After two days of on-and-off rain eventually subsided at Burning Man, I managed to finally leave my newspaper camp in order to slog through the drying mud to go to another camp that I knew had wifi. As soon as my phone got connectivity, it started blowing up.
“Are you okay out there?” “Please let us know you’re alright, we’re worried about you!” “Saw the news and are hoping and praying that you’re safe.”
Wait, why is everyone worried about my safety and wondering if I’m still alive?Why is the outside world suddenly so concerned about our oft-called “stupid little dirt rave in the desert?”
Unbeknownst to most Burners — including me — who were still managing to make the best of the annoying weather, the mainstream media has been catastrophising the rain and mud, with click-bait headlines exaggerating how 75,000 people were “trapped” in the desert without food, water, fuel, and sanitation services.
The truth is, while the rains did create muddy playa conditions that prevented anyone from getting in or out of our makeshift city, most of us weren’t planning to leave for a few more days anyway. Sure, a few idiots ignored the warnings and tried to escape the rain and drive through the mud. And their hubris was suitably rewarded with their vehicles getting mired in mud. But for the most part, the citizens of Black Rock City simply hunkered down and “partied in place.” We all lived through months of the Coronapocalypse. A few days of being stuck at a party in the desert was nothing.
Especially laughable about these doomsday stories was that we were somehow going to run out of food and water. Anyone who’s ever been to Burning Man knows that most burners — aside from the “sparkle ponies” who bring more costumes than camping supplies — arrive on playa a bit too overprepared.
One Burning Man cliché is that we return home with more food than we needed, simply because one’s appetite decreases in the desert heat, and we end up drinking more water that fills us up. (Also, drugs often decrease one’s appetite. Shocking, I know, but you might have heard that people do drugs out here.)
The concerns about the lack of sanitation trucks being able to access the porta-potties to clear them out was pretty legit though, and the portos did get pretty bad for a couple days — but not any worse than the event’s middle years, when the Burning Man organization underestimated the amount of “blue rooms” needed, and the term “poop pyramids” was coined as “Playa Lingo” in my Black Rock City newspaper, Piss Clear (named after the Black Rock Desert’s #1 survival tip to drink enough water so that you “piss clear.”)
This wasn’t my first burn — in fact, it was my 30th — so I already knew I didn’t have the energy or enthusiasm to power through just to party. But plenty of others were out and about, duct-taping plastic bags around their boots and slogging through the thick, sticky muck in order to visit friends at other camps or see art out on the playa. While the large-scale sound art cars in deep playa were “out” this year, smaller camp parties in the city were definitely “in.”
As for me, I decided to be a “playa princess,” and didn’t leave my RV for 30 hours. But as the editor and publisher of a popular playa newspaper, I still ended up with a steady stream of visitors, holding court in my RV during the day, and bonding with campmates at night. And by “bonding,” I mean “doing drugs” — but it was still lovely quality time with friends old and new.
We used pee jugs instead of our RV toilet in order to conserve space in our black water tank, and settled down with stories, laughter, and a couple games of “Cards Against The Playa,” a specialized Burning Man-centric deck of “Cards Against Humanity.”
There’s nothing like a natural disaster to bring people together, and the term “trauma bonding” gets thrown around a lot to describe Burning Man. This year, we got a lot of it, but instead of the usual dust and wind, it was rain and mud. And yet, people still managed to have a good time. Especially since the playa surface dries pretty quickly once the sun came out.
The Black Rock Desert is a harsh environment, and anyone coming to this remote Nevada dry lake bed is warned over and over again by either the organization or other burners that it’s not necessarily an easy trip. But the art, music, culture, creativity, costumes, and connections with others often make the hardship rewarding. It’s a bucket-list event for a reason — despite being in an absolute horrible place to throw a large-scale week-long event.
While I don’t want to sugarcoat the experience too much — this is likely my last year actually — most people in Black Rock City are determined to make the most of it. Burners are known for being resilient. It already takes a tremendous amount of money and effort to get one’s ass out here, so dealing with harsh conditions and circumstances beyond one’s control results in a hands-up “roll with it” attitude.
The vibe on the ground, from an insider’s point-of-view, is way more festive than it has any right to be. In general, people here have been in good spirits. Sure, the burning of the Man, the Temple, and other art pieces were all postponed. My big end-of-the-week DJ gig — a Bootie Mashup sunrise set at AutoSub — never happened. Tons of other events and activities got curtailed.
But this isn’t Fyre Festival. Attendees aren’t angry with disappointment — despite all the hilarious memes and rumors on social media. Sure, some day-trippers, bucket-listers, Robot Tarts, and sparkle ponies were in over their heads. But for the most part, burners know what they signed up for.
Most of us will be headed home by Wednesday, and then the long slog of cleaning up will fall to the hard-working restoration team. The mud has a tendency to swallow up small bits of trash and bury it, only to rise again in the spring when the rains bring it back to the surface. So this might not be nearly the “Leave No Trace” event it’s been touted to be. Only time will tell if Burning Man 2023 was truly an environmental disaster. But from a cultural perspective in the here and now, it’s far from it.
Adriana Roberts is a DJ and performer with her Bootie Mashup parties, as well as a writer and trans influencer.
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