The Burn

A city is constructed, a city is burned to ashes...what happens in between in anyone's creation.

Kiwiburn is New Zealand's own homage to Black Rock Desert's annual Burning man festival. For three days at the end of January, outside Taupo in mangy Mangakino burners, pilgrims, hippies, weirdos, generic wasters and guilded German builders gather for the regional event. Ryan donned his giant LPG flame puffer (much to the dismay and delight of the curious), Karl constructed an achingly beautiful temple (by far the most impressive feat of the event), Kiwi built a flailing, celebrant man (that spells things with his movable arms) and Otto flew from the States to bring New Zealand his well-hung Norseman (fire spewing cocks are always welcome).

The days were spent wandering grounds, admiring art for its own sake swaying to music meant to chisel the blunt edge of sanity. Afternoons were wasted lazing under the trees while keeping rigorous worship of the Alter of the Dead Cow. Then came the nights of debaucherous laughter enveloped in warm layers of inebriation, like children of the apocalypse we sought shelter from the fallout and sturdy ground to stumble upon. The dawn heralded the drinking of craft beer out of dirty bowls and gifting whiskey kisses to eager strangers, we watched wide-eyed as enormous limbs fell from trees onto tents below prompting quick scurrying from the safety and warmth of collapsible caravans. The elements greeted us with Mount Pedro's fiery eruption, double rainbows, gales and tempests and seductive, sun-soaked evenings. The man's fire spewing copper tubing hardwired itself into our souls and the temple burned silently revealing the rain soaked moon and we were all reacquainted with that most delicate and gently undulating star-studded universe of ours.