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 ThursdayAugust 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.
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 25thI 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 MapWill 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 DesertThe 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 worseand 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 26thUp 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 27thYou 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 weekBack 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 anyoneThere'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
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_manAugust 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 21stDrove 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 Spanishb. different voltages and electrical fittingsAll 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 22ndJ. 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 23rdBig 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 24thWake 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 likewiseMonday 25th - which is Head Out To Playa-day, all contained in Part the Two
