Remember the opening song of the Lion King? The sun is rising over the savannah, the animals are awaking, and a chanting rebounds across the land, the
opening syllables to Circle of Life?
An anonymous singer woke me the same way on my first morning at Burning Man.
Part of the reason I came to Burning Man was to get out of my comfort zone and challenge myself. I brought clothes stranger than my usual
solid-color conservative wear. I prepared to participate. I set aside my introvertedness
to return the warm greetings of fellow early arrivals ("Have a good burn!") as I walked a
block and a half to the nearest row of port-a-potties in the early morning.
I paused, facing the row of green containers in consternation.
Oh port-a-potty, you were my biggest challenge.
Plastic Toilet in a Plastic Box
You may laugh, but the facilities at Burning Man concerned me the most.
I dislike public toilets more than the average person. No one likes them, I get that,
but I'd rather wait it out (for hours if needed) in order to avoid having to use an icky one. And by definition, port-a-potties are icky.
Here, you have no choice. You are not allowed to pee on the ground, even could you find a private place to do so.
Being dependent on port-a-potties for a week plus almost turned me off the idea of this journey entirely.
The only place to go when you gotta go
Spoiler: they weren't too bad.
The best thing I brought to Burning Man!
(Contains: 1-ply toilet paper, a
headlamp, and hand sanitizer)
After I found an empty one, the locked indicator showing green, I winced in preparation as I opened the door... then exhaled in minor relief.
The smell was tolerable and nothing gross was on the seat. And I never had to wait for an available one out of the row of thirty-five.
It could have been a lot worse.
I'm one of those people who line the seat with toilet paper before sitting down for regular public toilets and I did so here.
If there were drops from "hoverers", I wiped those first. You couldn't use bleach wipes or anything
because the pumps could not process them. You could not even use 2-ply toilet paper. Note:
The drops were almost certainly caused by women as men had their own urinal port-a-potties on either side, as well as one in each unit.
Tons of places for male pee to go. Determined not to be a hoverer, I satisfied myself in drying and lining the seat before doing my business.
Port-a-potty
Reading
Material
There was no toilet paper in the one I chose. I discovered, over the course of the week, that toilet paper was stocked
approximately 50% of the time, at least in our set at 5:00 & C. The ones closer to high-traffic areas, I suspect, are both less stocked and more gross.
I heard horror stories about the ones out by the dance clubs or near the Man.
Ours were serviced twice daily (7am and 7pm)
and some of those times, they were sprayed out with a high-pressure washer. Broken doors were fixed. Everything was pumped out.
The toilet dudes were my heroes.
Sometimes on the inside of the potties would be graffiti, small posters, or, my personal favorite,
a page out of Deepak Chopra's The Book of Secrets: Unlocking the Hidden Dimensions of Your Life.
In any case, with the combination of mental preparation, illogical sanitation rituals, the regular servicing, and possibly a lucky set of potties,
I was not traumatized by my port-a-potty experience.
I did, however, thank myself for packing a "toilet bag" in an easy-to-get location in the car.
Seriously. This was the best thing I brought.
Burning Man port-a-potty bonus: if you forget to zip up, tuck your skirt into your underwear by mistake or, heck, just head over in a robe...
...no one cares.
Weather Forecast
The Black Rock Desert at the end of August and early September can be a brutally hot affair, with temperatures reaching the 100s.
Much of the advice you'll read about Burning Man accounts for this, reminding you to bring and carry plenty of water, wear hats and sunscreen,
and eat salty proteins like beans or beef jerky. Coconut water is great for both quenching thirst and replenishing electrolytes evaporated
away in the utterly dry climate. During our camp setup Sunday, we had "mandatory pickle breaks" and a scrumptious steak dinner.
Did I say pickles?
Yes! Pickles, I've discovered, are one of the best snack foods to bring to Burning Man.
They are hydrating, rejuvenating, and just taste good out there. Everyone brought at least one jar.
However, this year was not particularly hot. The advice still applied, but not to the extent usual.
Forecast: absurdly reasonable temperatures
(The wind, however, might have been an underestimation...)
And the Adventure Begins...
Looking toward the Man
On 5:00 road, outside my camp
Monday morning, after an art car shaped like a red Swingline stapler playing "Never Let Me Down Again" rode by our
camp, I hopped on my bike. The ground is hard-packed and easy to ride on,
thanks to the water trucks that drive by and wet down the thoroughfares. But gliding through intersections can be a bit of a hazard
with pedestrians, bikes, art cars, and no right of way. Magically, I managed to avoid collisions.
