“The cops are putting their helmets on!” one anarchist shouts. “Stay tight, stay tight!”

A masked man raises his hands in the air and cracks his knuckles. Others tighten their vinegar-soaked bandanas and strap on swimming goggles.

Everyone waits for something to happen.

There was always potential for chaos. But before our week as protesters, we didn’t know how it could come to this.

Monday, June 21 – Taking back the streets

Bike cops are stationed on every corner of Allan Gardens, and swarms of journalists eagerly await the G20’s first demonstration. But right now there are only a handful of protesters sitting quietly in small groups on the grass.

“Is Marsha here yet with the megaphone?” one organizer asks the group. “No? Really? That sucks.” For the time being he does the yelling. Punctuality, it seems, is not high on the protest priority list.

Soon enough dreads and steel-toed boots outnumber police badges and TV cameras, and there are enough people to respectably take to the streets. The march exits the gardens and heads south on Sherbourne St.

Megaphone Marsha is here now, but it’s still difficult to get a united chant going. “G8, G20, they few, we many” is easy enough — but near the back of the group, basic call and response becomes a demanding test of hearing abilities.

More than once, we demand “NOW!” And when do we want it? “JUSTICE!” Unable to hear what the front section is yelling, the back frequently breaks into rogue chants of its own. The lack of unity prompts one cop to break his silence.

“You’re losing it,” he warns, grinning. “You’re losing the rhythm!”

No one knows it yet, but this is a rare moment of friendly police-protester banter.

It turns out Marsha — note that demonstrators’ real names are not used in this story — has a voice that does not need a megaphone. But she uses it anyway. Our ears suffer. Still, she’s good at getting the crowd riled up — for the most part.

Seconds after one demonstrator concludes a passionate speech about flaws in the Children’s Aid Society, Marsha chimes in with an impromptu chant.

“C-A-S kills kids!” she blasts into the megaphone.

Eyes widen. Heads turn. Only a few people join her and the chant dies quickly.

“Ah,” Marsha says to herself. “That’s not a good cheer.” She shrugs.

After about an hour, people are getting thirsty and hungry, and we’re all burning under the hot sun.

Enter the protest equivalent of soccer moms. Volunteers trek through the crowd doling out water and sunscreen, while others carry trays of bread, sliced tomato and cucumber for sandwiches. One girl with sparkles on her face carries a giant backpack with a sign that reads: Free Food.

Meanwhile, the protest legal team uses markers to scrawl on everyone’s forearm the phone number to call if arrested. “Let’s hope you don’t have to use it,” one says.

Basic safety and health needs? Check. It’s as parent-approved as civil disobedience gets.

We’ll see how long that lasts.

Tuesday, June 22 – Google it, officer

A lone woman stands at the corner of Yonge and Gould Sts. wearing a bright pink scarf, ready for today’s gay rights protest march.

Half a block away a dozen cops on bikes slowly peddle in her direction. They approach, dismount on the sidewalk and size her up.

“Are you here to watch our bikes?” one officer jokes. He’s short and has arms the size of cannons.

His tone is casual, but it’s obvious he’s using chit-chat to butter her up. He wants information. She says she’s just waiting for a friend.

“Hmm,” he says. “Where are you going?”

She mumbles something about gender justice and a queer kiss-in.

He reacts like he doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

“Hmm,” he says, turning back to his fellow officers. “You know anything about a gay kiss-in, Sarge?”

The sergeant shakes his head. Now they’re both looking at her.

“Where is it?” the cannon-armed cop asks.

“I’m not sure,” she says. “Somewhere in the financial district.”

“How many people are going?”

She shifts uncomfortably. “I have absolutely no idea,” she says. “I’m just checking it out.”

He appears skeptical. She jets.

At the meeting point on Queen St., it’s not so much a protest as a parade. Demonstrators are dressed in drag, there’s a bobble-head Stephen Harper doll in a bra and regular hug-and-kiss breaks.

Sure, protesters speak out against corporate sponsorship of the pride parade and Stephen Harper’s cuts to international abortion funding.

But they’re having so much fun singing and dancing in the street, there’s no time to prepare Molotov cocktails.

Wednesday, June 23 – Provocateurs on both sides

The protester is so close to the police officer’s bike, he may as well be sitting on the front tire.

“Move,” the cop orders.

The protester borrows a defence from his childhood vocabulary.

