A M L
There is no exchange of money at Burning Man,
everything is given and received as a gift. The Israeli
with the temporary Hamsa tattoo on his back begins to
show Kenza, a Tunisian Muslim, how to roll the
dough for the pita, which spices to put on. I look over
and see big smiles on everyone’s faces. The storm has
long been forgotten.
8.45am: Like waking up from an Alice and
Wonderland dream I see a giant trampoline in the sand
between all of the yurts and tents. Kenza and I hop on
and soon a few men and women in their mid 30’s join
us. Some of my favorite childhood memories include
jumping on my family’s huge trampoline in our tiny
California central coast town. Now in my late 20s,
I’m jumping so high in the air, feeling a little silly. I
moved to NYC to become a fashion model 10 years
ago. Trampoline memories have almost been
forgotten and it’s been a long time since I behaved
with such carefree abandonment. The joy is
contagious and we all start laughing.
10am: Walking toward the Playa, Kenza and I come across
a giant Souk of pottery, spices, and henna tattoo stations.
I’ve never been to Marrakech but I imagine this is what it
looks like. At over 100 degrees the sun is harsh and the
sand sticks to my body. I’m wearing a pink slip and
military boots that I got for 5 dollars at the Army Navy
store. My hair is in cornrows that a campmate braided for
me with jojoba oil. I barely recognize myself. “I would
love a tea