Burning Man

Arrival –

Black Rock City, Nevada is exactly 603 miles from Hermosa Beach. It was a 21 hour drive. I’d agreed to go to the Hollywood Bowl to listen to YoYo Ma’s attempt at the “tribal sound”. Goat Rodeo is YoYo a mandolin, a fiddle, a base and sometimes a great voice named Aoefi McDonald. They’re great but I’m still not convinced a cello works in the sound.

I was all packed but it was 11:00pm before I hit the road. The gates at Burning Man had opened at 6:00 so I was already five hours and 603 miles late. I’d thought to drive all night but two hours later found me at the last motel in Mojave for 100 miles. I knew I’d never make it so took a $40 room with polyester blankets for a brief five hours of sleep before starting again.

Not counting the hardly adequate snooze it took me 10 hours to cover the first 500 miles. The penultimate 102 miles was two lane black top filled with “burners”. That took 3 hours. The last mile was a line of cars waiting to be searched for guns, fireworks and feathers (all contraband) which took another 3 hours.

My buddy Sutton was right when he said he’d be “4:45 and Laissez Faire”. On top of the perfect directions he had painted the entire side of the van “SAM HERE”. The van belonged to one of Sutton’s friends – one of 10 partners in a pavilion called “The Last Bar Standing”. All things at Burning Man are free – except the ice which is $3 for a 10# block. Everything else is given away by the communities the 60,000 attendees freely, voluntarily and enthusiastically form into. “The Last Bar Standing” would be my home for the next week.

And what a home it was! Quite a community for a guy who hasn’t had a drink or drugs for 32 years. But it was a friendly group and a fully stocked bar manned by ex-bartenders who tout their wares to passersby will be the source of many interesting conversations I was sure.

It was dark and I had no desire to set up camps except to throw up a tent and go explore. I’d heard “virgins” had to make a “snow angle” naked and in the dirt at the gate. They did have me make a dust angel, but I guess I wasn’t as pretty as some other virgins ‘cause they let me keep my clothes. I did get my ass slapped by a chubby girl in a bustier low enough the tops of her areola were on display. I was kinda’ into it but she was busy processing another of the 60,000 souls crowding through the gate.

This place is huge and takes a bicycle to get around but tonight Sutton and I walked. He wanted to bike but I wasn’t up for assembling mine in the dark. We walked to the playa (center of town) and I got hugs from at least two women, naked to the waist. (My Obi Wan Kenobi robe seemed to be more attractive to young women than Sutton’s good looks and 6’4” frame). The whole thing is huge with big sounds, big lights and revelry that is kinda like Hermosa Beach on the 4th of July but with more nudity, and five or six times the size.

Tomorrow I’ll put up camp and explore more slowly and with a sense of leisure.

Day Two –

After a day here I feel very much like the little boy who went to summer camp and immediately decided he wanted to go home. “Hello, Mudder. Hello Fadder. Here I am at Camp Granader…..”

I spent two hours this morning putting up an awning I had proudly engineered to attach to the roof rack on the FJ. I’d cut all the PVC to fit and brought 3’ sections of 3/8” rebar to hammer into the desert and support the vertical struts. It ran the entire 12’ length of the car and extended 10’ out, wrapped over the top and down the west side with a plastic tarp, which I’d hooked to the PVC horizontal top with shower curtain rings. Being a literary type and not an engineer I was immensely proud of my efforts. It looked grand and gave me shade for my table, chair and computer to type my “Arrival” notes this morning.

As is typical of the desert the wind kicked up this afternoon. Hard. It knocked my whole masterpiece utterly flat. Well not the whole thing. The vertical struts supported by rebar were up – all 8 of them. But the top was blown off and those sections of PVC and the tarp were spread all over the “Last Bar Standing”. So much for my engineering skills. I would have felt much worse but misery does love company, and I had plenty. The guy right across Laissez Faire was an engineer married to a Chief Petty Officer who was a Corpsman – nurse in non-military English. (No President Obama, you do not pronounce the “s”.) For a guy who had spent 5 months flat on my back in a Navy Hospital in 1967 and spent lots of hours with nothing to do but lust after Navy nurses, the fact that they were nudists fueled a few fantasies. Being and engineer he had arrived with a roof top full of 2”x4”s and PVC and set up a much better and bigger awning than mine. His mistake was not in his supports but in the color of his tarp – black. It baked so hot under the Nevada sun that the PVC all warped and didn’t have a chance when the wind came up. It turns out he and I had both made a “virgin’s” mistake. All the old timers had made their awnings with steel pipe frames. That seemed to be the only thing that stood up to the wind. Next time – if there is a next time.

