Every evening the drumming intensifies. Obfuscating all but the most determined frog or cricket. A gentle murmur and sweet rhythm during the day, at night it is crisply carried by chilly air across the miles of scattered camps, ignited by natural intoxication of the “mating dance” bolstered by the freedom of nakedness and outrageous costume, artificially amped by an exotic melange of drugs and super pot. By the 5th day it sounds less like a band of human cicada as it does the soundtrack to a nightmare. Images conjured remind me of art history class…. and Hieronymus Bosch’s triptych. The beauty of the “gathering of the tribes” has digressed at the hands and voices of the “lost and loud ones” from the elders vision of “Eden” to a dark and twisted place. Exclamations of “loving you” now replaced by unintelligible and tormented drug induced shouts and roars, rising and falling, incessantly til dawn.