Ask the Dust

Burning Man takes place on "the playa," which is a large dry lake bed, essentially making it a giant landscape of loose dirt. On Monday, the first morning of the event, "the playa" is hit with abnormally high winds for the entire day and night. The result is a dust storm that would make "Okies" from the thirties envious.

I return to my van at three in the morning, but before I can get to sleep, I hear a knock on the door. I open my side door and am greeted by an oddly dressed man who looks suspiciously like the film director Kevin Smith. He is not Kevin Smith, but he does direct me to move my van. Apparently, I have parked in a site reserved for a “theme camp,” which I obviously should have figured out from the giant “no parking” sign that was never posted.

An older man in a Hawaiian shirt (marking the first time a Hawaiian shirt can be considered an understated wardrobe choice) has done the same thing. His name is Ken, and he is from Kauai. I mention that I have family there, and we immediately decide the navigate the pitch black parking together.

After finding a nondescript patch of dirt, next to various other cars, RVs, and tents, I decide to get some sleep so I can attend some of the “events” listed in my Burning Man guide.

There is an event called "Contact Improv" taking place at ten in the morning; it basically sounds like a lame version of yoga, but I feel it is important for me to participate as much as possible, and "Contact Improv" is one of the scheduled events close to my camp that sounds least like a thinly veiled attempt at exploiting some odd sexual fetish, so "Contact Improv" it is.

Except when I get to the site of the event, I find no activities taking place, but rather a disheveled tent and some dirty looking men with long hair loitering by the campsite. The event has been canceled. Go figure.

So I move on to the next event. Except it is also canceled. It seems most "theme camps" have yet to be set up, let alone are they prepared to entertain. With nothing better to do, I walk around “the playa” and offer my services in helping various camps set up.

Most people seem to look at me strangely, and I think it is because of the way I’m dressed. I’m wearing a black t-shirt, blue jeans, a cheap fedora I got at the Reno Walmart, and a clip-on tie. I think I look ridiculous. Others seem to agree, but for different reasons.

I mean, seriously, what self-respecting guy wears jeans instead of a skirt? Or at least show off your ball sack. A fedora? How about an Indian headdress with some peace signs painted on it? And a clip-on tie? That’s not quite tacky enough for our tastes. Could it be a clip-on bowtie with pink polka dots? And did I mention I can’t see your balls?

Maybe I’m not being fair in regards to my fellow “Burners” perceptions. You can’t blame me though when the paper I’m handed at the entrance includes the following advice next to its environmental warnings:

“Don’t ‘playa-hate.' Just because someone isn’t sporting a costume doesn’t mean they aren’t participating. Maintain an open mind.”

I find it interesting that they feel the need to warn against hazing the conservatively dressed. I can just imagine Burning Man tough guys walking around “the playa” with angry stares, searching out casually dressed participants and bullying them into wearing pink skirts and feather boas. You know, the inevitable progression of society if gay people are ever allowed to get married.

I really hope most people reading this have an appreciation for sarcasm.

I mention my fedora in part because I look damn good in it and in part because I can’t keep the damn thing on my head. Huge gusts of wind keep sweeping it off and carrying it across the dirt. This is usually accompanied by a solid face-full of dust.

Two campers notice my dilemma and offer to help. Their names are Crafty and Kyle. They came to Burning Man last year and insist it is impossible to make it throughout the week without a face mask and goggles. Fortunately, the have an extra face mask and another pair of goggles, and they are kind enough to let me have them.

This is a greater blessing than I at first realize. First of all, I catch my reflection in a car window and notice that the goggles, face mask, and fedora have given me the appearance of a villain from Brazil or a random Stanley Kubrick film. Secondly, before I can admire my chic attire, my fedora is blown off my head again and I am hit with the biggest pile of dust in my face yet.

The wind has gotten violent. So violent, in fact, that it has destroyed the living set-up of the camp across from me. The poles are uprooted out of the ground and the large tarp overhead has fallen down onto the campsite. Crafty, Kyle, and I immediately rush over to help, grabbing the poles and bracing them against the wind while the eight or nine people at the camp…casually wait around.

Hippies are not exactly the most reliable choice in the face of diversity. If you need some pot, or a detailed discussion of your astrological sign, they’re great. But for repairing a campsite, not so much. I brace against the weakest pole for about an hour while the camp, which of course includes a naked guy, futilely discuss how to find zip ties. After a while, my shoulders really start to hurt, but nobody really seems to care. Kyle is a trooper; she alternates with one of the campers off and on. Most of the camp residents just watch.

After what seems like forever, the canopy is restored. Tired, parched, and hot, I head to center camp to purchase ice. This is a huge mistake. I bring the goggles but neglect to bring the face mask. This is another huge mistake.

By the time I am half way to the ice vendor, I am unable to see more than two feet in front of me. This is what is referred to as a white-out. The winds are so fast that dust is sprayed in every possible direction, most of it finding its way up my nose or into my mouth. I finally understand the insult, “eat dirt.” I am able to find the ice vendor thanks to a giant sign, but finding my van is a much more difficult venture. The small signs indicating the roads are impossible to find and every area looks the same. By the time I am able to take stock of my location, I figure out that I have walked well over a mile in the wrong direction.

My ice is melting at a rapid rate, but I am unable to use it as water because of all of the dirt flying in my face. The progress toward my van is slow and scattered, and it takes me about two hours to get back. When I get there, I devour as much ice water as my body will handle.

Deciding that I can’t let a dust storm beat me, I head back out, this time to an event only a few hundred yards away. After realizing that nobody else was stupid enough to head to an event in a giant dust storm, I head back. I soon find myself over a mile away in the wrong direction.

I ask for directions several times, but most everyone I talk to is as lost as I am. Dehydrated and sick, I want desperately to reach the shelter of my van, but I am unable to run due to lack of vision. What should have been a fifteen minute journey has turned into a multi-hour walk of doom.

When I finally do find my van, hidden in the swirling dirt, I launch myself inside, pull the doors shut, and collapse. I am more than happy to take a really long dirt nap.