“Welcome Home”
[ed: all pictures clickable. b/w pictures used without permission.]
“Welcome Home,” was the first thing my wife and I heard when we pulled into
the greeter station at Burning Man 2004 in the Black Rock Desert just outside of
Gerlach, Nevada. We’d spent most of the last year gathering information about
how to prepare for this year’s Burning Man gathering, the last few months
actively preparing, e.g. menu plans and kilt shopping, the last week packing and
buying the last few things we needed, like bagels and fur for homemade bikinis
(a dark one for the day and a light one for more formal evenings) and the last two
days driving in our loaded-down Ford, spending the previous night in a
surprisingly pleasant Best Western Travel Inn Motor Lodge in otherwise desolate
downtown Alturas, California.
The greeter was a very enthusiastic, bouncy woman obviously enormously
excited to welcome another of her “family” to the world’s largest and most
extreme art festival/party in the middle of a lifeless bit of desert in North
Western Nevada known to its temporary inhabitants as “the playa.” The greeter,
who introduced herself as “Star,” was dressed in what I would consider a plain,
but flattering shift, obviously the only piece of clothing she was wearing (did
I mention that she was “bouncy?“). As it turned out, this outfit was downright
puritan given the range of costumes and coverage I was to experience in Star’s
family who had mostly taken residence over a circle of 2 square miles (although
it seemed much larger), split between a half circle of camping areas
and a half circle of art structures ranging from hand-blown glass
to the interactive exhibit at the base of the man attraction: “The Man.”
In the early ’80s, a man named Larry Harvey
was camping with his friends on
the California coast and, in a fit of boredom, decided it would be fun to
construct a life-sized statue of a man out of 2x4s and burn it in effigy. This
turned out to be so much fun that it was repeated the next year with a larger
set of friends and a larger statue. Eventually, the yearly gathering and the statue of the man, now
being carted in in pieces across multiple vehicles for the main event, grew too
large for the camp ground and a new home had to be found. Now this “camping
trip” takes up 10 days the two weekends and the week before Labor Day, housing
camp sites in a desert that is so harsh and so alkali that it is home to
literally no life during the 355 days when “Burners” (what Burning Man alumnae
call themselves) are not present. This, of course, doesn’t count the several
weeks before the main event it takes for Burning Man staff and volunteers to
layout their circular city and then to tear it down and clean it up afterwards.
As the 7th largest city in Nevada during the event, Black Rock City (BRC) is home
to a post office (complete with surly Disgruntled Postal Workers that have just
recently been disarmed [no case of a worker heading for a local clock tower has
even been documented), an airport (two plane crashes last year — this year’s
statistics are still being compiled), a hospital, an ice house, a coffee
shop/exhibit hall/lounge known as “The Cafe,” three separate daily papers (the
main paper, The Black Rock City Gazette, the alternative paper called “Piss
Clear” [after the measure one is advised to use to ensure appropriate water
intake]
and the alternate, alternate paper called the Spock Science Monitor), an
information booth/rest area/message board, a police force known as the Black
Rock Rangers and the group responsible for the creation, maintenance and
destruction of the city itself, and most importantly, in excess of 100 porta-potties,
the BRC Department of Public Works.
However, as much work as you might imagine planning and running a city may
be, the bulk of the work is done by the attendees themselves.
Unlike your
typical Renaissance Fair, where middle-class America feels comfortable bringing
their family for a bit of light debauchery, making sure to clear out before dark
when the real debauchery happens in the Staff Only area, Burning Man attendees
are all participants in the event. Even curious attendees like my wife and I are
“specipicipants” in that we’re part of the continuous pageantry in my fur vest,
working miner’s helmet, combat boots and kilt (“utility” not “dress”)
and in her
naughty nurse costume and go-go boots, complete with Vanilla Rum-filled IV bags
for convenient access.
The only true spectators are known as “tourists” or “frat
boys,” due to their prophecy to sit apart from the crowd on their RVs in polo
shirts, drinking beers and hollering for the hotties to show them their tits.
