Conception
It was late August, and I was finally out of debt. I had graduated from college and was itchin’ to travel, so I did what any rational person in my position would do: I bought an old school bus that runs on vegetable oil, the American way…on credit.
I had planned to backpack around the world, but something told me to first explore my own country. Aside from a high school trip to Disney World and an occasional basketball tournament, New England was my view of America. I had visited a sanitized commercial fantasy world and hardwood floors and hoops in different cities; twenty-four years old and the word ‘America’ remained nebulous and narrow for me. I wanted to see the real America, to break through the myths and commercial façades of Chevy trucks and stars and stripes to see what was really there. I wanted to see how people live, how they feel, what they think, and what guides their lives. I wanted to see the land, to experience the natural beauty with all my senses.
The original idea had been to find a cheap retired school bus and convert the fuel system to run on restaurant fryer grease myself (though I had little idea of how to do this). I figured if I ran into trouble my uncles would gladly lend their hands, and I could just step back, watch, learn and bear the profanity that accompanies any handiwork that doesn’t practically build itself. However, in the midst of my search I received an email from Arrow, a man I had met only weeks earlier who just happened to own a vegetable oil-powered bus. His message: “My bus is for sale for $4,000 if you’re interested…”
Though an already converted bus had fallen at my feet, I still couldn’t decide wheter to buy it or build my own. But there was another factor to consider: Burning Man. Burning Man is billed as “an annual experiment in temporary community dedicated to radical self-expression and radical self-reliance” that tests the mettle of thousands in the Nevada desert; but having never been, I was unsure of what that meant. Dustin, a good friend and shipmate from Semester at Sea and a veteran “Burner” had been recruiting me to attend for some time, and late one summer night at TEP—the infamous MIT engineering funhouse fraternity—Dustin, Alan and I made a pact to meet on the salt flats of Northern Nevada at Burning Man. All I needed now was some way to get to Nevada, and I needed it in less than three weeks.
Late one night in early August, Alan and I took the Chinatown express from Boston to New York to meet Arrow and the bus. My friend Eytan offered his place in Midtown Manhattan to crash for the night. After rousing Eytan in the early am, Alan and I climbed the stairs past the 35th floor onto the roof where we camped out above the city the sleep in the warm night air.
We had time the next morning before our meeting with Arrow and the bus, so we walked a few blocks from Eytan’s apartment to the United Nations building. Sitting in the once public viewing area overlooking the Security Council, we couldn’t help asking our tour guide uncomfortable questions about veto power, who uses it, the legality of the Iraq War, and what it all says about this club of nations.
We took the metro to Williamsburg, the hipster part of Brooklyn. We found Arrow shirtless and in cut-off jeans doing business from his Blackberry. We greeted and followed him to the outskirts of the neighborhood listening to the story of last night’s farewell party that he and his crew had had with the bus.
“You had a hundred people partying around the bus on the Brooklyn Bridge? Did you get a permit?” Alan asked Arrow.
“We don’t feel that our culture needs permission.”
“What about cops?”
“It was this very cool Tai Chi kind of thing, moving back and forth with each other. I mean, I love cops. I don’t like it when they beat up protesters, but I love everybody.”
The bus was parked behind the chain link fence of an old brick factory. It was an ‘89 International Bluebird with a faded green and silver paintjob, broken mirrors, rust, grease, and cracked windows. Inside, the walls and ceiling around the driver’s seat were covered in stickers and posters. The floor was caked with dust and grease. The backseat from an old car had been bolted to the floor across from an old broken oven. Makeshift wooden trunks that doubled as beds stood along the walls, filled with useless treasures and useful junk: disco balls, sleeping bags, capes, Christmas lights, jugs of grease, hoses and tools. It was perfect.
We installed a new electric pump and surveyed the bus inside, outside and underneath. The sun was setting so we packed up our stuff and walked to a local pub. The three of us drank a few Brooklyn lagers and left for a party at 3rd Ward, a large abandoned factory turned artist collective and creative workspace.
The next day, Alan was beckoned to Boston, but I stayed in New York for another day to tie up loose ends. First off: a bus driving lesson. Obviously, the best way to learn how to operate a 35-foot school bus is to drive across Manhattan to the auto-shop to pick up some fuel filters. Thankfully, it isn’t too difficult driving a bus—take wide turns, check both the spot and rearview mirrors, no problem. We changed the filter and Arrow repeated the instructions for properly operating the bus, including all the idiosyncratic quirks.
There was nothing left to do but take her home. I sat in the driver’s seat. Arrow stood at the bottom of the stairwell. We paused for a brief moment in silence exchanging looks of apprehension. Arrow was giving up a vessel of fond memories: the cross-country DJ tour in 2003, road trips with his daughter and friends, the NYC parties and parades. I was throwing thousands of dollars into a fallible machine, which in an instant could leave me with nothing but a hefty credit card bill. The nervous pause was broken with smiles and we shook hands. I lifted the E-break and I went on my way. I drove back across New York in rush hour traffic, spending the next seven hours acquainting myself with the bus and wondering what adventures lay down the road.
We had three weeks to fix up the bus before Burning Man, more than enough time to gut it, clean it, install furniture and adorn it with artwork for a cross-country road trip.
It only took a few emails and a couple of days before we assembled a eight pirates to crew the bus to Burning Man and lend their labor to transform the interior of the bus before our adventure west. We managed to scavenge some carpet, paint, and an assortment of building material. Alan and I gutted and washed the inside of the bus. Cat and Alan took the artistic initiative, designing a sunburst on the ceiling that spreads into the night sky toward the rear of the bus. Maya, Alan’s better half, added the perfect touch: streaks of light purple swirling across the black ceiling, reminiscent of Van Gogh’s “Starry Night.” We laid green carpet across the floor and built a platform against the back wall that would support our king size bed and provide storage space underneath. 
We hung a tapestry to separate the cockpit from the living area in the back. Donations of futons, bean bags and couches left us with ample furniture for a comfortable journey. The best addition to the bus, howeever, was sound. My buddy Greene donated and installed a stereo and subwoofer that dissolved the loud clacking of the engine in music.
The night before Burning Man, I was still making last minute additions and repairs to the bus and began packing at 3 am. Chris Crump, another Semester at Sea shipmate, had made a long trip from California, to Eastern Canada, and then to my parents’ home in time to head west to Burning Man. Chris dozed off in the backseat of the bus while I loaded food, gear, and clothes. By the time I had finished, it was past 4 am. After getting lost in a culdesac maze searching for Alan’s parents’ house, we eventually pulled the bus into a gas station and slept. A few hours later, I was awakened by the ringing of my cell phone; we connected, and the adventure began.