A Brit at Burning Man '08 - Part the I - pre-Burn preparations

Part the II - We arrive, and Mistress Weather subdues us . . .
Part the III - From Thursday to the bitter end


So . . . strange days, indeed.
It was my 4th year attending Burning Man, and the first time I've felt compelled to write about it, so here's a bit of a diary / stream of conscience / unburdening.

For all those reading this who don't know know what the hell the Burning Man event is, well, you've clearly never talked to me, so go here for more info:
www.burningman.com
or
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burning_man



August 08, Wednesday 20

Fly out from from Heathrow Terminal 5 (nice enough, although there's a very short train journey that seems walkable) to San Francisco; flight kind of ordinary - watched films, slept a bit. Managed to pre-book one of the few two-seats near the rear of the plane (but not the very rear 'cos then you have the toilet queue standing over you) with loads of space and leg-room for the window-seating passenger.

Arrived San Francisco about 3 hours early to pick-up the car, but US Immigration managed to fill the time by querying my fingerprints, so after a brief shout over to Jackie who'd already made it through ("It's OK - I'll see you in a bit" - J. looks a bit grim as this might be the last time she sees me if I'm redacted to the UK) I wandered over to the crowded small back room to join the colourful and slightly tearful Nations of All The World queuing for their entry into the Land of the Free'n'Ignorant. After about forty minutes, during which I educated myself by reading the informative notices posted all over the room (sample: "The US Immigration and Border Service's mission is to treat all visitors with respect and courtesy"), I was taken away by an official and had my fingerprints courteously re-checked, everything was all right, and was wished a respectful good luck with my onward journey.

Phew! Having purchased some Cuban cigarillos in the duty-free at Heathrow, I wondered if there was an automatic message sent to to US Customs about dangerous boycott-busting Brits smuggling in banned cargo, but I guess not, or maybe now Fidel's stepped aside they go a bit easier on that kind of behaviour.
Handily, I arrived at the same time as the luggage on the carousel, greeted J (received big grin of relief) and we carried on with my smuggling mission.

Rang the hotel to send its bus, then waited . . . and waited . . . and waited . . . and helped a Japanese lady find her hotel bus . . . and waited . . . and then helped another group of lost Brits looking for their bus . . . and waited, and then blow me, just as we walked back into the airport to go and pick up the car as the bus was clearly never going to come, it came.

We spurned it, and caught the monorail out to the car rental. And waited . . . and waited . . . and waited . . .
So, about two hours after landing we drove into our motel.
"Ah, but we sent the bus."
"Yes", gritted teeth, "I know"

Slept badly, awoke at 4.30, made coffee, surfed Internet, waited for Thursday to happen.



August 08, Thursday 21st

Drove to Reno (about 250 miles), via an IKEA in Sacramento.

Oooh, exciting. You know me and my IKEA obsession, so the anticipation on going to one in a different country was intense.

Felt slightly let down that it's all exactly the same as Brent Cross or Waddon, except that:
a. signs in English and Spanish
b. different voltages and electrical fittings

All other things seemed just about the same:
i: Zany, crazy Swedish names for items; CHECK
ii: Big blue warehouse; CHECK
iii: Confusingly long upper showroom with market-place beneath; CHECK
iv: Elk-burgers on the menu; CHECK
v: Ball-room for the kiddies; CHECK

As that all seemed to be in order, I bought some lighting stuff for the cabaret show, and living stuff for me (rugs, saucepans, bucket, etc) and left.

Uneventful journey, apart from every time we stopped people would mistake our accent for Australian. So, I'm thinking either:
i: Most 'mericans have no idea what an Australian sound like (Mel Gibson doesn't count. Neither does Russell Crowe).

ii: 'Mericans (naturally) have no idea where, or how big, or how populous Australia is (answers: over there on the left; very big; no, not many, considering the previous answer.)

iii: It's some kind of code. For instance, 'Canadian' has now become a term of racial abuse, used by red-necks against anyone Not Like Them. But I can't see how 'Australian' fits the bill.


Anyways, onto Reno.


Of all the towns, in all the world, you never, never, never have to visit Reno.

The people in Sparks, a smaller city that Reno's twinned with, have a saying: "Reno, So Close to Hell You Can See Sparks".
Typical cornball American humour. Reno's motto is "The Biggest Little City in the World".
Hmmm. Could do with some work on that.

Anyways, of all the hotels you never need to visit in this town your never need to visit, the Peppermill is one of the nastiest. Not because of the rooms, oh no. Nice and big and comfortable, the rooms are. Big bathrooms, great views, the air-conditioning works - and all at a decent price.

It's the casino you walk through in order to get to the hotel. Infinity mirrors, glaring lights, the sonic bombardment of jangling coins (although no coins are used), and the vilest interior decoration I've seen outside of OK magazine. And somewhere in this maze are five restaurants, a cabaret stage, a main stage and a couple of coffee bars. I pledge to myself never to eat at the casino.

After check-in, I went for a walk around the casino. Monte Carlo, it's not. Las Vegas, it ain't. It comes to something when the staff are much better dressed than any of the guests.
And all over the casino are huge plasma screens showing videos of young and beautiful people enjoying the gambling; enjoying the hotel; enjoying its spas, restaurants and many other diversions (but not too many, because it's really all about the gambling). And you look around, and you don't see those beautiful people, dressed in their suits and little black numbers.

