A Brit at Burning Man '08 - Part the II - We arrive, and Mistress Weather subdues us . . .

Part the I - pre-Burn preparations
Part the III - From Thursday to the bitter end



Quills being sharpened, pens having been filled, the blotting paper is at the ready and with the Tippex bought out to cover up all indiscretions, Part the II of Martin's Burning Man 2008 trip report will now commence.

Now, where was I . . . . . ah yes, to recap:

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 Commissions. 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

> Part the II <

August 08, Monday 25th

I wake up about 7.30, Ib has been up since 4 due to jet-lag but has been happily surfing the Internet while listening to my snores; "like a good 'un", he says. He took shelter in the bathroom as I was getting a bit irritating. Unfortunately, the 3-day Internet licence I'd bought back on Friday timed out at about 6am, so he had a whole load of snoring to listen to until I awoke, but he was kind enough to say that it hadn't really bothered him too much. Must have been the early treatment from the English public-schools that fortified him so well.

So, despite my previous pledge to never eat in a casino, we navigated our way through the hell of slot-machines, blackjack and craps tables (loads of people still playing, naturally) to the coffee shop, where we ordered too much and ate too little. Typical American breakfast - too much of everything and plates too small to contain it, so it goes everywhere - mouth, table, chair, floor, etc. {Note to self: Reno appears to have destroyed my hand-to-mouth co-ordination so really must concentrate next time, if I can suffer Reno again)

Cram Ib's stuff in the mini-van, wonder if we have space for everything, then realise that if we pull the lone rear seat forward (everything else is taken) then someone who's short will have an excellent journey plus we can fit everything in. Ib, being 6 foot plus, takes charge and selflessly sacrifices the rear seat to Giac (5 foot plus) while taking the front seat. Motor quarter-a-mile down to the Atlantic Hotel and pick up Giac and head east to Sparks to pick up last minute supplies (remember, we're in Reno/Sparks - and the only reason I'm not staying in Sparks is because there's nowhere to stay. It's really quiet and really suburban. I love it.)

And now I feel I should give a shout-out to a really nice chain of supermarkets, which up to last year was called Albertsons but was taken over and now has the less-resounding name of Sav-On. They're a Burner's friend, as all Quixote's shopping was done at the one in Reno and although the one in Sparks is smaller (read - a less decent wine and beer selection) but it has a Burner-friendly manager who recognises various Quixotians from last year and really goes out of his way to be helpful. They even organise recycling bins for plastic, glass, and cardboard at the end of Burning Man, plus - and I can't tell you how useful this is for one lone guy with just one rubbish bag to dispose of - will take trash for $3 a bag. God bless you Sav-On / Alberstsons.

After about an hour Giac returns (you can just walk the aisles of US supermarket forever, as it's all different and amazing) carrying one very small bag, so Ib and I send him back for Gatorade, V8-Juice, salty snacks, nuts, and so on. He arrives back after about half-an-hour with about four bags, so we let him back in the mini-van and Head Off On Our Adventure.

Let me explain a little of the route. The Interstate I-80 carves its way though bleak, barren hills, only passing small hamlets or large petroleum refineries for about 25 miles. It's a bit dull, so Giac and Ib had an engaging conversation about computer programming, which I attempted to enter with my exciting stories of Commodore PET's and dBaseII, but unfortunately the world has moved on and no-one's interested in old languages/machines, etc. I would have done better talking of Babbage and calculating engines, but I've found that most IT people aren't really interested in the history of their technology as they have the common fallacy that everyone was a bit stupid ten years ago and now only they, being at the bleeding edge of IT, know how it really works and where it will go. Foolish youths. How saddened they'll be when they can't be arsed to learn yet another language and some cocky person leaps past them carrying the banner for the latest vogue in IT. Hopefully they'll all have escaped into management by then, as no-one should be coding still at forty. But I digress . . . . .

