by Will Chase aka Playaquest

I leaned over to untie my boots, and was knocked backward by the fetid stench of death.  Dead what, I don't know … and don't really care to know. My long day has been spent pulling the shattered remains of a stranger's house out of a lagoon, and I was really just looking forward to a cold beer and a comfortable chair back in camp, when I was once again reminded that people – lots of people – died here.  I shuddered to realize it's been six months since the hurricane hit.  Not six weeks … six months.

Immediately following Burning Man 2005, a group of Burners headed to Mississippi to help the victims of Hurricane Katrina rebuild.  The group eventually dubbed themselves "Burners Without Borders", reflecting their embodiment of the techniques and principles learned at Burning Man as the foundation of their working philosophy.  Intending to stay only a short time, as of this writing they've been in Mississippi for 6 months.  They've been helping people who the government has neglected, if not totally abandoned, such as the residents of Pearlington, Mississippi.

"Hurricane Katrina, That Bitch"
Pearlington, tucked in amongst the eerily beautiful bayous near the Louisiana border, has largely been ignored by the mainstream relief spotlight.  New Orleans tends to get the attention, despite the fact it's here that the eye of this vicious storm made landfall, running right up the Pearl River.  You can tell because trees and buildings are felled in two directions … one for the top of the storm, one for the bottom.

Pearlington is no stranger to natural disasters, yet its people love where they live.  They regularly ride out Category 3 and 4 storms when hurricane season wreaks yearly havoc on the Gulf Coast.  But Katrina was the biggest and fiercest hurricane ever recorded in the Gulf.  She had grown as large as a Category 5 storm, and was still packing winds up to 125 miles per hour when she hit shore.  The storm surge peaked at 34 feet of water and flowed nearly 70 miles inland, toppling trees, wiping houses clean off their foundations, and tossing boats and cars around like toys … it's not uncommon to see a tugboat perched awkwardly in what was somebody's front yard.

At a local makeshift bar (made from a carport tent), they sell a hat that reads "Hurricane Katrina, That Bitch," succinctly capturing the local sentiment.  Six months later, this tranquil, pleasant community still looks like a bomb hit it.  So Burners Without Borders came in, set up camp and started work.

Welcome to Camp Katrina
What they've created here is simply astounding.  A hardy and multi-talented crew of (for the most part) experienced Burners – averaging 20 in number – has created and maintained what is effectively a fully functional Burning Man theme camp.  Not only by necessity, since this town is devoid of infrastructure and services, but by predilection; it's what they know. 

They have constructed, using supplies garnered by donations, personal purchases or scavenged goods: a generator-driven electrical grid, a village of tarped PVC domes, a gravity-induced shower and drainage system, a solar-powered cellular-based WIFI internet cloud, phenomenal kitchen facilities (with a full time volunteer cook), recycling, gray-water management, a central fire pit and community space, a fully-stocked tool shed, entertainment center, sleeping for up to 30 people, and of course porta-potties.  There's both common and private space, sound system, a communal computer, storage space, construction space, and art almost everywhere you look.

And just outside this oasis, on either side, marshy debris fields stretch for acres, where gorgeous stands of cypress and live oak are riddled with the remains of shattered homes and shattered lives.

What's Your Art Project?  Disaster Relief
Like every good theme camp, Camp Katrina has an art project.  The art – and their gift to this community – is disaster relief.

So what's it like to clean up after a disaster of this magnitude?  It's hard to fathom, really, without putting yourself in the picture.  Imagine a big hand taking your house, ripping off the roof, and tossing all the contents like a big salad.  Then imagine that house either filled with water where it stands, or otherwise floating for a while on a current to be deposited (sometimes "intact" sometimes spread over an acre) on what will eventually become the banks of a bayou again ... but not before all its contents stews in 6-months worth of heat, humidity and water.  Think about that ... including the contents of your refrigerator, for instance.

That's what they clean up.  Demolish a house, stack up the inorganic debris and garbage for collection; pile up organic materials for burning; avoid the ubiquitous rusty nails, glass shards, and other hazardous detritus (one of the crew was stuck by a hypodermic needle through rubber and canvas work gloves the other day).  The crew is rewarded with the thankful tears of homeowners.

The crew alternates between house demolitions and environmental clean-up efforts, in order to keep the work fresh and interesting, and to hit the clean-up effort on all fronts.  There's a seemingly infinite amount of work to be done, and you've got to start somewhere.  Somebody's got to do it … especially the stuff that nobody else will touch.

