The gorilla and his bride-to-be stood at the end of the pier, hand-in-hand, as the presiding official put the megaphone to his lips and began the ceremony. “Do you, Tuffy, take this gorilla to be your lawfully-wedded husband… ‘til death do you part?” “I do,” said the blushing bride, with white feathers in her dreadlocks matching her immaculate dress. The priest continued. “Do you, gorilla, take this woman to be your lawfully-wedded wife… ‘til death do you part?” “UUNNNGH!” grunted Rymo through the slits in the gorilla mask, as the wedding party broke apart in fits of laughter. I’d say we were in for an entertaining night on the playa.
The setting for the night’s activities was the Burning Man Festival, which was held annually in the arid Black Rock Desert of northwest Nevada. 50,000 people unleashing mayhem in a temporary city designed by artists and anarchists. Imagine if thousands of men and women, instead of running off to join the circus, had persuaded all the circuses of the world to run off and join them. That’s Burning Man. A few large structures had been commissioned, but the rest were labors of love, built to satisfy the creative aspirations of feverish minds.
My camp had built a three-story structure to the specifications of our own feverish architect, and the tower featured a trampoline on the top floor. Like many creations at Burning Man, our structure doubled as both a bar and a DJ booth. But tonight we were not hosting any parties. We were out in search of other sources of electronic music, and thankfully we had brought with us a vehicle worthy of a trip across Black Rock City: the Pyrobar.

The Pyrobar certainly lived up to its name. Benches folded out on both sides, so festival attendees could chase us across the dusty playa, jump onto a seat and present their cup, which we would fill with a free alcoholic beverage for their efforts. And of course, the vehicle could shoot jets of fire. A lounge filled with pillows was available atop the Pyrobar when one began to feel sleepy, and a crane was equipped with a long, dangling silk for aerial performances.
For all its accoutrements and features, our vehicle was not the most eccentric to roam the desert. We shared the chaotic terrain with all the mutant vehicles that the craziest minds on the planet could invent: giant insects, fish and flowers, pirate ships and pink kittens with grasping claws. Eye candy was everywhere, lit up by neon lights, lasers and shifting banks of LED bulbs. Even the people without vehicles would festoon their bikes or persons with glowsticks and LED beacons.
The site of the wedding was another inventive project: a long fisherman’s pier built out of old, splintery boards to replicate the feel of the real structure, minus the presence of any sort of water. A bait shop lent out fishing poles and lures to attract the varied assortment of Black Rock City citizenry: glow sticks to attract ravers, aluminum cans to attract avid environmentalists, etc. The fisherfolk sat patiently on the pier, hoping to hook passersby, who were usually game to take part in the joke.
And of course, ridiculous stunts like the aforementioned gorilla wedding were occurring throughout the city. For now, we remained focused on the antics of our friends. Rymo was demonstrating the typical Burning Man attitude towards safety by spinning fire in his highly-flammable gorilla costume. And Tuffy actually did set her wedding dress on fire a few times during the reception.
When we moved on, Kitty claimed the hammock-swing that had been attached to the Pyrobar crane. She dangled behind the vehicle, a few feet above the ground like a dolphin caught in a fisherman’s net as we drove away from the bright lights of the nightclubs and went deeper into the open space of the playa. I gave her a push, and she joyously twirled towards and away from the backside of the car, giddy with the visual sensation of the ground rolling away beneath her.
At dawn, we stopped at the Temple of Transition, a hauntingly beautiful 120-foot gothic, hexagonal tower ringed by five smaller towers. It was one of the biggest structures ever to grace the playa, and like so many others, it would be burned to the ground in three days, with the ashes hauled away. Some projects out here went home with their creators, but others would disappear forever. We had to absorb places like the Temple and hope the memories would not be swift to fade.
Fatigued from multiple nights of minimal sleep, I laid down in the Pyrobar lounge and closed my eyes for a few minutes as we drove away from the Temple. When I stirred again, I was greatly surprised to see we had gained a 1.2-mile long tail of purple, helium-filled balloons! Each contained a tiny LED light, and at nighttime the chain of lights had hovered in the sky above the city. I could only suspect that we had accidentally driven through the connecting wire and snagged one end, pulling it loose from its anchor.
Later, I learned we were not the nefarious art thieves I’d feared we’d become. While I’d been sleeping, the creator of the art piece had clipped one end of his balloon chain onto the Pyrobar and hopped on board. Accompanied by the surreal sight of a string of purple globes trailing off into the seemingly infinite distance, we drove onwards toward the far end of deep playa, seeking the holy grail of breakfast destinations: the Dust City Diner.
Our search was not in vain. Similar to our vehicle, the diner was mobile and you could never rely on it to be in one place every morning. Yet find it we did, and soon enough I was sitting eagerly on a stool, being served coffee and freshly-made pancakes by waitresses wearing checkered dresses, yellow beehive wigs and horn-rimmed glasses. They were the best-tasting pancakes I’d ever eaten, because they were free, generously given, and they were being served out in the middle of the desert where I had no right to find or expect sustenance.
Logic can never dictate what one will experience during a night at Burning Man. To endure the endless series of unpredictable encounters and to flourish, one must steadily step away from preconceived ideas about human culture and free the mind from expectations for the nights to come. There’s no other way to survive in this kind of city.

Bryan is a 1991 Norwich High School graduate and works as a naturalist at the Rancho Alegre Outdoor School in Santa Barbara, CA. You may reach him mid-journey at foolsby@hotmail.com.