let’s explore the city. biking is pure joy, even with a touch of saddle soreness and the dull ache in my over-danced legs. why we as a species ever thought it was better to drive a car is beyond me. dbug is on the custom tall bike he has fashioned for this year’s event. i follow at a bit of a distance in comparative low rider pose, enjoying an unfolding wave of smiles as everyone we pass reacts to the sight of captain genie atop a two-story green bicycle. it is so cool to be surrounded by people who dig the extraordinary.
by now the layout of the city is second nature. even semi-conscious i’m pretty confident that i can find the big landmarks without much difficulty. the traditional compass points, like so many other arbitrary definitions, are meaningless here. it is all the man or the mountain, the o’clocks and the psycho-babble street names. it makes finding specific camps difficult, but that just adds to the kismet of discovery.
the sun is beginning to unleash it’s power through the crystal blue sky. i suck on my camelback religiously, sweat beginning to bead on my neck. we swing out to the lazy arc of the esplanade that marks the inner ring of the vast mecca, to see what there is to see. all five senses are immediately engaged: you feel the hot handlebars beneath your hands and the harsh seat beneath your ass; you taste the playa in your dry spit; you smell the sunscreen heating up on your chest, as well as the earthy reek of porta-potties at specific intervals and camp cooking wafting from hidden stoves; you see an onslaught of unlikely post-apocolyptic structures and comic visions of the unexpected around every corner; you hear people-chatter over the whir of the bike wheels and different styles of music coming from every direction. it is total immersion in the looking glass.
at the edge of the playa, you start to really enjoy the art cars. you know, normal cars, particularly those fucking SUV’s that just plague the northwest, should simply be eliminated from the equation. a bmer is no comparison to a car shaped like a giant scorpion. over there are the one-person cupcakes zipping around in a train formation. we stop to help a giant human habit-trail reorient for another turn across the playa. maybe we’ll be able to hitch a ride on the flying carpet later on or get a lift on that truck covered in mirrors…
as we cycle past the giant moving sculpture where you can pull huge rocks of scary tonnage, we see a legion of bikes crowding the perimeter of the flag-topped center camp, like a swarm of metal insects. the purple tattered cloth i’ve poorly tied to the frame of my bike as an additional visual marker has worked surprisingly well, though it is a little easier finding my bike when it is next to dbug’s double-decker. when this now familiar scene was just a hazy anticipation, i had been worried about the risk of bike theft, particularly as my current playa steed is a borrowed steed from a friend of a friend. but fortunately the lender is a burner who knows and accepts the risks, and the hassle of dealing with keys or combinations just won’t jive with the fluidity of movement. while dbug and i do indeed lose our bikes in the frenzy of the burn, the gracious playa returns them to us the next morning. how many times in your life have you been able to honestly say that you passed out in space virgins, woke up for a relaxed wander across acres of morning moonscape and found your missing bike sitting mischievously right where it wasn’t at last night’s torching? i don’t know if it is incipient madness or the pure adaptability of the human being that makes the normal out of the odd and extreme.
without a doubt, center camp is one of my favorite places. it is more than just an escape from the oppressive heat, it is a temporally ambiguous bazaar of tribemates in full bloom. at times there is a veritable crush of people. at other hours it is the shore of a drugged sea, exhausted bodies washed up onto the couches, benches, and rugs. imagine an open-aired, high-topped, circular circus tent with an open central space. wooden benches and rugs are everywhere. music and talk come from a stage on one end fronted by a panoply of couches. in one section snakes multiple long lines of coffee worshippers, the used coffee cups impaled on dripping rebar sculptures near each entrance. there are open boxes of the temporary daily newspapers on low tables. sunlight is glistening off of bodies in movement in the center; someone always seems to be spinning or gyrating or yogaing. in fact, this inner circle becomes a favorite resting place. in another area, there is poi practice and whipping flags, over there people are gifting full body massages. bodies dance to a drum circle rhythm.
