September 2
The temperature reached 116 degrees Farenheit. Gusting winds over 50 mph whisked so much dust across the playa in Black Rock Desert that we had to wear goggles when it blew. The alkali dust was so acidic and dry that some Burners treated their cracked feet with vinegar. My hands dried out and bled, but I didn’t notice until I saw them on the steering wheel as I left.
I am writing, of course, about Burning Man, the festival that brings 25,000 revelers each year. I met Burners from Israel, Canada, Uruguay. Sometimes they come from farther.
I will not try to describe Burning Man. That would be impossible. There is no apt description. Any account will be biased, and perhaps absurdly so. For my recapitulation, you can read below. For the administrators’ presentation of the event, you can see www.burningman.com . But no account will be, or can be, wholly accurate.
Burners rolled into Black Rock City, as the congregation of tents and cars was called, and parked on the playa. Some parked cars, others RVs, others converted school buses. Many set up “theme camps” from which they provided some service to passers-by for free – monetary commerce between Burners was taboo. The Canadians and I disseminated snowcones, hawking them with a megaphone to those who rode or walked by. People walked by, in Black Rock City, in outfits that would be illegal, or nearly illegal, anywhere else. Two out of ten women wore no tops. Others wore only corsets or skimpy tops with thongs. The men’s costumes were equally outrageous. Many of them wore dresses – not because they were gay, or transsexual, or habitual cross dressers, but because those were the fashions of Black Rock City. A few of the older men wear nothing at all, save shoes and a sun hat. One of the Canadians, Robin, wore a black mask and a Canadian flag as a cape. I never saw him out of costume. He called himself “Captain Canuck.”
Other camps peddled different wares. One washed hair for free, and it became popular by the second day because there is no running water, but much dust, in Black Rock City. Another advertised itself as a “Punani Shave Parlor,” and in it women could have their nether regions shaved in various designs and dyed in various colors, as advertised and illustrated on photographic cards handed out in the reception tent outside the shaving trailer. The constant buzz of the razor could be heard from the trailer between 11 AM and 5 PM daily. And at the Orgasmatron women were invited to sit before a crowd of 20 to 100 people on a bicycle seat on which a knob was strategically situated. The knob was situated to stimulate their clitorises, and it vibrated. The women moaned and howled with real or imitated delight. During my time at Burning Man, I heard only praise about the Orgasmatron. “Well,” said one male voice in the crowd, “I’m going out in the playa to masturbate now.”
People were kind on the playa, almost by law. When I pulled into Black Rock City, there was no space around the Canadians’ camp. Robin found a spot for me and ushered me in. Late that afternoon, I was sitting by Squatter clipping my fingernails when Aleena saw me. “Why are you sitting by yourself?” she asked. “Come join us on the other side of the bus.” This was her first Burn, too, so we tattooed “virgin” on each other’s arms with my Sharpie (except that she accidentally wrote “v-i-r-i-n,” being somewhat drunk at the time. “Virin” was my nickname from that point forward. It became slurred until, in its final form, my nickname rhymed with “fern.”) When Robin discovered I had no bike, he gave me a spare to use for as long as I wanted it. A woman with whom I stopped to talk on the playa spent thirty minutes explaining to me how her sun dial worked and why the apparent path of the sun in the sky resembles a figure eight. Dozens of people carried “misters” with them as they traversed Black Rock City – spray bottles with battery-operated fans attached – and, in the baking playa afternoons, misted anyone who assented to the treatment. Other Burners gave out water bottles when the sun got too aggressive.
The laws of Black Rock City were mostly unspoken. Be kind to others. Don’t bitch too much. Take whatever drugs you want, but never pressure others into them. Share supplies – rebar to anchor structures to the playa, nylon cord to hold tents against the wind, duct tape to hold automobiles together. Have fun. But an orthodoxy emerged, one nearly as rigid as that of the societies it sought to repudiate. Commodification and traditional cultural norms were unnecessary and unfounded. The earth was sacred, we had to preserve it. Humans were out of touch with their animal sides. When I walked through camp wearing only my bass fishing shoes and felt hat, I elicited hoots of approval. When I went out at night with a collared shirt tucked into khaki pants, I drew looks askance.
On the morning of my third and final day at Burning Man, I lay in bed awhile and contemplated a cup of coffee. Did I want to percolate one, or was it too much trouble? How soon would it get hot outside? I was still considering when I heard the first pumping notes of the 80’s power ballad “The Final Countdown” – a bubbly, ebullient song not unlike “Eye of the Tiger.” It was the Canadians’ favorite, and it played seven or eight times a day. When I stepped outside Robin was in the dusty street in front of the bus dancing like a cork on ocean waves and jamming on an air guitar. His cape billowed behind him. Across his shirt was a strip of duct tape on which he’d written “sell me shrooms.” Yesterday’s had read “sell me weed.” I stretch and then go out on the street to dance alongside of him.
“Hey, Vern!” he yells. “How’d you sleep?”
* * *
Tonight I am camped in eastern Nevada on a dirt road leading north through one of innumerable parallel valleys. Identifying this area tectonically as basin and range is as straightforward as placing the playa in the hydrologic expanse of the Great Basin. In fact, both Black Rock Desert and this area are basin and range regions that happen to fall within the Great Basin, but as temperatures here prepare to dip near the thirties those similarities seem difficult to recall. Pleasantly difficult.