Still, while the frat boys at at the bottom of this particular social
hierarchy (finally), they hardly need bother with the hollering. I saw more of every kind of body
part, male and female, young and old, short and tall, thin and fat, black, white,
green and purple (really), topless, bottomless (also known as “The D” for Donald
Duck, i.e. a top but no bottom)
and full-on nude than I imagine the population of the 8th largest city in Nevada to be
in its entirety. However, the amount of skin
that people shown paled in comparison to the costumes that they used to display
it. It was like Mardi Gras, Carnival and your local gay pride parade all rolled
into one ever-increasing majestic, perverted display that a conservative
Midwestern boy couldn’t have imagined, let alone taken all in. As evening
approached each night and we migrated towards “Center Camp” where the theme
camps were gathered
and the main activity took place,
the crowd grew thicker and
the regalia more fantastic. Even in my kilt (my token attempt to fit in), I felt
much more like a tourist than a participant, giving myself continuous whiplash
trying to assimilate.
And it just wasn’t the skin that drew my attention (although I admit that
took first priority). Burning Man’s primary theme during it’s life has been
“extreme expression,” which includes all manner of art expressed as costumes, of
course, but also paintings, sculpture, dance, “art cars” and structures of all
sizes, some for inhabitation, some for burning and some for both (like the
interactive exhibit/neon highlighted Burning Man sculpture itself). For example,
an “art car” is the only type of motorized vehicle that’s allowed to drive on
the playa, and only if it’s sufficiently decorated to pass muster by the BRC
equivalent of the Frence Ministry of Art in most ways that matter, e.g. a
tricked out pimp mobile will stay in camp will the two-story observation
deck/bar on wheels can cruise all day and all night.
Artless cars, on the other
hand, drive in to their camp site, park and stay parked ’til it’s time to head
home. This for two main reasons. The first is because of the 35,000 attendees,
most of them spend a large part of the time experiencing alternate
consciousnesses, aka drunk or stoned, a lot of which happens in the dark (BRC is
definitely a 24x7 kind of place). Cars and motorcycles just don’t mix in a
friendly way with altered, darkened pedestrians and cyclists (the preferred mode
of travel for more than bumming cigs off of the neighbors).
However, there’s another reason high-speed vehicles are grounded in BRC (even
art cars are forbidden to exceed 5 MPH and pedestrians and cycles always have
the right of way as they stumble/weave their way in and out of traffic): dust.
Dust rules the playa. Even after a 24-hour break in Reno and 6 hours into my
trip home, I was still popping antacid tablets like candy to combat the heartburn
caused by the pounds of playa dust I ingested. The combination of the dust, the
elevation (4000 feet above sea level) and the humidity (0%) laid both Melissa
and I low with gripping headaches after our first afternoon and kept us in naps
during much of our first full day. And therefore, to keep the dust down, no vehicle is allowed over 5 MPH in camp or
over 10 MPH within 10 miles of camp. Few things causes
harsh treatment in the accepting environment populated by the most repressed
members of society that can actually afford to attend Burning Man (our 5 days
probably cost us $1000 in gate fees [$450], food, travel and fake fur) than
stirring up dust. I mean, you can serve up home brew from a dispenser in the
shape and location of your penis (really) and be patted on the back for your public
service, but stir up an unnecessary amount of dust and be prepared for a beating.
Dust gets into every nook and cranny. Dust stops you from being able to cook
or eat. Dust stops you from getting to the toilet (which is an important thing
to be able to do when you are trying to drink a gallon of water every day). Dust
stops you from keeping the roach going. Dust gets into the vodka tonics
dispensed from kegs. Dust stops Camp Arachnid from their daily
morning seminar on Beginner Rope Bondage (“Bring your own favorite rope”), which screws
students up that need the practice before the evening seminar on Advanced
Rope Bondage (this is one of those classes where the prerequisites are something to
which you should really pay attention). Dust is the enemy and everyone carries
some kind of dust mask and ventless eye goggles where ever they go
lest they be
trapped in a storm (this year was especially rife with dust storms, I’m told)
and can’t take of Wednesday’s World Naked Bike Ride - Black Rock City Chapter (“Oil
Dependency Bad! Freedom of Expression Good!“).
So, if dust and water are the two most important things that a Burner needs
to manage, the third is the toilet. A camp spot is judged most importantly by
it’s proximity not to the hub of activity at Center Camp (in spite of the
availability of ice, lattes and the continuous parade of skin) but by the
proximity to the local row of porta-potties. And not just any porta-potties,
either. For example, we were about half-way between two sets of porta-potties,
one was towards the center of camp and one outside the fence of the main camp.