I pedaled through the musical landscape. Burners strumming acoustic guitars on the side of the road, camps playing polka music out of decorated buses,
furry vehicles rumbling by blasting 80s new wave, dance clubs pumping techno out onto the playa. The soundtrack of Burning Man.
I passed a theme camp with a bike course. Brilliant idea! At first, I struggled with my automatic "but I don't want to intrude"
reaction because, at Burning Man, the point of theme camps is to "intrude"! Then, I got over my "don't want to call attention to myself" moment
and rode the (okay, least dangerous-looking) part of the bike course, including a series of wooden hills. Up and down and up and down.
When I finished, I heard cheering and realized the folks who built the course were cheering ME on.
A rare occurence in real life (at least without paying money first.)
I carefully crossed the bike traffic on Esplanade and was soon on the open sand. The art is spread out. Since only the
major installations are visible from the city, you come upon plenty of smaller surprises while wandering around. It is often difficult to
re-discover the same piece later, even if you look it up.
Fish vs. Bike
Sand trap! The playa out here is not regularly wet down so, like a golf ball, your forward momentum can be temporarily halted.
I powered through on my mountain bike tires, a large structure in the distance calling me.
The closer I got, the more amazing it became; the details extraordinary. The temple was made of overlapping paper dioramas filled
with compelling photographic imagery.
"Totem of Confessions"
Here, I felt like I was in another country, visiting an historical relic of a religion I knew little about. Eyes were everywhere. Photographs of
faces. Animals. Themes of death and sacrifice. Peepholes on the inside looking out. And, on the interior, a confessional!
Outside the context of a Catholic church, even stranger.
(The Indiegogo campaign for the art piece did not elaborate on the meaning, but the mystery perhaps makes for a more individual interpretation.)
Then, scanning the horizon, I read words!
"DREAM"
Twelve-foot-tall words? Clever photo possibilities abounded...
M for Man? Be Ok!
Only later, looking at my photos, I noticed that LIVE is EVIL backwards. Unintentional, perhaps? The inspiring, climbable words seemed an only positive experience.
Wait, climbable? It did not occur to me at the time to climb them. A sign on the
confession temple asked folks in flowery handwriting
not to climb, so I assumed, as us safety-obsessed Americans tend to automatically do, that the letters were look-but-don't-touch.
But I should have remembered, I'm at Burning Man. Unless otherwise stated, participation is the prime directive! I saw climbers later and photos on the web are crawling with people.
Then I rode toward the Man.
The Man
The centerpiece, the effigy, the symbol, the sacrifice: the Man.
I was surprised the first time I learned
that "Burning Man" has a man that burns. Seemed too literal somehow. Then I learned that the burn is a time of celebration. Like a New Year's Eve party.
On the
Burning Man site, it doesn't countdown to the date the event starts. Instead it says, "The Man burns in 6 days!"
The 60-foot tall (burnable) structure stands in the exact center of the city and is helpful in navigating the playa.
But if you bring your bikes anywhere near the complex surrounding the Man, you'll be told off, as I was at least twice. Park it in the rack.
At the Man's legs: looking up, looking down.
The faceless Man towered above an easy red maze. In each corner of the maze lay a surprise, like a set of seats where you could sit across from
your partner and see your faces merged.
The theme of this year's Burning Man was "Carnival of Mirrors" so, naturally, mirrors abounded at the Man and around the festival in general. Walking
around the maze, I saw 2-way mirrors, wide-and-narrow mirrors, mosaics of tiny mirrors, fish-eye mirrors, and just regular
plain mirrors.
Atop the viewing platform I saw a group of deaf Burners stamping on the deck, a leader gesturing to them in sign language.
It made me think:
What would Burning Man be like without sound?
No constant techno soundtrack. The art cars would pass by silently.
No need for ear plugs at night (an absolute requirement for me.)
At the Man, they'd be lucky enough not to hear the creepy clown laughter erupting regularly from one corner.
But they also did not get to hear the ethereal sounds of the organ in another corner. Everyone who stepped up to the instrument sounded professional, playing
dramatic notes into the wind, but
that may just be the nature of organs. Perhaps the deaf visitors felt the vibrations at least.
Flat Tire in Deep Playa
I rode further out, beyond the Man, beyond the Temple. For a while, the Sexual Healing art truck was following me, making me
wonder if the universe had a message, but then it turned away and the city receded into the distance. The music faded.
It was quiet out there. Few people. Few art installations. A lot of playa. I took a swig of my Emergen-C enhanced water bottle.
