Geoff Nicholson - Still life with Volkswagens

Inevitably there is some confusion. Sam Probert has organised a few stewards to direct people as they arrive, but the stewards themselves are not organised at all, and so, especially at first, some Volkswagen fans end up in the New Age field, and vice versa. But gradually the build up of Volkswagens in one field and of New Age culture in the other ensures that a moment comes when no such mistake can be made. There is a small police presence, and they do their best to remain friendly yet formal.

Both crowds are surprisingly diverse. Among the Gathering of the Tribes there are many genuine full-time New Age travellers, but there are also plenty of old hippies, crusties, punks, a few bikers, and more than a smattering of clean and healthy looking youngsters who seem to have borrowed Mum’s hatchback and are playing at being New Age for the weekend. There are even one or two skinheads, though not of the neo-Nazi variety.

Those attending Bug Mecca are also varied in their own way. Some are family groups out for a weekend’s camping, while others are history buffs and are driving thrillingly authentic antique Volkswagens. Some are trendy young things in immaculate, restored Beetles, while others try to look like California surfers.

Moreover, a certain number of visitors are interested in both events. Some old hippies are interested in Volkswagens. Some Volkswagen enthusiasts are into things New Age. Fans of rave culture are at home in either camp. People pass back and forth between the two fields, sometimes in Volkswagens, often not, and they are able to partake of both Volkswagen and New Age worlds.

One or two locals are happy enough to welcome the visitors; mostly the owners of the local garages, supermarkets and off licences, who do a brisk trade. They tend to welcome the Volkswagen people more than the New Age travellers because, in the main, the former spend more money, but when Planetary Cliff arrives at the petrol station in his double-decker bus and fills it up with diesel, he’s made to feel very welcome indeed. Nevertheless, the people who said it was a disgrace, that there would be chaos, noise and smells, dogs and children, people revving their engines and loud music and drugs, unprotected sex and people peeing in the street, still feel they’re going to be proved absolutely right.

In fact Planetary Cliff is one of the first to arrive, naturally enough, since he’s the one providing the music for the Gathering of the Tribes. Many hours are spent unloading his bus and setting up his vast sound system in a corner of the field furthest from the caravan site. Cliff tries to be considerate.

A stage is rapidly constructed out of scaffolding and old boards, and it has a navy blue back cloth with suns, moons and holy symbols painted on it. A lighting rig will illuminate the stage at night, and there is a row of microphones so that Planetary Cliff, or anyone else, can address the crowd and share some cosmic wisdom with them.

Cliff never has any shortage of helpers on these occasions, and the most enthusiastic helper here by far is Davey.

“Looks like I’m finally going to do it,” says Davey.

“What’s that?” Planetary Cliff asks.

“Get to dance in a field till dawn, out of my head on Ecstasy.”

“Well,” says Cliff, “whatever gets you through the night.”

“Think it’ll be easy to get some E?”

“I dare say.”

“You know, I was talking to a girl a few minutes ago and she said the Earth Goddess is talking to us in our dreams. What do you think about that?”

“I think she might be a very good source of drugs,” says Planetary Cliff.

♦

In Barry’s caravan site a siege mentality has started to take hold. Most of the inmates have declared that they’re not setting foot outside the site until this whole sordid business is over. Thus they will avoid all contact with, and risk of pollution from, the invading hordes. A sort of road block has been set up at the entrance to the site and teams of men are working as sentries to vet anyone who attempts to enter. Another small team of vigilantes patrols the perimeter. This does not make for a pleasant or relaxing atmosphere.

Even Barry has thought of going away for the whole of this festive weekend. Fond though he is of Volkswagens he doesn’t want to spend the whole weekend watching them come and go, seeing and hearing them being put through their paces, listening to the sound of their air-cooled engines, their sports exhausts, their in-car stereos. And he certainly doesn’t want to have to put up with an all night New Age rave on the other side.

So he thinks of going to Southend for the weekend to renew contact with Fat Les and to get him involved in repairing Enlightenment. He rings Fat Volkz Inc but fails to speak to Fat Les. Instead, an extremely young boy answers the phone and says he can’t be of any help because he’s just there holding the fort and everybody else has gone to the Bug Mecca being held near Filey. Fat Volkz is having a trade stand there and if he’s absolutely desperate to speak to Fat Les he could always go there. Once again Barry is amazed by the extent to which the world seems to bring him what he wants when he wants it. This has saved him the problem of driving to Southend. However, there is still the problem of Charles Lederer.

The old man has settled into his new environment rather well. Barry has not succeeded in organising a tent for him. More precisely, he found a tent without any trouble, but Charles Lederer is refusing to sleep in it. By the time Barry had returned from the angry meeting with Sam Probert, Lederer had installed himself in Barry’s caravan and he now shows no sign of budging. The old guy is still obviously in a state of shock and distress, and Barry doesn’t want to be hard on him, so for the time being Barry has returned to sleeping, and indeed living, in Enlightenment.

Charles Lederer spends a lot of time asleep and Barry has no objection to that. He thinks, in fact, it might be very much for the best if the old man could remain unconscious for the whole weekend. If Charles Lederer wanders out of the caravan site and finds himself standing in a field with a couple of thousand Volkswagens, then Barry fears the worst.

♦

Fat Les arrives at Bug Mecca early on Friday. The Fat Volkz trade stand is extremely impressive. It consists of a small marquee in which there are display boards showing before and after photographs of some of the best Beetles he’s restored or customised. A bank of video screens shows these same cars in action, though neither photographs nor videos show Enlightenment nor any of the eight neo-Nazi Beetles. In the centre of the marquee is a wretched looking, rusty, dented pale blue Beetle that a couple of the lads will be knocking back into shape and giving a tricksy paintjob over the course of the weekend.

Les has some very flashy lines of Volkswagen accessories for sale; louvred wings and running boards, pink and black leather replacement door panels, a gear lever encrusted with diamantes and turquoise. But what he prefers to offer is a total service. He says he wants his customers to put themselves entirely in his hands, to free their minds and to dream up their wildest Volkswagen fantasies, and then he will make those fantasies a reality.

At least that’s what he says to his more gullible customers. Now, as he stands in this flat, dreary field surrounded by Volkswagens, their owners and their drivers, he once again feels overwhelmed, bored, satiated, nauseated by their insistent presence. He wouldn’t mind seeing the whole bloody lot of them blown up.

♦

Sure enough, Phelan’s skinheads also arrive that Friday evening; forty of them, five per car as demanded by Phelan. Of course, they had no idea that there would be a Bug Mecca in the field adjacent to the Gathering of the Tribes, and they are more than surprised to find themselves the subject of considerable curiosity and attention from Beetle fans. They are directed into Bug Mecca even though that’s not where they want to go, and once inside, a small crowd gathers around the cars. There’s a general admiration for the work that’s gone into their Beetles, though several people make disparaging remarks about the presence of swastikas and SS flashes on the paintwork. At first the skinheads find all this hard to take, but Butcher points out to his cohorts that a Volkswagen meeting is just about the perfect place from which to launch their attacks on the New Agers. It provides them with a reason to be there and a lot of cover. If their victims report that they were beaten up by somebody in a Volkswagen, that isn’t going to tell anybody very much, is it?