Route Map

Will bring up a Google Map of the route, which basically turns north off the I-80 at Fernley (huge US Naval air-base, 'Top Gun', etc) onto the 447, up through Nixon (part of the Pyramid Lake Indian reservation) going at a very sedate 20 mph as the Highway Patrol, law-officers of Washoe County and the Indian Police all try to book you for speeding, and then a nice 50-70 mph depending on locals, RV's, Burners towing trailers of 'stuff', big lorries and other vehicles all try to squeeze themselves up this tiny road for 75 miles. I'm not a brave driver and there are too few places to easily overtake so I just stay behind an RV for most of the journey, making room for locals and other idiots who really, really, really must overtake.

It's a glorious journey and once past Pyramid Lake (it has an island shaped like a pyramid in it, thereby showing a singular lack of imagination by the white people who originally named it), the playa begins and so does the desert. There's still some poor vegetation and signs saying "Open Prairie", but no cattle to be seen. At night, apparently, jack-rabbits will run into the light of your vehicle and are considered the biggest cause of traffic accidents, apart from drunkenness and sleep, of course. The advice is to never swerve but just run 'em down, as going off the road at even 30 mph will probably prove fatal to either yourself or your vehicle. As I never do the in or out journey at night, I've never seen them. God knows what they find to eat, but I'm guessing they're so tired of an unending diet of sage-brush and iron-weed, they're probably committing suicide, so extremely grateful for the chance to join The Choir Invisible.

And onwards, through a flat landscape with mountains on one side and hills on the other, hot, hot, hot. This felt like the real start of the festival, and getting past Pyramid Lake feels like coming home. Giac was, naturally, excited and taking pictures. The day was lovely and clear, blue skies and traffic moving well.

It was about this time that I informed my companions that I usually listened to an old-time Country and Western radio station - KVLV - round-a-bout this part of the journey, broadcasting out of Fallon "the oasis of Nevada", and full of Jim Reeves songs, men staring through bottoms of empty glasses, women she done-me-wrong, my home is not a home, and advertising supporting "Our Boys in I-raq", and wondered if they'd like to be similarly entertained. Sadly, they replied, with some force, in the negative, so I played the accommodating host and saved them from my obsessions. Besides, I could sate my unnatural desires on the way back out from Burning Man.

After about 70 miles, you come into Empire, which is basically a company town for the United States Gypsum Corporation and its gypsum mine, which is the main employment around here. Empire has a store and a gas-station where many Burners stop and fill up (it usually runs out during the day) on expensive gas. The store joins in and flog as much as possible to Burners, and why not - according to Wikipedia 20% of the annual sales in this area occur during Burning Man. The prices charged reflect the distance needed to truck them out here and the gullibility of Burners to pay top-dollar for items they could have purchased anywhere else.
I never stop, mainly because there's a real risk of getting run down, plus I WANT TO GET INTO THE FESTIVAL!!!

Ten miles further on there's Gerlach, which is a real town with a school, and a rail-road crossing where, if unlucky, you can wait in order to watch massive freight trains hauling the cheap stuff of China into the US heartland. God praise Walmart!

Only another ten miles or so, and we're there, whoopppeeee!
Link to Gerlach and Black Rock Desert
The big white thing to the north-east of Gerlach is the Black Rock Desert, and if you zoom in, there's a previous Black Rock City superimposed on Google's terrain map.

Still clear, still sunny, still lovely . . . and we carry on, little realising the terrible things that are about to happen.
We turn off the road onto the one track that leads into the festival. Slow going, as slow speeds keep the dust down. And bumpy. Oh, and then windy. Earlier on the road, Giac remarked that it looked like there was a fire or something out in the desert. I said it was probably the festival, with loads of vehicles moving around, but in reality it was the wind. Which got worse. And worse.

None of us had our tickets as BM won't deliver to the UK, so we had to go to 'Will Call', show them our ID and pick 'em up (this year there were no sales at the gate). We left the big five-lane queue for the entrance to join the queue for Will-Call, and waited, and the wind got worse, and waited, and the wind got worse

and waited,

and the wind got worse,

and then . . . .

White-out. Nothing. Nadir. Zilch. Just sand-storm.







