In defense of Burning Man

I made the 1300km pilgrimage to Burning Man in 2006, in a rented RV piloted by a jocular megalomaniac in a faux-fur cape. He stopped to buy porn in every town on the way, and deviously manipulated his four female passengers. Everyone said he was a fun-loving guy (he died by suicide a few years later).

As soon as we arrived in Black Rock City I ditched Mr. Goodtimes, located my Vancouver crew, and set up my tent in a giant orange dome. After a week in the dusty wonderland I hitched a ride back with the Reno Housewives, a pair of drag queens who ran a free boutique and were towing a U-Haul filled with thrift finery and garden gnomes. I had to catch a plane to Toronto early in the morning so they invited me to stay the night in their pleasant Reno bungalow, leaving out fresh towels and granola for breakfast. They were so sweet and so kind. I never returned to the playa, but the following year ChaCha and Tinkerbell asked after me and sent a necklace back with my friends.

Burning Man is the very soul of paradox. It represents the best and worst of humankind.

With the big 2023 mud bath now making headlines, the media is caricaturing Burning Man as nothing but raves and sex parties. Sure, there’s lots of that. There are also churches and synagogues, sanctuaries and healing spaces, 12-step meetings, seniors’ centres, schools, and children’s areas. It is everything. It is a city.

The sheer logistics of the event are stunning. Black Rock City arises every year out of nothing and then vanishes completely. It encompasses a security force, sanitation workers, transportation routes, hospitals and emergency systems, radio stations and competing newspapers and even a post office — all run mostly by volunteers. And need I say, it is a city traversed almost entirely by thousands and thousands of bicycles? It is a true civic wonder, and I think every municipal politician and key city staffer should be sent on a junket to see how it’s done.

Burning Man is not really a Festival in the contemporary sense of the word. You don’t pay to be entertained. Staged in one of the most forbidding climates in the world and mis-billed as an experiment in radical self-reliance, Burning Man is actually an exercise in radical interdependence. In many ways it is a cheeky inversion of capitalism — nothing is permitted to be sold except coffee and ice. Advertising or promotion of any kind is forbidden. Even rental cars and vans must cover over their branding. No one is paid to perform, although some world-famous artists show up, and they share their work, for free. Gifting is the rule and although some of the gifts are junk there is also free food and drink of every kind. No one need starve or be unsheltered at Burning Man, and although the ticket price is about US $500 now, if you are audacious enough to make the journey empty-handed someone will almost certainly gift you a ticket at the gate. At less than the cost of one family’s day at Disney World, it is by no means exclusive to “rich people”.

My own experience of Burning Man was definitely mixed. I was revolted by the gasoline burned to get there, by the hoarding and consumption of plastic junk and supplies en route and on site, and by the nihilistic destruction of so many resources. I wasn’t into the climactic burning of the Man – but then again, neither was the onsite protest faction who rallied against it! I tired of the endless exhibitionism, the adolescent sexual fixation, and the occasional frat-bro antics. And it was loud. Very loud. All. The. Time.

I was also moved to tears, had my preconceptions shattered, every day. It wasn’t the insanely over-the-top art installations that slayed me but the wee humble sculptures out in the far desert, to be stumbled over by a curious few. The magnificent Temple, a vast co-created memorial shrine, broke my heart.

I saw a man in fatigues climb onto a small soapbox and take the mic. He was an American war veteran. He delivered a blistering tirade about how he and so many had given their lives, for liberty — for THIS!, he shouted — and how he has been shunned and mocked for it. At the end the small audience applauded wildly as he sobbed, people coming forward to hold him. 

Some of the world’s most powerful and creative people come to Black Rock City to merge into the dust and party with regular folks. In the recent aftermath of the mudbath famed comedian Chris Rock and DJ Diplo trudged through the mud for five miles before hitching a ride out of the site. Just like everone else. That would not be happening at Coachella, guaranteed.

I’ll say it again: I am not a dedicated Burner. My curiosity is satisfied, and I will probably never return to the playa. But I went to Burning Man with a deep lifelong fear of music, and as soon I came home I bought my first instrument and reclaimed music as a birthright. I still play. I met many brave people and I gained courage. For this I am forever grateful.

Burning Man is a very significant cultural phenomenon. It is the Woodstock of our time — rain, mud, bad drugs, and all. Those who can dance through this carry hope into the future. 

And so it outrages me that as Burning Man 2023 is inundated by a massive downpour and the playa turns to a muddy sea, the eyes of the world and the media fill with mockery and scorn. 70,000 people are sheltering in place, short on food and water, covered in thick red mud. They are in circumstances that more pampered travellers would describe as hellish — in a world where lost luggage and a night spent in an airport is considered newsworthy hardship. And yet they are being such troopers. The lack of whining is remarkable. In the face of considerable discomfort people continue to care for each other and keep each other fed, entertained, and safe.  

Burning man is not just a party. It’s a dress rehearsal, replete with feathers, glitter, and fur. As my mentor Jeet Kei once told me: parties are just practice.

***********************************

Image: Trevor Hughes/USA TODAY