I thought at some point, the art installations would disappear and I'd come upon the reputed "trash fence" that defined the boundary of the city.
But I never reached the fence.
Perhaps there was no fence. I would lose sight of the city and be lost in the Black Rock Desert.
That's when I discovered a holy book.
Later, I tried to find this book in the map of art installations--I did get this map at least. But I could not find it.
I kept riding.
Then I saw this, which I was pretty sure wasn't my imagination. Was it a salty Campbell's mirage in the distance? Was I that dehydrated? Then
I got closer and...
...it made even less sense.
Soup-Flavored Blankets (?)
I noticed it was getting hard for me to pedal. Maybe the sand was softer out here. Not quite.
I had a flat tire.
It was an old bike with thick tires and, technically, still ridable if I pedaled hard. But would I destroy it if I kept riding?
I was at least a mile from the city. A bit long to walk in the hot, shadeless sun.
Then I saw a golf cart.
What struck me about the golf cart was its lack of decorations. Somehow, I figured it must be official.
Indeed it was! On a whim, I asked the driver as he puttered by if he had a bike pump. He stopped the cart, looked in his storage compartment and,
sure enough, found a hand-held bike pump! The man (from Alaska, incidentally) wore a tag that said "Don't fuck with me, I work here" and
kindly pumped up my tire.
Bike Pump to the Rescue
I headed straight back to the city.
Speaking of Soup Cans...
For dinner, I ate chicken tortilla soup straight out of the can. I'd been hesitant, but it turned out tasty and satisfying.
A perfect non-perishable meal. The dessert treats which a thoughtful campmate prepared before coming (nutella bread, pie, and brownies) did not hurt either!
Afterward, I did a foot soak in witch hazel. Since I wore sandals today (more brutal to your feet than sneakers or boots), I wanted to
make sure I countered the alkali in the playa with something more acidic. The web also recommends vinegar, but witch hazel does the job without
such a strong odor.
An Evening at the Pub
Many of my campmates were buddies with the hosts of a nearby Pub camp and so knew of the live acoustic music scheduled that evening,
even though it wasn't listed in the guidebook
"The Twisted Swan" Celtic Pub
(...and the mailbox is not for show; you can actually get mail delivered on playa.)
Before walking the several blocks to the pub, we prepared for nighttime.
Twisted Swan's Evacuation Plan:
"Run away!"
At Burning Man, this is a big deal.
Not only do you make sure you have your usual water, spare toilet paper, dust mask, goggles, first-aid kit,
emergency snack, cup for beverages, etc, but you also dress in layers and, more importantly, light yourself up!
Lights in my hair, glow-in-the-dark bracelets, "clip-it" LEDs on my backpack, lights on my shoes, I did everything I could to make
myself visible from every direction.
Ready for wandering the dark, our camp set off. I wish I had this moment in slow motion: fourteen of us, in long jackets,
hats, and lights, tromping up the playa with wooden mugs swinging from our packs.
The most amazing part?
No one is on their phone!
We walked up to Carny & 4:45 and found The Twisted Swan. They checked our IDs. Well, not me. The lady said, "I don't need yours. You look your age."
Can't you pretend I could pass for under 30? Sheesh.
Amazingly, this feels like a pub inside. At the bar in the back, a guy with an accent serves whiskey and ale (all for free - just bring your own cup!),
Celtic hangings adorn the "walls", couches and benches surround a fake fireplace, and most of all, live Irish music plays!
The illusion worked! I did not realize for quite a while that I was in a structure made of simply four car ports next to each other.
I could build this!
Tonight was a special night. A man in a beret named Tango was there and his gift to the playa was teaching an Irish reel. So two of
my camp-mates and I stood, along with Tango, in the start position of a 4-person square and learned a couples dance!
Back and forth, pinwheel, telescoping, Scottish style, back to start.
That is the last thing I expected to learn on the playa.
The Oldest Game
After we stopped at the Jazz Cafe, another stylish bar, we walked to the Hookah Lounge,
sat around a table, and passed around a genie bottle, inhaling apple-flavored smoke from the attached flexible tube.
My campmates started playing a game. A game I'd never heard of or seen played. A game that requires on-the-spot creativity.
They called it The Oldest Game.
The concept is fairly simple. It is a verbal battle of the abstract. It starts with a single word or idea and goes from there:
A: "I am the dragon, who burns through the countryside."
B: "I am the hero, who slays the dragon."
A: "I am the villain who outwits the hero"
B: "I am the law, who captures the villaan."
...and so forth, though far more clever than my example. Words can only be repeated if they are used in an entirely different way.
