2017 Burning Man

Photo By F.Felix

I’ve been interested in Burning Man for years, but just like snow boarding I've resisted going. I already do enough sports to fill my garage with equipment and I have plenty of travel destinations to use up all of my fun coupons. But when a friend offered me a free ticket and an early entry pass to this year's Burning Man I jumped at the opportunity.

I started off trying to write something that would make sense of the experience, some sort of frame work to give me and a reader some bearing about the event. But I quickly realized that what I had written was all wrong. My time at Burning Man had nothing to do with logic. No, it was more like a free spinning wheel, where one hilarious instance, led to the next. Trying to give semblance of time was impossible also, because time itself became rubberized, stretched around the edges by a batch of dark matter I firmly believe exists there on the playa. Any effort to put Burning Man into a box, or to give explanation would just be wrong. The following ramblings come from ten days of living on the playa, these are just observations.

"John what are these drawings?" "I don't know, just stuff I think up." Okay, well it's time to read, not draw. I'll-just- take- that- folder- till after class." "Yes Mrs Wilson."

Photo By F.Felix

At some point early in the week, while bicycling around the Playa at night, I cross paths with a giant, fire breathing party bus that is pumping out disco music. As I ride into the night the Bee Gees are stuck in my head. These next lines were accompanied by either Night Fever, Stayin’ Alive, or Jive Talkin'.

Young buff men being ogled by young buff men. 

Breasts of all types – small, large, firm, jiggly, hanging, tattooed, and others: almost non-      

existing to round and delightfully full.

Naked men with, without tan lines. Dust on their bare ass cracks. Why. Question mark.

Sparkle Ponies all make-up and attitude. Look at me. Not you. Eew.

Towering brown mass, roiling. RUN! Naked man on BMX bike, his tent flattened.

The next scenes came with John Denver singing Rocky Mountain High.

A lantern fish with blaring house music and shit pumper truck pass on the road, no wind stirs the dust. Lantern fish snorts fire. Shit truck’s eyes narrow, ignores the fish while humming his song.

White ruthless heat. It will be hotter tomorrow someone says. Impossible, I just saw the sun slam into the shitters at 3:30 and F.

I bought a tandem bicycle so that I would be able to give people a ride. One day after spending time exploring the playa, I was peddling home and was nearly back to the city when I saw a young woman striking out across the playa in the heat of the day. It was blistering hot and the wind had just started to stir the dust, but my gift was to give people rides. I circled back and asked if she would like a ride to wherever she was going. She accepted, told me she was going to the temple to put up a remembrance for a friend who had died recently. We rode in silence for a bit as I let this sink in. The night before I had spent a couple of hours reading the dedications placed in the timbers, which would eventually be burned.

Spiritual talk of the heart. Dead family and friends. Young and old alike memorialized burned atTemple. Emotions well up in the dark. Tears for people I’ve known for twenty-eight seconds    

As much as Black Rock City and the antics of Burning Man was a continuous source of amusement, it occurred to me that something else was at work here. After several days of waking up and living on the baked playa mud, it became clear that the Playa, with its heat, dust and wind is a personality to itself. From then on I capitalized Playa in my writings because it was no longer just a dry, flat ancient lakebed. I came to view the Playa as a Being of multiple dimensions, with a  mischievous personality. One moment Playa is a lover with a kind touch, the next a rascal with claws and fangs. 

Large strong clouds fill the sky, then there is wind and dust, the Playa sends a message of its presence, it says – You can be here, but it is I who created this stage. I set the conditions, I wrote the rules. I have been master here since Time formed this land. For ten million cycles I brought the water, along with insect, raven, coyote, antelope, wolf, and bear. I watched them have young and I watched them teach their young. I watched them kill and I watched them be killed. I watched them gaze to the distance and sniff the air. I watched them observe me.

Then Movement came and I dried the land for a million cycles, I made it ready for the next creatures. And when the time was right I introduced myself. I am the cracked baked mud on which you dance, celebrate and fuck. I am the black roiling clouds and I am the lightning within those clouds that seeks. I am the wind and I am the dust in the wind. I prey on weak tent stakes and the stupid amongst you. I am fire. I am rain and I am the drops that splat on your naked shoulders. I am Playa. I made this stage. I brought you here. I watch. You observe.

