Part the I - pre-Burn preparations
Part the II - We arrive, and Mistress Weather subdues us . . .
The IIIrd and last of my story, where we get to Thursday
August 08, Thursday 28th
Or is it? To be honest, I'm writing a fortnight after it, and I cannot remember what I actually did on Thursday.
Oh, hold on, yes I do, but I managed to get it confused with Wednesday, how silly am I.
So, let's go back to Wednesday afternoon, and recap:
"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 accessorised 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."
Well, Wednesday afternoon was my day for flagging training, so I couldn't have been sitting in a tent with Vietnamese Iced Coffee, because I was off finding out how to defend myself from the most a'cursed being know to the man - the Tired and Exhausted Driver, Who Just Want To Go Home After The Party.
After a number of years (idly) spectating, I had decided to participate and give something back to the Man by volunteering for Exodus. As this involves getting 50,000 visitors out on a one-track road onto a highway with hardly any traffic sounds really easy, but for these few things:
1. For 51 weeks of the year there is no real traffic on the road, so locals tend to be a tad complacent about speeds and driving.
2. It's a main route for the gypsum lorries from the mine, and they are Big'n'Fast
3. The Bureau of Land Management (description below) sets the Burning Man a number of tasks, and one is not to completely bollox up the roadways for miles around
4. A large amount of traffic out of Black Rock City is turning left, so across the oncoming traffic
5 A large amount of traffic is being driven by people who have been partying hard for a week, imbibing chemicals and alcohol, and probably got up at 4am to break camp
6 Just before Gerlach is a junction where the right-of-way is against the Burner traffic.
So, flagging training - oh, come on, you know, you have a STOP/SLOW sign and, in co-ordination with your fellow flaggers, you let traffic through junctions (although in reality you halt the Burner traffic in order to let the locals through, because the Burners are all going somewhere far away that'll take them at least 3 hours, while the locals are not used to seeing crowds so you let them through before they get scared and agoraphobic) - is a bit of a US thing and we don't see much of it in the UK, which mainly relies on radar-controlled traffic lights to louse up our road-works. But it does work, and it definitely gets traffic moving quite quickly at junctions.
The training took place in Gerlach, so about twenty of us hopped onto a big old school bus that was decorated with scatological graffiti (by Burners, rather than the kids) and headed out to the default world. And y'know, it hadn't changed one jot. It was stressed by The Management that dressing respectably would be a Good Thing (no naughty bits showing), but there was a general carnival air about out happy little troop, and restrained but exuberant costume was the main motif.
We hunkered down in the requisitioned local bar, watched a 15-minute video about death, dismemberment, maiming, and the high incidence of injury amongst flaggers and then were taken through the Book of Flagging. As the guy leading the class said, it didn't take a whole of smarts to do it and just watching the video should give all the information needed, but what we mainly learnt was A: Concentrate; B: Protect your fellow-flaggers; C: Protect drivers; and D: Report the hell out of anyone who disobeys your directions.
Oh, and the most important one, AAAA: Prepare your exit-route for when the vehicle doesn't stop.
Duly sobered, we took a 50-question test (you were allowed to refer to the Book of Flagging, so he was right, not a whole lot of smarts were needed) and given your Certificate to Flag in the silver state of Nevada, which was to be carried at all times otherwise the Highway Patrol would arrest you for time-wasting. Thankfully, nobody flunked the test. Afterwards, half the people went off to Bruno's for burger'n'chips, while the other half - including me - hung around chatting. After about an hour, we headed back to Black Rock City and once we bumped off the road onto the playa, the bus took on a greenish hue as the one's who'd just gorged themselves on 1/2lb burgers "with everything" contemplated their actions of then eating and getting into an exceedingly warm, exceedingly bumpy and very over-crowded bus. Luckily nobody succumbed to burger-barf (as I understand it's know in the more louche eateries), so we all got out of the bus clean.
I headed back to the tent, cooked myself a massive two-pack vegetarian curry (patak paneer & dal) washed down with Guinness and tortillas.
Feeling tired, it was past dusk, so I had an early night, with a bit of heavy reading <http://www.amazon.co.uk/Instance-Fingerpost-Iain-Pears/dp/009975181X>.
Whisky was involved.
The acronyms of Black Rock City: BLM
The Black Rock Desert is owned by the government and administered by the Bureau of Land Management, part of the US Department of the Interior. Where England (oops, I nearly said the UK there) has English Heritage as its quasi-governmental land overseer, the US has the far more direct BLM. But then, the US is a place with a disproportionate number of crazy people coupled with the Right to Bear Arms, so it's no wonder they're a bit tougher than your average UK bird-warden (I know, I know, it's an unfair comparison, but I need to exaggerate just for the hyperbole).