Ideas cannot be repeated. You can start with things
like "I am war", "I am light", "I am friendship", "I am capitalism" and take it in any direction as long
as the logic, even twisted logic, follows.
The idea fascinated me, but time pressure combined with people watching would cause me to choke, I expect, but this being
Burning Man, I should have pushed out of my comfort zone and attempted a bout. Not sure I could top my
creative campmates, though.
Tutu Tuesday
I woke up at 6:00am (after going to sleep at 2am) to go to the "Sufi Meditation" event listed in my guidebook. But first, I needed to get dressed.
I don't tend to like dressing "strangely" and standing out, but I spent 30 dollars on a tutu solely for today. I'm gonna wear it!
Me in my tutu!
I walked up 5:00 street, looking out for other tutus among the few folk awake at this hour, having a nervous "Wait, it is Tutu Tuesday, right?" moment,
but sure enough, I soon saw others adorned in the silly garment. Over the course of the day, I'd estimate that more than a third, possibly even half
of all participants were wearing a tutu. (Not split across gender; in fact, I think more guys were wearing a tutu than gals.)
Not called The Lotus Temple
The other half may have wondered what was going on. Several events in the book refer to "Tutu Tuesday", but it helps to know ahead of time since the
"What Where When" book refers to many odd things.
The book said that the meditation was being held at "Mazu Goddess of the Empty Sea" and listed an approximate location in the art area (5:15 and
1600' as in 1,600 feet from the Man which only helps if you know that Esplanade is 2,400 feet from the Man, but luckily, the map I got was
clear on that point). I wandered around in the general area.
I saw a sculpture that looked like two walls of a room covered in overlapping reliefs of long-haired women. I saw a tutu tree (for those that forgot
a tutu) surrounded by people who had to reach higher and higher as the lower tutus were taken. And of course, I saw the huge Lotus temple.
No obvious gathering for this meditation event. But it was about to start.
Then I saw a golf cart.
I asked the (official) woman inside which of the nearby art pieces was "Mazu Goddess of the Empty Sea." She pointed to the Lotus
Temple. I was like "Really?" because why would you not call that the Lotus Temple which everyone was calling it. She offered to
drive me the remaining 50 feet (I love the golf cart people) and so I joined her, displacing her passenger who hopped in the back.
Sufi Meditation
I walked into the temple and my "looking-around" gesture was sufficient for a Latina lady to ask if I was there for the meditation. I said I was!
So, starting about half hour late, playa time perhaps, the cheerful, world-traveled woman led the three of us who joined,
including a friendly guy named Lotaka who knew about our theme camp (!), in a multi-part movement meditation
on the circular deck at the end of one of the paths leading off the main temple.
Ranger Station
The middle part was this step-dance where we stepped forward and offered our hand out, then did the same in each cardinal direction, over and over for
about 30 minutes. My brain, on four hours sleep, wandered, but I found the repetition meditative.
The temple played seagull sound effects so I kept expecting to see the ocean along with the endless beach and art. The last part was just slowly
spinning, when another woman joined in.
The Importance of H2O
As we were wrapping up with long hugs, a guy showed up and sat on the bench. He started talking, ranting even, but was not making much sense.
Our instructor wisely asked,
"Do you have water?"
When she repeated the question, it occurred to me that, unlike the rest of us gathered there, the man had no backpack or supplies, nor even a shirt.
He eventually shook his head. I took out my metal cup, poured some water from my bottle into it and handed it to him. (The instructor was grateful.)
He took a sip. I told him to take another sip and he did, though I wished he had taken more. We had a similar situation last night at camp, where a somewhat delirious man with
a French accent stumbled into our camp at midnight with no food, water, supplies, or place to sleep. (His campmates had apparently not
shown up yet.) We gave him some food and water and tracked down a Ranger to help him.
The terrain is not forgiving, but the folk are.
Unnecessarily High Five
On my way back, I saw that our neighbors across the street had set up! I stopped by.
Unnecessarily High Five
At first, I was just going to
take a photo like the observer I usually am. But my neighbors said, "Don't take a picture unless you do the high five!"
Lest I forget, 'Participation' is a principle here!
High Five in Progress
I regarded the hanging hands, opting for the shortest. "Something for everyone," the camp
guy said cheerfully.
So, with a wimpy jump, I brushed the fingertips of the low-hanging hand. Over the course of the week, the highest hand I saw high-fived was
the second to highest with a girl standing on a guy's shoulders to reach it.