i’ve seen amazing grace, beauty, silliness, sexiness, comfort, childishness, and a collective ease pemeating every movement of color, flesh, sequin, boa.
and despite the long lines for coffee and chai, i never witness a single argument or sense any frustration, even when one of the machines breaks down. instead, a woman jumps up onto the counter and begins to dance. the volunteers working the counter stop to talk with you, not in the obligatory coffee vending pose, but really just happy to talk, having a good time themselves. i have to restrain my laughter as dbug gives the volunteer a different name every time (today it is b). a guy painted from head to toe is walking around handing out condoms. couples kiss deeply. lots of laugher. it is easy to talk to anybody you like.
i keep getting gifted things. my first morning coffee is suddenly joined by a tasty just-what-i-wanted danish. the timing is amazing. later i’m handed an apple, later a sticker that says “i chose happiness”. a guy walks up and gives us a handful of burning man medallions that he has made out of pressed nickels. he asks us to hand them out for him since he has to leave. one morning, a woman jumps on the counter to hand out htp-3 tablets, saying, “you know who you are if you need these”. i smile at the hesitant crowd that gathers for this particularly welcome offering…
i am constantly reminded that there really are no rules here. you are among friends.
this is where we hang out with tanya, the russian vagabond who hadn’t changed her socks in a week. i ask her if they have now become part of her. and that cool dpw guy reading piss clear, who had come early to build everything. i am impressed when he painstakingly cleans up every drop of his accidentally spilled coffee lest any moisture touch the ground. it is here that i get my face painted in red and orange, with sequins, by a lady with white swirls on her cheeks who says i have amazing cheekbones. it is here that we walk into a booth to see what i assume are two distant astronauts on live video link. it is here that i watch the most erotic hooper i’ve ever seen gyrate and slink in a tight white bodice, the hoop a fluid part of her movement. over there two young women deep into their roll are gently playing with touch. just beautiful.
in the other world these visions of people would be the oddity, particularly some of the costumes or lack thereof. but now what i would have previously considered normal clothing seems so outlandish, so drab and boring in comparison to the orgasm of personalized couture. dbug had made a point at the beginning to clue me into this particularly fun aspect of the journey. while i had brought a few expressive items, notably my handmade grinch shorts, with the expectation that they would be the exceptions, he quickly pointed out that a good 80% of the clothing i’d brought was going to be completely useless. he was right. you can wear that shit anytime.
in fact, he never ceases to amaze me with his playawear acumen. several times a day he breaks out some new outfit that just makes me laugh. a clear favorite is the gauzy, newspaper print, metrosexual skirt and half shirt combined with a japanese parasol. he gets photographed in this one and later makes it into the paper. by midweek i’m rocking a double sarong, regimental style, with hiking boots, a 70’s disco shirt, bulbous rings on my fingers, and blue sunglasses. this is fun.
the playa look on women is fantastic. it is the coolest mix of mad max, fetish, anime and rave. usually it starts with big boots, often furry, tight hot pants, some kind of revealing top and either braided or dreadlocked hair. usually there is a lot of leather involved or a puffy coat.
i laugh my ass of when i read an article complaining that taking off your pants is not a costume. and even moreso when the shirt but no pants look is dubbed the donald duck.
you get so accustomed to it all, the structures, the costumes, the goofy activities, that it is hard to remember that this entire thing was created by the people you are partying with in just a few days.
outside of center camp, there is a whole world of possibility. at pancake camp, we get hot, fresh, you guessed it, pancakes placed in our hands. a little boy in a full brown bear costume stands at the syrup trying to figure out how the pump works. i hear a woman’s voice behind me thank him for guarding it so well as I apply a golden drizzle to my tasty breakfast. at panty camp we sort through this monster pile for that perfect pair of personal panties (say that ten times fast). sarah, one of the key organizers, told us last night over a bowl of homemade ice cream that she works year-round collecting the panties for this purpose. after some serious thought, i go with basic white with some multi-colored asterisk prints. my first pair of panties…
elsewhere, after a most thankful misting, i fulfill a childhood double feature by first hooping at hoop camp under the midday sun, then flying a kite in the lucid sky out on the edge of the playa. at baku, i meet several of dbug’s friends, true rave kids, who welcome me with open arms. i give shaina a handmade necklace for her playa birthday.