From the moment I turn on to hwy. 34 I fall in love with the place. Strange, bright lights far off in the distance mark the entrance into another world, another reality. It is the place where those imaginative childhood drawings meet the articulate skill of being an adult. Burning Man is the place where decades of experience from around the world come to be realized, released, then burned to the ground. Black Rock City is loving, dirty, irreverent, brilliant and completely mad, all in one moment. Light, sound and smell combine to assault the senses, but it is an attack only if your mind stays closed. If you allow habits of judgement to frame your mind's perceptions, you'll miss out. 

Burning Man is a trick, a huge wonderful practical joke, played out with a cast of seventy thousand. Even it's location is a poke in the eye to the necessary, ancient act of building one's city near water. The founders drove into the desert, planted a flag and have spent the last twenty-eight years laughing with those who see the joke. And because BRC is located on an ancient dried lakebed, under a blistering desert sun, a level of self reliance, coupled with generosity makes this experience all the more rich. Everyday, all around me, strangers offered me shade and water, or food and spirits. I am reminded of the Raramuri phrase - Korima, what I have, you have. And Kuira-ba, we are one.

Playa watches, what does it see?

Compassion, passion, vanity, love, jealousy, generosity, judgement, and joy. Grown man in pink tutu.

Playa listens, what does it hear?

Thumping music, gasping sex, gentle vibrations of taunt string, laughter, and angry yelling. Twenty thousand yapping, howling dogs at sunset.

During the day the dimensions of Black Rock City and the Playa, are truly entrancing. But it is at night when the true strangeness occurs. 

Photo By F.Felix

Photo By F.Felix

Photo By F.Felix

 Naked BMX bike guy emerges from his tent, packs, pulls on shorts and rides off. Home?

By Monday morning BRC has started to empty. All around me are the sounds of clanging tent stakes and poles. I wonder why so many people are drawn to this inhospitable place. Yeah for sure the scene is over the top. The art work at night scattered across the Playa, combined with all the crazy lights, flame throwers and throbbing music is unlike anything I've seen. And lets not forget the Man and Temple burns. They are so irreverent, and thrilling, but at the same time spiritually fulfilling. On the other hand it's hot as hell, and the dust gets everywhere. So with coffee cup in hand I walk over to my neighbor and put the question to them. I ask them to boil it down for me. Why do you come out here year after year? After a long moment to think she answers, "it feels like home." Her statement triggers a wave of strong emotion in me and I find that I can't speak. I know exactly what she means. Finding home, that place where we fit, where we are welcomed to be who we are, can be a difficult task. Every year, if just for a short period of time, Burning Man supplies a city where acceptance can be experienced. Where sharing and being kind amongst complete strangers is the normal way to act.

To my friends who made this all possible, thank you very much.

                           

Running

I've been trail running for over two hours, and now my right knee and left hip are starting to talk to me. I have no idea of the distance I've covered, I stopped using my Garmin a year ago, and the release  of not knowing, of not keeping track of my pace and distance on every run has had a profound effect on my "run enjoyment meter"

Seven years ago I got off the couch and went for a run, and from that small effort a new chapter was started. At first I ran only enough to finish a ten kilometer run at the end of an Olympic distance triathlon. Then in November of 2011 everything changed, and I viewed running not as a means to an end - to become fit, but rather to enjoy the simplicity of moving through an environment unencumbered by equipment.

For years I was a cyclist, both road and mountain. I enjoyed the sport for both its physical side and its mental release. Every ride was a way to exhaust pent-up energy, or to pull myself up from a spot of no energy. Cycling was a way to weed through the layers and layers of useless thoughts, and to arrive at a place of calm, a place of clear insight. Riding a smooth road bike on uncrowded back roads to purge the demos was easy, almost mindless or automatic. But running has been another matter. Running is hard.

On a bike when you point down hill you can coast, saving your strength, and restoring much needed oxygen to your legs. You can also relax and eat, or drink,  but not so running. Running down hill is jarring, it pounds your quads, ankles, and lower back. It requires your full attention to smooth it out and to keep yourself from a face plant. And though running up-hill is smooth, it is tiring and can turn your legs to jelly.