Our camp's public comic book reading room had a futon and couch in it. Every morning, without fail, we found someone sleeping on it, including
this morning. It was nearly 10am by this point and events run until 4am, so I let the fellow sleep and ate breakfast in our other shade structure,
enjoying my last hard boiled egg, a fruit cup, a stick of cheese,
some trail mix, and a juice box.
After a clear morning, the dust was starting to churn a bit. Goggles on, backpack secured,
I walked to the 3:00 plaza to get some "Hack-a-cola" that my neighbors raved over. The guy ahead of me was speaking in
sign language to the guy serving the beverage! I was more impressed by that than the syrupy cherry drink, but you can't complain about free cola.
As I walked and sipped, I came upon a sign that said, "Do not fear the post office." I looked around and, sure enough, something
that looked like an honest-to-goodness post office stood across from me.
Wait, a post office?
The Black Rock City
Post Office #3
Or BRC3PO
(Yep, that's Threepio on the left side there.)
Yes.
Turns out, you can send mail within the playa! You can send mail out into the default world!
And all...
...for the price of a nursery rhyme.
The post office is run by volunteers like you. (Seriously, you can sign up to help if you want.) The man helping
me babbled incessantly, initially wanting me to, as payment I assume, give a female co-worker crap about some guy, which was not
only obnoxious, but confusing since I didn't know which woman he was
Postcard Success!
talking about. He settled for a nursery rhyme yet
I could barely even remember one line my favorite. He let it slide.
I chose from one of several postcard choices from last year's burn and stood at the handy table with pens to fill it out. Nearby were signs like
"You can send a postcard to your dog. He won't be able to read it, but it's the thought that counts."
I was not filled with confidence as I left my postcard with the annoying guy but, two weeks later, my postcard made it!
They clearly sent it by regular mail after the event was over, but it was legitimately stamped.
That was kind of awesome.
Better still was this set of Postal Regulations that, upon first glance, looked official. Heck, maybe they are official,
but not regulations you'd ever see anywhere else.
Postal Regulations
(Verbal abuse did make the list as a service...)
After musing the fate of my postcard, I headed back in the direction of my camp.
Food Fail
The dust had started to kick up. I put on my goggles and dust mask as I headed to a camp in our neighborhood listed in the guidebook
as offering "Chai & Pakoras" for lunch. I'd been hoping to eat some authentic Burning Man food.
Unfortunately, a sign indicated that the event was cancelled, I suspect due to high winds and dust. Oh, well.
Acoustic vs. Amplified
Our camp's Tuesday event of live music and storytelling coincided with the camp on the opposite corner of us
doing a loud, live, 90s karaoke sing-a-long.
Our "Filk Jam"
I tuned out Oasis, Nirvana, and Eagle Eye Cherry (and whatever music came from passing art cars) and instead
listened to our talented musicians strum guitars, beat drums,
play fiddles and sing everything from folk songs, belly-achingly funny parodies ("It's Bad Code" to the tune of "Let It Go"),
traditional Irish music with some folks from Twisted Swan who stopped by, a poly-amorous version of Jolene, and a Star Trek song full of Data innuendos.
Further geekiness prevailed as nearly everyone in attendance,
which had grown to almost thirty people, a few with their own instruments, sang along to The Hero of Canton.
Storytelling followed and developed, to our surprise, into an impromptu open-mic "Moth" style event where people took
turns telling stories about their life. Strangers did not hesitate to stand and relate their embarrassing, real-life tale of woe. It reminded me that the
environment at Burning Man not only invites, but compels people to participate. People will express themselves,
even if - especially if - they'd be judged in the default world for the same thing.
A young guy told us his sailing misadventure, then a woman related how she learned to love her
dead ex's pit bull. Another told of a gripping close call with a gunshot on an L.A. highway, and a girl recounted
a Jackson Hole couchsurfing adventure. These were followed by our own campmates, one who described hilariously bad decisions
and observations made while tripping and another who lamented getting hit by a car while on a bicycle twice in rapid succession.
Finally a guy in dreadlocks told a long, amusing story that ended in a terrible pun (we were at least warned the story was shaggy dog style.)
Tutus are Serious Business
The two guys who arrived promptly at 7pm with their big trucks to pump out the port-a-potties were wearing tutus.
They thanked me for politely waiting until they were completely finished before using the newly-pumped potty with fresh blue water at the bottom.
I said, "Seriously? You guys are my heroes." And I bowed to the man in the tutu.
Burning Man at Night!
The weather cooled. The sun began to set. But before prepping myself for Burning Man at Night, I prepped my bike for riding after dark.
A simple headlamp is insufficient here.
