The End of an Era

Graduation, births, marriage... who knows. There are some few obvious landmarks in life that signify change, growth, goodbyes and the next step. For those of us "Gainesvilleanos" who decide on less mundane ones, the end of Umoja is certainly the end of an era.

There are some of us who love music, and not only music, but the feelings evoked in a diaspora of joy and talent that is the inevitably sweaty mix of an Umoja crowd. It is Afro-beat, it is Latin, it is Jazz and sometimes even Funk. At some point I was sure they were Reggae. Two saxophones, a trombone, a trumpet, bass, congas, guacharacas, keyboards, guitar, accordion... anything else?
Some of them have left, some stayed, some just stuck and some dissolved... it is a gigantic mass that attracts musicians and lets them go with the equal ease with which it brought them. That unequivocally selfless love that is not co-dependent; that will always take in from whomever wishes to contribute.

There was a time a little less than four years ago, I recall well, when this eclectic group of musicians got together and decided that each could play to his own tune yet at the same time, like a fruit salad or Skittles, together but not mixed, independent but packed in one tight package that was that stage at 1982, or the Side Bar. It was fun... not yet inspiring, but different and provoking curiosity, especially for us Hispanics who could not help but wonder at this group of Jewish gringos plus Colombian, who could not very well dance to the music but felt it so much more than any of us.

It was a curiosity.

Four years later I can say that in the only two constants in my college life were Krishna lunch and Umoja. They got better... oh so much better, without losing their childlike innocence though, not taking it too seriously nor too lightly. They stopped being a curiosity and became an object of awe. It is the only group that could not sicken me and my melomaniac friends, because a show was not only a sensory experience but a soul-lifting one. It is safe to say that the only place where we Colombians felt like dancing in Gainesville was at their shows, in spite of it being Afro-beat, in spite of its instrumentality and its lack of pop-like attitude. The bond between band members transcended into their music, hence to the atmosphere and floated on to the audience,embracing us in a bubble, making us part of this magical thing that could superimpose the fabulousness of a trumpet solo onto cultural barriers.

An Umoja show is one of the best places to see all different types of people, usually divided in their own cliques, united under that supreme force that is genuinely good music. No one can keep from dancing, or attempting to dance, or simply convulsing to a certain conga rhythm.

Friday's show, their supposedly last show in their birth city of Gainesville, was like a typical good bye for me; simply a denial. I took it like any other show of the so many that I have been to. No sentimentality. And I am sure most of the band members did so as well. Because we all knew, all of us sweating in that show that sold out way ahead of time, that this is not an "adios" but simply an "hasta luego." This band is not like others.. it can't die. It is a growing thing, a living thing, a plant, an ideal, a place, a time... and abstract masses like that don't have finite endings.

Yet I did have all the flashbacks... to the original members, to the lack of coordination, to David Borenstein's saxophone-playing faces and Sebastian's poem readings. From covers of "La tierra" to a narration of the Wayuu massacre. There is story behind it, there is feeling. And seeing so much talent together simply makes joy. It is pure and good joy.

And the Common Grounds will certainly not be the burial ground of such monstrous joy.

Because I'm obsessed with Ice and Fire.

"Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice"
-Robert Frost

Colombians Harvesting Hope

So I have two types of friends: music festival veterans and those who are completely alien to them.

And then there is my mother, who innocently asked me: "is that like a Woodstock or something?" and my answer had to be: yes, mother. The pathetic, run-down version people of my generation have to settle for. And we're not even talking about Bonnaroo or Lollapalloza.

Harvest of Hope had its debut two weeks ago, in some fairgrounds close to St Augustine. The purpose? To help migrant workers. This is the only organization to do so in such a direct way by helping them not with funds that end up who knows where, but directly to get back to Mexico, or to find medical aid.

Yet in spite of all this benevolence, the truth was the festival managed to rate amongst my favorite random three-day events. I had never been to a music festival, since the ones I have ever found interest tend to run through the summer, and I have yet to spend one of those in the US. This particular one, though, was oh-so-conveniently close and affordable. My friend had to go and take pictures for a publication so we made a plan out of it.

Originally, it was supposed to be four girls, to be classified as absolute rookies, sharing a tent and improvising a campsite. We ended up shacking up with a group of Colombian grad students, veterans, to classify them in one of the above categories, who singlehandedly saved our very inexperienced asses. Thanks to them we were probably the better prepared campsite with decent food and shade, which without a doubt became an important factor throughout the weekend.

We arrived to set camp together with 1000 other tents and fellow campers or what we warmly began to call "harvesteros", into a dust-bin shamelessly called a camp site. I was sick and later thankful for it, since my olfactory sense was relentlessly impaired and apparently, music festivals are quite the smelly places.

While these guys cooked dinner in a portable grill, us girly-girls had fun finding suitable ground for our Walmart-purchased tent.

And then there was the big "chillout" tent, which we flamboyantly decorated with a Colombian flag and a PACE flag, which is peace in Italian, but was a rainbow nonetheless. Later we heard a very drug- influenced fellow camper muttering, "they are Colombian AND gay?? They MUST have cocaine!" We did not. Nor mushrooms, acid, hallucinogens, or all the other substances we kept getting asked about throughout the weekend. Whether it was the flags, or we were just part of the constant overall drug swapping that was going on, will remain unknown.

That first night was Girl Talk, and it was fabulous. The overall energy was high; people were fresh and ready to party. The remaining three stages remained unvisited by our group that first night. The crazed out DJ with the random hipster dancers kept us hypnotized for the entirety of the show, and we were dazzled.

The next day the transformation began: We slowly began mutating into hippies. The non-showering, the shedding of clothes, the intense heat, the ambiance of eternal, worldly love... maybe all of it together had the desired effect. Who knows.

First was the beach though. An essential break to all the dirt and madness. St Augustine beach was good sun, freezing water and fabulous wind. Good, good stuff.

During the next days the highlights were certainly Propagandhi, Against Me!, Tokyo Police Club, Wild Sweet Orange.... The audience? Even though most of the people could easily be divided among the Punk, Hippie and Hipster scene, there were various exceptions that were pleasurable to the eye. Children rocking out, for example. I remember spotting a little girl of about four, who stood onstage for all of Against Me! and shook her hips like there was no tomorrow. Or the random homeless dude with the rat that managed to hang with everyone in the campsite. Or the soul-healing shaman. Or the dudes walking around with rainbow-colored umbrellas offering free shade. There was too much randomness and not enough time for it all to sink in. At night the campsite was madness. Drum circles, streakers and wanderers were no exception.

In the end, after three days of sun, rocking music, great company and surprisingly good food, we were left with an aura of happiness and overall well-being that would last us for the rest of the break.