The last couple days, they've been focusing on a lagoon chock full, bank to bank, with floating debris.  In the hurricane, entire houses were broken up and swept into the lagoon, along with their contents.  Refrigerators, water heaters, chimneys, doors, entire walls, decks, household items, everything.  And it all has to come out.  They borrowed three flat-bottom boats and some paddles, and floated crews out into the debris to push it piece-by-piece towards shore.  There, a couple guys with grappling hooks pull stuff into reach of the excavator (a massive back-hoe, dubbed "Trogdor"), which tosses everything ashore.  They've also demolished -- free of charge -- their 18th home, and installed a new town welcome sign crafted from debris found and recycled with the owners' permission.

Artists From the Ashes
The crew works long hours … and it's brutally hard, dirty and mostly depressing work.  But every Saturday, after working the morning on a demolition or debris project, the crew turns their focus on creating art, made in part from debris collected from the worksites. 

The pieces are burned, one by one, on the communal fire at Saturday night's party, and the locals and other relief workers are invited to join in.  It's safe to say they've never seen parties like we throw – fire spinning, fire breathing, burning art, thumping sound systems, Christmas lights, funny costumes – not quite your usual Mississippi bayou fare.  The feeling, they've found, is infectious.

A volunteer from another crew, Yankee Joe, came by one night with an alligator he hand-carved out of live oak and table legs using a chain saw.  "I've never done anything like this before," he said excitedly.  He also wrote a poem to read before burning it, telling the crew what their efforts have meant to this community.

Another volunteer, 70-something Gene, showed up with a jumpsuit, a wig, his first sculpture ever (titled "Blonde with Blowfish"), and a big grin of accomplishment on his face.  As he placed it on the fire, we nodded to each other, "they're getting it."

In my short time here, I've counted at least a dozen people who, based on what they've experienced in this camp, have committed to attending Burning Man this year.

A Communal Effort
Having learned from the playa about the power inherent in a community and collective creativity, everybody here works seamlessly, supporting each other at every turn.  Even with a ton of housekeeping tasks to perform each day, it can be a challenge to find something to do that somebody hasn't proactively taken care of.

There's a true feeling of mutual respect and admiration amongst the crew.  Very simply, it's the most profound and truest sense of camaraderie I have ever witnessed, let alone been a part of.  It's an addictive dynamic, and a significant problem for volunteers who fall under the spell of the "Burners Without Borders Roach Motel": you can check in, but you can't check out.

In essence, this is the closest approximation to the Burning Man experience you can enjoy off playa.  Making that connection, one crewmember noted, "We've been here more days than all the Burning Man's combined."

The Birth of a Meme
The Katrina crew is considering what options are next, because – like Burning Man itself – they don't want this deeply satisfying experience to end. They see enormous promise in continuing their civic activism, not just in Mississippi, but wherever the crew and its skills can be put to use.  Is it an entity, an ethic, a theme camp, or all three?  Where do they go from here?

Burners Without Borders organically, and almost accidentally, created something with incredible potential.  Applying lessons learned on the playa, this unique effort by a dedicated group of individuals has built the infrastructure and systems of a fully portable disaster relief team, while shifting the paradigm of how tactical response teams work.  This team is capable of taking on not only disaster recovery, but also community service work: environmental clean-up, erosion control, civic service, you name it. 

The true potential here is that not only is this team deployable, it's replicable.  This is not just a theme camp, it's a meme camp.  Using Camp Katrina as a model, this concept can be reproduced anywhere in the world by other crews.  Burners out there are able to survive in harsh conditions, creatively problem-solve with substandard working materials, apply civic principles within a community, and have a great time doing it. 

It's been said that the Burning Man event is overly inward-facing, and perhaps there's some truth in that.  But this crew has learned that you simply need to take it off the playa and out into the world.  Burners Without Borders is not just a system, or an infrastructure, but a concept: we are all Burners Without Borders.  We just need to make a coordinated effort to manifest it, and make an impact on people's lives.  And we certainly do.

A local woman walked into camp the other day, and said to all within earshot, "I want y'all to know that y'all's work here is really appreciated.  Nobody else, not the government, not nobody gave a hoot about us, but you did.  And you don't gotta be here … you're here because you want to be, and it just means to much to us.  Please don't go away … there's so much more needs doin'."

And that's what we're here to do.  Welcome to Camp Katrina.  This is Burning Man, year round.