Diary: Life on the Playa
Friday afternoon.
The topless parade of bicycling women is the talk of the camp. Burners who don’t know about it follow the mass of cyclists shooting godspeed across the playa. There is somewhere to be and this is it. Women are cheered by the revelers. They are young, old, heavy and thin and they wave to us. An old man snaps photos. Pervert.
Another dust storm. Visibility is zero. A disc jockey from a Black Rock City radio station reminds listeners that the dust is not a recreational tool. “Don’t snort the dust,” he says. We’ve got dust crusting our noses, lining our throats and nesting in our lungs. There’s no more room.
Friday night.
The playa at night is like a county fairground. Platform shoes kick up dust. Blinking lights and novelty acts scream for attention. People are laughing, hugging, glowing and strolling. Burners with megaphones hurl friendly insults at other burners who stroll past. Barkers with P.A. systems on art cars spew friendly witticisms. Crawling ships, giant bugs and rolling discos creep through the dark. A live band plays from the top of one car. Dancers carouse on another. Flames burst from propane tanks mounted on bicycles and other assorted vehicles. ABBA, Thomas Dolby and Led Zeppelin mesh with tinny Middle Eastern sounds. Train whistles, sirens and space age sound effects battle the pulsating techno music.
It’s night time at Black Rock Roller Disco. There are wobbly skaters, fallen skaters and rolling dancers. She is beautiful, graceful and in her element. She skates across the roller rink with ease. Hips moving, body swaying, she skates backward, forward and sometimes stops to spin. She wears a straw cowboy hat, white tank top, black pants and glow jewelry. We’re mesmerized.
Saturday afternoon.
We’ve had it with slacking Internet connections. We sit. We wait. We eat. We shuffle things around the RV. We look for whatever it was that we set down five minutes earlier. This place is a mess.
Saturday 6 p.m.
The Mayor just pounded on the door. “Lets go,” he shouts. Now he’s by his camper. He wants us to hustle. Apparently he believed us when we’d be ready to swap campsites the second he came calling. He’s not really mad. He’s trying to get our butts in gear. Zach says we should move the pile of light sabers off the driver’s seat (a playa gift from the day before). “I thought they’d be ready,” the Mayor says to Tiffany, who has stepped outside to check out the commotion. We move things around, slip on our shoes and step outside. The Mayor has rounded up other campers from Mutts Borough to help with the task. We move our bikes, our table, our water jugs. Switching camps is important. We’re pulling out immediately after the burn and at this moment we’re locked in, jammed between tents, cars, campers and a giant fuzzy mouse.
6:30 p.m.
The Mayor’s kindness was exceptional. They call him Mayor because he was the mayor of Reno in the late ‘70s. Bill Wallace. He’s popular here in Mutts Burough. Everybody loves him. He’s the real deal, salt of the earth, easy as they come. That describes most of our camp. Kitten greets us in the morning. Nacho shares our lawn chair, takes photos of us, asks about our progress and offers us beer.
