The first time was at night. I was actually nervous about making my presence known. Mostly because I had no idea what I was getting into, what I would encounter, if in fact I should have just remained a self-proclaimed "armchair activist" before I got in too deep.
I knew I'd gone a bit too far when I approached the stadium. I made a K-turn and hoped there were no police cars around. I was relieved when I reached a red light, which gave me an opportunity to scan the side of the road while the car was stopped. Obscured by the darkness and tucked behind a bent yellow road sign, the dirt road was barely visible from the main strip.
Once I found it, my next priority was circumventing trees, garbage bins, some debris, and of course tents. Presumably with people fast asleep inside them.
It had not occurred to me that most of the residents, in the absence of electricity, would be retiring once the sun had set. I wasn't entirely prepared for how dark it was. Without my headlights, my first impression could have easily been a macabre one.
In a moment or two, the famed school bus was in sight, but all was eerily still, save for the crackle of my tires over a branch, a cricket's chatter.
So, my curiosity had been assuaged - but then it occurred to me that there was no way for me to hightail it out of there if I wanted to. Not without substantial collateral damage. The scattered trees, tents, and tables made turning around impossible. I sighed, turned off my headlights, and at once felt a mix of relief and trepidation when I thought I saw something move. Or someone. Yes, definitely a person. They were waving a flashlight around. Fear turned into relief. I didn't care who the person was; another human in the middle of all that darkness was a remarkably welcome sight.
"Hello?" I opened my car door and got out.
It was a woman - older, thin, copious hair on her upper lip. "Hey honey. Are you lost?"
"I'm okay." I offered her some bottled water, which she accepted without hesitation. I carried the bottles to her tent. It occurred to me at that moment that I'd never pitched a tent in my life. I'd never even been camping.
She said little, just followed me back to my car, a look of concern on her face as I climbed into the driver's seat. "I think I can make it out."
"OK, honey. Thank you. God bless you."
It took a bit of maneuvering, but I managed to turn the car around. I waved at the woman and crawled back down the dirt road, back to the glaring lights of the highway.
The second time, I had some company: namely, my friend Matt. We brought along some clothes to donate, and were greeted by a man - Dave - who explained that he helped take care of things when Minister Steve wasn't around. I noticed the bus I'd seen the night before was absent. Dave helped Matt sort the clothing - including two women's winter coats - on a nearby picnic table. A handful of residents appeared from out of the woods to examine the items. Most were snapped up within just a short time. A woman with dreadlocks smiled widely upon finding a small box of hair accessories at the bottom of a bag. I peered into the vacant chapel; I read the Scripture passage on a white board; I located Alex's office and introduced myself. I met several more of the residents as Matt and I took a walk down one of the paths. One, a frail-looking blonde woman, greeted us, and we discovered we shared the same name: Lisa. We laughed about it, and she hugged me.
Now that it was daylight, the first word that came to mind was "sprawling." We'd reach the end of one cluster of makeshift homes, and another would begin. We saw a dog or two, then more tents. Many were tidy; a few were a haphazard amalgam of loosely-hung awnings and various clutter. Most had tarps slung over them to guard against inclement weather. These tiny homes, according to stories I'd read, had survived Hurricane Sandy, whereas palatial homes in the town, sturdy-looking and surrounded by far fewer trees, had been decimated.
The other word that came to mind was "chickens." Roosters, hens, and chicks alike roamed the camp freely, crowing and scratching, occasionally perching themselves on a stump or low-hanging tree branch. Matt said it reminded him of his mother's former village back in the Philippines, which she took him to visit when he was a boy.
Aside from a short-lived squabble over someone allegedly hoarding items from the donation table, it was remarkably peaceful. People waving from plastic Adirondack chairs on makeshift porches, echoes of "hey" and "how ya doin'" greeting us every few feet. But we headed home after about an hour, since Matt was performing in a show that night and still had some errands to run beforehand.
My third visit...now THAT is the one I really need to write about. :-) That is, after a night of sleep...
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