Tuesday, August 29
< p r e v n e x t >
Night one in the camping tent is a cluttered success. I wake up in the midst of a bundle of cereal boxes, canned goods, and art supplies. I'm not a very organized camper, but luckily this is a two-person tent, so there's still barely enough room for me to squeeze in. Buried in a heap of art supplies are 3 bags of pipe cleaners, some poster paints, stickers, and duct tape. Armed with this newfound arsenal, I step outside, to where my bike is laying on its side. It's not a very attractive ride - more of a Barbie bike, really, with its pink seat, purple frame, and white tires. I take the first steps to transform it into a proper playa bike. Soon enough this unassuming dirt bike is smattered with tape, paint, protruding pipe-cleaner antennae, and a shiny pinwheel set up smack between the handlebars. My handiwork is rewarded by smiles and waves as I ride over to Center Camp.
Center Camp is the collective chill-out area for Black Rock City, filled with rugs, couches, and pillows. In the middle is the Center Camp Cafe, one of only two places I know of in all of Burning Man where money is actually useful, in this case for buying drinks. At any given time several hundred people of every size, shape, and stripe will be lounging there, chatting, sipping coffee, or just sleeping off the previous night's insanity. As I wander through, my eye is caught by a group of people practicing yoga. Just looking at them makes my back ache - I've been packing and dragging boxes and/or luggage for the better part of two weeks now, and my body is fed up. I wander over, watch for a bit, and at an opportune moment introduce myself to a fellow named David. When he asks if I'd like to follow him through a series of positions, I try not to sound too eager as I gratefully accept his offer. About ten minutes later, my brow is damp, my body is pulsing with adrenaline, and my back feels like a slinky instead of a pretzel. Back at my tent, I'm full of enough goodwill to walk straight up to a group of people camped next door, say hello, and jump right into their conversation. I'm starting to realize that you can do that here; people don't give you funny looks or wait for you to leave. Of the five members of their camp, I must shamefacedly admit I can only remember the names of the two women, Patricia and Johanna (Freud can tackle my selective memory some other time). Compared to me, they're grizzled veterans of Burning Man, and I gather some information about how the festival has grown and changed over the years. It's apparently a bit less anarchic and more orderly than in years past, due in part to the rapidly growing crowd, and also the fact that deaths were a semi-regular occurrence in earlier years.
It's just past midday when I head out again on my bike, and this day is even less forgiving than the previous one - the temperatures are in the mid-90's, and the sun is once again threatening to fry the smallest patch of exposed skin. As much as I dislike the oily feel of sunscreen, I plaster it on my neck and shoulders, and don a wide-brimmed hat. Around my shoulders, I've loaded up a backpack with essentials - water, a map of Black Rock City, and more water. As I ride, I pass several tents filled with people in lounge chairs, sipping drinks in the shade. One particularly luxurious camp features several full-size couches, plush carpeting, and a bean-bag chair, all of which are being put to good use. Daytime activity here seems to be broken into two categories - exploring and lounging. How much you do of each depends on how well you can tolerate the heat.
By the time I pull my bike over in front of a large, inviting looking structure, I'm ready for a rest. Inside about thirty people are sprawled around, reading, talking, preparing lunch. After a few minutes, I strike up a conversation with a girl about my age named Mindy. I learn from her that this is the Oregon Country Fair camp, composed of a group of like-minded hippies who have banded together for the trip to Burning Man. The intensity of her gaze is incredibly powerful, to the point of being a bit unnerving; I'm vaguely uncomfortable despite her obvious friendliness. There's a focus and serenity to her manner that's almost hypnotic. I'm explaining how unfamiliar this kind of environment is to me, talking about how I'm here to experience new things, expand my horizons, etc., when Ethan wanders over. He's soft-spoken, in a knowing kind of way, and as he introduces himself, he says slyly to Mindy that he knows a good way to expand my world. I finally understand part of the reason for Mindy's incredible intensity, as she and Ethan do their best to describe the effects of ketamine on your mind and body. For reasons I will later end up questioning, I cautiously decline their offer - I'm opening up here, but a lifetime of reluctant trust doesn't just evaporate away, and I remind myself that I met these people only a half-hour ago. They don't seem particularly put off by my decision, though, and we keep talking. Ethan mentions that my eyes are awfully red - it's a comment that I will hear several times throughout the course of the week. Turns out that putting in contact lenses in a windy, dusty, unprotected environment is a real pain in the ass. My angriest moments of the whole week are spent cussing out my contacts as they stubbornly refuse to go in, and carry seemingly half the playa into my eyes when they do. Ethan offers to put rosewater in my eyes to help with the redness. When he's done, he hands me the bottle and tells me to use the drops 2-3 times a day. It takes a moment for the gift to register, and when I finally say my goodbyes and walk back to my bike, I can only shake my head in cheerful disbelief.
