New America Media / Coachella Unincorporated, News Report, Jesus A. Vargas, Posted: Apr 23, 2011

COACHELLA, Calif. -- A cacophony of voices invades my ears, which are ringing with excitement. I manage to distinguish Australian and British accents from the audible jumble, along with Spanish, something that sounds like German, and some other languages that I won’t even try to decipher.

An eclectic mix of music blares out from the rows of cars that are at a virtual standstill, creeping forward a few feet every five minutes when the car in front of them does the same. Eventually, people opt to put their cars in neutral and just push them forward, rather than keep the engine running.

Everyone is outside their cars now, most with a beer in hand, already mingling with complete strangers as if they’re old friends, the conversations monopolized by inquires of, “Where are you guys from?” and, “Who are you excited to see?”

It’s 7 p.m. on Thursday, April 14, 2011. I’m in the line for car camping at the Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival, and it’s time to get comfortable. This “queue” (as a nearby English girl refers to it) is going to take a while.

The festival, affectionately known as simply “Coachella,” attracts upwards of 75,000 music (and party) lovers to the modest city of Indio, Calif., one of the small municipalities that comprise the Coachella Valley, an area that stretches from Palm Springs to the Salton Sea, the body of water that straddles Riverside and Imperial counties. Held annually in mid-April, the three-day extravaganza has become the premier music festival in North America, attracting revelers from around the world.

For most of these concertgoers, Coachella is a pilgrimage; a journey to a sleepy, out-of-the-way area in the scorching desert, a place where people go to retire. They plan their trips months in advance, start packing days before the festival and drive for hours to get here.

I just grab whatever I can carry, and go.

For me, it’s always been just a 10-minute bike ride up the street. I’m 22 years old, a lifelong resident of the Coachella Valley and, now, a four-year veteran of Coachella Fest. My house is about three and half miles away from the Empire Polo Grounds, the festival venue.

Most people who frequent Coachella Fest or stay at the nearby resorts in the west side of the valley, know nothing about the real Coachella. I live in the actual city of Coachella, less than a 10-minute drive southeast from Indio, a small 40,000 person town that is economically depressed, mostly rural and agricultural and predominantly Hispanic. Further east of the city are the unincorporated communities of Thermal, Mecca, and North Shore, which are home to the migrant workers who toil in the area’s agricultural fields. Many live in poverty. The environmental conditions – contaminated drinking water, toxic landfills, dilapidated mobile home parks – are terrible, and the landscape is desolate. Trash heaps and illegal dumps litter the area. A nearby soil recycling plant emits a stink that many residents say causes them extreme discomfort. The region sits in stark contrast to the glitz and glamour of the western Coachella Valley that’s only a few minutes up Interstate-10.

When my friends and I tell our fellow concertgoers that we live literally five minutes away, they are incredulous. They seem to have had the impression that nobody under the age of 40 lives here. When I tell them I’m not from La Quinta, Indio, Palm Desert or Palm Springs, they ask, “What other cities are there here?”

This year, my friends and I got a car camping spot, and when we told people we were locals, a lot of them asked us why we were camping. We answered with a disinterested, “Why not?” or a sarcastic, “To hang out with you, of course.”

Many times, we just say we’re from somewhere else to avoid the inevitable bemused looks and questioning. Why should I kill their Coachella buzz with tales about Mecca and Thermal, and the poverty and pollution endemic to them? There are, however, a few people who are aware of the large Hispanic population just east of the festival grounds, and when they realize we’re locals, they ask us questions. We tell them mostly about the good things and just a few of the details concerning the crime, poverty and pollution. They are appalled at the little we do tell them.

Being a local, it is kind of surreal to see all of these famous people and young, beautiful, often wealthy tourists suddenly transplanted just up the street from me. As I’m there listening to the music, taking in the awesome art installations and talking effortlessly to strangers, there’s always the nagging sensation in the back of my head that none of it is real, that my mind is playing an elaborate trick on me.

But then I feel the rays of the burning sun hit my skin; I get sprayed by a heavenly cool stream of water, or “accidentally” bump into a cute girl, and the tactility reassures me that this is all real. It’s all happening now, so I should make the most of it. No one here knows who I am (except my friends and other locals who I run into), and aesthetically, I fit right in with this crowd of indie twenty-somethings who are just trying to have a good time.

I’ll admit it—the problems of my community don’t seem to exist when I’m here.

Here, water bottle in hand, desperately trying to find shade in an afternoon music set at the outdoor stage. Here, in the dark and pulsating lights of the Sahara Tent, packed chest-to-back with other electronic music lovers, dancing the night away. Here, listening to the Chemical Brothers, watching their elaborate light spectacle, time seemingly at a halt as the melodic electronic harmonies ring out on full blast.

Suddenly, there’s a lull in the music and an ethereal voice begins repeating the line, “You should feel, what I feel” over and over. I turn my head to take in the surroundings and everyone is swaying gently to and fro, their eyes closed and gratified smiles on their lips. I see and feel what everyone else is feeling. I join with them, and think to myself how glad I am that this incredible event is right in my backyard. And I wonder how next year’s “Coachella” can possibly top this.

Yet, I already know from experience that every Coachella Fest is better than the last, always managing to find a way to improve from one year to the next. And I wish that was something that Coachella, the city, had in common with Coachella, the festival.


Jesus A. Vargas, 22, reports for Coachella Unincorporated, a hyper-local, youth-led journalism project of New America Media that serves the communities of the eastern Coachella Valley. The project seeks to create a platform for community voices to ignite dialogue and action around issues of community health and environmental justice. Coachella Unincorporated is supported through a grant from The California Endowment.