One morning, one of our camping neighbors came back from the porta-pottie
outside the main fence and declared it Christmas, because it was actually clean
and contained toilet paper (both luxuries on the scale of water and shelter from
the dust). Word spread like wild-fire and the “Christmas Toilet” was what we
preferred for the rest of the trip. Unfortunately, so did everyone else in a
1000 person radius, as you can’t keep news like that to yourself. Soon enough,
the Christmas Toilets turned into Morning After Hang-Over Toilets and we were
back to scouting for suitable seats and bringing our own toilet paper.
So, with Burning Man as an interesting mix of extreme self-expression and
survival camping, you may ask yourself, “But is it fun?” The answer, for me, was
“yes and no.” Ironically, I enjoyed the survival camping bit the best. Or, I
enjoyed gawking at the people and the structures, but the camp I was in was
filled with veterans. This was intimidating. For example, when some really
attractive naked person wondered by or when I read about Xanadu Roller Disco
(“Don’t have skates, it’s ok, you can use ours.“), I was supposed to pretend
that this wasn’t worth a comment. What the hell fun is that? I want to point and
laugh and enjoy myself with like-minded folks. Instead, when they passed around
the pot pipe, I was befuddled by the carburetor and pass it on w/o a toke. Hell,
in spite of the ton of alcohol we brought, neither Melissa or I ever even got
drunk (let alone stoned) because our fellow campers were into “softer stuff”
(beer and funny brownies, apparently). I have to admit that, at least for the
first year, I’d have been more comfortable on top of the RVs with the frat boys
then down on the ground with the blas vets.
What this meant is that after 1 day of setting up and headaches, a day of
laying around recovering, I talked Melissa into a day in Reno (100 miles
southwest of Black Rock Desert) for some social relief. There we showered for 45
minutes cleaning off the playa, played nickel slots, enjoyed free casino drinks,
took in a hilarious comedy show, lost $100 bucks on Blackjack and generally had
a very nice time. Then, we headed back and dressed for the burn.
The afternoon of preparation for the burn and the evening of was easily the
best part of the trip. According to the Travel Channel, the burn is the best
party in the world. I have to say, it was pretty cool. The event was 35K people
wrapped around the center of the camp, watching what seemed like hundreds of
fire spinners, then the fireworks and the burn of the man itself. When it came
down, the crowd rushed the burning pile and we went in, too, ’til we could touch
the protective fireman and things got just pushy enough to feel like control
would be lost at any moment. Then we ducked back and walked the desert where
hundreds of separate parties of all kinds were taking place. Still, without
friends, neither Melissa nor I felt like partying, so we wandered for an hour or
so and then headed back to camp for what was comparatively an early evening
(midnight is bright and early for many burners).
In the morning after the burn, we were awaked near dawn by the exact same
music and drums and revelry that we’d fallen asleep to the night before. One
thing that made burning man interesting was while you expected it to be hot
during the day (mid-90s this year), you didn’t expect it to be so cold at night
or in the early morning (50s). I remember Melissa being at her most beautiful
bundled for the chill that morning (you can’t quite see the BM tattoo on her
chest, but it was quite fetching):
To avoid a 2-hour wait out the door, we were packed and heading for one last
trip to the porta-potties by 8am and out the door by 8:30. Since then, the car’s
been cleaned but my garage still houses the playa-encrusted tent and other camp
equipment we haven’t yet put away. I don’t know if this trip was worthy of
Rory’s song
(let alone
Jason’s remix), but I’m glad I went and I would go again. However, I would
need some much closer friends to go with. I’m big on acceptance and tolerance
and new experience, but I don’t bond easily with new people and getting
sufficiently stupid to really enjoy burning man requires a level of intimacy
that I only have with my closest friends. Without those kinds of friends, just
BM wasn’t “home” to me, despite the greeter’s welcome.
Interestingly, the greeter’s words of “Welcome Home,” while they threw me off
having never attended BM before, were echoed by others as a standard greeting
through-out the week. I came to realize it’s importance. For folks that would
prefer an alternative to our puritan culture and are therefore forced to enjoy
their proclivities of self-expression and enjoyment underground, BM provides an
environment of open acceptance, tolerance and, for the lucky ones, even love.
This is an important thing to provide for an otherwise disenfranchised group of
folks and it’s easy to see why one man’s camping trip turning into the enormity
it is today.
However, while I consider myself accepting and tolerating of other people’s
lifestyles, my own is fairly puritan (mostly by choice : ). The “Welcome
Home” that I most treasured was the one I got from my sons on our return.
According to 
