Sunday, August 26th

Renee and I get up late after our first night sleeping on the playa, putter around camp for most of the morning, set up the (new and improved) shower, and just let the playa mood permeate our beings.



Where else in the world does virtually every single passerbyer wave or smile at you? Some people wandering by say hello or welcome, some get off their bikes to give spontaneous hugs, and yet others take a rest at our camp for a casual chat, to give updates on the weather or exchange playa gossip. It's a tradition at Burning Man to put out prank rumors, and the city is usually awash with them. The challenge (and fun) is always to figure out exactly what is true and what isn't...

We spend a sweltering afternoon volunteering at 'Media Mecca', contributing our muscle to a pool of volunteers who hang lights, put up signs and flags, and in general pretty up the place. Who would have thought that my handiness with a screw-gun would actually bear fruit some day? On the playa even? It feels good to do something utterly selfless for once, without even the remotest chance of any retribution of any kind from anybody - except maybe a smile and a hug. And the satisfaction of being able to stand back, admire the product of an afternoon of sweating, and say "I did that!".

Another way of rewarding yourself on the playa comes in the form of something wet and cold - cocktails! Back at camp, Renee and I kick back with a refreshing vodka tonic, and get ready for the night. Hmmm... what to wear? I know! Tonight, it will be my blue sequined flame pants, a fur jacket, and my 5-inch Demonia platform boots. Yes. This is the height I was born to be. The universe only forgot to give me those last 5 inches ...

As the sun sinks behind the Western mountains, another Burning Man tradition makes itself heard: a loud singing "whoooohoooo!" arises out of the city, as its citizens turn towards the vanishing golden orb, raise their arms and bid it goodbye, ready to embrace the night. Burning Man a pagan event? Naaahhh ...

We head over to Jocko's, a friend of Renee's we ran into earlier at Playa Info, for some more cocktails. Jocko's tent is a shelter of the most wondrous kind - a desert tent he had special-ordered from India. Tall, round and cozy, this lush canvas tent is like the presidential suite of playa dwellings - despite the relatively modest footprint, it is big enough to accommodate a double-tall queen mattress, a costume rack, a bench, a chair, and a small table. The amazing thing is though that it is also dust-proof enough to host a laptop without dust cover. Note to self: Look into one of these for next year's burn ...

In Jocko's tent, I meet Peter, a gentle older man of luminous intellect and wit. Peter tells me about the challenges of designing, engineering and building one of the most spectacular art pieces on the playa last year: the Conexus Cathedral. He speaks of calculating arch tension and wind resistance, and having to drive huge anchors into the playa to make sure the structure didn't come tumbling down onto the heads of any burners ... I'm intrigued - but suddenly it's 11.30pm and time to bike out to the Greeter's Gate to watch the masses pour in for the midnight opening!



A seemingly endless string of shimmering, twinkling lights stretches across the darkness - in what turns out to be miles upon miles of cars. They are patiently creeping along in a neat line, eager to be admitted to the city. Thundering disco music pulses through the night, fueling the wild, howling party that is Greeter's Gate. People are everywhere - dancing, jumping, skipping and hopping through the dust in utter chaos, briefly illuminated in strobe-fashion by random car light beams.



Fire-spewing art cars rock the night with sudden, random heat. There is a girl in a floor-length pink faux-fur coat. A bunny-girl dashes past me. Santa is passing out event programs with a smile and a booming voice. Members of camp Apokaliptika, dressed in old war uniforms and donning oven-mitten-betipped faux (?) rifles, seem to be in charge of the impromptu bar. A guy in a pope hat and wearing tiny gloves on his ears hits me up in his British accent.



Renee and I dance and skip around for a while, I try and take some shots of the chaos, but eventually we get sucked into helping out as greeters. It's great fun to see the astonished, wide-eyed faces of first-year attendees, knowing that truly - "they've ain't seen nothin' yet...". Neighbor Dave even harasses a group of virgins into making dust angels ... Returning burners instantly reconnect with the mood of excitement and enthusiasm at the gate though and drive off, waving, hooting and yelling out their car windows...



Finally, Renee and I are too cold and tired to go on. We bike back to the city and our camp, falling asleep to a concerto of roaring engines, hammers pounding rebar into the ground, and a new layer of music, penetrating the night.