The BLM organise the leasing of the land to the Burning Man Organisation and they're the one's who say if Burning Man has Left No Trace so it can come back the next year. They're a curious mixture of police, land managers, environmentalists, historians, educators and real-estate agents. Oh, and they manage the 'federal helium reserve', which is running out (OMG! There's not enough helium for Macy's Parade!).
What they say goes at Burning Man, but as the festival is a major cash-cow for the local office in fees, plus gives a large amount in charity to local towns, even if it is considered an ungodly festival of no-good faggot liberals it would be plain un-American to just ban it out-of-hand, like it would be in the UK. As long as the tenets of Leave No Trace are adhered to, then the BLM will probably let Burning Man continue (there a 5-year permit up to 2011), but one really bad accident (think, say >10 deaths in a freakish, flame-filled barbecue of horror) could block it all. Hey-ho.
August 08, Thursday 28th
For Thursday, repeat Wednesday up until this bit, at about 1pm
"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."
And that was my fate, except I chose . . . oooh, the pink lab-coat today, Jeeves, m'thinks.
Talking. Chatting. Viet-Iced-Coffee'ing. And then beer. Ah yes.
Back to my tent about six, eat another of the amazing curries, and then it's Show Time! Zoot suit and red-stripy T-shirt (Hey! I'm themed into the camp colours!) and get back to Quixotes with just enough time to crank the lights up.
And tonight's show was the best of all three. Apologies to those who performed on Tuesday and Friday, but Thursday was a doozy (must look up what that really means)
We had burlesque, we had story-telling, we had a banjo-violinist duo with songs about the the 1930's Depression but really were about Bush's America, we had . . . . oh, just too many acts who were just great and the whole show just fitted together really well.
Emma (Momma Quixote) compered as brilliantly as usual, the drink flowed, the Quixotian cocktail of choice was the Dusty Pimms (Pimms and Ginger Ale) - and yes, even the crap American beer tasted OK. The evening finished with drunken and debauched dancing to a series of 80's singles . . . . and I walked out into the night, looking for adventure.
Having the power of the Dusty Pimms inside me, I decided to walk out to the Man and getting there, then decided to carry on to the Temple (about another mile out). The Temple is a marvellous creation, usually manufactured from loads of offcuts of wood. It invariably has an Eastern look about it, and is a place of reverence, or remembering, of peace and tranquillity. (Temple Pic)
After about an hour of just being there, happy and contented, a huge art-car shaped like a duck pulled up with booftity-booftity dance music playing over, and over, and over. Then about a hundred hyped-up dancers disgorged around the Temple, whooping and a'hollering and enjoying themselves like mad, and the music played on. After about fifteen minutes my peace was shattered, I cursed all the fuckers who'd arrived and headed homewards.
Unfortunately, the art-bus moved off at the same time and so I tracked it's booftity-boof all the way back the Esplanade, where I slunk into the City and made for my tent. But I was still awake, and a trifle annoyed, so I chilled out by sitting outside my tent with a whisky. I dozed, then was suddenly awoken by my next-door companion Jon getting noisily into his tent.
I did likewise, albeit into my own.
August 08, Friday 29th
Awoke earlyish, got out of the tent and managed to fall over my chair, thereby awaking Jon, who clambered out of his tent and we chatted, mainly about the reciprocity involved in the both of us waking each other. He's a nice guy, been on the 12-step program for alcoholism (clean for twelve years) and was visiting BM with his friends, but came over to Hushville to get away from the dance-music. We had a protracted good old bitch about it after my experience last night, I can tell you, oh yes!
So, after my gloom of Thursday night, I was strangely feeling quite happy with the world after the chat, so went around chatting to my local Hushvillians. Yes, even the Dutch guy who I'd stayed aloof from, and, of course, he turned out to be as nice as pie, lived half his life in Bali, ran a theatre design place company, had family back in Amsterdam, and had come to BM unprepared because he thought it was going to be typical American bullshit about 'survival'. Ha, we certainly showed him! (er) He had nearly left on the Wednesday because of the weather but was glad he stayed as he loved it.
So much for my silly aloofness, eh? Or maybe I'd calmed down by Friday and was feeling charitable and huggy towards everyone by then. Whatevers.
I won't carry on about the other conversations as I don't want to bore you all to tears, so yet again I found myself at Quixotes at about 2pm, Vietnamese Iced Coffee in hand, more a'chatting.
But this time, I went off at 4 to find The Elders camp offering Brie, Bach and Talk, who were a lovely bunch of people, all elderly, with a common interest in naturism. However, they were mostly clothed at the time, and served cheese (mmmmmh), red wine (er, slightly less mhh, as it came from a box), and interesting chat. The stripey Edwardian bathing costume came in for a lot of interest, AND NO-ONE THOUGHT I WAS AUSTRALIAN, so it must be merely an age thing. Stayed and chatted and drank, got up, realised I was drunk, sat down again, then left about six for food.