“I’m not touching you!” he says, still leaning over the bike. “I’m not touching you!”

Even though there have been reports of police instigating arrests, most interactions we’ve witnessed have been relatively tame on both sides.

But throughout today’s march — this time for environmental justice — more police-demonstrator exchanges erupt into small confrontations.

It doesn’t always begin with provocation from a protester. The police stir things up, too, usually by discreetly bumping demonstrators when they think no one is looking.

Either way, once someone shouts the shotgun word — “Intimidation!” — people snap into action.

The crowd shifts like a school of fish. The media swarm. The most brazen protesters form a ring around the people involved and others hold their video phones and cameras high in the air to capture the action. Most try to steer clear of the drama.

The officers hold their hands up and practice trained calmness, speaking in steady but firm voices.

“Intimidation!” the crowd accuses. “Shame!”

“No justice, no peace — f--k the police!”

The police stand stone-faced as the call echoes through the crowd. It must take incredible patience and willpower not to react.

It’s hard not to feel sorry for the cops. They’re buried under layers of bulletproof vest, dark clothing and bicycle helmets. They have to stay calm even with scores of people pushing up against them and antagonizers shouting insults.

One protester wears sunglasses tight to his face, an orange baseball hat and black combat boots. He’s usually alone, always moving through the crowd and glancing behind him. Every once in a while he stands in front of the police line shouting “Woo! Woo!” inches from the cops’ faces.

We call him Bandana Man because so far he’s the only masked protester we’ve seen.

Still, the police are an ever-present reminder of the billion-dollar security spending, the unpopular invasion of Toronto and the global governance system many feel is a failure. The sheer number of law enforcement officers represents so much of what people in the crowd despise about the G20.

Later Wednesday — Now entering Protester Central

We descend the stairs of a nondescript building just off Queen St. W. shortly after 7 p.m. and head into what the Toronto Community Mobilization Network calls its convergence space.

We’re greeted by three people offering pamphlets, maps and giant smiles.

Then we duck under a long black curtain into a massive room lined with beaten-up couches and chairs.

Near the entrance, a table loaded with free vegan food has been set up beside a small kitchen. Dinner is eagerly snatched up by a few dozen hungry protesters, some settling on the floor to eat when the couches fill up.

Signs cover the black walls.

“Shhhh!” warns one, reminding everyone to be careful what they say — anyone could be listening. Another says police have been loitering outside asking anyone nearby for identification.

One in particular catches our attention. “No Media.”

The people here, mostly in their 20s and 30s, are a mix of locals and out-of-towners from cities in Canada and the northern U.S. They chat quietly in small groups as they eat. Others work in the back of the room, making anti-G20 T-shirts with a silk screen or painting large banners to use in a protest.

A few hours later it’s off to the Kensington Market for a protest fundraiser. About 10 people stand outside smoking. Close to midnight just as many cops appear on foot to check the place out. Their presence seems unnecessary.

“This isn’t even a protest, this is just people drinking together,” says a young man we met at the convergence space. “It’s harassment at this point.”

He was recently arrested for a G20-related offence. His bail conditions ban him from protests so he says he’s spending most of his time at the convergence space. He tells us he’s an anarchist but not of the lighting-things-on-fire variety.

The convergence space is his ideal world: people working together, no hierarchy, decisions made by the community as a whole.

Thursday, June 24 — Stop looking at me

Strict anti-violence rules have made the Indigenous day of rights march the most peaceful protest so far, but paranoia levels are cranked.

One protest medic claims she’s being followed and that her phone has been tapped. “C’mon,” she says. “We’re just medics.”

Three people who were leaders at previous events whisper about undercover cops. “Look at that couple holding hands,” one says.

Eyes shift toward the people in question, a man with a shaved head and a woman wearing a ball cap. They’re sporting fanny packs, dark sunglasses, running shoes and T-shirts. They’re not chanting along with the group or speaking to each other.

Jay, a grey-haired man wearing a T-shirt tucked into blue jeans, taunts police with a bold sign: “Provocateur Cops Are Suicide Cops.”

He tells us the undercovers are here to stir up violence that will justify their overwhelming G20 presence. When Jay sees someone he decides is a cop posing as a protester, he stands directly in front of the person and holds his sign at their eye level. His message is clear: I know who you are.

“I can spot them a mile away,” he says.