But from the time of the development of my glorious sense of engineering to the time that particular bubble exploded, I explored. Black Rock City is a town that exists for only one week a year, but during that week it’s the 3rd largest city in Nevada. At the center is the “Playa” – “beach” in English – though the whole thing is a beach, not just the center, but a beach with no water. The Playa is about a mile and a half in diameter, with streets radiating from it every “15 minutes” of the hour from 2:00 to 10:00. The 120 degrees from 10:00 to 2:00 are open to the desert. A wonderer might reach the Oregon border before he saw another living soul in that barren landscape.

Then circling around the Playa are 12 streets named alphabetically from “A” to “L” – “Airstrip”, “Biggie Size”, “Consumer” to “Laissez Faire” the perimeter road and home of The Last Bar Standing. It is so named because while the festival is generally over on Monday, the partners in The Last Bar Standing are so devoted to the concept that they don’t tear down until Wednesday. They are, literally, The Last Bar Standing.

With the exception of a very few municipally necessary places – Medical, Information, Rangers, Ice Sales - the only reserved spots are for the approximately 120 “theme camps”. These are communities that offer more extravagant services than a mere bar, hot-dog stand, coffee shop, or massage. Their offerings are grander (e.g. roller rink, race car track (pedal driven), suspended animation trapeze and mat or air-conditioned Orgy-Dome. Yes, Orgy-Dome.). The remainder of the revelers camp wherever they find space. It is a city of liberty and license. One does what one wants, camps where one wants, wears what one wants, and asks nothing that is not freely given by his neighbors, except perhaps goodwill. Radical self-reliance is one of the 10 guiding principles of Burning Man. After putting up my camp and writing up my notes from the previous days travel, this is the place I set out to explore.

The entire place is based on the idea of gifting. People here will give you anything – I brought 50 cigars as my contribution to the exercise of hospitality and a generosity of spirit. Everything but a cup. They will give you water, soft drinks, wine, mixed drinks, but they will not supply you with a cup.

One of the nine guiding principles is “Leave Nothing Behind”. It is why feathers are contraband. They cannot be controlled and break off and blow away and clutter the desert with the debris of civilization. Cups tend to the same and so are not allowed. Like eating utensils in the 14th century, everybody carries their own. It was a principle of which I was unaware when I set out to explore on this first day and my ignorance was costly.

The first several places I paused for water offered it freely, but required I supply the drinking utensil. When I was unable I was turned away. It didn’t seem a bother as I never broke a sweat and so never really saw the need. The temperature was in the high-90’s (where it hung every day) but the humidity approached zero. So while I may have been perspiring profusely it never showed. My mother lived in Fairbanks, Alaska for 30 years. On my first winter visit I discovered that at temperatures at or below -50 degrees spit freezes before it hits the ground and make a pop very much like that of a 22 caliber bullet being fired. At Black Rock City I found that at temperatures in the high90s and humidity approaching zero spit never hits the ground. (I’m exaggerating. But only slightly.)

I’d not realized the state of my dehydration until about 2:30 in the afternoon. I was sitting on the floor of a tent with my back to a pillow watching a “Pole-Dancing” workshop courtesy of the “Brazen-Sluts” theme camp. While others were there to learn, I admit to being nothing more than an observer. And while observing my leg began to cramp. It was doing nothing but laying there on the floor and decided to cramp. Understanding what was happening, I rose and hobbled slowly back the mile plus to “Laissez Fair and 4:45”. I asked twice for water but, again, when asked for my cup I could not bring myself to explain my lack of preparation and distress, so got none.

By now my tongue was so dry it seemed to take up the whole of my mouth – a rather large one as those of you who know me are aware. When I got back to camp I sucked down a liter of water, a Coke and a half cup of salted nuts and decided to lay down in my tent for a nap. Much of my life I have been a back-packer and never gone “car-camping” in my life, but in preparation I’d purchased a low cot and was very glad to have it as the few inches of lift off the floor made it a whole lot easier to maneuver that cramped led from vertical to horizontal.

I immediately dropped in to a stooperish state somewhere between sleep and consciousness. I’d been greeted by my blown down and disheveled camp, was hot and finally sweating, had the energy of a sea slug and was suddenly uncertain of what the beauty of Burning Man was. It didn’t seem apparent at the moment and, as it turned out, my woes were only starting.

I decided I’d be better off up and at the bar with people than tossing and turning in the heat of my tent. And that’s when the trouble started.

My right thigh cramped from knee to groin and went from relaxed to hard-as-a-rock in in instant. I let out a noise of some sort – a minor yelp I thought. And within 10 seconds saw a 30-something woman, two foot long braid flying behind, coming toward me from a neighboring camp – they gave away hot-dogs all day – at a full run. She was a nurse as it turns out and my yelp must have been a full throated scream because her face was serious as a heart attack. After she unzipped (no not that, shame on you) my tent fly and got me out she started taking my pulse. I kept telling her it was a cramp she checked my vital signs. Finally she gave me some potassium tables and started in the oh-so-professional, officious, nurse-Rachet tone giving me “after-care” instructions. I found myself unable to resist explaining to her that there was something of being topless that distracted from her air of authority. And then came the worst moment of my afternoon. Her response, “Sir! Please!!” Sir? I guess I am that old.

