I don't understand it: how can these hippies get up so damn early? Maybe I'm just so used to the cynical, half-assed attitude of Amherst that I'm shocked to encounter people who are actually devoted enough to something to wake up for it before noon-even if that something is the transcendence of the spirit through weird, spacey music and hackey-sack. There must some special magic to Hippiefest, because the hippies continue to come back, weekend after weekend, arriving in their beat-up Volvos, never remembering to bring shoes.
Several times I have walked among them, usually on my way to brunch, and I've had an opportunity to take in a bit of the remarkable atmosphere. I'm never sure if the same band comes back to play every week or if each time it's a new 10-man lineup with the same Grateful Dead roots. Either way, the sitar is always a nice touch. Occasionally the chanting monks will take the stage, backed by a bongo drummer (is anything not backed by that guy?), and lead the crowd in some vague, non-denominational prayer.
But the hippies mostly make their own music. Never have so many people in one place played that many acoustic guitars at the same time. There's a constant G-chord drone coming from the place, mixing with the various percussion and the 20-minute jams sustained by the band to project a spooky wall of noise out across the rest of the town.
At the same time, a huge expanse of stalls and small shops is erected, and various merchants try to pawn off their huge supplies of hemp. They say you can make practically anything out of hemp, but apparently the only things it's really good for making are necklaces and loose, brightly colored shirts. Maybe an inspired seller will throw a few pairs of hemp sandals onto his display, but otherwise all the stalls are the same. (Haven't the hippies noticed this? They're all the same.) The one exception is the guy who runs the bongo drum stall. He obviously has a monopoly on the bongo drum trade, because no one else is trying to get in on it. I'm assuming he's just got real high-quality stuff, and everyone there knows where to go to fill their bongo drum needs. It must be a tough choice when it comes to necklaces, though, or loose-fitting shirts. It's like shopping for a birthday card in a mall filled with only Hallmark stores.
I was vaguely surprised once to see a man wandering around aimlessly with a leashed yak. When I saw that no one else took any notice, however, I let it slip my mind as well (except when watching out for yak dung). Apparently the hippies appreciate their yaks, just like they appreciate their climbing wall and hot dog stand. That last one confused me at first, but I guess that in the end, no one turns down a hot dog. The majority of hippie lunches seem to be purchased at the Black Sheep, where many of them will get a veggie sandwich and an Honest Tea, and maybe take home a "Baked in Amherst" T-shirt as a souvenir. Many times I've gone to the Black Sheep for a Sunday afternoon lunch (having slept through brunch) and have sat there listening to some hippies earnestly discussing Marx or watching others frolic in the fountain across the road.
It's not at all a bad experience; I get a real sense of peace at times like that, and I get the same sense from Hippiefest in general. It's not a peace born from laziness and a neglect for personal hygiene, but instead an active peace of mind created when a group of people unites out of general goodwill.
But I'm still short a few hours of Sunday sleep. I mean, the guy who drives the ambulance down Pleasant Street with the siren on, now that guy's got an excuse to wake me up. The hippies, however, will have to come up with something a little more concrete. Such as proof that the Great Spirit is watching over us all. Or even that they all had to sleep on the benches at the PVTA stop, and the cop came by and kicked them off at 8 a.m., and what else were they going to do? I'd accept that. But as it stands now, be quiet, you damn hippies!