Dear Reader,

It's late January, 1999, and I'm homesick. I haven't been in Black Rock City for about 6 months, and it will be just as long before I can go back. Right now the city exists only in the collective memories of its citizens, and in the everpresent playa dust that still inhabits our cars. We've successfully settled back into the groove of "normal" life, now that our co-workers are REALLY tired of hearing about "that festival" in carefully censored snippets.

Of course it's more than just a festival. Actually, I consider myself one of the lucky ones for whom the experience of Burning Man is year-round. Not only do I keep in touch with some of my fellow citizens on a daily basis (through a rather extensive network of e-mail and cell phones) but we actually see each other quite often at various events and celebrations in the San Francisco area.

Plans for Black Rock City 1999 are already being formed as the winter rain beats on our windows. Some of us are even thinking of ways to make our creative lifestyle more permanent. I'm excited to find out what this means, because I know these seeds are being sown by so many Burning Man participants all over the world. According to a comic store clerk I talked to last week, "The festival is too large and popular now to be interesting." Maybe true, but then the woman relented that she's never actually attended the festival, and all of her opinions have been formed second-hand.

The following articles are a diary-style account of my experiences at Burning Man 1998. These thoughts are not meant to convince anyone to attend.....in fact, for some of you the reaction might be quite the contrary. You might think the hardest work is packing supplies and building a shade structure, but no one can ever really prepare for such a life-changing experience. People who go for a party only see a fraction of what Black Rock City is all about; people who arrive as tourists will only get some pictures and a heat rash. It's a lesson that seems obvious, but it takes living in the city to make it real. You only get out what you put in....and through Burning Man you may just realize what your capabilities really are.

#1 (August 16, 1998)

The contents of my car distinctly reflect the chaos of my life the last few months. Feather boas, glitter body paint, silver lame' flags, and masks nestle alongside the metal tent stakes, glow-light sticks, a box of 3,000 CD-ROMs, and a roll of Astroturf.

I'm taking time off of my "real" job, modular office cube, morning commute, and suburban lifestyle to spend ten days at the Burning Man festival of 1998. I will be joined by a traveling group of 7, our village of 150, and over 15,000 others. I'm looking forward to experiencing life through my own eyes and fingers, rather than a screen and a keyboard.

It's less than 2 weeks until we leave for the desert, and everyone's stressed. Our Burning Man e-mail list is over 150 posts per day and growing. Then again, it's no small task to plan an entire village over the internet. Our area of camp, called the Blue Light District, will have its own post office, kitchen, radio station, decorated porta-potties (with elevator music), Yacht Club, karaoke bar, and nuclear power station.

The last several weekends have been devoted to village meetings, Burning Man volunteer meetings, construction parties, and shopping sprees at thrift and hardware stores. We're scouring mail order catalogs for the cheapest rates on battery operated Christmas lights, surplus camo netting, and faux gemstone rings. My neighbors are prepared to see strange things being erected in my front yard for the third year in a row.

I bet my laundry and gardening won't get done this weekend, either, because we still have to work on the bus. Last month, four friends and I bought a converted 1962 school bus to get the group and our copious supplies to the festival. It has already been nicknamed the "Hippie breakdown bus" due to its Prankster-esque appearance. I hope we'll be able to bleed the brakes, get new tires, and find someone to insure it this week, because we're cutting it pretty close.

Getting to the festival is only part of the nightmare...I mean, fun. This year I decided to really bite off more than I could chew by building a large art installation. In other words, spend a lot more money and time to build something significantly smaller than originally intended, and burn it anyway.

Actually, I'm just upset because I realized last Tuesday that I am running really low on money, and I'll have to scale down my construction plans yet again. I've already scoured the back lot of my office building for wooden pallets, metal poles, and other "trash" that I can recycle into art. The people in the shipping department think I'm crazy. "You're going to build a Tower in the middle of the desert?" they ask, warily eyeing my conservative suit.

I decide not to elaborate. It's not just any Tower that I'm building, but The Tower of Babel, complete with the Garden of Babylon and the Ark of the Covenant. I've been doing historical research all year, as well as recruiting performers, construction volunteers, and healers from my web site. This Tower is meant to symbolize the gateway to the subconscious mind, where inside are stored the fears and obstacles that we create for ourselves. I hope that when people encounter this sculpture at Burning Man, they will be able to confront their fears and release them. And I can predict when this Tower will fall...on September 6, 1998, the night the Man burns.