But worse than either the heat or the humidity, or lack thereof, or even the wind, was the dust.

At the head of the valley home to Black Rock City I’d passed a US Gypsum plant. Gypsum/plaster – it should have been a clue. It wasn’t. I remember taking a picture and thinking I’d send it to Bob Franksen, head of real estate for USG and a friend, but my understanding of the meaning of that plant’s location didn’t come until later. It is not that the wind makes dust. It makes chalk powder, and everything I own was covered with it. There’s no fighting it. It simply is, and gets everywhere.

I settled for trying to protect my computer, iPhone and camera. The computer I put back in its case and regretfully left in the car. The iPhone went into a baggie and in the glove compartment. (There is neither internet nor phone service out here so that doesn’t really matter.) And while I must have and use the camera, I’ll leave it in its case and only take it out to capture an image and then put it back.

Day Three –

Bad as day two was there were some good experiences on day three – the art, the bodies and the real generosity of spirit. I had a really good cup of coffee (I’ve learned to carry a cup) served by the Bare-chested Barista’s – gay guys with hairy chests in bustiers. Little Jack’s Retro Company provided a very interesting spanking lecture. (Be sure to ask permission and never make her say “that’s too hard”. If she winces or flinches, back off immediately. Did I mention there was generosity of spirit in the place?) And the Asian Fetish Society gave a lovely Introduction to Shibari –a Japanese rope bondage art “covering basic techniques and ties. Great for beginners. Bring a friend or make a new one.”

I’ve not seen as many naked or semi-naked people in such a small space since we spent a day on Falarocki Beach on the island of Rhodes after the 2004 Olympics. It’s covered with hotels catering to full-American plan weeks for Germans and Brits on holiday. You know the expression about “Mad dogs and Englishmen”? A day at Falarocki suggested that the Germans, as well as the English, are every bit as interested in as much of the noonday sun as they can get – and not just skinny or good looking ones (regrettably).

There are two observations that stuck with me from today. First, of the 100s of bare breasts I saw, I noticed none that appeared to be surgically enhanced. Either those women do not come to Burning Man, or even they know that large breasts that don’t bounce (no matter how nice the curve) are grotesque and should be hidden, even if just a little bit. Secondly, there should be a law, firmly enforced and with punitive sanctions, against naked old men walking or riding a bicycle in public.

I’m going to devote tomorrow to photographing all, or as much as I can get to, of the art so I’ll save my comments on that until then.

Day Four –

I find it hard to write here. I feel no connectivity at all. I feel like I’m just hanging on, counting the moments until I can leave. I realized today there are no birds here. To the best of my memory the only place on this earth I have ever been with no birds was at an elevation of more than 17,000’ on Mt. McKinley, an environment equally inhospitable to life as this. Once I realized there were none I felt the lack as an eerie absence – a premonition of something frightening and almost evil. At one point yesterday I found myself lying in my tent wondering if this was what it was like in the old Yuma Territorial Prison – just hanging on and counting the days.

Mostly it’s the dust – fine powder that covers everything. I try to keep all my possessions in the care to protect them, but storing them there requires me to be in and out of the car constantly, and the dust follows me. And the heat. Well, not the heat really. It’s not that hot. It hasn’t been over 100 yet. It’s so dry I don’t even feel myself sweat, but I’m dehydrated constantly. I just cannot keep enough water in. After the cramp I learned and so I drink constantly, though never peed, and I can’t really get rid of the leg cramps. But despite my complaints I had two fascinating experiences yesterday.

The Playa is covered with art of heroic proportions. Largest is, of course, the Burning Man, right in the center. He is a wooden humanoid 40’ tall standing on a 55’ base. The base is elliptical and looks like nothing so much as a 150’ wide space ship. So the whole is 95’ tall and 150’ wide. What a fire it will make.

In the open space around him are at least 40 other works from an iPhone some 10’ tall in which you can stand to become your own screen saver – yes, I got the picture and plan to do so – to a metal woman woven of rebar and chicken wire rising gracefully, on point, some 60’ above the desert.

They are the definition of ephemeral. There are four regional clusters of six works each. Tonight they will burn. They were built to offer beauty, joy and wonder – briefly. Ever so briefly. One week and they will be gone forever. All that work. All that creativity. Just a memory. No more. Gone.

Saturday “The Man” burns.

Sunday the largest structure on the Playa – the Temple – burns.

I do not understand.

