04sep2002: Burnt.
In the San Francisco departure lounge, collecting my thoughts
on the radical experiment in temporary community that is Burning
Man. It's been another amazing experience, and I'm not
ready to note it down yet. So over the next couple of days I'll add some
thoughts on this year's Burn as I get them straight in my head. But
I am ready to talk about one thing, and that's my concern that the USA had
changed since my last, pre-911 visit. I'm happy to say it hasn't: the American
people have not taken on the gung-ho excesses of the puppet Dubya and the
oil and military structures that pull his strings. All that's
happened is that basic US values have been pushed to the front, instead
of quietly humming away in the background. Those basic values - freedom
and democracy, concepts of right and wrong - have become emphasised since
last September. That it's not okay to force the people around you into a
single belief system if they don't agree with it. That it's not okay to
kill a couple of thousand people just because you disagree with the way
they're living. While post-911 jingoism has resulted
in plenty of human rights violations within the US - thousands of Muslims
remain incarcerated without reason - I believe such issues will be temporary,
and soon regarded with as much sorrow as Japanese-American internment during
WWII. The American government may be on the wrong tack,
but the American spirit sails on intact.
Anyway, here we go. The story starts the night before we set
out for the desert. 23aug2002: Full circle. There's a small Italian
restaurant opposite the Stinking Rose in San Francisco that I visit every
time I'm here. And this time, two close friends are sharing the experience
with me: Raj and my girlfriend Fumi. Raj has just arrived; Fumi and I have
been here a week at the Hyatt, shopping and eating and relaxing the American
way. We eat great pasta. We talk; it's been six months since we've all been
together. And we plan. 24aug2002: Into the desert. You know the drill
from last year. Rent a car, drive to Reno. Reno being the only town of any
size close to the Black Rock Desert, where Burning Man takes place. I say
close, but it's still three hours' ride. 25aug2002 (v.early): As if I'd never been away.
A costumed girl swims into view in the RV's headlights. We pile off the
bus, ring bells, laugh; I'm savouring my role as the only returnee. Everyone
else is a Burning Man virgin. I'm home. 26aug2002: Starting to build. Our camp's a
big one - 45 people with a raft of structures and tents to put up. For the
first time in years I handle power tools. 28aug2002: So we're on a boat sailing across the desert
beyond the Black Rock city limits.
I'm going to say that again, because it's just too cool: we're
on a boat sailing across the desert beyond the Black Rock city limits.
It's captained by a bearded Californian in admiral's coat and
stockings. 'Man overboard!' Yup, the
last turn's produced a victim. The captain saw some reason to follow a variable
bearing with increasingly tight circling tactics, and while most people
saw sense to grab a mast of the open platform, I've just seen a body roll
off the side into the darkness. Slowing to a halt, we
actually hit the perimeter: a plastic fence kilometres from the encampments
that make up Burning Man. I didn't even realise there was a perimeter fence
here. (There are a few tents camped beyond it, but they're not supposed
to be there.) The crew return to the vessel. The saved
sailor is with them, unhurt, so everyone makes a joke out of it: 'It's okay,
folks. We buried him out there. This never happened, okay.' After a
'gam' with another ship of the desert, we set sail once more. Ten
minutes later, heading back to camp, Fumi steps off the boat's side without
realising the ground's still moving beneath her. And promptly disappears
in a whirlwind of black taffeta and fake pearls, rolling 360 degrees again
and again across the hard playa surface. My sense of vertical alignment
remains intact as I follow, but her post-ironic black cocktail dress has
taken on the colour of the Playa. 30aug2002: Running a Burning Man bar is a surreal experience. Our camp is in
Black Rock City's poshest neighbourhood, the Esplanade. Big Bang Island
is themed along decades from the 1880s to the 1960s, and one of the structures
we've built is a mock 1880s Western saloon. Which I volunteered to run,
along with my pals Raj and Fumi, who are here with me 4,000 feet above sea
level on the dead dusty playa. I'm in full evening dress
- a black tuxedo made in 1958 and red bow tie. But in keeping with the Playa's
bohemian feel, I'm not wearing a shirt; the bow's wrapped around my neck.
And this being Burning Man, I am among the most conventionally dressed people
in town. This is a gift economy; the things you create
at Black Rock city are a gift to the temporary community of 25,000 that
springs up straddling Labor Day each year. Since I spend most of the year
creating stuff, I've decided to gift something else here: running an open
bar where the only tariff is to tell a bad joke. So we've
got two bare backsides being slapped in tune with the alphabet being recited
backwards, one to 'Row Row Row your Boat', while we pour G&Ts on the
rocks for a a mixed clientele. 01sep2002: The Burn. The guys in charge of
firedancing whirl balls of flame above their heads. The girl in charge of
dancing directs other girls to dance. The man in charge of yelling 'Whooooooo!'
runs around in front of the crowd, yelling Whooo. And the Man burns, the
flames hitting the neon early this year. 02sep2002: Another Burn is over. I'm in a rented car, heading for
home after eight days of sky-high arts and artistry in the Black Rock Desert.
Or at least back to San Francisco, after a night in a Reno hotel filled
with the usual cultural and human-shaped Americana. But as usual after Burning
Man, my mind's still back there, in the dust. 03sep2002: I take a final event in San Francisco
as a sign that I've returned to the real world of commerce and markets.
Remember the custom-painted VW Bug that Wired magazine gave away during
the boom times, decal'ed with a wraparound shot of the magazine's multicoloured
spines on a bookshelf? Well, that car is outside the apartment I'm staying
in on Stockton St. And with a sigh, I step back onto a London-bound 747.
In the real world.