What you see is Joe, just retired from his terrible job, along with Carol his wife, who has a face like a bag of spanners. And they roll cross the floor ('mericans never walk, they always roll, mainly because they've destroyed their feet through wearing sneakers all their life), register for their card, load it up with money, then go play the slots, craps, roulette, and blackjack. And think they'll win, the saps! And lose, then load up more money onto their card.

There's some fine old-fashioned words for what these casinos do - usury, predation, cupidity, avarice, covetousness - nearly all from the Old Testament and describing the way some people greedily separate money from its owners.

I wasn't against the UK super-casino's before visiting Reno, I am now.
This is white-trash betting their last dollar.


Can't leave the casino without this:
Nasty sighting #1: A young lad, bent double in wheel-chair, head resting on the edge of slot-machine, as his carer keeps pressing play for him.

OK - enough.
Jackie feeling ill with travel/altitude sickness, so leave her and join fellow EuroBurners at a hotel 15 minutes walk up the road, then onto an Italian restaurant for a meal. Oh, that's another thing, restaurants close at about 9 in Reno. We bribe this one to stay open to the dangerous hour of 10:15, eat, then part, ready for Friday's activities.

Awake, again too early.
Go into casino, find coffee bar, wait for Friday to start.



August 08, Friday 22nd

J. still poorly (but will get better, she says) so I leave her and drive over to Sparks, where Quixotes rent their storage.

Er, I have told you about the Quixotes thing, haven't I? How the camp's called Quixote's Cabaret Club and Bar? And how no-one in the USofA seems to have heard of Don Quixote, so usually say "Um . . you mean coyote?", so we have to painfully take them through the explanation, while secretly gloating at our erudition.

Spend the day at the storage lock-up going first through the electrics to see what I need to purchase, then the bikes, then J. texts to say she's better, then texts 30 mins later to say why am I not picking her up ("I'M BUSY!", I reply, very Basil Fawlty'ish), then go and pick her up, then fix bikes, all interspersed with wanderings over to a nearby fast-food outlet for iced lemon tea.

V. hot. Too damned hot.
35 deg C, with very little shade after midday.

Luckily, all the things that need to have been done with the van (take generator for service, collect generator from service, take oven for service, collect oven from service, buy wood for stage, buy much beer) are done by about 2, so as the others load up the van, I continue to busy myself with repairing bicycles.

All done by 4, van loaded, leave, back to hotel, shower, go eat at an Indian we passed, sleep.

Awake too early, go find coffee bar, etc . . . .



August 08, Saturday 23rd

Big Day.
J and many others leave for the Playa to begin camp construction, but before that it's buy the food for the whole camp and Sling it in the Truck Day.

All goes swimmingly, huge amounts of food bought, ice coolers filled, chucked into truck, more ice bought, more coolers bought, not enough room, all very tight squeeze - hurrah, all done by 1pm.

Wave goodbye to them, then go off to do my own shopping for food and stuff.

Get text telling me that they're returning because they've missed three trolleys-worth of food still in the supermarket. Feel that I could go and help, but then realise the whole journeys about 'radical self-reliance' so leave them to rely on themselves.

Humorous moment in car park: Man appears, looking like ancient, wasted, pot-smoking dude. We're close to (ha! we think) finishing loading the truck so quite testy. Man says he's Dutch, decided to come spur-of-the-moment-kind-of-thing, could he join our camp, would we feed him, he's a fruitarian, would he need a tent, would he need water, how can he get out to the site, etc.
We're nastier than we should be but it's been a trying morning, and all Burning Man is contemptuous of people who just visit without preparing properly. So, it's explained to him that reading the Survival Guide is considered mandatory, not optional, and that he needs to get himself a few things before he heads out. We send him over to Reno airport (he-he, he's just come from there) because we know there's a ride-share operating from there, and someone might take him piy on him. Plus, we want to get rid of him.

We shall meet this man again, later in the story.

Shop, fast-food, hotel, wine, sleep.



August 08, Sunday 24th

Wake up normally, hurrah, but with a slight hangover. The booze was what I was missing! Hurrah, back to normality.

Spend the morning shopping in Home Depot then sitting in its car park creating a huge lighting/switching/dimming board, which, for the first time in Quixotes, will be fused. To be honest, the fuses are because I'm more worried about blowing up the generator with a short circuit, than anyone getting a shock. It's only 110v and floating, so anyone touching a live terminal will get a small initial shock but then effectively ground the voltage. Don't you just love that 'effectively'?

Got back to the hotel to meet Ib (Ibrahim) who I've only ever met once in life and whom I'm giving a lift out to the playa. He's part of Quixotes, is very wry, the product of the finest English public-schools, and does something important in IT in one of the Parliamentary Commisions. Oh, and is a hip-hop rapping DJ with a multi-national klezmer band.

He just wants to sleep, so I go and eat with Giac, the other Quixotian I'm giving a ride to. He's Italian, works in IT (they all do), a bit shy and difficult to get talking, and is going to do stand-up for the first time at our cabaret. Poor guy, I think.

Back to hotel, Ib asleep, I do likewise

Monday 25th - which is Head Out To Playa-day, all contained in Part the Two