Making Visible my Mode of Transportation
With some electroluminescent wire wrapped around my frame, spoke lights on my wheels, and a mini wrap-around headlight (the latter two from NiteIze)
I was ready to ride!
Too late!
I lit myself up like usual, put on a jacket and my backpack of gear, and set out from my camp.
I'd thought the advice, more like passionate pleas, to keep yourself visible might have been exaggerated. But no.
Two guys on bikes crossed the intersection in front of me with no lighting. They were almost invisible.
Lampposts Leading to the Man
It's easy to forget among the sheer quantity of light (and fire) you see at Burning Man that there are not any street lights.
The closest thing are lamps along the Esplanade and the four lamppost-lined avenues leading from the city to the Man. But even those lamps
are not very powerful. They do not provide a spotlight on the ground, just direction.
Therefore, you are an unseen target in the dark unless you make an effort not to be.
You wondered why I brought so many lights with me? This is why. Between the lights, it is pitch black.
If people who forgot to light themselves frustrate you, you can join an event listed in the guidebook at 8pm:
"We hunt dark and unlit burners in deep Playa and give them blinkies. Bring lights to give away."
When I reached Esplanade, I had to stop and look out at the desert in wonder. Burning Man at night is indescribable.
Indescribable
Amazing, beautiful, and indescribable.
But I'll try anyway.
The amount of light you see feels impossible. Horizon to horizon, like a flattened Las Vegas, lights are on
people, bicycles, camps, mutant vehicles, art installations, and the lampposts. Half of the light is moving and spinning,
as if in response to the continuing soundtrack of fire bursts, art cars, loud conversations, and overlapping techno beats from dance clubs.
Like looking at a trippy starry sky,
blues, reds, yellows, purples, and greens twinkle as dark blobs of people cross art in the distance. Yet, unlike any other city,
in between the lights is deep blackness.
Riding on the playa, surrounded by light and sound, you often forget that there is no electricity here.
Light is powered by batteries. Amplifiers by generators. And you marvel at technology as well as the will and generosity
of other burners to bring so much colorful brightness
and music to the deep desert.
My photos do not remotely do the feeling justice.
As I pedaled deeper, narrowly avoiding other variously-lit bicyclists approaching at unexpected angles, I was surprised
at how long I could keep riding without reaching something. I was surrounded by lights, yet
it all hung in the distance, like I was in a ship cruising through space.
Every so often, bursts of dust would make the world blurry for a moment, the fine particles choking the air, then the cool night would clear up
again.
Most of the art is lit up at night. Some of it only comes to life at night.
For example, I spent some time stepping on human-sized typewriter letters, making words appear on a giant projected screen. The experience could
not have been as cool during the day.
Then I rode out further.
Besides the progress of the waning moon, it is hard to tell what time it is. Like Vegas, Black Rock City stays open late.
Some listed events do not finish until 4am.
Between the man and the woman, I came upon an art installation with a sign attached to it that said "Better at night." About a dozen
poles made a circle. At the top of each, facing inward, were full and partial letters lit up. On the platform in the center was a small pane
of window in a metal frame. I looked through the window. Nothing. Then, thinking I had cleverly figured it out, I caught the reflection of
the letter behind me and tried to match it up with the one in front of me to form a different letter. Or even a word.
Still, nothing.
Participation does not mean comprehension.
Playa at Night
The Temple
I decided to visit the Temple tonight.
The Temple is a solemn place.
I parked my bike outside and entered under the tall pointed arch. I walked slowly among the mass of people, many who stopped
to look at personal shrines hanging along
the side. Photos of mothers lost to cancer. Beloved dogs. Sick babies. Small locked boxes, long handwritten letters, drawings. The Temple is a place to
bring something you need to let go of or cleanse yourself of. The Temple - and everything in it - would be burned the final evening of
the festival, on Sunday night.
The Temple at Night
As I shuffled through the gradually narrowing cornucopia, I found it impossible not to get caught up in the emotion. Tears sprung to
my eyes. It was also about 10:00pm and I was headachy after a long day on four hours sleep.
I had nothing to burn, but after the exit, there were markers and people had written messages on the wood. I picked up a near-dead marker
and among the other writings, wrote "Blockage, hesitation, doubt, Anything that stops my wonder."
The experience of the Temple was sufficiently intense that I never visited it again.
Reflections So Far
What is it about Burning Man?
It's a vacation where you relax, live and let live, yet push boundaries and challenge yourself.
It's place where it is accepted that everything is accepted. You can express yourself however you choose, as long as it is consensual and everyone
is equally accepted.