#2 (Saturday, August 29 through Tuesday, September 1)

Our journey to Burning Man could be summed up by quote from the Muppet Song "Movin' Right Along". "Getting there is half the fun, come share it with me." I should have known it would take over 12 hours to pack the bus. We were supposed to leave "around noon" on Saturday, August 29th, but we didn't pull out until close to midnight. We miraculously fit everything inside, attached a zebra-striped VW Bug to the trailer hitch, did a good luck ceremony, and then drove a grand total of ten miles before our first breakdown.

I've lost track of how many times the hippy bus broke down on the way to the festival. It dosen't really matter, since once you've left the driveway, you're on playa time. You become a stranger in your own land, wandering towards an unexplainable temporary mecca. Though we relished the sideways looks from other travelers at every gas station, one of the funniest moments occured at a deserted truck stop in the middle of the night. We had quickly pulled over when the fuel hoses gave way, and piled out to assess the damage. Ray, our saintly mechanic/driver, crawled under the bus and inspected its badly corroded underbelly. He announced that he needed some metal strips, so we quickly drained 3 aluminum cans and cut them apart. Don and Ray then "MacGuyvered" them into a temporary patch as the rest of us took pictures. After that episode, we decided that the Elephant-headed Hindu god Ganesh (the remover of obstacles) was the patron diety of the bus. Sixteen hours later, over twice the usual trip time, we pulled onto the playa to the relief of waiting friends.

Monday was spent trying to get acclimated to the intense heat. Setting up the camp took a lot longer than expected, since temperatures were over 110 degrees in the shade. I thought it commendable that we erected 3 tents and actually found the stove amidst the rubble. From bedraggled lounge chairs, we kept an eye on the neighboring city blocks, already reserved for an assortment of e-mail "listizen" friends. Already our village is growing beyond its pre-mapped boundaries. Emulating the original homesteaders of the wild west, we staked our claims with piles of bamboo and little plastic flags.

On Tuesday, my birthday, we commandeered the village "Runaway Choo-Choo" train at dusk and and took a ride around the city. You had to be in your birthday suit to get on the train, which was full in less than 10 minutes. Through her bullhorn, my friend Jen commanded passersby to "give us a cocktail for the birthday girl!" As we rode around the city and all the way out to the man, it was easy to see that distinctive neighborhoods and theme districts are already in place.

The tire tracks from bicycles, art cars, and mobile couches have formed our corner at Atlantic Avenue and North 7th Street. Desert flowers have emerged from the once-barren surface; elaborate contraptions made of pvc pipe, rebar, parachutes, flags, and tarps flutter in the afternoon breeze. We've put up some blue lame' flags on top of the bus; their shimmer helps us find our way home at night. Another afternoon of unrelenting heat and creative painting yields strange slogans on the side of the bus; "Kiss a Republican Today", "Crunchier than Thou", and my personal favorite "We may be filthy, but we're not hippies!"

The heat is also causing tensions in our camp to run high. We are all frustrated because there's so much to see and do, and not enough time or motivation to leave the village for very long. Several times we've barely managed to start up the stove, and strangers have appeared at our impromptu kitchen, demanding free handouts of food. Even though our fresh food supply is low, sharing isn't the problem. It's the attitude of these people that is really surprising....they show up unprepared and then expect that others will do all the work and clean up afterwards. It's definitely a window into the ugly side of human behavior, and an unfortunate result of a quickly growing community.

On the other hand, the process of building my sculpture has been really uplifting. I had asked for volunteers to help me with this project, and people from all over the country contacted me and offered their assistance. It's inspiring to meet people for the first time, who will come out in the afternoon heat to work on a project they know little about. The Tower of Babel, a 12 foot tall wooden structure, now stands on the open playa outside our village gate. Ok, realistically it looks more like a dilapadated "guard shack". But with the addition of a parachute-covered "teepee" behind the Tower, there is a place to rest in the shade. It's also a great place to get a wide-angle perspective of the growing city. I'm too hot and tired to finish decorating today, but from the looks of my neighbors' unfinished sculptures, so is everyone else.

#3 (Wednesday, September 2 through Thursday, September 3)

I relish the caked dirt under my broken, glittery-orange fingernails; the serious magnitude and the complete insanity of the playa have now taken hold. Though I'm having fun, it's still hard to believe that I'm actually here. It's not surreal; it's too real.

Yesterday I met Dave, a student from Virginia who is doing his thesis on Burning Man. As we wandered past the Black Rock University and the discount Soulmate outlet store, we discussed cultural anthropology, tarot cards, the future of the human race, and where to get more suntan lotion. Inspiration seized as we passed a mud puddle, and we covered ourselves from head to toe in the thick greenish paste. On our way back home for a shower, we walked meditatively through a labyrinth scratched into the dirt.