there are activities at different camps in the guide (what where when) that sound intriguing: porn and eggs, wilson phillips pancake breakfast, hokey pokey awakening, throat-singing in the dreamer, hump the funk, beginner rope bondage. i never do make it to any of the virgin burner activities…
when i ride past a half-covered barbie torso and stop to pick it up, i am told by the crowd of people watching that i am participating in an experiment, that she had been placed in the dust on purpose to see what people would do. i am encouraged to run her over. obligingly, i treat barbie’s head to the wrath of my tires. i suspect she is either an escapee from or destined for barbie death camp a couple camps away.
one day, dbug and i find ourselves in tutu camp in the company of the aptly named alice, a talkative whirlwind of a person on her third burn. the task before us is to craft our own tutu out of the available tutu resources. a little light-headed from heat exhaustion, i find myself struggling with the basic hunter-gatherer part of the task, but begin to feel better sitting cross legged, sucking on my camelback, debating as to whether i have the necessary motor skills available to thread a needle. alice has found some rainbow-colored fuzzy material that we unanimously agree will be integral to all of our masterpieces. shortly thereafter we are visited by the cherry fairy, a truly seminal event. the cherry fairy is a naked accountant looking bespectacled man with red tassles hanging from his scrotum, armed with a magic purse. he says something like, “i have come to give you your cherry back so you can lose it again”. overjoyed at our good fortune, we each receive our cherries back. they look surprisingly like jolly ranchers. (who knew?) he tells us that if we lose our cherries again he will give us another one. i am quite happy to get my cherry back. as i am savoring the liquid heaven of my cherry, we are joined by three more gucci’s in the making and enjoy idle banter about the finer points of tutu construction. we are next visited by a beautiful black man in what we all agree is an exceptional pink tutu. the bar has been raised. as we work diligently in our private sweatshop, the cherry fairy returns to give out more cherries, even some extras to allay any future cherry shortages. i have a moment of wisdom when i realize that zip ties are faster and easier than the damn thread and needle challenge. when tututdom has been accomplished by all, my pink excellence with hanging multicolored fluffs and tail evoking particular praise, we take a few triumphant pictures, bid adieu to our sewing circle and make to leave. in a moment of hubris, alice tells the cherry fairy that she needs to spank him. he declines, he is the cherry fairy after all, but offers his eager friend as a substitute. the image of alice spanking a hairy ass will probably stay with me forever.
the cherry fairy’s magic is so powerful that now you too have an image of alice spanking a hairy ass in your head.
at another time we join the long lines of people, primarily men, watching thousands of bare-breasted women bike from the man to center camp in the annual critical tits ride. such an amazing variety of shapes, colors, sizes; kind of national geographic in a soft porn way. it’s a funny thing about nudity. our hung-up society makes such a big deal about it, but really, see enough of even the most “obscene” parts of the human body and it will be about as titillating as a parade of elbows.
(yeah, i said titillating on purpose)
the tits are great, they are after all, tits, but i find myself most enthralled by the expressions on all of the exquisite faces: pride, joy, eagerness, silliness… there is no doubt in my mind that this place brings out the beauty in women.
this place also brings out some of the most creative expressions of artistry i have ever seen. the vast playa is punctured randomly with amazing, intriguing, baffling, whimsical art. here we see a unicorn torso that lights up at night. here is a giant sized mousetrap that, instead of dropping a cage on a plastic mouse, drops a serious fullsized safe on bicycles that were left behind. (you’ve never heard such a satisfying crunch). here is a submerged blue head the size of a bachelor pad. here is a long scary ladder up into the sky. here is a hanging cage with an industrial robot inside. here is the big lime green wave transducer that hums in a deep pulse as you stand against it or recline in the cubby hole. here is a water truck revealing its inner lady bug. here is a giant amorphous face that has video of talking faces projected onto it. here is dicky, a guy spending his burn sealed in a white single room in the middle of the playa; i think everyone feels a bit maternal about the poor guy. here is a towering sculpture of a woman and child, the woman’s open hands dripping water and fire.
