blonde woman approaches, “I’m trying to eat ice cream with my kids and some guy is puking all over the place.” I radio the security booth, “What do you want to do about a puker?” A volunteer-in-charge appears shortly, whom I direct to a young man in an Army hat, the puker. He agrees not to puke in public anymore. Walking away from him, the volunteer-in-charge says, “You can cut him off if you want to. You can do that.” Volunteer security, what a concept.
The next complaint is about the same group, a bunch of street kids hanging out under a tree right in the middle of the festival. They openly drink their own smuggled beer and pet their smuggled puppy. I radio the volunteer-in-charge again. “It’s a service dog”, the owner insists. The group calmly pours out their canned Natural Ice. An hour later, the same complaint about the same group, more Natural Ice. This time the volunteer-in-charge just so happens to be there when the complaint comes in. “No, I haven’t seen them with any more beer”, I lie. “If you do then you can have the rangers kick them out. You can do that.”, she replies. I approach the violators when the boss departs, telling the girl with the puppy, “Hide your beers for real this time or you’re about to get kicked out.”
Natural Ice disappears for some hours then reappears everywhere, but by that time there are so many violations that nobody even cares anymore. Dogs are everywhere, glass bottles, people on bicycles, kids having food fight, throwing chopsticks. Even the rangers just small talk with one another as teenagers pass bowls and joints around them. By nightfall the smell of pot is unavoidable. “You’re working too hard”, a festivalgoer says, handing me a fireball.
“Are you Garth Kiser from Murphsyboro, Illinois?”, a familiar face asks. It’s Stephanie, who went to the same high school as me! Wow, I’ve heard that everybody sees everybody from everywhere at these Northern California summer festivals, but wow! Stephanie is a good friend of my brother whom I had not seen for quite some years.
Strange occurances happen in 3′s. Number two is Sleepy from Wisteria Island, the guy with the full facial tattoo! Over the winter in Key West, Sarah and I had spoken with him on several occasions. His girlfriend just single-handedly piloted their 30-foot sailboat from Key West to the Yucatan. Strange occurance number 3 is a woman whom a sheriff had just come by looking for. The strange part is that the woman walked up to me and introduced herself for no particular reason. Of course I am not a snitch, though, not unless you cross me!
Then comes the situation that ruined this festival volunteer experience. Alcohol can only be purchased with tickets, $2 per ticket, 3 tickets required for a beer or wine. The ticket booths remain open till minutes before the bars close. No last call warning is given and all the people in line are not served, stuck with strings of their now-worthless tickets.
Considering this was a volunteer event, rather unorganized, you would at first suggest this to simply be a matter of oversight. But no, it had the signs of orchestration. All available security personnel are called to the beer tents 30 minutes before bar closing, then asked to form a human wall in front of the bars the moment the bartenders quit serving. Caught off guard, cheated, the customers were irate. Profanities were screamed, strings of expensive tickets waved in the air. Great concept, make people wait in line twice, once for tickets the second time for beer. They’ll get so tired of waiting that they’ll buy extra tickets. Then we’ll just slam the door in their faces. No refunds. Tada.
Somebody is responsible. Hopefully that person is not a paid Mateel board member.
An hour to kill before my last task of the evening. I wander around aimlessly pondering the stupidity of what just happened. “I’m getting a good vibe from you. Sit down in the grass and smoke a bowl with me.”, a dirty street kid with a dog requests. Then comes the cleansing of the grounds, to herd the crowds down the fairway and out the main entrance. Already incensed over the ticket scam, the stragglers are rude as ever, taking it out on anyone wearing a Mateel shirt.
A woman claims her 5-foot-tall 9-year-old is missing. The police close the gates. A volunteer security leader blocks the outflowing line of traffic, then leaves me standing in front of the lead car without even a radio. The drivers all look to me for answers. Not a single cop anywhere, the line growing in frustration. “Guess you all can do whatever you want”, I tell the drivers, walking away. Turns out the huge 9-year-old had been found anyway.
I just so happen to hear a call on somebody else’s radio that the last shuttle bus will be leaving in five minutes. Sarah is in the staff area, where nobody had been warned of the shuttle departure. Despite all these oversights, I would have still volunteered for the next Mateel festival in July had it not been for the ticket scam. Shame.
Arriving on the bus back to Redway we realize, no flashlight. Nearly total darkness, only the trunks of the largest trees visible, and only when 1 foot away from them. Every so slowly we trip and stumble through the steep canyon. I wave a rolled up band poster in front of my eyes as a branch warning system. At first, I honestly didn’t think we would be able to find the way. At least know we know, it would be absolutely impossible for a stranger to find us at night.