‘I am no longer a virgin’ he bellows, and looks at me, the bearded man, his face is serious, composed. And with that, in aggressive celebration of his new status, he swings the crowbar like a baseball bat and strikes the gong with an almighty Goliath-like grunt. I feel the reverberation in the soles of my feet as the chime rings out across the dry lake bed.
Welcome home. I have just crossed the boundary which separates the rest of the world from Burning Man. Everyone keeps welcoming me home and asking if I’m a virgin. ‘Say yes’ their faces say. And they take me in their arms and whisper things into my ear, squeezing me like a long lost sibling. Am I home?
We are in Black Rock City – the biggest township in the Nevada County at this very moment - a few miles north of Gerlach. We are in the desert. All 50,000 of us. Ludicrous but true. There is nothing here but humans and their endeavours. And dust. Lots of fine white dust.
Getting here involved a very long journey. Mentally, emotionally, physically, financially. The planning of our operation has taken months and many meetings, memos and hours of research. We have purchased or hired a troop of Recreational Vehicles. We named ours Brian after the East 17 legend who ran himself over in his own car.
Travelling 4000 miles to attend a party is pretty dedicated. Hitching to Glastonbury pales when I think of the 3 days it took to reach the desert. Cajoling and urging Brian the whole way. In Reno we very nearly killed him when we purchased 36 gallons of water. (‘You can always rely on a murderer for a fancy prose style.')
Rewind rewind. To survive in the desert for one week you need to prepare. Things to help us survive include: a dozen tins of Stagg classic chilli, enough tequila to sink a band of Mexicans, four bumper bags of nachos, a family tub of salsa, a dozen avocados, a hundred limes, several bottles of acid, a couple of ounces of cocaine, some disappointing MDMA, 36 gallons of water (16 of which were returned after Brian's grumbling). Add two sets of nipple tassles, a catsuit, a fake moustache, 2 captain's hats, a sailor, a stolen art car, some factor 50 sunblock. Strip away your ego and apply a pair of goggles, a dust mask, ice and a slice and shake vigorously.
It will surprise many people to learn that my desert experience was not all laughs and plain sailing and actually involved a fair amount of tears and revelations. About which more later.
The Burn is lots of things to lots of people. Is it just a big party? Yes and no.
The lesson I learned on acid which made me question - and then flee, looking for what I knew to be myself and finding myself to be not where I thought I was at all but some other place (and in fact some other being entirely) - was written on the toilet wall. I found it on Monday. And found it again today in my notebook which, for reasons too complex to explain here, has not been opened until today.
‘It is the self within ourselves that we have to sacrifice. It is our own heart that has to be torn out of the false being and offered to the light.’
Pyramid Of Fire: The Lost Aztec Codex.
So, what of it? Why am I revealing the uncomfortable depth of my trip for you to cringe at? I went to record what I found – and this is what has been indelibly etched into my heart - the feelings I encountered meant more than all that I saw.
It’s strange, the way it went. We went en mass (20 of us or more) from London, our trip engineered to be a group experience. Walkie talkies purchased, a channel selected which would crackle undetected just below the frequency occupied by the American authorities.
We sing down the airwaves to each other, high and delighted that we have made it to the fucking DESERT. And it is actually mind-blowing, the effort and the spectacle. Any idea which has ever been conceived can be made real and tangible here. It is the place where your fantasies can become reality – if you have the money to make it so. It’s like a big canon that blows dollars into the winds and scatters them about the Nevada desert. So very beautiful, this playground for the privileged.
For those that have never been; the city is organised into a big horse shoe. This is bisected with roads – all of which carry a number – so you can always find your way home. Everyone has their own ‘address’. We are at 9:25 and G.
The day that everyone finally arrived was Tuesday. This also happened to be the birthday of one dear friend. We all already had preconceptions about how we wanted the day to pan out. What we imagined it would be. Lesson One: Take it as it comes. Predict nothing. Anticipate nothing. The only thing that’s real is what you see and feel. Many philosophies preach this; live only in the moment – your mind is desperate to escape the present – when really that’s all you have.
So, the birthday party and I decided for better or worse to take a bit of acid.
("Are we on the same page, hallucinogenically?" D.J.A)
It was wrong in many ways – the wrong time, pitch black – a load of our friends had just arrived, we were waiting waiting for the art car to be repaired to take us to deep playa where we would have this birthday party.
'Not so rashly, not so rashly' is what my heart plainly said, and I blithely ignored her, closing my ears to the truth and all the while smiling into the crowded desert darkness. Expectantly I held out my hand for the droplets to fall and transport me to a place of joy that I had previously imagined. Held up my face to the sky to look for the direction, for something to happen next. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t find the place. I couldn’t find the joy. It never existed in the first place. Do you see?
So this is what happened. I followed the newly arrived friends, all of us on bikes having abandoned the broken art car, cycling into the sunrise, in search.
The slide of doom loomed up ahead, 224 casualties in one day so said the people at the medical tent. A big piece of plastic with an Astroturf landing strip designed to burn the skin from your behind as you skidded at high speed down to your audience.
In summary, we had only just really arrived in the desert, were still acclimatising and excitable, hadn’t settled into the way of things here. Were still forcing ourselves to guzzle water but mainly alternating beer with Bloody Mary’s as our hydration of choice.
And as things escalated from sliding to group sliding to surfing each other down the monstrosity, the one-up-man ship ended in a gigantic fall and a suspected back break of one of our crew. And we gathered, terrified at the foot of the thing to ascertain just how bad it was.
It was superficial. And then, and then, and then.
This is to be continued.
To read Part Two click here.
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