The wind eased.
We were directed into a holding area along with everyone else. We got out. Someone gave us ice-pops (thank you ice-pop giving angel-person)
We met the Lesbian Mafia, who were part of Quixotes.
We saw Will-Call - the wind increased - we lost Will-Call (it was about 5 minutes walk away)

We walked into the white-out.

Dum, dee, dum, dee, dum, dee, dumm, DEE, DUMMMMM (increasing tension)

Ib navigated us straight to Will-Call, we got our tickets, Ib navigated us straight back to the car (how does he do it?) and we set off for the Entrance. Half-an-hour of sand and dust.

This bit was OK as there were 8 lines of vehicles all going in the same direction and the wind was easing. Got to the entrance, the ticket checker searched the vehicle for stowaways (it does happen) and we went another very slow 6 miles to the Greeters. And now came the bad bit. We crept along at 0-5 mph, when I could see a traffic-cone in front then I'd go forward, when all traffic-cones disappeared then I'd stop. Sometime I'd see the rear-lights of another car, so creep close to them, they'd accelerate and I'd lose them, hanging back in case I suddenly went into them. I had my side-window open as I couldn't really see through the wind-screen (so, that started the decent of the interior of my mini-van into sand-hell)

The Greeters are part of the ceremony, as they all make virgins perform a ceremony (ritual humiliation), administer a small spanking (more ritual humiliation), and the virgins have to ring a bell (not very humiliating at all). The weight and length of the spanking depends on the weather, the virgin's compliance and how long the Greeter has been on station.
Ib and I stayed in the car and left Giac to his fate, but he got off lightly due to the weather.

More creeping forward, stopping, where-the-hell-are-we . . . . .
.
I'll cut to the end, as I sense a certain boredom with the sand. We took about an hour to navigate our way from the greeter station to Quixote's camp, a journey that took me 10 minutes on the way out. All-in-all, we turned off the main road about 1, and arrived at Quixotes about 4, and I couldn't have done it without Ib's navigation, sense of direction and general good sense. Well done Ib.
Giac looked a bit worried, as if to say "What the f.... have I let myself in for?".

We sat down in the Quixote's structure (4 x car-ports, in a U), drank beer (hurrah!) and waited for dusk when the wind should have died down. Luckily it had read the same script, did so, and the evening turned into a calm evening of food and people erecting tents. I slept in one of their big tents on top of the booze, only awoken by a large crash and a shout that the kitchen had collapsed - well - the car-port it was sheltering under had blown away. Suddenly, I felt very tired (it was about 1am), and fell asleep, when I should have really been rushing around and helping. I just reminded myself that I was only an Honorary Member of the Camp and felt that it was really the concern of those who were going to eat from the kitchen - so I gave them the gift of Self-Reliance. Besides, the Three Bears (Yes. Bears. And three of them.) just arrived as it happened, so were able to help.

The Lesbian Mafia, who we'd met at the gate, got to the camp about 7pm. Their car had refused to start, so got pushed out of line, started, back into line, stopped again, etc.

Another Quixotian, Hilda, had left her car and sheltered in a RV near the entrance. She'd left her luggage and keys with them (trusting soul, she had never met them before). They drove her car round in the morning, which either shows how lovely most Burners are, or that the luggage and car wasn't worth much.

Monday ended with terrible winds but less sand, it was cold, and in the words of whatever-his-name-is, Things Could Only Get Better, or so we thought.



August 08, Tuesday 26th

Up early ("Yeh, I heard some shouting in my sleep, so was that the kitchen? Er, sorry.") and headed over to Hushville which was three'ish blocks away.

