And the Dust Will Make You Free
By Michael Dees
04.11.03
Sitting in an open sided tent with several newfound friends, we hear the
dreaded words from across the 275 Plaza, "Dust storm coming!"
We all look up and see that the mountains to the west have disappeared.
Almost as if by magic, faces all around me have been transformed into
a sea of dust masks and goggles. Even people seemingly with no visible
means of concealing such devices on their persons are suddenly equipped
for whatever the desert has to throw at them
It's nearing sundown, so Bill heads directly across the playa at top speed
to start our dinner. I'm pulling Tessa C. Horse, so have to ride much
slower to keep from breaking her flapping wings off - one wing has already
suffered from my exuberant pedaling and amateur welding skills.
I don my protective gear and strike out toward The Man. The city is in
the shape of a giant "C", with the statue in dead center, and
my camp is exactly opposite from my present location. Within a minute
that landmark is no longer visible, nor is anything else more then five
feet in front of me. The blindness and disorientation is worse than in
any snowstorm whiteout I've ever encountered. My eyes and lungs are well
protected, so I perceive no real danger, and decide to extract the most
from this encounter with nature.
I continue pedaling in what seems like a straight course to The Man. After
a few minutes I hear sounds dead ahead, and people start appearing in
my small bubble of visibility. I ask one of these apparitions where we
are. "Two-fifty and Esplanade," he calls back. I have made nearly
a complete U-turn and am only 25 degrees further around the inner circle
than where I started. I again head out toward what my internal compass
tells me is the center of the playa. Three more times I discover the wind
has turned me back, advancing me only 15 or 20 degrees around the city.
Visibility is now up to 15 feet, and I can sense more shadows around me.
A bikini clad woman trudges by with only her hands to protect her from
the choking cloud. I offer her a spare dust mask I carry for just such
an occasion, and am rewarded with the upper half of a grateful chalky
smile and a heart felt, though muffled, "Thank you."
A little further into this wonderland of dust I hear the faint beating
of a drum. Is this some lone minstrel lost in the storm and calling to
his mates? Is he using his instrument like a foghorn in the mist to keep
from being run over by blinded bicyclists like myself? Drawing closer
I realize it's a lively tune he's playing for the pure joy of it. Evidently
I'm not the only one attracted by his music - a half dozen people are
happily dancing around him, and others are joining in as they are drawn
to this circle of life in the middle of utter desolation. No one seems
to care that they can barely see those opposite them in the ring - they're
just happy to celebrate life anywhere and in any way that they can.
I'm again reminded that there are no islands in this Floating World, but
a continuous network of bridges connecting all of us in ever changing
patterns and groupings. The bridges here demand no emotional or monetary
toll of those wishing to use them, but the travelers gladly contribute
their talents to enhance the enjoyment of those around them.
I continue my trek, wondering what other amazements this storm has to
offer. I don't have to travel far to find out. Here in front of me, in
the middle of a desert are two young ladies casually sitting on an overstuffed
sofa - one dressed as a belly dancer, the other as a mermaid, compete
with shells covering strategic parts of her body. Both are wearing elaborately
decorated and bejeweled dust masks and ski goggles as if these are a normal
part of their daily wardrobe. A detached wheel leans against the front
of the couch, conjuring up the image of two ladies waiting in their disabled
car for the auto club to come and rescue them. After talking with them
and inspecting their living room furniture, this image turns out to be
very close to the truth. This is a motorized love seat that threw a wheel
and was abandoned by its owner while he retrieved some supplies from his
camp. The ladies had chanced upon this meager haven from the wind and
decided to wait out the storm in relative comfort rather than fighting
their way through it. When the owner returned with his tools, old crumpled
straw hat, and dust caked face, the image of a back country shade tree
mechanic assisting stranded motorists came sharply to view.
Even the ladies' sedentary resolve didn't deprive them of the wonders
to be found in a Burning Man dust storm. As we talked, a large white figure
emerged from the murk - a man well over six feet tall wearing a long,
flowing wedding gown, a half-face respirator, and ski goggles. He stood
with his train billowing in front of a huge fabric art display mimicking
the dress' action, looking like an ad for Bride's Magazine on the planet
Dune.
Visibility is variable now as the wind depletes one source of buff colored
ammunition, and then quickly finds another supply to throw at us. In a
brief moment of clarity I can see Pod Village in the distance, and am
able to regain my bearings toward home. To my left is a man dressed only
in a respirator, ski goggles, tennis shoes, and the suit he was wearing
at birth. Pedaling a little further, I can feel the storm waning a bit
and am almost sorry to see it go.
I ask myself, "What other unique experiences could I enjoy from this
unbridled burst of nature, so unavailable anywhere else in my world?"
Three minutes later a sight never before seen on this planet makes its
dramatic appearance - a naked man riding a bicycle pulling a seahorse
with one flapping wing across a wind whipped prehistoric lake bed. Funny
how I had never before noticed that spring wire protruding from the seat
of my bike.
When I arrive back at camp Bill can't (or doesn't want to) believe his
eyes, and stands there laughing his head off. "Why?" he asks
between snorts. "For the hell of it!" I reply. Covered with
a uniform layer of fine dust, he says I look like I've been in a talcum
powder fight and came out the loser.
I can confidently say I have extracted all I could from this heaven sent
dust storm. I started this journey across the playa as a spectator on
a bicycle inconvenienced and blinded by the weather. Through my brief
glimpses of improbable reality in the belly of the storm I saw joy where
there should have been desperation. I saw beauty where one would expect
only sun-cracked earth. I experienced the inner warmth of helping someone
in need. I saw people reveling in the harshness rather than cursing the
skies. And I learned once again that happiness in living comes from enjoying
and learning from the journey no matter where it takes you. Attitude is
everything!
Emerging from this baptism by dust, I felt like a full-fledged citizen
of Black Rock City, and open to anything my stay here might teach me.
I'm reminded of the words of the great philosopher and songwriter Roger
Miller - "You can't roller skate in a buffalo heard, but you can
be happy if you've a mind to."
The wind that brought us this dust storm has one more surprise in store.
Its higher strata have nudged some welcome clouds between the sun and
Black Rock City. While enjoying the coolness, the first thunderclap takes
everyone by surprise, likely thinking someone has fired off one of the
many propane canons usually reserved for roistering on the open playa.
But it's real this time. As the leading edge of the rain makes its way
across the city I can hear a continuous roar of thankful screams, like
waders in the shallow waters of a gently sloping beach rejoicing when
a wave lifts them in turn on its way to the shore. I see people standing
outside with their arms wide and faces to the sky, hoping for a shower
long and hard enough to wash at least the top layer of playa from their
dust covered bodies. What we get instead is just enough to coagulate the
uniform coating into a semi-regular pattern of splotches, which would
later become the universal identifier of burners' cars as they made their
trek back home. But even this short cloudburst is just enough to cleanse
the air in preparation for the brilliant golds, oranges and reds that
fill the western sky as the sun offers up its last gifts of the day. Eating
our dinner of half-pound hamburgers and baked beans while sitting in the
van, the open double doors frame the sunset like a canvas done by an artist
who has squeezed too much paint onto his pallet and feels obligated to
use it all up. I feel this whole sequence of weather must have been choreographed
just for me, and I am truly grateful to the director. Also by this author: I GET IT!!
Finding out what it means to stay for the burn.
