The combustible art of Burning Man

By Caroline Carter

Riding a low-slung beachcruiser across the dazzlingly bright desert, you become part of a tribe voyaging through an unknown world. Two girls pedal past on a tandem, dressed identically in futuristic silver. Someone drives a scorpion across the road in front of you. An oversized VW campervan loaded with people stops to pass the time with a giant Beetle. A sunken ship lies half-buried in the dust. Music blaring from a thousand sound systems promises adventure in every direction.

Navigation is guided by the hour hand of a clock, with the Man at the centre; from the sweeping horseshoe of camps, all roads lead to him, a hundred feet up on his pedestal. Beyond, at 12, is a seemingly endless expanse of flat dusty Playa, stretching towards distant mountains that rise up to the bright blue sky. I circle round him and swing left towards 9.45, where I have arranged to meet the photographer Steve Double at a tea party next to a 20-foot wooden bell tower.