volunteer lyfe

festing

It’s Festing Weekend #1 and I spent Friday and Saturday volunteering. I love the behind-the-scenes experience, plus you get a free ticket.

Win/win, I say, until I arrive on time for my 10.30am shift Friday and realize there are waaay more volunteers than shuttles.

We the unchosen sit under a canopy out of the already-blazing sun and wait, the supervisor signing time cards and murmuring into her walkie-talkie. Then she pulls up a van: get in, guys, I’m going to have to reassign you.

I’ve been to this show before, at a previous fest where I signed up as a floater and the only jobs left were picking up trash (optimistically monikered The Green Team) or taking surveys (asking drunk geezers their ages and annual income). I said a hard no to both and ended up running orders at the merch tent, sweating through my volunteer t-shirt trying to find double-XL’s in the teal, no the teal, not the green, the TEAL.

Back to Friday. We were given hi-visibility vests and earplugs and sent off to usher. Another woman and I agreed to partner up at the Blues tent, to give each other breaks and look out for weirdos. It was a long four hours on our feet, asking lingerers to stay out of the fire zone. As the day got hotter and festers got drunker, they got nastier, and by the end of our shift we basically picked up our shit and fled.

I did hear some amazing music though, including D.K. Harrell who I hope to hear again.

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Saturday I got my ass out the door bright and early, hopped over a stopped freight train (don’t ask), walked and biked my way up to arrive 30 minutes early, to find some of the older volunteers already there. What the what? Anyway, I signed in, shot the shit about thrift stores and shady drivers (the narcoleptic from last year is history) and got assigned a beautifully air-conditioned van and chatty driver.

For four hours I rode shotgun, helping performers and family and friends in and out of the van, Tetris-ing instruments and bags. I learned about my driver’s life, raising kids, running an apparel company and coaching sports. Their daughter does track and long jump and when I asked about the strength and skills needed to do the latter, they said simply, You can’t be afraid to fly.

We picked up black masking Indians and their gorgeous feathered, beaded suits, one in yellow all talkative and sweaty at the end of his performance; girls in leotards and buns, heading to perform at the childrens’ stage. Their grandma took my seat so I huddled in the back and listened to fifteen-year-olds bicker genially about phone cases and bad hair. There was the non-performer family looking for a ride (we forgot something at the tent), a good-natured bluesman who said It’s alright bebe when we missed his stop, the brass band late for their gig, hurriedly shoving a tuba and drum in the back and sitting on laps to make it in time, and a panicked drummer cramming his entire kit into the van, including an industrial fan, a rolled-up carpet, and a very precious and bored girlfriend.

I heard gossip about feuding parking attendants, a masking Indian fistfight, and the parsimonious festival, which fed the drivers ham sandwiches last year but this year sprung for preloaded Visa cards.

One of our last riders had helped out at the folk tent all day, played a show, then hopped in the van to get back to his bike to work a shift at a famed restaurant in the Quarter. Then he’d drive home to Lafayette late in the evening to get to his real job back home.

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I ended my evening saying hello to friends, watching Victor Campbell and Big Freedia. My driver’s words stuck with me though, as we discussed the city and its problems and its joys, festing being a big one. You can’t be afraid to fly.