So can most people. Protesters aren’t stupid. A tall, muscular man, wearing sunglasses and a single ear bud holds a sign with “Stop Tar Sands” scrawled in what looks like a child’s handwriting. We consider telling him that was yesterday’s march.

The undercover cops look more like American tourists than demonstrators. Who brings an iPod to a protest?

But while the tension between police and protester continues to grow, there are moments of civility.

A thin woman with dreadlocks chats with one of the officers when the march halts for a moment. They discuss why he became a cop and he asks about her school. Then she gets down to business.

“If things get crazy, I want to know if you’ll be with us,” she says in a serious but soft voice. “Who’s side are you going to be on? Will you join us?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” he says after a moment’s silence.

She tells him people need to stick together. “Corporations have more rights than we do, and that’s f--king disgusting.”

But she smiles anyway as she turns to leave.

“Nice talking to you.”

“Nice talking to you, too.”

Friday, June 25 – Put your cameras away

Whatever you do, don’t shoot the anarchists.

A man wearing a CNN media badge makes an attempt and a gloved hand blocks his lens within seconds.

“No cameras!”

Dozens of masked and hooded figures hide behind a large cloth banner. A few others surround the bewildered cameraman. “Put your camera away!” they insist.

The CNN reporter enters the scene and protests when the cameraman tells her the anarchists won’t let him shoot. It’s perfectly legal to take video or photos of anyone in a public space.

“Your sign says freedom,” she points out. “What about my freedom?”

An unmasked man attempts to explain. If they’re seen on camera they risk being targeted and arrested. They need anonymity to express their beliefs.

The reporter says they’re not practicing the freedom they preach. A woman wearing a blue hoodie and red bandana offers a suggestion. “Go take pictures of the f--king police.”

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This is the first time the anarchists have made a mass public appearance during G20 protest week. Most wear an all-black uniform of hooded sweatshirts, combat boots and bandanas tied over their faces. Only their eyes are exposed.

Bandana Man is here wearing a pair of garden gloves, the same white shirt from the first day of protest with a black hat and bandana to blend in with his companions. The sunglasses remain firmly pressed high on his nose. His eyes are still hidden.

Today’s march measures in the thousands, so it begins at a grandma pace.

The anarchists join the line on the street and a group of Socialist demonstrators pull up beside them chanting “Down with capitalism! Long live socialism.”

The anarchists stare sideways. “Socialism has never worked,” someone shouts.

Then the anarchists join in. The next time the unfortunate Socialist with the microphone calls out “Long live. . . ” the response is a resounding “anarchy!” The Socialists quickly move forward.

Anarchist chants have a more violent tone than the ones we’ve been hearing all week.

“F-F-F-C, firebombing RBC!” is a popular one, referring to Ottawa’s Fighting for Freedom Coalition.

Still, for the most part they look like a bunch of kids. They snicker when taking over the Socialist chant, joke around with each other and share chunks of cinnamon roll.

The protest march halts just east of Yonge and College Sts.. and swarms of police in riot gear trickle out of every corner. As with nearly everything this week, the reaction is immediate and frantic.

“The cops are putting their helmets on!” one anarchist shouts. “Stay tight, stay tight!”

One masked man raises his hands in the air and cracks his knuckles. Others tighten their bandanas and strap on swimming goggles.

They pull together and raise two banners high in the air on either side of their ranks, creating a makeshift hideaway from police and cameras.

“Stay tight, stay tight!” they shout again, encouraging other protesters to pull in close to help camouflage their activity.

Speculative whispers zip through the crowd. People soak bandanas in vinegar and pull out earplugs.

A guy wearing a backpack with a purple and white flag sticking out of it pushes through the crowd. The anarchists pull him into their ranks. We’re close enough to see there’s a bag on his chest containing what appears to be a wooden block. Masked people on the perimeter of the curtain monitor the police and cameras.

Everyone is waiting for something to happen. But nothing does. The crowd moves forward again.

These anarchists aren’t part of the scuffles that break out between police and protesters a block down the road. They shout “Shame!” and “Let them go!” when the cops detain and arrest a few protesters, but the group stays tight. They seem to have bigger plans.

The march stops again at University and Elm Sts., where police have blocked protesters from going further south.

There’s movement from behind the still-raised banners and a few anarchists on the outskirts are whispering. “Now? Are we doing it now?”

“Get ready.”

A man and a women wearing coloured masks run out of the centre of the anarchist bubble. “Does anyone have an epi-pen!” they shout. “Epi-pen!”

