The Craziest Place in the World

When I told people I was going to Burning Man, the most common question I got was “Why? Isn’t that just a place where people go to do a bunch of drugs and have crazy sex?” I was pretty sure it was a lot more than that, but the truth was I wasn’t entirely sure. Yeah, I’d heard the stigmas, but I also knew that stigmas are often just that. I was curious what else there was to it. Why it drew so many people, how it worked, what kind of unique art was there. Last fall I met a handful of actual burners for the first time, and decided I needed to see what it was all about for myself.

To begin to understand Burning Man, some background is necessary. The event takes place in a temporary metropolis of around 80,000 people known as Black Rock City, built on the blank canvas of a dry lakebed in the Nevada desert. It’s an inhospitable environment, where total self-reliance is the standard. You must bring everything you need to survive, while leaving absolutely no trace – seriously, you can’t even throw grey water on the ground. Crews spend weeks after the event picking up any last scrap of plastic that might have been missed. Winds can reach 70 mph, dust storms drop visibility to zero and last for hours, the searing daytime heat requires constant shade and water intake, it can get to freezing at night, it’s nearly impossible to escape the dust or get clean, and there’s nothing you can buy on-site except ice and coffee.

Aside from handling a ton of administrative work and providing infrastructure like streets, porta potties, and the Man and Temple, little that you see is officially done by the Burning Man organization. Everything else is brought, created, and paid for by the people and camps participating in the event. It’s not a music festival, although there’s plenty of music to be found. It’s more of an experiment in human expression, largely realized through art in various forms.

It would be impossible to fully describe the beauty, the weirdness, the authenticity, and the sheer magnitude of work that goes into creating Black Rock City. There is so much to do, so much to see, so many unique and beautiful people, one could spend a year there and not fully experience it.

You can do it all, and people do. Be whoever you want, have a virtually unlimited number of interactions and experiences, and express yourself in a way that’s free from judgement. The most prominent form of expression is clothing, or lack thereof. People stroll around in regal outfits sure to have taken months of planning and preparation, fancy light-up jackets, and anything you can imagine in the style of post-apocalyptic Mad Max meets NY Fashion Week. But nudity is extremely prominent as well. It’s perfectly common to see a pair of nipples on display, a dude strolling down the street wearing nothing more than combat boots and a bowtie (not on his neck), or a normal looking gentleman that happens to be shirtcocking (the age-old burner practice of wearing a shirt, but nothing below the waist).

There’s so much nudity, that nobody bats an eye. At many bars, ours included, patrons are encouraged to spin a wheel or roll dice before getting a drink. Possible outcomes include things like sharing a dark secret, doing a funny dance, or stripping down and running around the bar naked holding sparklers while signing the Star Spangled Banner (ask how I know). One patron at our bar spun a 7, which meant he was encouraged to drop his pants and stroll to the street. He was hesitant, but decided to go for it. Upon walking back up to a bar that was generally unconcerned with his endeavor, he looked around trying to find anyone paying attention and proclaimed “Nobody even cares!”

It’s a world simultaneously full of explicit human expression and deep compassion and respect. The everyday pleasantries of ‘the default world’ are discarded somewhere along the winding two lane road that links the hustle and bustle of Reno with this oasis of authenticity. It’s nearly impossible to have an interaction with another burner, and not walk away smiling. It might be the unique outfit that person is confidently sporting, the deep conversation you have in response to a simple question, or maybe the hug you shared just because someone could tell you needed it.

One evening I was taking a stroll around my neighborhood with a cup of tea in my hand. A girl on a bike cruising along shouted “Elbow high five” as she rode toward me, and we both reached out instinctively to bump elbows. At the last second, I pulled back, realizing that spilling my tea was the most likely outcome.

“Oh no, we missed,” she exclaimed as she passed.

“No, sorry, I didn’t want to spill,” I apologized.

She pondered for a second, then shouted back “Thank you so much for putting your own needs first!”

It’s just that kind of place. The kind where people see each other on a deep human level, and approach interactions with a presumption of good intentions and love. Where it is understood and appreciated that you must take care of your own needs before you can be fully present and the best expression of yourself in your interactions with others.

It’s a place where you can attend events ranging from energy healing to knitting to BDSM. Where camp names run the gamut from Kidsville to the Orgy Dome. Where art cars roam the playa as rolling stages manned by renowned DJs with hundreds of thousands of dollars of sound and lighting equipment, GOT style dragons, or even a crazed mechanical octopus that shoots fire out of its tentacles.

A place where you can mass shower with a group of strangers surrounded by a dance party of freshly clean nude revelers, while artist Alex Grey live paints a massive mural behind you. Where you can grieve in the heavy ambiance of tears and whispers at the temple, or travel a few hundred yards and find yourself in the midst of a beautiful wedding celebration. Where hugs between strangers can last for minutes.

