After my first visit to Nevada’s infamous city of dust in 2018, I joined its online community to find the perfect theme to underscore some type of short documentary piece which I might shoot there, if I ever returned, but it turns out the burners don’t want that.
All the attention it has received in recent years, from EDM video montages on YouTube to a splurge of social media influencers covered in glitter, are quite counter to the ethos of this “event.” The people whom I’d hoped would appreciate this kind of video, to like and share it and whatnot, just don’t want it out there. They don’t want you to go. And after sitting in the entrance line for NINE HOURS my first time getting in, nearly as long as it took me to drive up there from Los Angeles, I can’t blame them.
The gate line is a slow-motion train wreck, then some creepy stranger greets you with “Welcome Home,” despite the fact my actual home has a shower and WiFi. After the torturous wait to get inside, first-timers are requested to get out of their car and make dust angels in “the playa” – grainy remains of an ancient sea bed. The best thing this beard has ever gotten me was some type of hippie swag which managed to slip us by last year, undetected, as I apparently looked like a veteran.
Speaking of dust, the playa is actually a fine alkaline powder with a propensity to short circuit electronics and evoke illness. A painful podiatry condition known as “playa foot,” characterized by hardened, bloody feet in its worst stages, is only prevented by routinely washing your stumps down with vinegar. After a week without showering, topping them off with a fresh coat of vinegar is the absolute pinnacle of olfactory offenses. Thankfully any sense of scent is nearly destroyed by then anyway, as the playa has likewise clogged your nostrils full of crust, so you’re just one deep dig away from the worst bloody nose of your life.
These can both probably be avoided by camping in a fancy RV, but if taking that approach to the week it suggests you may have the money to spare on nice vacation elsewhere, which you should probably take at a place that isn’t trying to kill you on an elemental level. The incidental bugs brought in by mass traffic are dead in a few days and everyone gets to pick them up before leaving town. Oh yes, picking up is mandatory, there are chores.
Littering MOOP – Material Out Of Place – is the bane of Black Rock City. The artwork and events are pretty cool, no denying that, but the most impressive feat of it all is that a city of 80,000 people really does disappear shortly after being built. Don’t think that aspect is entirely comp’d by the $500 ticket though, it’s part of your job being there, more stringently moderated than a touchdown in the Superbowl. If you moop on playa, you’re basically ostracized from society and will probably die in the desert.
The conditions are unforgiving enough, but the amenities (or lack thereof) are even worse. There is nothing to buy all week long, besides ice, or a sole coffee vendor if you can’t find some camp gifting it out. The lack of showers is obvious, but the real gem of the week are its porto potties. These are tolerable early on, but you can imagine how things spiral after a bustling desert week. The roads are terrible. If you’re ever duped into going to Burning Man, then a fat-wheel, laid-back beach cruiser is definitely the chariot of choice. But good luck getting it to ever ride the same way again after.
The music never ends. I often awoke oblivious of the time, unsure if the party hadn’t stopped or simply begun again. The noise can be mitigated by free camping way in back, beyond the defined city streets, but reverberations from every subwoofer in the western hemisphere will still feel like a looping, low-grade earthquake. That said, it is very inventive and fresh music by some incredibly talented DJs from all around the world. While I didn’t hear a Beatles song all week long, I did see a yellow submarine passing by a dragon-shaped art car. Behind that was a gargantuan green inflatable elephant which may have morphed into a penguin as it changed colors, I’m still not sure exactly what that one was.
A potent cocktail of relentless heat and sleep deprivation – mixed with whatever else you so choose to add in there – really lend themselves to the perception of serendipity at ever turn. I have never heard so many people refer to somewhere as “magical,” a place where anything can and likely will happen… except for the fact there’s a handful government agencies watching on at all times, out of sight, just beyond the permitter, to ensure the nothing outright illegal is happening in plain sight.
My smile in this picture is only due to the fact that I did actually find a video project to shoot there during my second year, which was published on the Burning Man Organization’s Youtube channel. Check it out below. Yes I went back, but Coachella is probably better.