I head back toward Center Camp, and on the way I stop into the Costco Soulmate Trading Outlet, one of the many theme camps which form a ring around Center Camp. It's a sort of playa dating service with a Wal-Mart touch, but in a good way. In other words, it's another amusing way to meet your neighbors, have a laugh, and, depending on your inclinations, maybe find a short-short-term significant other. I dutifully fill out the Costco application form, which includes such illuminating questions as "Nuclear family or groovy cooperative?" and "Are you or have you ever been a slut?" 20 minutes or so pass before I hand in my form. I'm told to come back tomorrow morning, when the identity of my soulmate will be revealed.
Evening is fast approaching, so I pop over to my tent for a lovely dinner of cold soup and a quick nap. Tonight I end up back in the same general area as the night before. There are more camps up and running, and there are still plenty of new things to see. A little bit back of the main drag there's an incredible live trance PA going on to an audience of 5 people. It's not easy to capture people's attention here. I end up dancing out of sheer appreciation for 20 minutes or so. I also stop back at the Oregon Country Fair tent, where there's a live band playing some lovely ambient music. It's in this same area that I come across one of my wilder experiences of the week, courtesy of a theme camp that goes by the name "The Erogenous Zone". The main attraction is a small, rectangular structure with thick curtains on all sides. When I walk up, there are about seven or eight people standing in a line outside, and I'm eagerly invited to join the group: "It's more fun the more people you have." Signs outside the tent include a strange edict that no lawyers are allowed inside, enthusiastic quotes from past participants, and the slogan "Where Perfect Strangers Remain Perfect." Hmm. A few moments later we're heading in, single file, at regular intervals. Turns out that single file is the only possible way to go in, and I quickly understand what this tent is all about - the interior is a winding maze of curtains, tightly packed together, so that as you make your way through, you get to know the people around you pretty quickly. The catch is that you're always separated from everyone else by the curtains. Right away, people start giggling, as everyone has no choice but to squeeze up against each other to get through. Pretty quickly accidental brushes turn into a free-for-all of outright groping. We're all laughing our asses off while grabbing, clutching, and poking at one another through the cotton drapes. By the time I make it out the other end, I understand the "no lawyers" clause completely. I'm introducing myself to a girl I was feeling up just two minutes ago, trading jokes with her and her grinning boyfriend. Interesting place, this Black Rock City.
I'm in a damn good mood again, and I burn off my energy for the rest of evening by dancing some more. I get my first taste of what the weekend is going to look like; tonight is apparently the test run for an incredibly elaborate laser projection system. Set up at the 10:00 end of the city, a series of high-intensity lasers is bathing dancers in waves of shimmering light as trance music pours from a sound system. Occasionally the lasers point heavenward, giving the illusion that beams of light are being sent down from some alien intelligence high above the stars - darting from side to side, rising and falling. In fact, the dancefloor is sporadically empty as people stare, mesmerized, for several minutes at a time. I've never seen anything like it, and I end up staring for a pretty damn long time, too.
The Death Guild Thunderdome is another camp located along the interior, one with a remarkably authentic Mad Max theme. Bungee battles are taking place inside a steel dome that looks just like the jungle gym I used to climb on in elementary school. Combatants swing from one end to the other, pummeling each other with "American Gladiator"-style foam staffs, while a screaming crowd hangs from the bars above them and howls for blood. Outside fire dancers are spinning and twirling; industrial techno screeches from the sound system. It's a jarring contrast to the friendly, peaceful vibe of most of the events in BRC, but at the same time it makes an odd kind of sense.
I spend the rest of the evening riding around aimlessly again, waiting either for a new adventure or for exhaustion to force me back to my tent. Somewhere on the path, a sudden wave of loneliness sweeps over me, and I an painfully aware of not having anyone to share my adventure with. At night, people tend to move in packs, and I'm wandering from one crowd to the next without a real sense of purpose. For all of the people I've met, I still don't really have anyone to hang out with. The atmosphere is intense here - physically, mentally, and emotionally - and the lows are as powerful as the highs. I quickly retreat back to my tent, with hopes that a good night's sleep will ease my mind.