"Isn't that the thing in the desert for young people on drugs?" My mother-in-law probed when I asked her to stay with our teenage son while my husband and I went to Burning Man. Here I was, a middle-aged mother of three and recovering attorney, setting out to the middle of the Nevada desert without much more than some goggles and bikinis.
I worried I wasn't ready, I wouldn't fit in, or I'd get lost in a dust storm, never to be seen again.
Out of anxiety, I over-prepared for my time in Black Rock City. I needed sun protection, and I couldn't look plain. ("Radical self-expression" is one of the core principles). I bedazzled a hat with ribbon, feathers, and gold paper. The feathers added flare but also symbolized Native America. I am Muscogee (Creek), and I like people to know Native people are still here, living, teaching, and dancing in most communities and, in this case, at Burning Man. I planned to give away feathers to everyone I met.
I had searched for the perfect outfits
Upon my arrival, the Burning Man greeter expressed utter disbelief that I would bring feathers. Worse than plain? Apparently, feathers. They create "moop," Burning Man lingo for litter.
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I took these as bad signs: I had no hat, no radical self-expression, and no gifts.
Feeling defeated, I arrived at my Burning Man camp. The camp leaders — including the friend who invited us — are the "tech bros" people love to complain about. They had names like "Cowboy" and "Chaos." One set up my tent and blew up my air mattress, while another made me an ice-cold margarita. "Better Lover" introduced himself, giving us juicy hugs and inviting us to his upcoming wedding on the Playa. There is not a lot that a margarita and a hug can't solve. Slightly refreshed, I went to my tent to change into the first of my many outfits.
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For weeks before, I searched social media for outfit ideas. What does one wear to a drug-induced dance party in a dust storm with 69,999 of your (soon-to-be) closest friends? The answer is not much.
I donned a purple velvet bra, high-waisted bikini bottoms, a fringed silk kimono, a cowboy hat, and the mandatory goggles. Out on the Playa, I felt strangely conservative in my bra-bikini get-up; most women were showing a lot of ass. When I say a lot, I really mean all. I also noticed the trend of small nipple covers as a shirt.
I loved the social freedom
At night we cruised the desert in an "art car" — a massive truck with a dance floor and DJ booth on top of it, created expressly for hauling not-sober people around the Playa. A young man — wearing only a g-string and a hoodie — boarded our party truck and started grooving with us.
This was one of my favorite parts of the Burner experience: the social freedom people have to meet, talk, dance, and hug strangers, who then become non-strangers and then give you a cold Michelob Ultra. The young guy whispered above the house music, "You are the real art here." He was a bit icky, but the adoration of middle-aged women was a counter-cultural phenomenon that I could get into.
Also, the art was amazing. It's worth a trip to the Playa, even if you aren't into EDM or dirty camping. After a long day of biking through the dirt to see the installations, I said to my husband, "I'd do anything for a lemonade." Not two minutes later, as the dust settled, a yellow lemon, the size of a small house, appeared, offering free ice-cold lemonade to all. I nearly cried.
That night, we attended the wedding of our camp-mates, Better Lover and his bride. In this alternative universe, marriage and monogamy are not really the vibe. But the wedding was beautiful. They declared their commitment — he in gold pants and red fingernails, she in a gold crown and purple braids — as the fading sun turned the desert shades of pink and orange. Even in this upside-down world, love seemed to win after all.
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Then the mud came
Then it started raining. Biblical rain and our art car was no ark. After almost 24 hours of deluge, we crawled out of our tent into a strange, barren world of mud. Without options, we began to hike out. The mud caked to my boots so that I carried an extra 10 pounds on each leg.
When we got to the deserted road, they called a "highway," a skinny, well-tanned weed grower from Oregon drove us to the nearest town. There, we stuck out our thumbs. I'm not sure if we manifested it or if Burners are just cool people, but as we sat — muddy, dejected, and hungry — a couple came up to us and said four beautiful words, "You need a ride?"
Talia and Sean had escaped their young twins and rented the single last RV in Reno. Although rejected at the gates of Burning Man because of the rain, they recreated the experience right in that RV. They drove seven of us to Reno, offering kombuchas and snacks along the way. Talia got out her goddess cards, to which we each presented a question. "Should I go back to Burning Man?" I asked. The answer was something about being open to new experiences and seeing where they take you.
Burning Man is more than a drug party in the desert for young people. It's an alternative world where no money is exchanged, age doesn't matter, and art is essential. There is no fitting in because no one fits in — that's the point. I didn't have a spiritual awakening or become a transformed person. But I had a year of new experiences in three days.
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In middle age, that is hard to find. I don't think I was ready for all of it last year, but I will be this year. This time I'm hoping for less rain, more love, less moop, and more ass.