Black Rock City explanation: Streets:
Run clockwise from 2 o'clock round to 10 o'clock. From the Man to the first street - the Esplanade - is about a mile, then the radial streets go back from A to K. At 6 and A is Centre Camp, around which most of the main Burning Man organisation have their stalls, places, venues, etc. Centre Camp is where you can get coffee and behind it is Camp Antarctica, the ice sellers. This year the street were named after American cars; one year they were named after emotions (Lust, Envy, etc, or was it sins?); and my first year they were named after the planets in the Solar System from the Sun outwards, which made no sense initially (ha, ha), but you got to know Uranus from your Jupiter quite quickly, I can tell you. I was camped far out beyond Pluto that year (on Sedna, another Trans-Neptunian Object), so walked a LOT.
Spoke streets run on the half-hours and radiate out from the Man, and camps tend to give out their address to whichever street they're closest to, but not which side and of course they don't have to be right on the street but behind another camp. Looking for a particular camp during the day is interesting. At night, unless they're all lit up or on the street, is tricky.
Street signs tend to disappear on Saturday after the Man burns, although it's frowned on for safety reasons (medics, etc.), so the poles holding them up have a letter and number on them. Plus concerned citizens will often recreate the sign with cardboard.

Toilets, I hear you ask. Ah yes, on every street between C & D, and G & H. Best not to camp too close to them, they don't half whiff and the doors bang day and night.

Quixotes was on 8.30 and Dart, Hushville was about 6.45 and Dart, and it took about 10 minutes to walk.
I cycled down to them, checked they still had room - they did - and went and bough the mini-van around, after leaving all my electrical bits'n'pieces at Quixotes. As I was setting up my tent, who should get dumped in the space next to me but the Dutch guy I'd last seen in a Reno car-park on Saturday looking for a camp to join. He'd got a tent, supplies and water, so I guess someone had helped him, but I was still Britishly aloof.

I went around saying Hi to as many other people were around ("So, your Australian, yeh?").
Put my tent up. Took it down again, and re-inserted correct pole. Took it down again and reinserted correct pole in correct sleeve. Hammered sand-stakes in. Erected tent. Put on fly-sheet. Swore. Fly-sheet needed to attach to sand-stakes, now hammered below surface to prevent trip-ups. Took pathetic little stakes that come with tent and entirely unsuitable for the Playa and used them. Good enough for rock'n'roll.But was later to revise opinion.
Went back to Quixotes.


Tuesday night was the first show. Everywhere across the city looked half-made as Monday had prevented any building, or had toppled a lot of what had already been built. Still, our stage was up, the back-cloth was up, all that was needed was decoration, lights and sound. So from 11 to about 8pm (show at 9) I slogged, pulled cables, fitted lights, got in people's way, told people I didn't need any help, and by 9pm had precisely three spot-lights for the stage (enough), two lights for the bar area (enough) and one light for the PA/sound area (enough). Doesn't sound much for 9 hours work, but if I hadn't pre-made the lighting system in the Home Depot car park, it would have taken a lot longer.

I also slashed my fingers with my knife three times and wore a blister in the palm of my hand from my screwdriver, but was a happy boy by the end. A roadie-bandage was applied to the cuts mid-work (take something absorbent - a tissue or kitchen towel, apply and wrap with gaffer/duct tape) and I had also helped Mark with his sound system. I accepted a beer and hearty thanks. Then came the complaint from a venue designer, Nicholas Immaculate. The street was very dark, and no-one could see us! Luckily, there had been a load of rope-lights amongst the items I'd checked through on Saturday, so me and Paul P. strung these quickly around the outside of the car-ports, then everything looked lovely. It also meant we didn't have to listen too hard to the 9-year old who had been oversold as a "singing prodigy" by her mother and who was opening the cabaret.

You know, there's really something very wrong about a 9-year old (who looks more like 16 on stage) singing about her boyfriend not giving her no love. No accompaniment. A cappella. And all totally out of tune. Didn't quite bring out the child-murderer in me, but I can't speak for the rest of the audience. Strangely enough, I never saw the little poppet for the rest of the festival, so let's hope she'd been smothered by an enraged critic.

Didn't stay for too many acts as very tired and hungry, but caught Meg from Hushville (She's a librarian! She sings!) and one of the Quixotians, Priscilla, aka Ms Sapphira, who does burlesque stripping and belly-dancing. Both very good, and made up for the sour taste left by the 9-year old.
Left them all happy, went back to my tent, couldn't be arsed to cook so ate some cereal bars, drank some whisky and went to bed, to dream of Wednesday.



