The Eden Express_ A Memoir of Insanity - Mark Vonnegut [21]
Steve had reservations about the tribe himself, so he didn’t push it much. He said he and Sandy were about to split off anyway. Just thought he should ask. They invited us to come spend a few days with the tribe while we were waiting for Simon. Swifty and Bo headed back to California.
The tribe was impressive. Twenty-some-odd people, five dogs, three recently acquired goats, three Chevy vans, two VW bugs, three huge tepees, $3600 cash (going fast), and miscellaneous in search of a home. For now a liberal Simon Fraser professor was letting them use some land he was holding as an investment right near the main road. So here was this bucolic frontier scene playing in stereo with a six-lane highway.
The Buffalo tribe had been born that spring at a party where they all took MDA and predictably fell in love with each other. They liked loving each other so much that they all vowed to not let it stop when the drug wore off. So they formed a tribe, dropped out of school, pooled their belongings, and headed for British Columbia. It’s got to be the longest MDA trip on record.
After a few very pleasant days looking at what might be a preview of what lay ahead for us, Simon was due so we split. The day after Virge and I left, four of the tribe got busted with a pound of dope. That pretty much killed it. The Buffalo tribe scattered to the winds. Another courageous hippie venture bites the dust.
McKenzie called to tell us that the owner had accepted our “offer to purchase,” which was what the hundred bucks and those papers I had signed were all about. All we had to do was come up with $11,900 in the next forty days.
Simon took longer than expected to show. He doesn’t move terribly quickly. I didn’t know that then. Steady like rock but not terribly quick. I didn’t really know anything about Simon then.
SIMON. Swarthmore Class of ’69, just like me. I have a feeling he majored in either English or sociology. It doesn’t really matter. Except for engineering, there was really only one major at Swarthmore, which was Swarthmore. Even some of the engineers were really Swarthmore majors. All the Swarthmore people in this book were Swarthmore majors.
Swarthmore’s small. Everyone is supposed to know everyone. I knew who Simon was. I knew his name and we had some friends in common. But if anyone had asked me about Simon before the Powell River venture I couldn’t have said much.
I think our first conversation of any length was at Swarthmore, just before Virginia and I headed West. Simon was heading West too. He was fed up with teaching junior high school in Philly and said he was interested in the land thing. I talked a bit about why I thought B.C. was a good place to look. He said it sounded good, maybe he’d head up that way after California. He said he might be interested in buying in if I found anything. I told him I’d keep it in mind. I didn’t take him any more or any less seriously than any of the hundred or so other people with whom I had had virtually the same conversation.
Two and a half months after that conversation, I had found land, spectacularly beautiful land, land tailormade for our needs. I had tried to get hold of some of the other people who had expressed interest, but Simon’s phone number in California was the first that worked. He was enthusiastic, and if I didn’t have any overwhelming positive feelings about him I didn’t have any negative ones either.
I’m subject to occasional theological nightmares.
The one that leaves me in a cold sweat every time is, I arrive at the pearly gates and the first thing I’m asked is where I went to college.
Swarthmore people tend to form enclaves. They are often unable to live with, talk to, or sleep with someone who isn’t a Swarthmore person.
All non-Swarthmore people in B.C. seemed to assume that all the Swarthmore people there had been very close buddies at Swarthmore. It wasn’t true. It was especially