From the School of Consensual Kink
Most of all, I found that Burning Man is a venue to explore breaking taboos.
American culture may be more free and open than some, but all things repressed are flipped here.
- Clothing In the default world, people who dress as a pink fairy with wings, wear knee-high ten-inch heels with a corset,
have bunny ears or feathers on their heads, dress in skintight spandex, or wander about in only a loincloth (if that) are almost guaranteed to be ostracized.
But here, it is par for the course. Dressing "normal" stands out more.
- Display of Affection Hugging is the primary form of greeting at Burning Man. Long, intimate hugs with complete strangers. (Granted,
I come from a pretty hug-friendly family and group of friends. Even so, this hugging was more intense.)
- Sexuality In the guidebook, about one out of every seven events is listed as "Adult." There are workshops on how to use strap-ons effectively,
discussions on polyamorous family issues, debates on how to give a proper blow-job, and demonstrations of safe BDSM techniques. Learn about bondage,
play in dungeons, try something called "The Orgasamator", or just sit back and read some porn.
- Language Profanity abounds, usually in a friendly manner, just because it can. Fuck yeah!
Or if you just want to get drunk and shake your booty at a dance club all night, you are welcome to do that as well.
Did I Forget I was in the Desert?
When I awoke Wednesday morning to the light of 7:30am, my nose was stuffed up.
I blinked the sand out of my eyes, looked around my tent, and understood why.
A dust storm had happened overnight and, thanks to my ear plugs, I had not heard a thing.
Glad I covered my toiletries in a sheet, I hunted for eye drops, nasal spray, and wet wipes to de-dustify my face.
My hair was a lost cause, but I pulled a brush through it, dust and all, and managed to make two braids.
Not that I've felt very clean so far, but after this morning, it was a lost cause.
What to Eat
Then I dug around in my no-longer-cool cooler looking for something that qualified as a meal to start the day.
Playa Breakfast
Dust got in my tea. Everything I touched got dusty. It's a good thing the dust particles are fine and don't taste like much as I'm pretty sure I
ingested a fair amount of it.
Our Camp's Event
I heard a gong in the distance and lamented that I had woken too late to try some of the nearby meditation events.
Instead, I hung around the camp. At 8:15am, the first art car of the day went by, blasting Amadeus. Hooray for
the 80s! Around 9:00am, our camp started to set up for one of our main all-day events: RaiderCon.
"Non-Combibo" is our camp's motto.
It means "We Don't Suck" in Latin
The condom comment was
based off past experience
We had our very own entry in the What Where When guide. We had also advertised on Burning Man radio. But one can never tell how many people
will show up.
Our event started at 10:00am and we started filling our six games run by our six game masters. Many attendees also had dust-covered hair, giving the
appearance that everyone was going gray early.
I hung out in the front of our camp as a greeter. A campmate pulled in passersby, often asking people who
stopped at our "Take Something Awesome" stand if they were interested in trying table-top role playing.
I was impressed just how many first-time gamers were willing not only to try their hand at this somewhat geeky pastime,
but also to stay the 2-6 hours the games often take. The few I saw leave early for other events raved about their enjoyment.
Safety Concerns
Toward lunchtime, I was standing outside the camp alone, looking for any last-minute joiners, when a guy with no shirt approached.
(A significant portion of men, and a smaller portion of women, wear no shirts at Burning Man -- their torsos somewhat dusty.) He said,
"You look like you want a hug." I acceded. Like most hugs on playa, it was long, tight, and involved caressing.
However, this one qualified as the lengthiest and creepiest hug I received at Burning Man. I felt like if
I had let it go on any longer, it would have devolved
into groping. I was still cheerful to the dude ("Have a good burn!") but it reminded me of my Burning Man fears.
This is a city, after all. It's a special
city, a counterculture, a community, a place where we struggle together to survive the desert while celebrating creativity and participation,
but it is still nearly 70,000 people from the real world.
Safety is not guaranteed. I'd heard horror stories about being drugged and although I was rarely in a compromising
situation (like being drunk and dancing in a crowd at night, accepting drinks at random), I was aware of the possibilities. After all,
giving and accepting non-FDA-approved food and drink is encouraged here. Even smaller fears like being stolen from, having
my boundaries crossed, or being taken advantage of were on my mind.
Despite the kind of place it was, Burning Man did not feel any safer than my hometown of similar size.
Oddly, the lack of emergency services did not bother me. I sensed that the majority of people would help if I asked,
being more willing to help a stranger in need than citizens of an average city. There are medical stations,
Rangers patrolling 24 hours, and a lot of prepared people who care. I was not worried about support,
I was more concerned about prevention.
