Burning Man is a schlep. For the average participant, one must be radically self-reliant and purchase enough food, water and supplies to survive at least seven days in an arid, dusty desert where the only thing for sale is ice. It’s a seemingly endless loop of packing, loading, unloading, unpacking, building and setting up, only to break down, repack, reload, unload and unpack all over again.
In between, the body and brain are depleted of fluids and serotonin, while everything you bring collects a layer of corrosive alkaline dust that follows you home. For those who choose to lead a massive theme camp of over 300 people, you might as well be prepping for the 10-year Trojan War. A common assumption made by those who are unfamiliar with the Burning Man ethos is that the seven square miles of Black Rock City’s elaborate art installations, sculptures, stages, theme camps and art cars are created by a production overlord like Goldenvoice or Insomniac.
The reality is that most of Burning Man is dreamt, designed, built and paid for by its scrappy, resourceful attendees — the majority of whom are not backed by tech moguls or millionaires. Like Burning Man’s humble beginnings on Baker Beach in the 1980s, Frothville began as a small band of “Frothin’ Weirdos” (their original camp moniker) whose claim to fame was their sunrise ribs and champagne party with tunes provided by longtime Burner Random Rab. As the years progressed, so did the Frothin’ Weirdos, who absorbed mul.