Wendy, Wilbur and a Water Truck

A Personal Essay by Corrine Bundschuh

ple drive down your Dad’s six-kilometer driveway to arrive at a party in your pop’s

a lot of duSt. All those tires on that old dirt farm road create a fog of edible dirt.

n tell who’s been to Shambhala by their duSt-encruSted vehicles.

t’s call him Wilbur, who had a water truck for hire. We contacted him and asked

e was skeptical about the contract at firSt. Wilbur wasn’t a raver type. He wore a
eans, denim shirt, jean jacket. His reddish mouStache drooped at the ends and he
ap. Wilbur needed the money, so he agreed to take the job.

worked the water truck was a revelation to him. The Shambhala fever caught him
d expression. He embraced the spirit of acceptance for all. He learned a beautiful
o express himself as he really was. No one would judge his inner freak.

brought his girlfriend, a blonde Barbie-esque doll. Not a little kid’s doll, but a human-
doll. At first she juSt rode with him in the cab, seated in the middle seat so they could

> end of that year’s feStival, and with encouragement from the crowd, she was mounted on
s truck for all to see. Wilbur would drive the kilometers of roads with the crowds cheering him
and his lady on. Dad chuckled, “You juSt never know, do you?”

Wilbur had gained a lot of confidence after his second year and prepared well in advance of the show
dates for his third round. This time, he rolled onto the feStival grounds with a green, three-titted, alien-
eyed blow up doll already mounted on the front of his truck. She was a Step up. Bright lime green with a
contrasting pink hole located below her belly button, not in between her legs like the previous year’s blond.

Shambhala’s Harm Reduction Team had grown considerably under the leadership of my bet friend,
Wendy, a sweet woman with a big heart and an amazing sense of Style. Every morning at the Public Safety
meetings, she would don hot rolls and do our hair in 50’s ‘dos as we analyzed incidents from the night before.
This year, Wendy had added a Women’s Safe Space to the Harm Reduction Team and we were excited to
have them. They arrived for set up of their space on Thursday, but I was alarmed when I got a radio call
from Wendy that the Women’s Space team was packing up to leave juSt hours after they had arrived. It
seemed they had had a conflict with someone on the farm. As shit rolls uphill, it came to me to solve the
problem.

Wendy arrived at my office for a face-to-face conversation. This was a conversation that needed to be had
in private, not for everyone to hear over the radio communication we use on site.

Wendy exclaimed, “Corrine, you have to do something! The Women’s Safe Space team is so offended! I
can’t believe this!”

“What is going on? Take a few deep breaths and tell me what is happening,” I said.
“It’s the vagina Corrine, it’s the gaping vagina!”

I wondered whose vagina and why it was gaping.

Wendy continued to explain, “That green plaStic skin againSt that pink hole! You have to Stop Wilbur!”

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