Burning Man Mudpocalypse: What You Didn’t See on Instagram
What I learned as a first-time burner during the 2023 Burning Man lock down.
This was my first burn. I’m what burners would call a “virgin” and decided only two weeks before the gates opened to hop on the bus. For years throughout my twenties, I’d hold equal parts fascination and slight judgment for burning man culture. I was hustling away in New York while going through my own spiritual awakening of sorts and half my friends were burners.
On one hand, I adored the outfits, the open mindset, the art, the DJs, and healing culture. The ethos of a free society where currency looked like poetry was attractive. On the other hand, I was slogging away living paycheck to paycheck and I couldn’t help but think it hypocritical that this radically inclusive festival was also visibly frequented by the rich and privileged.
Then I started dating a long-time burner, one of the “OG’s” who’d been coming for 10+ years. He’d lament about the “sparkle pony” Instagram culture takeover but also insist that the festival was still at its core, an epicenter for human decency to thrive. He painted a picture of a city run on kindness where status is irrelevant and your inner child can flourish.
This was enough to convince me to take the leap. This year, I found myself in the thick of another existential crisis, with enough privilege to ask myself the question, “Am I living up to my true human potential?” Professionally and personally, I longed to see what I have to offer the world when living most authentically. Burning Man, with societal conventions and commodification allegedly stripped away, seemed like the perfect container to do this soul-searching work.
Ironically, this year’s unprecedented playa monsoons made for the most challenging burn on record. Any expectations I had of a hippie haven were washed away to reveal the “real” burning man project that’s been underway since 1986.
What I experienced was entirely different than what clickbait headlines reported. From false reports of ebola and Fyre Fest jokes to sensationalized ‘exodus’ updates of an otherwise muddy traffic jam; reading recent reports would have you think I need to go straight to therapy. Throughout my seven-day stay on the playa I observed and better appreciated this misunderstood, complex, and nuanced counter-cultural movement.
Here are the biggest takeaways from Burning Man (soaking man?) 2023:
1. Don’t buy into the gram
One of my biggest turn-offs to coming was the montage of sparkly half-naked goddesses that flooded my feed whenever Labor Day weekend was over. Truly, how many appropriated headdresses against neon sunset backdrops does the internet need?! The average human could be forgiven for thinking that Burning Man was just a glorified Coachella fest with better art.
Ever before it started raining, I experienced all the “unglamorous” moments, which would have been helpful to see on social media beforehand to manage expectations! A few surprises included the “grey water” showers most camps use for a three-minute dust rinse. Also the painstaking team effort of building and striking camp setups. Caveat: This was also one of my favorite ways to bond.
Social media also didn’t properly depict the cheeky, creative, heartfelt everyday sightings experienced in playa neighborhoods. I was deeply touched by intergenerational families, kids and grandparents alike, enjoying the wonders of this crazy conscious carnival. By the end of the week, it dawned on me that what wasn’t captured on the gram were the parts of Burning Man worth coming for.
2. Playa principles were tested in crisis
The playa is run on ten principles that all burners take very seriously. A few highlights include self-reliance, radical inclusion, civic responsibility, gifting, participation, immediacy, communal effort, and not littering (mooping). There was never a more important time to lean into these “guidelines” in a lawless land than during “mudpocalypse” when the rain started falling.
Not everyone was prepared mentally and logistically, as some folks came alone. So the established camps with strong infrastructure and communities mobilized, took in strays, rationed, and shared resources. I was in a camp run by a survivalist, and the teamwork life lesson was hugely underscored as we rebuilt fallen structures to keep everyone safe and dry.
Facing muddy, uncertain waters with a community mindset offered both logistical and emotional support–with everyone stepping into their strengths and chipping in to do their “civic responsibility.” Most burners were mindful of taking care of each other and having respect for the land. Though the “portos” got full toward the end (I can never unlearn the phrase “coning”), a sense of community ownership prevented people from shitting in the open streets and the environment from getting real messy.
Truly, I’ve seen worse hygienic conditions on Venice Blvd in Los Angeles.
3. Mudpocalypse was an equalizer
Apparently, billionaire and celeb culture at Burning Man is a very real thing. At best, they are “tolerated” by OG burners concerned about classism in their de-commodified society. High-profile plug-and-play $30k+ camps are usually on the outskirts of town and ring controversial to the community’s core principles of radical self-reliance and de-commodification. And yet, these camps also donate massive sums to support the Black Rock City infrastructure, so they’re allowed to stay.
Within my first three dry days, I ran into five A-list actors, musicians, and Silicone Valley personalities who were being treated very much like everyday dust walkers. When the storm hit, I found myself huddled in our camp’s tent with an A-list actress seeking refuge. It was her third burn, and she shared great gratitude for our shelter. We swapped dust stories and I helped her plan a very muddy walk to her RV. The next day, she came back to get her bike and brought first aid to make sure everyone in our camp was well. A true burner who gets the principles!
Elsewhere, Chris Rock hiked six miles in the mud for unfounded fear of cannibalism and helicopters rescued billionaires during street lockdowns. So, while most of the headlines play into society’s “love to hate” fascination with the wealthy tourists of Burning Man, the deeper conversation is missing. Many of the 70,000 attendees come from diverse socioeconomic backgrounds, with some who receive grants to attend free. This year gave the festival’s fair-weathered tourists and influencers a good “cleanse” and it’s unlikely they’ll be back. The ones who get it will.
4. Burning Man Isn’t One Big Orgy
This one’s for my mom! Contrary to sensationalized reporting, salacious sex isn’t out in the open air. There’s a strong chance you’ll see some free-nipple bike rides bouncing along the playa, but the dust and mud you’ll find curious places isn’t an aphrodisiac for everyone.
If you come to Burning Man and do want to explore your sexuality, it’s not hard to find consent-conscious camps that require a prerequisite hour-long safety onboarding process. After, you can also find the “church of cheese-us” to repent your sins in exchange for grilled cheese.
5. You have to dance through the chaos
Let me be honest, there was never a time when I felt a threat to my life during muddy man. I did; however, feel deeply uncomfortable, trapped, and anxious like many others. We were told to hunker down and shelter in place, a phrase most of us still have PTSD from hearing during the pandemic. Organizers were doing their best to assess how to prevent chaos. And while some burners ran for the fences, others started to dance in the rain.
I may have been part of the previous crowd, had I come alone instead of with a camp. But the rain ended up being a bonding agent for my new family, as we took turns lifting each other's spirits and emotionally supporting each other's anxieties. Staying positive was contagious and the best way to do that was to play in the rain. There was no shortage of parties to be found in the three days of being stuck! Sitting with the discomfort, you’re forced to make the most of it.
Today, I finally touched down in Los Angeles after a two-day exodus and actually felt nostalgia for this great adventure. The friends made in the seven days at Burning Man will remain through my entire life, as will lessons in survivalism through team synergy and relentless optimism.
My biggest bottom line takeaway? If end times come, I’m betting on the burners!
Header Photo: David Crane/Picture Alliance via Getty Images
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