The Desert

“Don’t worry, we’ll be in the hands of a bunch of professional hippies,” my boyfriend said. “This thing has been going on for more than ten years so they’re fairly experienced by now.” I was packing for my first burn and feeling anxious because, unlike other trips I’ve taken, where I pack clothes, toiletries, my cell phone and maybe a laptop, this time around I had to be all-inclusive: food, water, bedding, shelter, basically anything and everything I would need to sustain myself in the elements for seven days, with no back-up bodegas in sight. As a city girl, this was a daunting prospect. I’ve never been a willing camper, have never considered myself a bona fide outdoorswoman. I’d be out of my comfort zone long enough to notice it. I was both nervous and titillated at the prospect.

The most eye-opening revelation about my new home—the entire 35,000-plus desert community really does become like a second, granted improvised, home away from home—was the abundance of live, exposed flesh. I have been to Rio, but the beach-going Cariocas have nothing on a seasoned Burner. Clothes seem to be an abstraction, a kind of decorative garnish to enhance the beauty of the body in its most natural, God-given state. Despite all the nudity, none of the discomfort, ogling or catcalling that normally accompany physical exposure was in effect. Lesson one: Clothing is an obstruction. Your body is beautiful, whatever size, shape, color or gender. Worship your body and it will reward you in more ways than one.

The second phenomenon that struck me was the extreme climactic shifts: Temperatures range from 110 during the day to 40 and below at night. (Luckily I’d packed my German-issue, all-weather army coat.) In addition to the day-to-night temperature drop, there is dust, dust and more dust. When I left the playa (as it is fondly called) on the seventh day, my skin was the color of clay and my hair had formed into makeshift dreadlocks. (Somebody called me a “girlie dread” one morning while I was trying to pin it back.) When all was said and done, it took three shampooings before I could reintroduce a brush to my morning routine.

  With the dust came the dust storms, ravaging, mini-hurricane style tempests that lift tents, blind bicyclists and this year even overturned a trailer. Lesson two: Life on the playa is about being able to react to Mother Nature’s erratic mood swings. Goggles, headscarves and utility boots are recommended. Showers are hard to come by.

The third element that made this whole adventure so worthwhile was the complete absence and utter prohibition of technology. No cell phone, no computers, no Internet, no electricity, period. This made hooking up with old friends, new friends and, for the lucky ones, playa booty calls (some rituals are universal in any setting) a truly multi-disciplinary challenge. But there were methods to transcend the madness, including cruising on your bike like a safari scout, agreeing to meet at a morning yoga class or hooking up with someone in your more immediate vicinity instead.

The strangest part is that I forgot about my phone and my computer to the extent that when I landed back in reality, it took me a few minutes to find the spacebar on the keyboard. I thought my cell phone was such a useful invention.

The People

There is a lot of eye candy at Burning Man. Not all of it is necessarily welcome, but most of it is pleasurable if you remember to keep an open mind. I saw people dressed as psychedelic ladybugs, Rasta warrior princesses, medieval fairies and S&M maharishis; many were not dressed at all. Tutus and leather chaps seemed to be the most popular accoutrements of choice. In my camp—we were from Washington, D.C., New York, Santa Cruz and Denver—we chose the Middle Eastern desert chic look. Our daytime gear was comprised of basketball shorts and flip-flops; by night we brought out the Nike high-tops, full-length Muslim robes and knit stocking caps. We kind of branded ourselves as the outsider dancehall camp in the midst of too much techno (for my taste). I was proud of our crew. Next year we plan to set up a strictly reggae camp, complete with dancehall night, hydroponic herb and maybe a Jamaican flag to mark our turf.

The odd thing is that the people—remember you’re camping in the desert with more than 35,000 strangers—become part of the ever-changing visual wallpaper. I’d be cruising around in my bathing suit and coolie hat and feel like a film reel was constantly rolling before my eyes. There would be a guy dressed in a fur coat, a girl covered only in yellow feathers and a naked guy wearing a gas mask all walking together and chatting about something as mundane as the weather. I would look up at the crystal sky or down at the cracked desert floor that resembled a marvelously preserved skin and ask myself where such bizarre and unfiltered beauty had grown from. Then I’d thank myself for having mustered enough gut-level courage and blind faith to have made the trip in the first place.

The Magic

The magic is everywhere. You feel it when you wake up outdoors with a clear head and an almost metaphysical sense of expansiveness. You see it in the violet-gold sunsets that seduce you every time. You notice it in the art installations dotting the horizon like artifacts from another universe. You celebrate it among the sea of bodies moving in random, unified chaos as they get down to a drum ‘n bass sound system under the vaulted roof of an open-air tent before sunrise. There was so much natural magic, so much unexpected beauty, that I barely had time to take it all in. I felt like a human sponge, absorbing everything, delighting in it, storing it away for a cold winter day in New York when the hot water went out and the snow was piled against the windows like a prohibitive coverlet.

Aside from the natural beauty, there are other kinds of weird amusements. I watched a naked body-wrestling match, complete with olive oil and plastic tarp. I went to the notorious Thunderdome, where two opponents are catapulted toward each other in body harnesses while they wield Styrofoam lasers. I passed by the outdoor skating rink, a smattering of comedy shows and vaudeville acts. There were lectures on legalizing drugs, and seminars on achieving more enlightened orgasms. I didn’t make it to the pole dancing class. In the end I found myself happiest when I was an impassive observer, just sitting back and taking it all in with a constant feeling of lightness, as though my organs were floating and my skin was invisible. 

The odd thing is that the people—remember you’re camping in the desert with more than 35,000 strangers—become part of the ever-changing visual wallpaper. I’d be cruising around in my bathing suit and coolie hat and feel like a film reel was constantly rolling before my eyes. There would be a guy dressed in a fur coat, a girl covered only in yellow feathers and a naked guy wearing a gas mask all walking together and chatting about something as mundane as the weather. I would look up at the crystal sky or down at the cracked desert floor that resembled a marvelously preserved skin and ask myself where such bizarre and unfiltered beauty had grown from. Then I’d thank myself for having mustered enough gut-level courage and blind faith to have made the trip in the first place.