This morning I dined on Green Eggs and Ham, washed down with mimosas, at the Blue Light Village brunch kitchen. There were over 30 people gathered in the shade, reading the daily paper and discussing last night's big event, the Aging Hipsters Cocktail Party. (You were supposed to be over 40 to attend.) Also, it seems that a team from the village to the north, Disturbia, raided us last night with water guns. We began to plot our revenge.

As a quasi-official member of the media, I also made my way to the Media Mecca tent to check in. Everyone is supposed to contribute to the community, and the media are no exception. All media now have the camera turned on them, as their photo is taken in a goofy costume and placed on a wall.

For the past two afternoons, we have been volunteering as "Greeters" at the front gate. Carrying a frilly parasol and city maps, I sashay up to the approaching cars, wearing a blue feather boa and lacy knickers. The greeters answer general questions, direct people to their camps, and through creative interaction, make people relax after the long drive. After we remind everyone to "Leave No Trace" and clean up after themselves, we are handed cold water by strangers who are grateful to be welcomed home to their city.

A public service announcement on the radio for more volunteers yields replacements, and we limp home after the exhausting, but fun, seven hour shift. I now have a full case of "playa throat" brought on by dust and talking all afternoon in the heat. There are lots of people working very hard behind the scenes to ensure that the citizens of Black Rock City enjoy themselves safely. It's not uncommon to see unpaid "staff" members working 12, 13, 20 hour shifts. Many people are also inspired to help out when they realize just how much work it takes to provide basic services under these harsh conditions.

I am a little worried about The Tower of Babel. So much of my free time this year was dedicated to planning for this project, and now that I'm here it dosen't seem like it was enough. There are many large, inspired, and beautiful projects here, it's almost painful to explain to people what this one means to me, because it dosen't look like much. I wonder if I have failed myself or others in seeing this project through, even though I've been busy helping out in other areas. I hope that the healing tent is at least a peaceful spot amidst the chaos of our city. It will be interesting to read the guest book when this is all over.

#4 (Friday, September 4 through Saturday, September 5)

Simple pleasures go a long way out here. Fresh fruit, often shunned for fast food at home, becomes a rare treat in the hot sun. Today Tammy, Jen, and I set up the lounge chairs and washed each other's hair, then put lotion on our dry, cracked, swollen feet. I thank Holly as she brings out the spray bottle and proceeds to mist my face and shoulders for the umpeenth time.

Tired as we are, we never miss a chance for playful interaction. Dressing in cheap Santa suits is a several-year tradition, and last night, over 30 of us met to bring a little Cacophonous Christmas cheer to Black Rock City. We responded to idle threats from the clown camp, and "raided" their circus ring. Red rubber noses were tossed into the air with Santa beards during the playful scuffle. We ended up at a local dive in the "NeighBARhood", laughing with some disgruntled postal workers.

Black Rock city is serious about its entertainment. The drumming and performances begin right after sunset and continue late into the night. This year, there is even a replica of Reno, Nevada, called Draino village. It comes complete with a casino, two stages, a "brothel" staffed by men, and a jail. There are also two ballrooms and an Aikido dojo. Meditation occurs nightly at the Zen altar, and you can do sun salutations every morning in Yoga camp. You can catch a city tour on the mobile bed, bar, or sofa. The radio, newspaper, and bulletin boards announce events all over the city, though the chance for interactivity is never farther away then your front yard.

All this makes me wonder why so many people have complained about the ticket prices this year. At home, the cost of a single concert ticket can set you back over $50.00, and a week's worth of Black Rock City is only slightly more expensive. I don't think there is any price that can be put on the freedom to express yourself 24 hours a day, and be around others who are doing the same. The right to expression is a very American concept, and it's amusing that Burning Man has been pigeonholed as a place for only dropout freaks.

Actually, its the careless, self-absorbed people who cause the biggest drain on city resources and volunteer time. We took care of a lost, hungry cat last night. When the owners showed up to claim their pet, they didn't even seem worried that it could have died in the heat. Other people choose to leave their camp without water and end up in the medical tent suffering from dehydration. The biggest mistake most people make is in not understanding how much effort it takes to survive in these harsh conditions.

The air siren rang through camp this afternoon, heralding an oncoming storm. We all struggled to batten down the hatches, and then I headed out to my sculpture to sit in the tent and weather the high winds. I pulled my painter's mask over my nose and mouth, and breathed a little easier as I walked onto the open playa. The city soon disappeared behind me, masked by the dust of a complete whiteout. As I walked up to the tent, I dispiritedly wondered if anyone else had enjoyed this space, or been affected by my project. Then I noticed that there were two people inside.