Running long distances requires me to constantly check the systems. How is my breathing, am I going too fast? How much fluids have I had, do I need food? My stomach feels upset, why? What do I need? All of this and more takes place while I'm picking my way down a trail that is just the right pitch to run fast down, but that is littered with baby heads - loose round rocks waiting for a missed step. As a youngster I would blast down this hill without hesitation, but at fifty-five, parts of the machine are worn and need more care. And I'm still an hour away from my car, so a crash could be a huge bummer.

Trail running has, for the last four years, been my go to form of exertion and expression. I identify myself as a runner, a person who pursues the craft of running. A person, who over time, has learned to read the signs of his body and the environment around him. Just like humans have done for thousands of years, my equipment is simple, water, small amount of food, and something to protect my feet, if these are insufficient, then like my ancestors, I accept the consequences, and learn.

After hundreds of hours and thousands of miles, running has become easier, I've relaxed, lost the effort. Now running has become contemplative, cathartic. Often I find myself stopped in the middle of a trail lost in thought, or seated on the ground engaged in a mental conversation with a friend long dead. Today while running it came to me that I've let this blog get away from me, there are too many unfinished stories - Alaska, two trips to Mexico City - all written to some degree, but none finished. "John your a lazy sod" I think to myself. But then I remember where I am, and laugh.  

From the Bottle. Thesaurus.

 Recently it was spring. So I opened the windows in the kitchen, the laundry room, my bedroom, and the room that I call the office. I opened the back door, the door that enters from the driveway, the door to the garage and the garage door its self. And I propped open the storm door with a large rock that I keep on the front porch. It was warm, breezy and I had a slight headache from drinking too much the night before, and thought that the fresh spring air would make me feel better. But I let in two large flies and a thesaurus. Not good.

A thesaurus is odd looking. They are all roughly rectangular in shape, but their width varies with breed. Their eyes are large, dark and have a liquid quality to them. Their nose is very narrow where it divides their eyes, but massively large at the nostrils. And their mouths are equally large. The largeness of their nose and mouth makes it possible for them to breath in continuously while speaking, loudly, in one long steady stream without taking a breath. Their ears, which are located on their back side, or back cover, are also large. But the thing that is most peculiar, and that adds a comic air to them, is their feet. First, because a thesaurus does not have arms, their feet act as their hands, hairy hands. And second, their feet are positioned ninety degrees to their eyes. So when a thesaurus walks, or runs, and they often run, they resemble a small parade float that is constantly trying to see in front of itself as to avoid a collision.

Besides being odd looking a thesaurus is also a troublesome creature. If an old thesaurus gets in your house it may just find a place on your coffee table, or an empty ottoman, and for months it will be quiet not saying a word. But a young thesaurus in your house is a big problem. They are arrogant, outspoken, and hyperactive. They will follow you around the house, getting under your feet while calling out alternative words in response to everything in sight.

The thesaurus in my house on that warm, breezy, lovely spring day, was a very young thesaurus. How do I get rid of it? I thought. My headache from drinking too much the night before pressed harder on the backs of my eyes every time the thing bumped into me and shouted out some word in response to apparently nothing. “Torrid: blazing, fiery, sweltering. Persuade: convince, move, assure, cajole. Vandal: despoiler, looter, hooligan, see PIRATE.” It went on and on like this. I leaned against the kitchen counter and thought, then it came to me. A friend had lent me a few books that he said I had to read, telling me that I would raise my IQ by reading them. I’m all for that I remembered, and started a pot of coffee.

