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The Dust Diary: The 2006 Coachella Music and Arts Festival kicks off at noon today but the event really began Friday at the campgrounds where, by 11 p.m., there was a two-hour wait for the coveted bracelet that earned its wearer a chance to pitch their tent. Times reporter Geoff Boucher braved the churning crowd to send back dispatches from the edge of Coachella. More than 4,000 people were expected to camp out for the festival.
INDIO, Calif. — It's 11 p.m. and the line outside the campground is about a thousand people deep. You could argue about the lesson to be learned, but one is this: Don't bring more than you can carry.
Lindsay Kaye of Los Angeles and Allison Foger, up from San Diego way, have a look of forced cheer as they stand with a mound of gear on the dusty plain outside the concert's campgrounds. The line is getting longer in front of them, but they are paralyzed. Cart stuff back to the car? Leave stuff behind? Ask for help? One thinks that some entrepreneur could make a killing by bringing pack mules to Indio. The other says they should just go to the Sahara Tent right now and squat for a chance to see the Sunday night Madonna show.
Waiting in line is Haady Taslim, 25, of Chicago. He's got a guitar on his back. You can't cart musical instruments into the show itself, so he's debating whether he should go back to his car. The other option is to leave his instrument in his tent during the day. The wait for campground access is two hours, and if Taslim leaves the line who knows what will happen. These are the questions that haunt you at night.
At the front of the queue we find Indio Police Corp. R. Elias. He has four children, ages 19 to 34, and "basically all of them come to Coachella" for the concert. He smiles brightly. "Everybody has a good time."
Next to him is a pile of glassware that's been confiscated from camp-goers — beer bottles, jelly jars and juice jugs. "No glass. People can use it as a weapon." He smiles as he says this.
Coachella lesson for 2007: If you camp, get to the grounds on Friday afternoon.
This lesson is provided by the Booze family. That would be Joe Booze, of San Diego, and his sister, Pamela Booze, in from the dusty districts of Edmond, Okla. They got to the campground entrance at 1:30 p.m. and, voila, they pitched their tent by 1:45 p.m. (At 10:30 p.m., by contrast, the wait was pushing more than two hours.)
Despite this, Joe Booze, a Tool fan, looks a bit downcast when we visit his campsite. "He's in a dark mood, his old lady left him, but don't' put that in," his sister said. Sure, no problem.
The Foreign Bodies: The campgrounds (after you got past the line) are filled with tribal drum circles, wafting clouds of pot, some pretty nifty tents and giddy kids just thrilled to be out of Orange County.
Someone less happy: Julian Savitch-Lee, a 23-year-old from England on holiday in the states. He anchored his trip to Coachella but is a bit dismayed because of the profound sobriety that confronts him at the campgrounds. "At European festivals the first day you just drink as much as you can and go from there," he said. "This is strange."
Ah, But Wait: The limey should have taken a stroll of about 30 yards and found the drum circle beneath a pirate flag. Hey, that's not incense!
The clock is ticking toward midnight: On the periphery of the campground there is a tent with videogames and, as we walk in, the boxer Evander Holyfield is getting a right hook that put him on the mat. We can relate to the feeling. We check in at the lost and found. The item most lost: a cell phone.
A girl at the table named Jodi said that some of the losers think to call the phone, the rest usually describe photos of their niece, pet or friend that they use as wallpaper.
Tick, tick, tick: It's 1 a.m., and the vast lawn of campers is divvied up between those who want to sleep ("Pleeeaase stop playing the drums!"), those who want to party and those still waiting in line with a sleeping bag under their arm.
There are mobile homes equipped with showers at one end of the lawn and, even though they are closed, there are portable sinks available. There's a line of people waiting — all of them are young women, most of them are clutching small cosmetic bags and every single one of them appears ecstatic about the promise of soap and warm water.
The smell of corn dogs and bad pizza blows in from the cheesy vendor carts setting up nearby.
"It' a long weekend," said Heather Griffin, a 24-year-old from San Francisco who had dusty feet but well-scrubbed cheeks. "I'm ready to get some sleep."
INDIO, Calif. — It's 11 p.m. and the line outside the campground is about a thousand people deep. You could argue about the lesson to be learned, but one is this: Don't bring more than you can carry.
Lindsay Kaye of Los Angeles and Allison Foger, up from San Diego way, have a look of forced cheer as they stand with a mound of gear on the dusty plain outside the concert's campgrounds. The line is getting longer in front of them, but they are paralyzed. Cart stuff back to the car? Leave stuff behind? Ask for help? One thinks that some entrepreneur could make a killing by bringing pack mules to Indio. The other says they should just go to the Sahara Tent right now and squat for a chance to see the Sunday night Madonna show.
Waiting in line is Haady Taslim, 25, of Chicago. He's got a guitar on his back. You can't cart musical instruments into the show itself, so he's debating whether he should go back to his car. The other option is to leave his instrument in his tent during the day. The wait for campground access is two hours, and if Taslim leaves the line who knows what will happen. These are the questions that haunt you at night.
At the front of the queue we find Indio Police Corp. R. Elias. He has four children, ages 19 to 34, and "basically all of them come to Coachella" for the concert. He smiles brightly. "Everybody has a good time."
Next to him is a pile of glassware that's been confiscated from camp-goers — beer bottles, jelly jars and juice jugs. "No glass. People can use it as a weapon." He smiles as he says this.
Coachella lesson for 2007: If you camp, get to the grounds on Friday afternoon.
This lesson is provided by the Booze family. That would be Joe Booze, of San Diego, and his sister, Pamela Booze, in from the dusty districts of Edmond, Okla. They got to the campground entrance at 1:30 p.m. and, voila, they pitched their tent by 1:45 p.m. (At 10:30 p.m., by contrast, the wait was pushing more than two hours.)
Despite this, Joe Booze, a Tool fan, looks a bit downcast when we visit his campsite. "He's in a dark mood, his old lady left him, but don't' put that in," his sister said. Sure, no problem.
The Foreign Bodies: The campgrounds (after you got past the line) are filled with tribal drum circles, wafting clouds of pot, some pretty nifty tents and giddy kids just thrilled to be out of Orange County.
Someone less happy: Julian Savitch-Lee, a 23-year-old from England on holiday in the states. He anchored his trip to Coachella but is a bit dismayed because of the profound sobriety that confronts him at the campgrounds. "At European festivals the first day you just drink as much as you can and go from there," he said. "This is strange."
Ah, But Wait: The limey should have taken a stroll of about 30 yards and found the drum circle beneath a pirate flag. Hey, that's not incense!
The clock is ticking toward midnight: On the periphery of the campground there is a tent with videogames and, as we walk in, the boxer Evander Holyfield is getting a right hook that put him on the mat. We can relate to the feeling. We check in at the lost and found. The item most lost: a cell phone.
A girl at the table named Jodi said that some of the losers think to call the phone, the rest usually describe photos of their niece, pet or friend that they use as wallpaper.
Tick, tick, tick: It's 1 a.m., and the vast lawn of campers is divvied up between those who want to sleep ("Pleeeaase stop playing the drums!"), those who want to party and those still waiting in line with a sleeping bag under their arm.
There are mobile homes equipped with showers at one end of the lawn and, even though they are closed, there are portable sinks available. There's a line of people waiting — all of them are young women, most of them are clutching small cosmetic bags and every single one of them appears ecstatic about the promise of soap and warm water.
The smell of corn dogs and bad pizza blows in from the cheesy vendor carts setting up nearby.
"It' a long weekend," said Heather Griffin, a 24-year-old from San Francisco who had dusty feet but well-scrubbed cheeks. "I'm ready to get some sleep."
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