The man explained to me that he had been walking by, and thought the tent looked inviting. Inside, he met a friend of mine who does hypnotherapy and massage. She proceeded to work on him, and they told me that they both felt better than they had in months.

Hearing about their positive experiences made me feel a lot better. Burning Man can be incredibly transformational...it has been for me....and I wanted other people to experience this as well. I decided to spend the night in the tent, and later met another interesting couple from England. As we laughed together for hours, strangers turned into friends, and we greeted the sunrise with loud applause.

#5 (Sunday, September 6 through Wednesday, September 9)

Today the city is restless; it's the day of the burn. People were still streaming into the gate late last night, looking for a place to camp. Apparently there are those who still feel that Burning Man is all about burning down a big wooden statue, and so they arrive at the last minute looking for a spectacle. But the real beauty of this city is more subtle. A walk through town will show you more about this community than merely attending the big bonfire on Sunday night.....

For example, this afternoon I heard the familiar tinkling melody of an ice cream truck. People ran toward the truck, waving coupons to be exchanged for the free ice cream sandwiches and rocket pops. I had gotten a coupon earlier today, as thanks for giving directions to some strangers. Not only does the barter system work in Black Rock city, it's inspirational to see people motivated to be generous to others around them...with no immediate incentive.

Coming home, I passed by the "Mafia camp," decorated with laundered Monopoly money, garlands of grapes, and Catholic saint candles. Unfortunately, I was greeted with some tragic news. The Don was shot last night! The radio station reports that the Calzone family are among the prime suspects. My companions and I on our guard as we show up to the "funeral" dressed in black, with lace veils and a bottle of wine for the grieving "family". When the group swells to over 60 people, the Don is placed on a funeral "barge" (a small motorboat on a trailer) and paraded through center camp. The Calzones attack with water guns, and after a much-appreciated soaking, we retreat to our camp to prepare for the evening ahead.

By 8 pm, people are streaming out to the man from all directions of camp. A parade of floats, fire breathing stilt walkers, glowing fairies, and other apparations circles around the man, and then the crowd is pressed back to a safe distance. The burn is spectacular, and I scream and howl until I am hoarse. As the pyrotechnics are lit, the Man is hidden by a brilliant white light; then he appears through the smoke and majestically falls to the ground.

We make our way back to the village, where it's now time to burn our individual offerings. As a community, we helped each other create our projects, and now it's fitting that we are together when they are burned. We circle around the "Jenni Board," dedicated to a friend who died this year, now covered with dedications from other participants. A 15 foot blue mushroom is lit on fire, and then we walk over to my project. The Tower takes several tries to light, but once it is on fire, it burns hot and brightly. I solemnly cast a bracelet that I have worn all year, in remembrance of my commitment to this project, into the flames.

Now that it's over, I breathe a sigh of relief. I realize that it's not about the size or beauty of the sculpture, it's the experiences in creating, sharing, and destroying that leave the biggest impression. The art at Burning Man may not be the most meaningful, or even made by "real" artists; it's made to be seen, touched, encountered. There doesn't always have to be a point or a meaning. It's about challenging your boundaries and not taking anything too seriously.

Unfortunately, the time has come for the hardest jobs: cleaning up and packing the bus. I head out to the site of The Tower to pick up the nails and turn over the scorched earth with a shovel. The city has almost disappeared overnight, and the beautiful empty playa has re-emerged. We are supposed to leave early on Tuesday morning, but bad storms on Monday leave the camp muddy and our gear soaked.

We pull out of camp on Tuesday at 3 PM, and immediately get stuck in the mud at the front gate. After knocking the claylike goo off of the tires, the bus gains some traction and zooms ahead to the highway, leaving 3 of us to catch up. I loved every moment of the slow exodus over the slippery road, as the wind whipped my hair and white robe. We exited under a leaden sky roiling with impetuous clouds.

But the return trip wasn't finished yet. Our alternator gave out in the middle of the night, leaving us stranded in a suburban mall parking lot only 3 hours from home. We spent one more night in the bus, waiting for the auto parts store to open. The local residents didn't know what to make of the light blue behemoth and its dusty inhabitants.....we must have looked like "genuine" road-tripping hippies, even though among us were employees of several well-known computer companies.

I've finally made it home to the civilized comforts of a soft bed and running water. And yet I already miss the playa, with all its hardships and simple joys. So until the city rises again next year, I will return only in dreams.

-- Rebecca Pitt