Word spreads like fire and within 10 seconds a medic shoots through the crowd at full speed, an epi-pen in hand. But she can’t find the person who needed it. The anarchists pretend to know nothing.

“That’s not something to joke about,” a protester says. The medic speculates it was a distraction.

The anarchists form a group huddle again. This time they pull the two banners tight and high over their heads.

Unmasked protesters on the outside encourage the crowd to pull tight and help hide them. Some are from the convergence centre crowd.

Beneath the banner are dozens of backpacks on the ground and hands pulling things out of them. It looks like the anarchists are preparing for battle.

Other protesters stare. Are they getting ready to go for the wall?

Up ahead the crowd begins to move forward.

“Ready!” someone shouts from the centre of the anarchists.

In half a second, the banners are down and gone, the group is moving forward and the sea of black has disappeared. The anarchists are gone.

In their place are people in T-shirts, dress shirts, slacks, blue jeans, caps and even a Tilley hat.

But there are a few telltale signs. Combat boots and black socks protruding from ankle-length pants. Sweat-soaked hair. Knowing smirks on the faces of people with familiar eyes.

The crowd marches on and the opening notes of Blackstreet’s “No Diggity” blares out of a loudspeaker on the back of a truck ahead.

The protesters break into a forward-moving street dance. It’s Anarchy the musical.

Saturday, June 26 – Blending in

The anarchists are in disguise. That is, they’re dressed like everyone else.

Throbbing drums sound and rain pours from the sky when we arrive for the final G20 protest at Queen’s Park.

Gradually, the anarchists form an umbrella huddle — black umbrellas, of course. Their eyes and shoes are by now familiar to us. One guy with a beard and grey hoodie is on the lookout, eyeing anyone glancing in the group’s direction. Others standing by wonder aloud if they are today’s troublemakers.

“There they are,” one curious protester says, motioning towards the group now tying bandanas tight to their faces.

More familiar faces congregate. Plastic black horns sound off — a signal to anarchists to gather and prepare for the march.

The sea of black has grown. Yesterday’s anarchists have friends — lots of them.

The pace is quick. “Smash the state!” they yell, the volume increasing with every repetition.

Deep within the mass of black, one man offers earplugs.

“Do you have an extra pair?” he is asked. He hands over two sets.

Bandana Man doesn’t take as much care to protect his identity today — he keeps tipping his glasses up to reveal his eyes — but he is in charge of blocking others from the despised camera people. He uses an umbrella to block anyone in their path who he sees with a camera.

The marching speeds up as we head down University Ave. Anarchists and other militant protesters break off from the peaceful marchers and head down Queen St.

We reach John St. and begin to trudge south. From the depths of the circle someone yells instructions to push south, towards the barrier across John St. being formed by a line of cops in full riot gear.

We charge forward.

Police and protesters clash in a blur of shields, sticks and batons. One guy in a blue T-shirt has a flagpole with a sharp edge. He is at the front of the line smashing police over the head with it. When that doesn’t have any effect he uses it like a sword, trying to stab police with it.

Police charge forwards again. For a moment, it feels like the crowd will collapse back on itself.

Batons force everyone back. An older woman wearing a yellow jacket gets stuck trying to capture the action on her phone. Police push forward, trapping her between their shields and the metal fence of a Second Cup patio. Protesters on the other side of the fence grab her and pull her over the fence.

Out of nowhere, a man with what looks like a hammer or an ice pick runs up to the curb, kneels, and smashes the pick five times into the curb. Then he runs away. Only three or four people witness this and look completely bewildered.

“Move back!” police yell in low, loud voices.

“We have to back up or they’ll f--king come from the behind,” says a man with a black baseball cap nearby. “Go west!” he yells. Those around him echo the calls, spreading the directions for the next move.

It’s the first of many reroutes. The mob charges west on Queen St. once more.

“Who’s streets? Our streets!” The shout is chanted with unprecedented intensity.

We congregate at the corner of Queen and Spadina Sts. Within the mass of anarchists, leaders begin organizing the next move.

“Spokescouncil, send a member!”

Another anarchist huddle, this time with members from all masked groups present. Others wait for instruction.

“Forward!”

They proceed, unstoppably, east on Queen St.

The police might keep them from getting to the fence, but they aren’t going to take away their grand finale.

Cameras flash. The world is watching.

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