While the coffee was brewing I walked around the house and closed the garage door, the door to the garage, and the door to the driveway. I moved the large rock and closed the storm door and the front door, but I left the back door open. I found my book, The Metaphysical Club by Louis Menand, poured a cup of coffee, and went out to my garden table. I put a cushion on the wrought iron chair and settled in. Thesaurus eyed me suspiciously from the back door, and wouldn’t budge. Even though the thesaurus is an annoying know-it-all, it is still a very smart creature. I sipped my coffee and thought, I need to up the bait. I stopped reading, or pretended to stop reading, and looked quizzically at the creature. Thesaurus stopped bouncing and looked at me. “What! What do you want to know?” It shouted out. I stood up and calmly walked into the house and walked back out with a dictionary. Tripping over its own pages Thesaurus raced out of the house and collided with my chair just as I was sitting down. “I know every thing  Dictionary does,” he said in a whinny adolescent voice as it picked himself up. I sipped my coffee and pretended to read while the thesaurus jumped and bounded around stopping only briefly to peer over my shoulder and exclaim that the book I was reading was really good, but that he would have used a different word for aesthetic. 

When I finished my cup of coffee I stopped and stared for a long moment at the empty cup. Then I slowly put down my book, looked at the thesaurus and said that I would be right back. Careful not to rouse its suspicion I left the book on the table and walked to the house. As soon as I entered I closed and locked the door. In a flash Thesaurus  was fuming and stamping at my back door, and just for a moment I felt bad. Then it was shouting out something about “judicious, improper, and shameful.” I walked back to my kitchen for that cup of coffee. A short time later I heard the voice of Thesaurus through my open kitchen window. He was following two older women who where out walking their two small dogs down the street. Thesaurus had gotten himself tangled in the leashes, and the two women, who were visibly annoyed, tried to simultaneously untangle Thesaurus, while shooing him away. I leaned against the counter, and sipped coffee. The whole scene brought a smile to my face. A moment later the two flies that had been let in earlier, flew into the kitchen. One fly bounced off the screen of my open kitchen window a dozen times before resting. The other fly landed and sat motionless on the counter to my right. He looked at me, I contemplated him, he said nothing.

UMCB 2015

  This was going to be my third trip to the Copper Canyon, my third time running the Ultra Marathon Caballo Blanco, and I was more ready then ever. But this year forces fueled by hatred and violence wrote the script, and the race was cancelled. Now I'm back in Guanajuato and am able to reflect on the events of the last weekend.

In 2012 I hiked into the canyon with a large group led by Micah. While stopped to rest in a deep cool creek canyon, Micah told us to put away our cameras, and to not take them out until we got to Urique. Once back on the trail we started to see irrigation lines snaking along the trail, then we passed fields of marijuana being attended by one or two men who waved at us. Then further down the trail we passed a field of opium poppies, a women in the group pulled out her camera to take a picture of the beautiful flowers, and I politely informed her of what she was about to photograph, she put her camera away. This trip was transformative for me. I met the Raramuri and was deeply impressed by their physical beauty and quiet disposition. I met Micah True, who through his sole efforts had been putting on races for years, and paying out prize money from his own meager wages. And all of this was taking place against the back drop of the vast Barranca del Cobre, the Copper Canyon, a place that I've come to love.

When I got home from the race I told anyone who would listen, my story, and told them that they should go themselves. I told them to not be afraid, that it was safe. I returned to the race in 2014 and once again had a great time. I met people from around the world with whom I had wonderful discussions concerning our individual lives and how our lives are entwined in the broader world. Then we all went running together, and at the end of the day multiple cultures from around the world, along with the Raramuri, stood together exhausted, dirty, and sweaty...Kuira Ba. Once again I returned home elevated by the camaraderie, and once again I spread the invitation to join in. Yes this event is held in the middle of cartel central, and yes there are police with large guns even at some of the aid stations, but still I felt safe, I told people.

When my friends and I arrived in Urique on Wednesday afternoon, the town seemed quiet. The next day, Thursday, Dean, Zeke, and I went for a run south of town. It felt great to be there and we talked about how we wanted our race to go. Later after our run my friends and I walked back into town to have lunch, something felt odd, the locals seemed to be nervous, but to be honest I didn't give it much thought. On Friday there was a group walk to Guadalupe Coronado which took about four hours. When we got back to camp we decided to have lunch in town. I told my friends that I would walk up the hill to where Dean and his family were staying to invite them along. When I got there, a women who was frightened came out and asked me if I had heard the gun fire. I told her that I had not, and that I was sure she was mistaken. When I walked into town the atmosphere was stiff, and after lunch as we walked back to our camps Dean and I agreed that something was up. What none of us knew was that earlier that day armed cartel thugs had commandeered a pick-up truck and its driver. Then, in the middle of Urique, in broad day light, they disarmed the local police and kidnapped two of them. The events of the next thirty hours became very bizarre.

