by Molly Wright Steenson

THE HUALAPAI PLAYA looks more like Nevada as seen from a small highway - which, essentially, it is.

We hurry up and wait as the gate workers slowly admit the 40 cars ahead of us. When they finally let us in, we roll our car onto a sandy site in a busy neighborhood, and set up camp to theme songs from old TV shows.

In the morning, the whole playa looks different. My eyes adjust to the brilliant sunshine and I see tutus, shiny clothing, and naked, painted bodies. In Center Camp, I watch two friends get their breasts cast in the Bear Lair, and I slither through the maze at the Sperm and Egg camp.

We walk out to the Lingum Saturday night, to watch the "Daughters of Ishtar" opera. Once I'm there, I remember too late that Ishtar was a really bad movie, and that avoiding anything with the name Ishtar is sound advice. We leave before they set the Lingum on fire.

On Sunday, I do a shift at Radio Free Burning Man. Here, a special breed of chaos reigns, with myriad announcements - lost bikes, bingo games, confirmation of Princess Di's death....

Two hours later, the dancing procession starts at Center Camp. Cheers explode when it reaches the Man, setting hay bales around him aflame. Suddenly, a flaming man appears under the Burning Man. He runs down the steps, igniting the Man's legs. Fire engulfs the Burning Man and he falls over. The crowd runs into the circle, toward his fire, running around him. We drink champagne.

When we tear down our camp Monday, two friends lock their keys in the trunk. We stop a truck for help, asking if they have a torque wrench. A naked transsexual comes to the rescue, giving us her wrenches. "I used to be a mechanic," she explains.

On the way home, someone in Reno asks me, "Was this year better than last year?" Now that I've been to Burning Man twice, I realize there is no comparing any two years. Each is a unique happening: as crazy as it ever was, and as wild as it ever will be. It still comes down to the same thing: a community celebrating a strange holiday that makes more sense to me than anything else I celebrate all year.

Burning Man '97: Letters from the Desert