|
July 20, 2008 -- It’s been said that "[f]or one week every year Black Rock City is the fifth largest city in Nevada.
You can even get Fed Ex deliveries there." The fifth largest city claim is exaggerated, and the Fed Ex thing is debateable.
On Monday of BRC in 2007 soon after arriving on playa, I realized that I forgotten my bioidentical hormone replacement
capsules. Right before leaving for the event I said, "I can forget anything but these; without these I'm totally fucked."
Then I forgot them, and fucked I thought I was.
There is no way to just run over to the medical tent or take the bus to Gerlach and get this medication replaced. These
capsules are not the old kind made by the pharmaceutical giants from horse pee that cause cancer; these are the new kind
made specifically for me by a compounding pharmacist according the my gynecologist's best guess of what I used to have,
but don't have any more. Even if they caused tumors in rats (doesn't everything?), I'd take them anyway because my hot
flashes make me burning women all year long if I don’t take them. My Choctaw name would be "Skin on Fire." Who can sleep,
eat, converse, or have sex when sweating like a Clydesdale in the Phoenix Oktoberfest parade? This is not what is meant by
"Have a good burn." It was time to test whether the Fed Ex myth was true.
The guy at the Info Booth was pretty much of a dick about the whole “how do you get a Fed Ex?” question; however, the
beautiful sister at the Post Office, Lady K, gave me the information. The Fed Ex package needs to be addressed with a
name, camp name, street address, with Black Rock City, Gerlach, Nevada, 89412 in the address box. Luckily, we had a
satellite phone for emergencies, so I made a call to a kind friend back in Santa Monica with the delivery data. Then
I waited.
According to Fed Ex tracking information, the package was delivered to BRC on Wednesday, but it did not get delivered
to me at the camp address on the package. After a night of hot flashes that boosted the Greenhouse effect over the
entire Northern Hemisphere, as of Thursday morning at 11:30 my package had still not arrived , So I took that long
trip back to the Post office to make an inquiry. What I learned was that Fed Ex packages go to the Post Office and
stay there; they are not delivered to the camp address. Adding insult to injury and even though my package was at
the Post Office, the new postal-volunteer sister said she was really tired and hot and couldn't look for it because
the General was gone and all the packages were locked up. I was told to come back in a couple of hours when the
General would be there.
My mind raced. Did this mean there was more than one Fed Ex delivery waiting? Was there a secret vault brimming with
Fed Ex packages for those in the know? What pills did all those other people forget?
Back at my camp I bribed my significant-human to go back to the Post Office a couple of hours later. The story he heard
was that the General was getting married, and we should try back, yet again, in a couple more hours.
A couple of hours later as I prepared to make another trek for the errant Fed Ex, a whiteout descended on BRC. My goggles
and ventilator in place, I rode my three-wheeler through the blasting sand back to the Post Office. The aforementioned
new sister tells me that the General is there, and asks for my ID. My ID? This is the first time anyone mentioned an ID!
Why would I carry an ID in BRC? Am I going to get pulled over on my trike? Am I going to get carded by the love juice guy
squirting vodka and pomegranate juice in my mouth? The policy at the Post Office is “No ID, no package, no exceptions.”
Apparently, there are “policies” beyond the ban on wet wipes in the porta-potties, public sex, and sewage water on the
playa. Who knew?
I pointed to the huge dust storm, the 45-mile-per-hour winds, and the fact that in all previous trips to the Post Office
(which by then had half blown over) no one had bothered to mention this ID policy. I insisted on speaking to the General
myself. The woman led me over to the blown-over Post Office façade. We do not see the General, and instead I was handed
over to a person wearing severe weather gear with a surly, "she doesn't have her ID." Happily, when the severe weather
gear was removed I was face to face with the beautiful Lady K. I was heartened by the kindly face of beauty, and filled
with memories of the good advice she had given me two days before.
I first offered a solution to circumvent an additional pound of Playa being deposited into my ears on the long round
trip for the ID. Since we are all about community in BRC and not mindless rule-following, I offered to identify the
contents of my package, sight unseen, to prove that I was its intended recipient. Alas, the ID rules are rules that
can never be broken.
At that point, I began to relate to the term “going postal”, when Lady K offered a solution that would break no rules,
and still respected my wishes. She offered to ride across Black Rock City with me, carrying the precious package, and
once my ID was checked, hand over my pills. Thank you Lady of Light! On the way to our bikes, a helpful burner named
Kevin offered to go for the long trip across town with me. As it turned out, Lady K was the betrothed of the General
and about to be wed.
Back at my camp, I got my pills and Kevin got an ice-cold beer; and elsewhere Lady K parted the dusty skies and
married the General. Their fairy tale is sure to have a happy ending.
What I learned was that if you need an emergency delivery to your camp Fed Ex does not deliver to addresses in the
“fifth largest city in Nevada”. Fed Ex delivers to what amounts to a post office box at the main gate. And even
though your package may make it to BRC, if you don't have an ID, you'll never see it.
|
