SiSU: - Homeland - Cory Doctorow

Homeland
“Look at what the storm blew in,” said a gravelly, jovial voice from the yurt's shadows.
“Better hose `em off before you bring `em over here, John, those two've got half the playa
in their ears.”
“Come on,” said the bearded man. He was wearing tie-dyes and had beads braided into
his long beard and what was left of his hair. He grinned at us from behind a pair of round
John Lennon glasses. “Let's get you cleaned up. Shoes first, thanks.”
Awkwardly, we bent down and unlaced our shoes. We did have half the playa in them.
The other half was caught in the folds of our clothes and our hair and our ears.
“Can I get you two something to wear? We can beat the dust out of your clothes once the
wind dies down.”
My first instinct was to say no, because we hadn't even been introduced, plus it seemed
like more hospitality than even the gift economy demanded. On the other hand, we weren't
doing these people any kindness by crapping up their hexayurt. On the other other hand
--
“That'd be so awesome,” Ange said. “Thank you.”
That's why she's my girlfriend. Left to my own devices, I'd be on-the-other-handing it until
Labor Day. “Thanks,” I said.
The man produced billowy bundles of bright silk. “They're salwar kameez,” he said. “Indian
clothes. Here, these are the pants, and you wrap the tops around like so.” He demonstrated.
“I get them on eBay from women's clothing collectives in India. Straight from the
source. Very comfortable and practically one size fits all.”
We stripped down to our underwear and wound the silk around us as best we could. We
helped each other with the tricky bits, and our host helped, too. “That's better,” he said,
and gave us a package of baby wipes, which are the playa's answer to a shower. We went
through a stack of them wiping the dust off each other's faces and out of each other's ears
and cleaning our hands and bare feet -- the dust had infiltrated our shoes and socks!
“And that's it,” the man said, clasping his hands together and beaming. He had a soft,
gentle way of talking, but you could tell by the twinkle of his eyes that he didn't miss anything
and that something very interesting was churning away in his mind. Either he was a zen
master or an axe-murderer -- no one else was that calm and mirthful. “I'm John, by the
way.”
Ange shook his hand. “Ange,” she said.
“Marcus,” I said.
Lots of people used “playa names,” cute pseudonyms that let them assume new identities
while they were at Burning Man. I'd had enough of living with my notorious alter ego,
M1k3y, and didn't feel the need to give myself another handle. I hadn't talked it over with
Ange, but she, too, didn't seem to want or need a temporary name.
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