Like anywhere, the best way to avoid being victimized is to be
alert, trust your intuition, and use common sense.
And the Dust Continues...
Today grew hotter faster and may have hit the high eighties. During the hottest part of the day, around 3:00, the dust storm that
had been brewing all day (gamers putting on dust masks, only removing them to play their turn) got worse.
The tarp above us boomed in the wind. We lost visibility. First the Man disappeared, then the port-a-potties, then
we couldn't even see to the end of the block.
Fewer art cars rode by, music seemed muted, yet people continued to pass on bikes and on foot, not letting the dust ruin their burn.
Tea & Porn
Proper Porn
The dust let up a bit later in the afternoon. Not wanting to wander too far from camp, I visited my neighbors, Tea & Porn.
They had two dusty couches, a couple chairs, and several pillows set out. A coffee table had a variety of magazines and short books of
the graphic variety.
Everyone entering was encouraged to get a cup of tea by a woman with a British accent before sitting to enjoy the literature.
So I partook.
The microphone was passed to a guy who, being a good sport, read aloud some porn written by a woman. While he recited, I read a similar story about
a woman who admitted to her husband her interest in trying spanking, bondage, and domination...and her success in the venture.
I always like to support my neighbors.
Another person left, saying "Thanks for the porno!"
"Yeah, no problem," she politely replied.
The Compliment Camp
Every day, more camps appeared or became complete, additional people strolled the streets, and new art materialized. Between my
camp and the port-a-potties, a new double-decker wooden structure sprung up. A guy with a megaphone sat upon it under a hand-painted sign
that said "COMPLIMENTS".
"I like your hat!" he shouted at me as I walked by on my way to the port-a-potties. I said "Thank you!"
When I walked back, I got "Nice ensemble!"
Best location for this camp, ever.
Sunset Howl
It was about 7pm. I could tell the sun was setting without looking at the mountains to the west. Why?
Because I heard howling.
Aaaaaoooooooooooo!
Because... why not?
Pause for the Mundane
So, I know you've been wondering how I brush my teeth or wash my hair (or wash out my tea cups and plates) when you are not supposed
to spill any liquid that is not pure water onto the playa.
Answer: The Evap Pool.
I can't speak for every camp (and I'm sure RVs have a built-in solution) but for our dozen-person tent camp, we used the wonder
of 2x4s, black plastic, and solar power for the disposing of gray water by evaporation, leaving the remaining dried residue easily rolled up at the
end of the week. Wash what you need to, the water is gone the next morning.
Evaporation Pools
This would only be a bummer in the rain. But then, everything becomes a bummer in the rain.
In any case, before the light left completely, I brushed my teeth, then prepared for nighttime.
Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog
Back during my first night here, I came upon the original Star Wars
being projected on the side of a white tent (and watched the scene where Han Solo says,
"Hokey religions and ancient weapons are no match for a good blaster at your side, kid.")
Tonight, the geekery continued. With about two dozen people (the majority of whom knew every line to every song.
Brand New Day, anyone?) we hung out in the dusty conditions on a camp
on the other side of the city to watch Neil Patrick Harris and Nathan Fillion face off.
To be polite, I turned off my annoyingly blinky hair lights for the sake of the person behind me, then enjoyed
the odd experience of watching a movie outdoors in a place with no electricity as the dust blew around me.
Battle Blimps
For a final event of the night, we watched the Blimps do their first Battle.
Battle Blimps: Our Favorite Landmark
The giant white Battle Blimps geodesic dome tent, located on 5:00 and Esplanade,
made for a convenient camp to look for when trying to find our street from the Man / deep playa.
But watching two blimps float around with igniters on their end like stingers, trying to make the
other hydrogen-filled blimp blow up in mid-air was fun, too. Whoosh, mini explosion!
An eye-level sign hanging on the net barrier said "Read the back of your ticket" which is basically a long tiny-print
disclaimer. Yep. Watch things exploding at your own risk, folks!
Bed?
At a reasonable hour? Hell no! After dark is the best time to wander around in (though I declined when a
random guy in a black art car offered to give me a ride.)
I discovered that the cool-looking green castle-like structure I saw from a distance was actually a dance club.
I think I was a decade older than everyone there and did not stay long, but I mused at the amount of batteries, generators, amplifiers,
and other equipment necessary to bring the giant structure and thumping music out to the desert.
That's dedication!
I turned in before most burners, putting in my ear plugs and tucking into bed before 1am.