I am writing, of course, about Burning Man, the festival that brings 25,000 revelers each year. I met Burners from Israel, Canada, Uruguay. Sometimes they come from farther.
I will not try to describe Burning Man. That would be impossible. There is no apt description. Any account will be biased, and perhaps absurdly so. For my recapitulation, you can read below. For the administrators’ presentation of the event, you can see www.burningman.com . But no account will be, or can be, wholly accurate.
Burners rolled into Black Rock City, as the congregation of tents and cars was called, and parked on the playa. Some parked cars, others RVs, others converted school buses. Many set up “theme camps” from which they provided some service to passers-by for free – monetary commerce between Burners was taboo. The Canadians and I disseminated snowcones, hawking them with a megaphone to those who rode or walked by. People walked by, in Black Rock City, in outfits that would be illegal, or nearly illegal, anywhere else. Two out of ten women wore no tops. Others wore only corsets or skimpy tops with thongs. The men’s costumes were equally outrageous. Many of them wore dresses – not because they were gay, or transsexual, or habitual cross dressers, but because those were the fashions of Black Rock City. A few of the older men wear nothing at all, save shoes and a sun hat. One of the Canadians, Robin, wore a black mask and a Canadian flag as a cape. I never saw him out of costume. He called himself “Captain Canuck.”
Other camps peddled different wares. One washed hair for free, and it became popular by the second day because there is no running water, but much dust, in Black Rock City. Another advertised itself as a “Punani Shave Parlor,” and in it women could have their nether regions shaved in various designs and dyed in various colors, as advertised and illustrated on photographic cards handed out in the reception tent outside the shaving trailer. The constant buzz of the razor could be heard from the trailer between 11 AM and 5 PM daily. And at the Orgasmatron women were invited to sit before a crowd of 20 to 100 people on a bicycle seat on which a knob was strategically situated. The knob was situated to stimulate their clitorises, and it vibrated. The women moaned and howled with real or imitated delight. During my time at Burning Man, I heard only praise about the Orgasmatron. “Well,” said one male voice in the crowd, “I’m going out in the playa to masturbate now.”
People were kind on the playa, almost by law. When I pulled into Black Rock City, there was no space around the Canadians’ camp. Robin found a spot for me and ushered me in. Late that afternoon, I was sitting by Squatter clipping my fingernails when Aleena saw me. “Why are you sitting by yourself?” she asked. “Come join us on the other side of the bus.” This was her first Burn, too, so we tattooed “virgin” on each other’s arms with my Sharpie (except that she accidentally wrote “v-i-r-i-n,” being somewhat drunk at the time. “Virin” was my nickname from that point forward. It became slurred until, in its final form, my nickname rhymed with “fern.”) When Robin discovered I had no bike, he gave me a spare to use for as long as I wanted it. A woman with whom I stopped to talk on the playa spent thirty minutes explaining to me how her sun dial worked and why the apparent path of the sun in the sky resembles a figure eight. Dozens of people carried “misters” with them as they traversed Black Rock City – spray bottles with battery-operated fans attached – and, in the baking playa afternoons, misted anyone who assented to the treatment. Other Burners gave out water bottles when the sun got too aggressive.
The laws of Black Rock City were mostly unspoken. Be kind to others. Don’t bitch too much. Take whatever drugs you want, but never pressure others into them. Share supplies – rebar to anchor structures to the playa, nylon cord to hold tents against the wind, duct tape to hold automobiles together. Have fun. But an orthodoxy emerged, one nearly as rigid as that of the societies it sought to repudiate. Commodification and traditional cultural norms were unnecessary and unfounded. The earth was sacred, we had to preserve it. Humans were out of touch with their animal sides. When I walked through camp wearing only my bass fishing shoes and felt hat, I elicited hoots of approval. When I went out at night with a collared shirt tucked into khaki pants, I drew looks askance.
On the morning of my third and final day at Burning Man, I lay in bed awhile and contemplated a cup of coffee. Did I want to percolate one, or was it too much trouble? How soon would it get hot outside? I was still considering when I heard the first pumping notes of the 80’s power ballad “The Final Countdown” – a bubbly, ebullient song not unlike “Eye of the Tiger.” It was the Canadians’ favorite, and it played seven or eight times a day. When I stepped outside Robin was in the dusty street in front of the bus dancing like a cork on ocean waves and jamming on an air guitar. His cape billowed behind him. Across his shirt was a strip of duct tape on which he’d written “sell me shrooms.” Yesterday’s had read “sell me weed.” I stretch and then go out on the street to dance alongside of him.
“Hey, Vern!” he yells. “How’d you sleep?”
* * *
Tonight I am camped in eastern Nevada on a dirt road leading north through one of innumerable parallel valleys. Identifying this area tectonically as basin and range is as straightforward as placing the playa in the hydrologic expanse of the Great Basin. In fact, both Black Rock Desert and this area are basin and range regions that happen to fall within the Great Basin, but as temperatures here prepare to dip near the thirties those similarities seem difficult to recall. Pleasantly difficult.
posted by Jeb Butler at 10:31 AM
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