Still later Friday my friends and I walked through Urique and crossed a foot bridge to where a camp had been set up on the other side of the river for the Raramuri. In previous years there had been over a hundred Raramuri runners and their families, along with many Mexican nationals, and runners from around the world. When we arrived early in the evening there was fewer than twenty Raramuri, and a handful of foreign runners. By this time rumors of the abductions had started to circulate, but there had been no official confirmation. In fact no person from the race directors to the local officials had been seen for hours. Still later Friday night the documentary film about Caballo Blanco was shown in the plaza just meters away from where earlier in the day three men had been kidnapped. Both race and local officials where there to introduce the film, but no mention was made of the incident.

The next day, Saturday, was the kids race, an event that I was really looking forward to. The children raced through the streets and the mood was joyful and light, and for a short time it seemed that Urique had regained its festival, that the darkness had been lifted, but not quite. Later that day after package pick-up my friends and I sat in plastic chairs directly across from the plaza and that is when I noticed that the long table normally set up for all of the local officials was missing. It was about 1:30 a time when the street, in previous years, was one long party, and the pre-race celebration would be well under way. But instead the mood was somber, and the street was not at all crowded. We walked back to our camp sites.

Shortly after we arrived word came that there would be a mandatory meeting at 3pm, and it was then that we were told that the race had been cancelled. At this point I don't know what Josue, Maria, Flint or Mike knew about the violence, and subsequent murders, but it was obvious that they were all under a great deal of emotional stress. Marie asked us all to join her in a show of solidarity and walk to the plaza where Josue would be announcing the cancellation to the rest of the community. We were all very disappointed to be sure, but this was the right decision. The situation was a cauldron that could have easily gotten uglier, it was time to leave.

I left the meeting and ran up the hill to where Dean, and his family where camping to let him know what was going on. But before I could say anything he said he already knew, not because he had been told, but because he had been listening to a gun battle taking place just a short distance south of town.

Dean and I walked into town to a scene that would, over the next few hours, digress to the point of surreal.

A large group of international runners led by Maria walked into the plaza, many of them wearing their red race t-shirt, and with an arm held high showing the peace sign. We were told that there would be an announcement soon, then blaring music blasted from speakers, followed by a Mariachi band. Some people actually started to dance, and I realized that they probably didn't know what had been happening, but some did, and I was furious. I was not going to party knowing that people had been abducted and probably murdered. I was not going to party while there was a gun battle going on just a short distance away. It was just the wrong response.

Thirty odd minutes later all of the people directly involved with the race gave the announcement. We were told that there had been violence in the area, that they felt it too unsafe to continue, but still no details of the true seriousness of the situation were given. The disbelief in the crowd was palpable.

It is my belief, and only my belief, that at this point Josue and Maria may have wanted to tell everyone of the true nature of the situation, but that the local officials did not want their cash cow to be scared and to then bolt. Before Micah started his race, and the creation of Norawas de Raramuri, there was little support available for the Raramuri, and his race was also a huge financial asset to the town of Urique. So it's no wonder what happened next.

After the announcement my friends and I gathered around a camp fire at the property of a local family who open up their house to folks who are there for the race. Dean his wife, his boys, and my friends Ethan, Anne-Marie, and their son Zeke all live in Mexico, and we all felt that it was time to go. The owner of the property came to our fire and she told us about how bad the violence had become over the last several months. She told us that locals were afraid for their lives, that homes had been taken over by cartel thugs, and that there had been little help from the local government. This information was known to the local government officials who were involved with the race, but they did not share it with the race directors, important information that could have saved us all a lot of grief.

A couple of hours later a man walked over to our fire and told us that the race was back on. For some time we could hear people speaking through the sound system at the plaza, but were unable to make out what they were saying, then thumping music would start again. Zeke and I ran back down to Entra Amigos just in time to see some folks involved with the race heading back into town to find out what was going on. Apparently the locals were ticked off about the decision and had orchestrated what can only be described as a coup. The race they said would be held.