August 08, Wednesday 27th

You know, just footling around your tent just takes forever.
I normally wake about 7am, or dawn'ish - and after a small visit to the facilities (thankfully near, but not too near), start breakfast.

What have the Americans ever done for us? Well, one thing they've kept to themselves is mmmh, pre-cooked bacon. Get the stove working, first coffee made - mmmmh, fresh coffee - then onto the bacon.
And here's a tip for all you independent campers at Burning Man, while bread goes stale very quickly, bagels and tortillas last forever, or at least as long as they're needed i.e. a week.
My cool-box still had a little bit of cooled water in it from overnight (I put some ice in before leaving Sparks), the bacon didn't need cooling until opened and the cheese slices looked OK. Even the milk was fine, or didn't taste too bad so the coffee was fine.
So breakfast was bagels toasted in a frying pan, with bacon and cheese. First one was an experiment, and the second two slipped down Just Right, so with another coffee I felt like a King.


Went off to Ice camp at 9am and got chatting to a pilot in the queue who'd flown in from Reno before the winds on Monday. He said some people were still flying in during the sand-storm, but that was a bit crazy. Problem is, the sand-storm was only on the Playa, so pilots didn't know it was happening until they arrived, but they could have diverted to one of the smaller runways sprinkled around the vicinity. He'd flown up from Arizona and was planning to fly with some mates to one of the hot-springs further out in the desert that afternoon. As usual, there were regular drops of parachutists around the city during the week


Back to the tent with the ice, then to ablutions. Many people don't, but personally I like to get rid of the sand I've picked up over the previous day, so a quick flannel wash in two inches of water provides me with a certain cleanliness quotient. Then loads of moisturising all over as the air just sucks the stuff out of you, but especially your feet as they need special treatment in this kind of climate. Clean socks and normally clean knickers (of course!), but not this time as I was wearing the Quixotian camp costume - a gorgeous red & white stripe Edwardian bathing costume, whipped up in Nicholas Immaculate's workshop, and accessoried with a luridly hued lab coat - oooh, what colour to start with? I pick the lime-green and I'm off to face the world.


I get as far as Quixotes. This seems to be my fate for the rest of the week - I set off with good intentions to see the rest of Black Rock City, get as far as Quixotes, slump in a chair, someone gives me a beer then that's it for four hours. Paul P (a favourite - he's gay, he's bitchy, he's technically minded - what else could you look for in a camp companion) re-appears. His beautiful shade-structure was blown away by the storms on Monday night and he retreated to his van for a bit of R&R, then found it was quite nice so stayed for the day. He re-appeared at dusk for chat, beer and maybe 'going out', which really meant tottering 100 yards down the road to the gay bar. Dunno why I specify it, as Quixotes is part of Avalon, the biggest gay village in Black Rock City, so 100 yards in any direction is likely to bring you to, or past, a gay bar.

Ah, now I remember what kept me at Quixotes.
The Vietnamese Iced Coffee Camp uses the space to distribute their wares from 2 until about 4, and it's wonderful. The exact formula is sworn to secrecy, but it involves strong coffee, dribbled into tumbler with a can of evaporated milk, then stirred like crazy and topped up with ice - simply divine dahlings. And it gets more people into the camp and then we tell 'em about the cabaret and they can ask us questions ("So . . ..you're all Australians?").

Actually, it's not really that, mostly we just chat. About anything. The easiest start is to ask where they're from, and then try and think up some winning anecdote that will make them laugh, or demur, or . . . well, just plain respond. The weather is always a good topic, so really it's just like an English bus queue, or a training session where no-one knows anyone

There's no show tonight, so I can happily just check that no-one's trashed the lights, move the important equipment out of the way of staggering drunkards, then just hang around, chatting. And sadly, that's all I do that night.

So . . . back to the tent, eat, and Good Night everybody . .. .


Thursday 28th and onwards - all to be in the next dull instalment of Martin, Burning Man 08, and Awaiting the Monsters