My other experience yesterday was at the “Orgy Dome”. It is an air-conditioned (Yeah!) tent broken into compartments and lined with couches, bolsters and pillows in the large assembly room and beds (I presume) in the smaller. As I peddled by a large crowd was gathered and milling outside so I stopped, locked up my bike and joined. The Dome opened and we were all ushered in for a “Blow Job Practicum”. The herd pushed me forward and it wasn’t until I sat down on a pillow that I realized all appeared to be couples save me. The practicum was, politely said, oversubscribed. There was not a couch, cushion or aisle space unoccupied. I was trapped in blow job hell.

We were greeted by a middle aged woman with pendulous breasts and the demeanor of a municipal official or 6th grade teacher. She squatted on a dining table at the front of the room between two equally naked middle aged men whom she introduced as her husband, “Builder”, and her boyfriend, “B-Man”. She was stroking each of their penises as she announced she did not plan to talk for an hour and this was a practicum (the first time the word was introduced) so she wanted to see some practicing, and anybody who would be offended at that should leave now. Well I wasn’t going to be offended but certainly embarrassed and I wrestled for 30 seconds with the question of whether I would be more embarrassed being the voyeur squeezed knee to knee with “practicing” couples, or leaving now and tip-toeing through the rapidly becoming naked crowd.

I scooched back as far into the pillows and I could and did the very my best to be secret and hidden. And over the next 30 minutes came to several conclusions; One, sex is only sexy when it’s personal. And two, there are men capable of hiding in a crowd sufficiently to orgasm without changing facial expression or breathing pattern. They make neither sound nor expression. Neither is a testament to the allure of the “Orgy Dome.”

The most fascinating thing in the place was a couple on a couch across from me who sat rigidly without stolid expressions and never made eye contact one with the other. They were both profoundly more uncomfortable than I, but made me, by their very presence, feel far less alone. I didn’t have the courage to thank them when we left.

Day Five –

If you asked for a three word description of Burning Man the most common response would be, “drugs, sex and rock & roll.” It’s not so. There’s very little rock & roll, and I find it about the least sexy place on earth. It is dirty in a way that is wearying and wearing – powder fine dust that floats in the air so that pictures taken with flash flood out on the reflection from the particles. Or when riding a bike at night with a headlamp the air looks like snow in the headlights. Sex on the beach is one thing but sex in wind driven chalk powder seems worse than gritty. And the 0% humidity and 98 degree heat is enervating to the point of exhaustion.

A universe of bare breasted women is about as sexy as an edition of National Geographic on West Africa – you’ve taken away the allure of mystery, of fantasies only hinted at. It’s come to make me realize how much I prize civilization. When it comes to atavism I’m just more a Swiss Family Robinson guy than a Lord of the Flies guy. I long for home.

I did, however, have my best day today. Dick Sutton is my definition of a long term best friend. He’s stood up for me not at one wedding but two. But for the last 5 years life has given us almost no time together. This trip was to fix that – a buddy trip to catch up and today we did. We spent much of the day biking around the Playa looking at the art. And talking. Guy talk. Stuff. Nothing emotional or serious, just stories, but all with the emotional magnet that goes unstated with men but is more real and powerful to us than any deep meaningful conversation women may have.

And Dick and I are now as reconnected as though the last five years never happened – we were never away. He’s going to join me tomorrow. We’ll drive to Los Angeles and home for me, together, but not along the Sierra as I came up. We’ll take the desert route though Fallon, Nevada and then Tonopah and finally come back to the Sierra and 395 at Bishop. It is a completely untraveled road through barren desert. It is the kind of road where you fill up with gas at every opportunity even if you’re only a quarter a tank down because you have no idea when the next opportunity will come. And Dick and I will fill that barrenness with laughter.

The other good thing today was the burn.

Burning Man is at its essence ephemeral, and the burns make that point with an emotional sledgehammer. Tonight 24 of the Playa art projects will burn – all at once. And after all that work and creativity they well be gone – forever. They will exist only in the memory of those who knew them. Then Saturday night the 90’ tall wooden man – icon of the festival – will become glory and then ash, to the joy and delight of 60,000 gathered souls. Sunday night it will be the temple.

And I will be here for none of it. I will be in a warm shower, then a bed with high thread-count sheets.

Driving Home –

As Dick and I departed we rose out of the valley and past the US Gypsum plant in Empire, then to the top of a hill that got enough water to grow a little sage and some greasewood. A dragonfly splattered into my windshield. I realized not only were there no birds at Burning Man, this was the first insect I’d seen in 5 days.

We made Bishop by sundown. I’d never entered the Owens Valley by way of the Montgomery Pass over the White Mountains. It was one of the most starkly beautiful places I’d ever seen. It was also the first time in my life I had ever seen wild mustangs.

For dinner we went to The Lodge at Convict Lake – finest dining in the eastern Sierra. I had escargot, carrot soup and a Caesar. Dick had beef Wellington with a glass of cab. We shared a straddle for desert.