And it probably qualifies as the biggest party in the world too. The music pounds 24/7, and it’s never a problem to find an open bar where the booze flows easier than water. Art pieces seemingly designed for those in altered states draw hundreds of wide pupiled eyes to their mesmerizing colors, sounds, patterns, and immersive experiences. And revelers can be found drinking, dancing, and hooking up with their newfound playa partners at every hour of the day.

It’s a place where thousands upon thousands of man hours are devoted to art that is appreciated for a few days by a comparatively small population. Where you come to find comfort and familiarity in these magnificent works, only to see them erased from existence in a fiery blaze of ephemeral beauty mere days later.

And that was probably the biggest takeaway for me – the fleeting nature of it all. Burning Man was a hardcore exercise in FOMO and immediacy. There are always things happening, and it’s impossible to do anywhere close to all of them or see everything. So you learn to go with the flow and do what presents itself.

When we arrived Wednesday night, things looked pretty desolate. The city consisted mostly of shipping containers, box trucks, and empty space. I pulled into camp at 1AM shortly behind some other camp mates, exhausted and ready for bed. As soon as I stepped out of the van, I was handed a beer and told “Get your bike, we’re going to the Man!” As we cruised around till 4AM, I realized how crazy of an experience this was going to be. We were heading back toward camp and passed a huge art piece consisting of towers and walkways, with a large windmill on the side and intricate details visible throughout. We stopped and chatted with a South African guy named Homer who was outside making sure nobody started their exploration of the still-under-construction structure too early. It was called the Folly, and resembled a fishing village inspired from the artist’s youth. Someone asked what they were going to do with it afterword. Homer casually replied that they were going to disassemble it piece by piece and take it home, before laughing at his sarcasm and enthusiastically setting the record straight – “Hell no, we’re going to burn the motherfucker down!”

Whoa. I knew this was called Burning Man, but I didn’t realize that a lot of the incredibly elaborate art that accompanies the main pieces is also one time use, and would also be burned at the end of the week. For some reason that shook me. What kind of place was this that you’d put such an incredible amount of work and money into a project like that, only to have it on display for less than a week before burning it to the ground? I decided the Folly was something I had to make sure to explore, and that I needed to see it burn.

Over the next few days, the Black Rock Desert morphed into a fully functional city, with blank lots becoming carnival like attractions, and art pieces colonizing the formerly desolate playa. Every time I ventured out from camp, the city looked different and there were new things to see and do.

Once we got our own camp set up and started exploring, we quickly started meeting our fellow BRC citizens. Adventures were had, and camp info was exchanged so that we could reconnect. But the thing is, of the dozens of people I connected with, I saw maybe three of them more than once over the whole week. There was just so much to do that it was virtually impossible to not get distracted. Yeah, I wanted to go find my new friends again, but I also wanted to see art I hadn’t been to yet, get pulled in by a live circus performance, or accept someone’s offer for a refreshing beverage as I biked by on a hot afternoon. I’m sure it was the same for them.

I quickly learned that you either committed to something 100%, or you just went with the flow. And it was much easier to just go with the flow, saying yes to whatever sounded good at the moment. That led me on some incredibly fun adventures, but it also meant I didn’t go to many events, or see a lot of the art pieces.

By mid-week, I’d gotten into a rhythm of just seeing where the days took me, and enjoying the journey. There were big things I still wanted to see and do, and if I found myself with some free time, or in an area near something I wanted to check out, I did my best to do so. But there was so much of it that I quickly learned it wasn’t all going to happen. You bike past an interesting camp and think “oh, I’ll have to come back to that”. But three days later you find yourself near it again, and realize you still haven’t seen it. But you’re on your way to search for a live orchestra performing on the playa, so you have to make a choice. And it can be hard, because you know none of it will be around forever.

And sure enough, it isn’t. On Wednesday night, I was standing on top of my van surveying the chaos of the evening, and spotted a distinct plume of smoke on the playa. I was not ready for it. I didn’t even know what was burning. People talked about what it was, and I realized it must have been something I hadn’t seen. It solidified the temporary nature of the entire thing. Yeah, I knew this was all going to disappear and be over in a few days, but suddenly it was real. Suddenly it wasn’t just some imagined projection of what would supposedly take place, it was happening right in front of me. As fast as it had all magically come into existence, it would also disappear.

It was something you had no choice but to accept. The excitement and completeness of the event had been ramping up, and it felt like things were just beginning, but the fact was it would all be over and gone in a few short days. The Folly, the elaborate fishing village filled with beautiful intricate details, would burn on Friday. The Man, the literal and figurative centerpiece of the entire event and the most prominent landmark, would burn Saturday. And the Temple, filled to the brim with memories, tributes, and anguish needing to be released, would burn Sunday.