art just seems to pulse it’s way out of the dust, every time i am out here i see something new. we have found it best to explore this area at length in the late afternoon, after the blaze of the day has eased a bit, when the winds start their play and the mysterious giant black smoke rings begin to appear in the sky.
in the center of it all stands the man. to get up to the second story to see the man close up, you must first make your way through a complicated maze of rooms and spinning doors. there is no emergency exit, no safety rails, none of that nonsense. you are forced to experience the rooms and the bewilderment and the frivolity of your fellow travelers going in the opposite direction. walking through the room dripping in long tinsel is surreal. i stumble upon a room filled with handmade masks. another one has walls covered in poems, quotes, and advice from other members of the tribe. i write some of my wisdom on the wall next to the giant mushroom. i participate in everything and get lost several times,
finally achieving the second floor, a couple comes up to me and asks if i have a lighter. confident i do, i rummage through the surprisingly full pocket on my camelback only to find no such device (yet somewhere i have three of them). but it is not a total loss, as i’m able to give them their cherries back.
i finally meet dbug’s good friend manish. after a brief talk it is clear that this is a long lost brother that i just haven’t seen yet in this lifetime. we watch as the bunny revolt comes to protest the man. hundreds of people in bunnyish guise, some carrying bunny protest signs, encircle the man in raucous mayhem. it is the most absurd siege you have ever seen. it is awesome. we decide to betray the man and join them in the chorus, “down with the man, up with the bunny”.
say it with me, “down with the man, up with the bunny”. now don’t you feel better?
there is something about the playa itself that makes this all possible, the perfect canvas to our collective hedonistic expression. the playa is sacred and scary and fathomless, safe and dangerous, public and private. it is alien in a familiar primordial way. there is something about the real danger here that adds to the experience. more than once we have to help eachother get off the playa. it forces you to remember what is important in life: taking complete responsibility for your own care, being a guardian to the planet, expressing your individuality full throttle, celebrating your kinship with others, seeking both the profound and the unexpected with open eyes. even with everything that has been placed on or in the dust, there is an integrity of spirit you sense underneath it all, a spirit that deeply approves of this particular vision of humanity. you have no doubt that when all of the mad city and all of the mad people are gone, this cracked surface will remain encouraged by the temporary realization of this joyous alternative to the sickness of modern society.
out of respect and curiosity, i’ve become accustomed to picking up anything i see that has fallen on the playa. this habit brings me the sequin that i later wear on my forehead, and another glow stick wrist band, and a flashing peace sign. on the very first night, barrelling across in pitch black darkness, i accidentally catch a loose vagrant plastic bag that has been blowing mockingly across the open expanse. fellow bicyclists cheer at my seemingly purposeful and skilled intervention. it turns out to be a premonition. days later, dbug and i spend some time dedicatedly picking up matter out of place (moop) that has gathered on the playa as an art car thumps funk music and a bullhorn shouts “pick up the fucking moop”. i always liked fireworks until i realized that they comprised most of the trash i was picking up. plus compared to real fire, fireworks seem vapid and cheesy, but more on that later.
before long, the demarcation between wild day and insane night closes like an eager curtain. deep dark comes with a vengeance; you are grateful that you remembered to pack your headlamp. as the cold begins to descend like a wraith, you find that the fun day clothing is a bit too thin, the water dripping from the camelback, once a godsend in the baking heat, is now icy, chilling. it is time to regroup, refresh, relaunch. we make the long journey toward the distant giant multicolored crayon that marks our general neck of the woods, then back to base camp for a snack, a costume change, and a rest before the true assault.
the day has just been a warmup.
