Cafe de la Fin du Monde Feeds the Soul On and Off the Playa

Sometimes all you need is a good cup of coffee in the morning with a good friend to put your life into perspective. Last weekend I landed back at home after a nomadic summer that produced many strains of deepening within me. One of the more memorable things that happened within my psyche was the realization of those who were in my life who truly loved me, those who were only in my life when I made the effort, and those who were in my life to somehow suck off of me. It’s amazing what occurs when you become uprooted and your only sense of feeling grounded comes from deep within your soul; and how that small sense of independence fortifies you for the truths you learn to the point where you can’t imagine living anything but truth going forward.

Upon returning home I was invited over to my friend Puma’s Den for a cup of coffee and to catch up at the tail end of both our summers. He had just returned from Burning Man where he had volunteered to fund, construct and manage Café de la Fin du Monde: a café serving free coffee to the Burners out on the Playa day in and out for ten full days. 

Anyone who has ever been to Burning Man knows that there is a huge difference between having a service camp and just going as a regular. It takes a special person to decide to devote their time to offering up free goods that benefit the other campers’ overall experience under the sweltering sun and blinding dust, requiring thankless, selfless and payless work. Having been there myself, I know that I have a special appreciation for these people who will suddenly appear on a street corner at midnight to offer up a fresh grilled cheese sandwich after you’ve been living on the tail end of your beef jerky rations for two days in a row; or the chorizo burritos on the second to the last morning that you wait behind 100 other people for, hoping the supplies don’t run out before you get up there, hungry for the taste of anything other than the metallic bottom of your thermos that has been emptied of fruit juice or whiskey for 24 hours, reducing you to your last gallon of water.

The people who run and volunteer at these camps are special and always surprise you with a smile as they hand you whatever edible they have to share. My friend Puma fits that bill and this year, Café de la Fin du Monde, which was a part of the French Quarter Camp and sat front and center right on the busiest corner of the Playa, delivered over 500 cups a day from sunrise to sunset. Anyone who brought his or her own cup over was treated with a freshly ground, dark roasted bean brew.

It was good to be served a few cups of this coffee and to learn about his experiences there, the way he had the most fun while meeting all the people who walked up to his counter daily from all over the world, and how grateful everyone was just to get this one, simple thing in life.

As I was leaving he gifted me with a brand new French Press. His third eye must have been working because I had just jotted the words French Press down on my list of things to buy as I moved in to my space again.

I write all of this now on my comfy couch, resettled into my space with basic necessities unpacked as Bravo continues to run teasers about this season’s Housewives of New York shows. I hear these girls, all of the age to be more mature than what they express, fighting, backstabbing, obsessing over clothes and plastic surgery and staying young and getting money and I laugh at the thought of any of them having any kind of authentic experience in life. I think of the things I have learned over this summer while on the road and the true colors I was shown in my world of close friends and how I have embarked on the conscious weeding of unconscious people from my circle.

Thank you Café de la Fin du Monde for further fortifying my soul.

Post Burn Fuel

We brought trail mix, pistachios, almonds, coconut water, and wine.

We also brought plenty of whiskey for our canteens that we would sip periodically through the harsh and cold evenings. Just one or two sips would cure our frigid bones for the evening, going quite nicely with the fire that burned in various places across the stark desert. I learned that whiskey was the drink of choice on the playa for this reason. Everywhere we would go and flash our canteens, people would ask, "Is that whiskey?" and we were expected to share a drink. It was like the calling card of friendship for the burn.

We subsisted on a gallon and a half of water a day, fed each morning into the camelbacks that dressed our shoulders.

There was no produce nor anything else that needed refrigeration. We were down to bare minimum during this exercise in radical self survival.

The only sustenance we could count on were the daily offerings from other camps in this gift economy, camps that offered chorizo burritos on a Monday morning, or pancakes at center camp, or the three vegetarian meals a day that were made with love by the Hare Krishnas where we were staying.

The vegetarian meals were iffy at best. Because we had no clocks or technology or cell phones, we depended on the good old sun to relate the time of the day, which meant arriving at the meal tent for breakfast, lunch or dinner hoping we weren't too late to dip our recycled spoons into curried rices, sweet potato and spinach mashes, and other meals that tasted good but all blurred together under the heat.

It didn't matter though, that our food was slim pickings or unpredictable, because we were on another planet where food was just the fuel to let you go back on the playa, bicycle wheels whipping the dust and icy yellow light, until your thighs burnt so bad you were forced to go back to the tent to lie down and recuperate for the evening ahead. An evening that would consist of walking the landscape at night, gallons of water disappearing and food nowhere near the mind.

After we left, food was heavy on the mind. My camp mate Sonia told us about an Indian food taco truck that was usually parked at the exit to Burning Man and sure enough, there it was offering wraps and other goodies to a crowd with a big portion of attendees in the healthful eating genre. Cars were lined up to get an order of richness back in the world of the hungry.

As I drove home to the desert the next morning, my gut was aching for Indian food but as I suspected there were only signs along the highway for the usual fast food restaurants, offering puffy fats and chemical tastes, and my week had somehow made me averse to even the smell emanating from these places. Then, like a mirage an Indian food restaurant arose on the side of the highway in Sacramento and I quickly took a turn when I saw the banner exclaiming "Wraps to Go". Piryani with extra vegetables, curry sauce and a sweet mango lassi later and I was on a new food mission back home.