I would like to say that was a reality check. That I woke up the next day full of energy and a renewed appreciation for the magic happening around me, and went out and spent the whole day seeing all the incredible art that would soon vanish. But that’s not really how it works. I probably went to bed at 5AM and slept until 10 or 11 when it was too hot to stay in the van any longer. Then I probably took my camp mates up on an offer for a morning cocktail and spent a couple hours around camp getting going. Then I may have ventured out on my bike with something specific in mind, only to get sidetracked by something ‘shiny’ on my way. I probably didn’t make it out to the open playa until evening, when the brutal sun had dipped behind the mountains. But by that time, all the exciting things were starting, and it was difficult to devote time to seeing art.

What I did take away from that first burning art piece though, was a renewed appreciation for the things I did see and the experiences I did have. A refreshed dedication to immediacy. Because there was no assurance that you’d ever get a second chance at anything in Black Rock City. Quite the contrary in fact – it was nearly guaranteed that you wouldn’t.

It was a lot like life in that way, just condensed to a short enough timeframe that the reality of it slapped you in the face. It’s easy to let the relatively slow pace of change in life lull you into a sense of security. Into thinking things will be the same forever. Into believing you’ll have tomorrow to do what you should have done today. Into believing the inevitably temporary nature of it all can be ignored. But it’s 100% a lie – you can never relive a moment, never truly go back for a second opportunity. Life happens now, and you only ever have the present moment to live. Burning Man was the most obvious illustration of that I’ve ever had the pleasure to witness.

Friday night, the Folly burned. I missed it. I knew it was happening that night, but had gotten distracted hanging out with some new friends when I saw the distant fireball rising into the sky and knew it was too late. I went anyway, but by the time I arrived the former towers were little more than an unrecognizable pile of timber. I had at least spent an hour drinking my morning coffee and exploring it one day, but boy did I ever want to experience the irony of flames deliberately engulfing such a beautiful and elaborate structure. You can’t do it all though.

Saturday, the Man burned. I watched with my campmates from the midst of a sea of partiers as a massive fireworks show culminated in an explosion that enveloped the event’s namesake and set flames to the centerpiece of city. Fire tornadoes spawned by the incredible amount of energy being given off spun toward the crowd in a fury of sparks and dust before petering out a few seconds later. It probably took less than ten minutes for the man to fall. It was beautiful.

Sunday, the Temple burned. In stark contrast to the craziness of the night before, the citizens of Black Rock City sat on the ground in somber reverence as flames spread through the airy slats of the wooden structure’s stairstep towers, releasing the plethora of memories and grief enshrined on every reachable surface back out into the universe. It was a powerful experience, where the only sound was the crackling of timbers echoed by the sobs and sniffles of so many who had visited the Temple in hope of finding closure to something painful, myself included.

Much of the city had already begun to disappear on Sunday, and Monday I awoke to the unmistakable clanking and hammering indicating the city had transitioned back to work mode and teardown was in full effect. We spent the day packing up camp and watching the surrounding plots return to the open expanses of dry lakebed they had been only 12 days earlier when we’d arrived.

We departed what remained of the city late afternoon, and quickly hit the exit queue – a 5 hour wait to get off the playa and onto the two lane highway leading back to civilization (which, I’m told, isn’t bad). As we sat in line mingling with our neighbors and enjoying the lingering remnants of the city’s free spirited and loving energy, I reflected on the craziness and magnitude of my first time on playa.

What was this place? How did you make any sense of it, or even begin to describe it to someone who hadn’t been? How did it even exist, with the insane amount of time and money people put in with no expectation of anything in return other than the joy of seeing it appreciated? I didn’t really have answers to these questions, or necessarily expect any to come.

But I knew that it had to be the craziest place in the world. That there was something about it that touched a nerve with me, and apparently with thousands of others as well. That I’d certainly done some metamorphosing in that inexplicably beautiful display of human expression in the desert. And I knew I’d be back.

A week later I haven’t had any big revelations. It’s been an interesting transition back to normal life. The first thing I had to pay for again was a burrito. It felt weird. Distinctly unhuman. Like the only reason they were making me food was because I was giving them money, which is exactly true and how the default world works. But Burning Man was a window into an alternate way of life. I don’t think anyone is saying it’s a model that we can base future societies on, but it felt like much more of a genuinely human experience than what we typically encounter the rest of the time. It reminded of the van community in that way.

So as I slowly brush the playa dust off and get back into normal routines, I’m doing my best to remember the feelings and experiences I had during those fascinating 12 days in a different world. It’s impossible to bring the magic back, but I’m making a distinct effort to be more of the person I was in that remote and ephemeral desert utopia.