It was Quixotes Cabaret Club and Bar's last night of performance, and it went well, if not great, so a good finish to the whole week.
Left for my tent shortly afterwards and slept the sleep of the happily pissed.
Oh, you'll want to know that Friday evening's attire was the Zoot Suit again, this time with no shirt, a pink Marilyn Monroe wig, and a jaunty naval hat to balance the ensemble.
I must have looked quite fetching, stumbling around in the dark looking for my tent.
August 08, Saturday 30th
You'll notice that these descriptions are getting shorter. That's because the days get muddled together, and I can't accurately remember what happened every day. Also, I want to preserve my mystery.
Saturday happened.
Quixotes. Beer. I disassembled my electrics and packed it safely away. Two Quixotians got married (oh yes, there are marriage chapels, but s'not legal outside the City). I can remember a very powerful pair of G&T's getting drunk.
And the wind started up, really quite bad. The Man was planning to be burnt at 9, but it was put on hold due to the wind. Quite a few camps were already breaking down their structures and you could see the rear-lights of vehicles in the distance, all queuing for the road. A lot of people forewent the Burn, expecting it to be cancelled, and decided to leave.
The wind dropped slightly and the Burn was re-scheduled for midnight, so a mixed bunch of Quixotians picked up some chairs and headed out to the Esplanade to view it from afar, and have ourselves a Jaded Burner's party. It was on the way there that my other half, my beloved Jackie, a.k.a The Rubbish Fairy, a.k.a.The MOOP Nazi, found a beautifully sculpted and amazingly authentic prosthetic penis, thankfully flacid. It became quite the plaything; chucking it at people with a jaunty "Catch!".
Even now it resides somewhere in our house, waiting for an unsuspecting friend (or elderly relative) to happen upon it. How we'll laugh!
So, the Man got Burned, we bitched to each other in a jaded fashion, we got cold, we went back to Quixotes, where I fell asleep. Then the prosthetic penis came into play again, and I was the butt of many people's crudities, with it being placed in my lap and photographs taken,. People laughed, people screamed, and I woke up wondering what all the fuss was about.
I've resisted making the photos available here, but if I get enough requests, then they'll be in safe but viewable place. For a tenner, to get the full effect, I'll let you play with the prosthesis at the same time.
Up early tomorrow, as it's flagging day, so off to bed to catch 6 hours sleep. Picked up my tool-case, attempted to cycle home but fell off, so to the cries of "Walk it, Stupid!" I walked the bike home in a stupor.
August 08, Sunday 31st
The milk had already turned into cheese, and the heat had made the cork in my bottle of red wine half come out, so it was all condemned.
I'd already finished the bacon mid-week, and frankly the cheese wasn't great to begin with but had definitely turned by Sunday.
So breakfast was that old standby, figgy cereal bars - yum!
The flagging slot was from 12-8, so I headed over to the pickup-point and after a lot of faff, we we were trucked out to the road. The queues to get out of the City were horrendous, with the wait judged at about 3-4 hours. Naturally, being VIP's we weren't in the queue and drove past them, while the South African girl with us told how she'd slept through the training and couldn't remember any of it. Oh, great. I do so want to be working with in the same team as her.
Luckily, she wanted to flag where the Playa meets the road so was let out there and five of us adults were trucked to the junction just before Gerlach. And from then until 8pm we flagged our butts off. I'd bought water (just as well), and there were bushes to pee behind (again, just as well, as the porta-potty just down the road was overflowing), and as we were all sensible people who worked well together the afternoon slowly moved into the evening without drama.
And what an evening it was. A dramatic, end-of-the-world-type sunset with flames and red and vermillions and blues, along with a harsh wind. We could see rain falling way out on the playa, beyond Black Rock City, and wondered if we would be able to drive our cars tomorrow.
When the sun fell so did the temperature, and the wind picked up. Our pick-up picked us up and an intrepid trio were dropped off in our place. Food was mentioned, but some-one else had clearly snaffled it before us, and we ended up back in a hellish, wind-blown City at about 9.30.
It was nasty.
I'd arranged to take Jackie's bike and some of her other luggage back to Reno so cycled to Quixotes, but, of course, it was all packed away into the van and dark with no-one about (most people had headed out to the Temple burn, which I'd arrived back too late for). I cycled out onto the playa to see if anyone was around and hung around a burn-platform 'cos it was a nice warm thing on a cold dark night, then went back to her tent. Luckily she turned up soon afterwards and we wheeled her bike'n'stuff over to my tent and she left, after updating me on Giac who'd decided to experience drugs for the first time on Saturday night, so had spent Sunday being rehydrated by the medics. Wow. . . party on, Giac, you crazy Burner.
