The biggest lesson I learned at Burning Man was the result of accidentally making eye contact from across an orgy.
Let’s back up. Hi, I’m Meg. I explored the world for 10 years before launching EveryQueer, a website prioritising the travel experiences of queer women, transgender and nonbinary people. I’m a traveller who reviews posh resorts for work and has a taste for butler service. So how did I end up in the desert, sleeping on the ground, with no electricity, phone service or running water — all while pissing in a bucket?
The one thing I’m good at is discovering and developing spaces around the world where queer women are flourishing. When I was gifted the opportunity to attend Burning Man for the very first time by a client of mine, I knew I had to say yes. I had six weeks to find a camp, organise transport, procure supplies, and to ship a bicycle 3,500 miles.
Those unfamiliar with Burning Man may think of it as a hippie-fuelled music festival, but in reality, it’s more like a 10-day-long, counterculture-based improv performance. Attendees construct the temporary Black Rock City on a piece of barren desert in Nevada. In 10 days, 80,000 people build a clock-inspired infrastructure, housing developments, hospitals, bars, restaurants, theatres, concert venues, amusement parks and all the hallmarks of any major metropolitan area.
Burning Man is also the world’s largest open-air art festival with more than 88 official large-scale works and innumerable smaller pieces scattered throughout the city. During the day, attendees ride bicycles around the dust-filled streets participating in interactive experiences curated by each camp — Black Rock City is home to more than 1,500 of these. At night, the neon haze is punctuated by EDM blasting through state-of-the-art speakers installed on “art cars” — vehicles
