The party starts
Of course, Saif is actually crazy. The walk to Camp II is long, it was dark, the roads are tiny and not lit, and one can get lost rather easily. Cars passing belonged to locals with no interest in picking up peacenik hitchhikers. Finally, a small car pulled up and a woman jumped out and said, “Help me get this box into the trunk.” And we got in, and she drove us all the way, past the secret service blocked entrance to the “ranch”, past the white church, and Camp Casey II blazed into full view.
There was pita and organic peanut butter, and coffee and cold drinks. There was music and a movie by a group of artists against the war. Cindy came out and we all gathered into a hushed semi-circle, as she prepared to do Real Time with Bill Maher, live. Cindy sat under the lights, with the huge painting of Casey behind her. We cheered her on while she talked with Bill, and she was funny. She said, “Bill, that’s my peeps.” And then, responding to him, “Well, Pat Robertson isn’t the only one who can be gangsta.”
She went off to bed, and I encountered Ann Wright and told her much I admired her and was thrilled to be there. We headed back to Camp I (funny, I don’t remember how we got there), and back to our tent. My air mattress developed a huge leak and went flat within three minutes, so we tucked in with our blankets as best we could. I fell asleep almost immediately, and didn’t wake until morning.