Micah started this race to help a people that he identified with, that he loved and appreciated. But his race also became large enough that local officials wanted a hand in it for their own self promotion. Now after the events that have taken place I cannot imagine how this will turn out. Will local officials prove to Josue, Maria, and the rest of the running community that they can be trusted to report on conditions affecting the safety of those traveling to participate? Or will they simply not bother and stage the race themselves. Many Raramuri, locals, and international runners participated the next day, which told the officials that they don't need the gringos. And what kind of message did it send to the cartels when they can conduct mayhem and yet the race still took place. My hope is that all the principals will unite behind a plan that is true to Micah's message of peace and cooperation. I for one am willing to give it time, let's not compromise the spirit of this event just for the sake of short term monetary gain, or to stoke egos.

Festival International Cervantino Part 2

  On Thursday afternoon with the help of an acquaintance I retrieve my final two guests from the airport. With the arrival of Anna and Alan we are now seven, and after they unpack I'm ready to make them acquainted with Guanajuato.

The first thing to be accomplished is to get pesos. For the most part withdrawing money with your ATM card is the best way to go, and ATM's are usually where you'll get the best exchange rate. You will pay a fee for this, about one to two dollars, so I withdraw enough to last three or four days. By U.S. standards Mexico is pretty inexpensive. For our first night together I take them to Mestizo, one of the best restaurants in the city, and just a short walk from the house. We are seven. Five of us get steak dinners along with a salad, or soup. There are glasses of wine. Bottled mineral water. Desserts and coffee. When the bill comes it is approximately twenty three U.S. dollars apiece, including tip. Everyone is completely amazed and agree that in the U.S. this would have been a very expensive meal.

Dorantes Trio

After our late dinner we walk through town. The streets are filling up, the atmosphere is fun and inviting. Charlotte and I have tickets to see Dorantes Trio. Just outside the door Anna scores a ticket and gets in with us. The venue is small and intimate, maybe a hundred people. David Pena Dorantes, who the program describes as the patriarch of the modern flamenco piano, does not let us down whatsoever. David's blistering piano is accompanied by a relentless percussionist, and the most athletic base player I've ever seen. The music, once tender, races off at a frantic gallop combining melody with odd or opposing timings, along with notes that challenges the listener. But the music is not obscure, no it is often playful, roiling, and rollicky. But almost always there is an edge or twitch to it.
The trio takes the audience to the tipping point and plays with them over and over again.
After the show the three of us walk back to the house admiring the beauty of Guanajuato at night. It's 12:40 when we pass through Plaza San Fernando, and while many of the restaurants have closed a few are still open with people drinking wine, or having coffee and a dessert.

Street musician

On Friday things start to run together. Anna, Alan, and I take in the Museo de Momias. This is my second trip and it still creeps me out, but Alan is in love with the place and takes half a million pictures. The one sure thing about being dead is that no matter how good looking you are when you are alive, we all look like crap when we're dead.
Later in the afternoon a few people head to the Auditorio del Estado for a dance program. Afterwards we meet up  at the house for wine and to catch-up. Then it's back out for dinner before walking to Los Pastitos for a free show called Stalker Theater, Pixel Mountain.
For many Americans when I mention travel to Mexico they bristle. In fact everyone who joined me on this trip had a story to illustrate what I'm saying. But for me Mexico, the city of Guanajuato, and this event, Cervantino, more truly represents the international nature of this country.
Stalker Theater is an Australian physical theater company founded in 1989. Pixel Mountain is a collaboration with artists from South Korea. This dance performance on both a horizontal, and vertical plain, along with lighting effects, was created to call into question technologys' effect on the fast developing country of South Korea, and its people. I only know this because I read the program, and at this point I have to be honest, modern dance performances like this go over my head. But with that said this was a visually stimulating, and thought provoking performance. The interplay between the dancers and the lighting effects is beautiful. The performers are both beholden to the bonds, and actuate the reality created with light. In the end I feel that I have seen a truly wonderful piece, even if it's meaning is lost on me.

Pixel Mountain

Riding the Funicular