It all started when Northern Lights Editor Jarad Petroske asked me around 5:30 p.m. Friday to go down to the infamous hippie-fest Reggae on the River.
"Hasn't it already started?” I asked, trying to come up with an excuse.
"Look, I've had a lot of bad luck with stringers lately and I need you to do this solid for me, man,” I could tell the next thing out of his mouth if I were to decline would be some sort of threat, so I agreed, very hesitantly.
He arranged travel and credentials and before I knew it I was going 90 mph south on U.S. Highway 101 at way-too-early, Saturday morning.
Chris Durant Visits Reggae
A camera follows Chris Durant as hespends time exploring the wonder of this world renknowned festival of unity, peace, and reggae at the 23rd annual Reggae on the River Festival.
My driver was a sketchy cat, long hair, dark sunglasses and a full tank of gas in his grandmother's Taurus.
”First time to Reggae man?” he screamed over the wind rushing in the windows that he insisted keeping all the way down.
”Yeah,” I was forced to scream back.
”Ha! Great. That's f'ing great!”
That was the last thing he said to me.
We arrived but had to go a mile or so into Mendocino County before we were allowed to make a U-turn, I think Reggae on the River alone keeps the orange traffic cone industry running.
The following is more along the lines of a day diary, I apologize if all the entries don't make sense.
11:01 a.m.: I arrive at the press check in booth to find it empty. I wait. Sunny but cool.
11:32 a.m.: Someone emerges from a trailer and issues proper credentials.
11:49 a.m.: I get my first glimpse of the event, including the neat gravel pit. I'm lost.
11:52 a.m.: It's warming up and I mistakenly put my head in a vat of solvent near a piece of heavy machinery for the gravel pit thinking it's cool, refreshing water. It burns. A group of festival volunteers nearby douse me in water. My sight will return soon, they said.
12:46 p.m.: Heading down Bob Marley Boulevard to my assigned camp spot. It's like walking toward the Thunder Dome or something. I can't tell if these people staggering by me are having fun. I still haven't seen a stage.
12:52 p.m.: I ask a volunteer on a quad runner if “D Orchard Lot,” where I'm assigned to camp, is in the direction I'm heading.
”Sure,” he said and he putts away.
12:59 p.m.: I ask another volunteer if I'm going the right way.
”Sure,” he said and takes off.
1:13 p.m.: I find a volunteer handbook on the ground and it's open to a page that says, “If anyone ask you for directions just say 'sure' and continue with your business.”
2:43 p.m.: I find “D Orchard Lot” and wait at the entrance for someone to check me in.
3:30 p.m.: A John Belushi-esque volunteer emerges from the porta potty in front of me with a dazed look, he saunters over to me.
”Hey, you haven't been waiting long have you?” he mutters.
”Abou...”
”I was finding you a spot, this way.”
3:34 p.m.: I'm assigned a spot, a 4-foot by 6-foot plot of dry grass between “photographers” for ESPN and what appears to be a scooter fan club. I still haven't seen a stage or a river.
4:15 p.m.: Camp is set up and I have a nice cold, well it was cold when I bought it, beer. Time to find this stage everyone's talking about.
4:45 p.m.: Back on Bob Marley Boulevard and following the flow of the crowd. Wait, there's a river. Oh...They should change the name of the festival to Reggae on the Creek.
4:48 p.m.: In the span of three minutes, near the bridge to the venue, I was offered cocaine, ecstasy, mushrooms, acid, Rogaine and of course pot. All by different people, sometimes two or three different offers per drug. Business seemed to be good as some of the entrepreneurs flashed their wads of cash as they made another transaction. Some of the dealers stood under a sign that said “No vending at any time.” Ah, commerce.
5:15 p.m.: I find the stage and finally get to take in some music.
5:19 p.m.: I learn that one of my bracelets gets me backstage.
”What the hell am I doing out here then?” I ask myself.
5:53 p.m.: I eat free watermelon and popcorn and wander around backstage.
6:03 p.m.: I find myself next to the free bucket of beer for VIPs. I bet someone lost their job by allowing me access back here. I pull up a chair. I can still hear the music, sort of.
10:37 (I think) p.m.: Tim to kall itt a nite. Wow, how du eye gt back to myy tint><”?
Between midnight and 2 a.m.: Back at my camp. Exhausted, what a great show. Time to sleep.
Around 2:36 a.m.: Someone tries to climb in my tent.
”This is not your tent, I don't know you,” I scream like I learned in self-defense class.
”Sorry bro, sorry,” they leave.
Around 2:39 a.m.: Someone tries to get into my tent.
”This is my tent, I don't know you!”
”Sorry bro, sorry.”
Around 2:43 a.m.: Someone tries to get into my tent.
”This is my tent, I don't know you!”
”Sorry bro, sorry.”
Etc., etc.
8:31 a.m.: I wake up, time to leave. A little hectic but I think I'll go ahead and tell Jarad to sign me up for next year. All the days though, we need total coverage. Now how do I get out of here?
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