Provincialism

Shortly after my arrival in town it became apparent that my presence was found by very many people to be less than desirable. Being a shame-based person, I was all too ready to personalize this as being essentially a reaction to the unlovable, dislike-able person whom I then believed that I was (In my advancing age, I've learned to embrace my unlovable, dislike-able self, and even flaunt it...). I was to learn, in time, that this was the general reaction to all outsiders, and that the levels of this resentment were only slightly contingent upon one's place on the social escalator.

'Locals' were those who's families had lived in town long enough to have preceded the counter cultural influx of the late sixties, and generally were property owners and had either a business or agricultural stake in the town. Many of these people strongly resented the "hippy element", and were largely pro-development. Business and residential development were seen as economic opportunity - the natural way of progress, and among the rights and blessings of the American way of life.

Thus their provincialism was expressed as general hostility toward the hippy element, many of whom were attracted to Bolinas in the late sixties as they fled from the urban world in search of 'alternative lifestyles'. This term, which today is a buzz phrase for anything from gay culture, to Boulder Colorado's granola-think, to the enclaves of neo-nazis in their Idaho retreats, was a little clearer allusion to a detour from the mainstream culture's 'get a job / get a family / get ahead / get a watch / die' limited options.

While the entrenched generations of natives were hoping for the routing of the more recently arrived young, these more recent arrivals were quite fixed on the notion of keeping out even newer arrivals. Everyone, it seemed, had an ax to grind with someone, and each had their own rendition of what paradise meant, and who the spoilers were.

"Tourist" was a slur to most of the newer generation, a name which called up the objectionable images of cars jamming Wharf, Brighton and Terrace roads on hot summer days - horns blaring rudely at dogs who were too accustomed to sleeping in the streets, and greasy, leering men with binoculars who stood along the overlooks, drooling at the sight of nude sunbathers as if at a Tenderloin peep show.

Plans proposed by the county to widen Highway 1 to improve access to West Marin County were seen as a declaration of war by most in Bolinas, and were met with outcry and demonstrations of vehement protest. A contingent of local guerrillas (now known as the Bolinas Border Patrol) carried on a low level sabotage operation in this war on tourists, steadfastly cutting down each sign the Highway Department erected pointing the way into town from the main highway.

The county would put up signs on 4x4 posts by day, only to have them hacked off at the knees by night - the chainsawed remains left in shards, like body parts at a grizzly murder scene. The county would erect signs mounted on steel posts by day only to have them hacksawed down by night, or even more dramatically dragged from their concrete footings by truck and chain. The battle grinds on even today, each firing it's volleys every so many weeks. Sign up....sign gone.

Interestingly, while the size of the population has fluctuated little (owing in large part to ongoing water and building moratoriums) a significant percentage of the populace turns over on a steady basis, with one leaving and another taking his or her place without missing a stride. Those leaving were often highly vocal in the anti-newcomer fray, but after the setting in of the reality of a life spent hassling with high rents and the logistical problems related to living in relative isolation from the mainstream world, they would finally throw in the towel and move to places closer to jobs, families, and accommodations.

Bolinas proves to be a siren for many - alluring and seductive, but soon reveled to be a tyrannical mistress who takes her lovers hostage. Boredom runs high during the long, gray rainy season, and the small world of a small town becomes a glass house where all are privy to the most intimate details of each others' lives. Often, those who rode in on a tide of high ideals and communal zeal rode out on a backwash of disillusionment and resentment as the reality of Bolinas fell short of her promise. So, in rides the next wave, who fall spellbound into the whirl of Bo-culture, and soon are quite busy with the task of keeping out the next wave of newcomers which threatens this little Valhalla they have found... yet another turn on the circle.