Jackie was aiming to wake the camp up in four hours time with her traditional and infamous rendering of "The Sun Has Got Its Hat On"; not for sheer devilry but because past experience had told them that if they didn't get up at 4am they wouldn't reach Reno in time to unload and re-pack the store, get the truck washed and back to the hire-company. And Jackie singing is definitely an inducement to get up and move away from her vicinity.
As it happened, they only took about an hour to get to the highway, instead of the usual three to six.
I'd volunteered for another flagging shift starting at 6am Monday, so went to bed, cold, hungry, and little demoralised. As I was undressing it started to rain, and I wondered just how awful tomorrow would be.
September 08, Monday 1st
Awoke at 4.30 and stuck my head outside the tent. IT WAS FREEZING! And windy, but no rain, and it was clear that not much had fallen overnight (the playa is a mud-lake until about April when it dries out, so if it rains it turns back into a mud lake again and no vehicles can move, no bikes can be ridden, even walking is difficult). One quick trip to the porta-potties completely chilled me, and I made the executive decision to get back in my sleeping-bag with all my clothes on. Of course, I fell asleep, and of course, I didn't wake until 9 - and I told myself that by that time, there was little point in reporting for flagging duty.
I'm not especially proud of volunteering and not turning up, but I knew it was going to be hell out on the highway - so no more excuses - I just refused to do it. But remember, I'm not proud.
It took me close to six hours to pack my tiny amount of stuff away, which seemed to have mushroomed into a disaster area. Ah, and as my tent is nearly all made of mesh, it was all incredibly dusty. Most mornings I'd been sensible and packed away my sleeping bag into a bin-liner, so it was everything else that was covered, including the rugs on the floor of my tent.
Hushville was looking pretty empty by now.
I was aiming to leave early Tuesday morning, at dawn.
After my fifth journey to the loo (hurrah, I've finally attained the kind of water through-put I should have achieved on Tuesday), I heard a Black Rock Ranger saying that the Exodus queues were down to 30 minutes, so I rushed back and hurried up my packing, reckoning I could still get to Reno while it was light.
And I did. Left at 4:20, arrived at the road at 5:05, after dropping of all my excess food with the Department of Public Works, the crew who stay to take apart the City. And they had many fine thing from me: curries; crisps; canned chile; a box of wine; V8 juice for the morning after they'd drunk it; oh, much damn fine quality food.
As everyone said afterwards, Monday was a really easy day to exit, Sunday was the bad one. Last year, it was the reverse.
The drive back was uneventful but slow (40-50mph), except for a continuously filling bladder, and I got to the I-80 about 7.30 with the blessed release of a Rest Area toilet, phew! It was dusk, and Sparks took about another 30 minutes, where I pulled into a Wendy's close to Quixotes store and had the biggest damn burger with everything, large fries & a coffee, and felt, yet again, like a king.
I texted Jackie and Axel, the truck-driver, and managed to wake them up. Hey-ho. I didn't feel much like booking into a hotel (or, an hotel?) so slept in the mini-van in a shady corner of the car park.
September 08, Tuesday 2nd
Woke at 5, found a 24-hour burger place (mmmh, coffee and meat-products), dropped off my recycling and rubbish at the lovely Burner-friendly Sav-O-Mart, and as it was getting light, spent the next hour-and-a-half washing the car down. Only the outside. The inside was so bad I had to pay a bunch of guys $100 in LA to clean it, which took 'em about two hours (yes, I tipped them all quite generously as well).
Contacted Jackie again and headed over to her motel to use her shower.
The first shower coming off the Playa is a joy, and you tend to stand under it for 20 minutes. Luckily J and Axel had some spare towels so I was a clean boy again.
One quick trip to my store to drop the stuff off, and by 11 we were on the I-80, heading back to San Francisco, with a continuous soundtrack of the sorely missed Purcell on the car's CD player.
And that was that.
I, yet again, enjoyed the Burning Man experience, despite the weather, my occasional gloominess and the incessant dance-track.
I'd done much less than I meant to; I'd not walked around the City and seen hardly any of the art-works; I'd attended nothing except The Elders' Brie'n'Bach and Quixotes; but I was happy.
So, the good points:
- I'd really enjoyed helping with the cabaret and next year, after four years of splendid isolation, I'll officially join Quixotes camp (if it runs).
- I'd enjoyed helping with the BM organisation by flagging, even if - ahem - I'd let 'em down on the Monday (but there's always an expectation that volunteers will not turn up, as there are so many distractions. Not an excuse, just the truth). I'll do it, or something similar, next year.
- I'd realised that I didn't really need the rest of the City, as long as there was a 'something useful' I could do.
- The heat; the dryness; the desert; the place; the people
The bad?
The weather; the non-stop music; the craziness of others; the difficulty of thinking straight; the whole stoned nature of the place.
But hey!
That's what makes Black Rock City.
That's my Burning Man.
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