The climate crisis makes its presence known at the massive annual arts festival.
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The proverbial dust settled earlier this week after attendees at the annual Burning Man festival were finally given the green light to leave after torrential rains turned the event grounds into a muddy quagmire that prevented tens of thousands of people from driving out. Festival goers were told to conserve food and water until the ground dried sufficiently for cars, trucks, and RVs to drive on.
For some, this round of uncooperative weather may remain only an unfortunate footnote in the storied history of this increasingly popular arts and music festival, which has been happening since the 1980s. But for others, it's a jarring wake-up call that such massive events are not exempt from the harsh realities of global warming, which makes such extreme meteorological events all the more intense and more frequent. If anything, it may be time to rethink large events such as Burning Man, which attracted more than 70,000 people this year alone.
Truly Leaving No Trace?
Many are drawn to the festival for its various music events and its mind-blowing art installations, which often dot the surreal landscape in this slice of the Nevada desert, known colloquially as "the playa."
Guided by Burning Man's tenets of radical self-expression, self-reliance, and inclusion, literally almost anything goes in this week-long festival where no money is supposed to change hands, and a culture of gifting and community-building is cultivated.
One of Burning Man's most well-known principles is to "leave no trace," where partygoers are encouraged to meticulously pick up every bit of debris and "matter [that is] out of place" in order to leave the site in a better state than it was found.
However, the gap between Burning Man's ideals and its reality can be quite large. Despite attendees' efforts to leave no trace on the site itself, local residents in the nearest town of Reno, Nevada, have spoken out about how their town has become a dumping ground for discarded items after the event. The event could arguably contribute to overconsumption, as SFGATE reports:
"Public works has seen 'everything from coolers and bicycles to RVs' dumped in Reno after Burning Man. [Bryan Heller, the assistant director of Reno Public Works] estimates about half-a-dozen camping vehicles get ditched each year in the city. His guys sometimes pick up enough garbage to fill six 30-yard dumpsters. That's about 400 curbside garbage bins of trash."
A Complex Ecosystem Under Strain
Then, there are the scientists who say that the site's delicate ecosystem is put under immense strain each year as tens of thousands of festival-goers converge on the 4,000-acre site to set up their camps and installations.
Though the otherworldly pale sands of the playa may seem like they don't support much life, it's actually an ancient, dried lakebed that reawakens under rain, as Patrick Donnelly, Nevada's state director of the Center for Biological Diversity, pointed out a few years back:
"Burners may mistake the playa for nothing but acres of dust. But playas are ecosystems that sustain a variety of species. Each year when the snowmelt floods onto the Black Rock, tiny communities of macroinvertebrates like fairy shrimp and brine fleas come to life. In a beautiful example of co-evolution, the timing of this hatch coincides with the arrival of migratory birds, who feast on these bugs on their journey north. [..]
"Playas are also complex hydrologic systems, draining and evaporating water based on small changes in topography and the alkali composition of the desert soil. Over time vehicular and foot traffic has changed the hydrology of the Black Rock. [..] Burning Man needs to take more responsibility for the damage it’s done to the environment and accept that it may have already reached the natural limits imposed by the Black Rock Desert Playa and its rural surroundings."
Climate Clash
It would seem that Donnelly's views aren't unique; in fact, during the festival's opening last week, a coalition of climate organizations—including one founded by concerned members of the Burning Man community—blocked traffic temporarily from entering the festival grounds.
The short-lived protest was an attempt to draw attention to the fact that the event produces about 100,000 tons of CO2 a year—90% of that coming from travel as people drive and fly from all over the country and internationally to reach the festival.
Rising temperatures over the last few years have translated to more air-conditioned domes on the playa that operate on fossil fuels. Burning Man even has its own airstrip catering to private jets and helicopters. During that one week, the event ostensibly becomes Nevada's third-largest city, nicknamed Black Rock City. Though Burning Man has implemented various initiatives to make the festival greener, some protesters like Will Livernois of Scientist Rebellion are pointing out that it's simply not enough:
“The climate movement has reached a point where there is a split between climate mitigation through technological fixes, and climate justice that’s more oriented around systemic inequalities. We have to shift away from Burning Man’s green capitalism and focus on degrowth.”
Gentrification in a Microcosm
Indeed, some of those systemic inequalities are playing themselves out in how the festival has been "gentrified" in some ways by Silicon Valley's elite, as those who can afford to travel there on their private jets also exploit the labor of less-wealthy attendees to set up and maintain lavish and exclusive "plug-and-play" camps. As writer Keith A. Spencer eloquently laments in "Why The Rich Love Burning Man," this gentrifying microcosm sadly reflects the macrocosm outside the boundaries of this temporary festival:
"In a just, democratic society, everyone has equal voice. At Burning Man everyone is invited to participate, but the people who have the most money decide what kind of society Burning Man will be—they commission artists of their choice and build to their own whims. They also determine how generous they are feeling, and whether to withhold money.
"It might seem silly to quibble over the lack of democracy in the 'governance' of Black Rock City. After all, why should we care whether Jeff Bezos has commissioned a giant metal unicorn or a giant metal pirate ship, or whether [venture capitalist Jim] Tananbaum wants to spend $2 million on an air-conditioned camp? But the principles of these tech scions—that societies are created through charity, and that the true 'world-builders' are the rich and privileged—don’t just play out in the Burning Man fantasy world. They carry over into the real world, often with less-than-positive results."
Burning Man as a phenomenon has clearly reached a crossroads, brought on by the constraints of a finite planet and an increasingly unequal society. Given the fragility of the site's ecosystem and the very real environmental impacts that it imposes year after year, it might be time for organizers and community members to rethink how the festival continues going forward. Might Burning Man ban private jets, single-use plastics, and further commodification? Or perhaps it could also shift toward a bi-annual timing like some massive festivals have already done to lessen their carbon footprint? Perhaps it could also transition to a primarily decentralized model that features more regional "burns"—local Burning Man-inspired events that already happen year-round?
Whatever it may be, radical change needs to happen. Of course, we as a society will always need more art, beauty, and inspirational experiences in the world. At its most idealistic, Burning Man represents all those and more. But ultimately, those ideals have to be rooted in reality—and right now, that increasingly dire reality requires an urgent response.
(Sources: Treehugger)
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