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Labor Day was pretty laborious for those of the estimated 70,russian dad daughter sex videos000 Burning Man attendees who were determined to leave the festival Monday.

As you can see in the now-infamous picture of what Burners have long-called "Exodus," the line of cars trying to get off the playa -- the ancient lake bed where the temporary city of Black Rock is constructed -- had stretched into a wait of up to 9 hours. Flights were missed. Plans were disrupted. First-timers were furious.

And it was glorious.

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SEE ALSO: Burning Man at 30: Still blazing after all these years

Exodus is the one part of the Burning Man experience that still reliably sucks, year after year, and remains unlikely to change no matter how many tech billionaires and celebrities attend the event.

(There's a 5 mph speed limit on the playa, because too many vehicles going faster can whip up massive dust storms -- actual human-caused climate change. A simple two-lane blacktop connects this remote part of Nevada with the rest of civilization. Everyone has to merge into one lane to exit. You do the math.)

In fact, perhaps the biggest problem the event faces is the fact that the wealthy and the celebs -- exactly the sort of people who are most in need of sucky Exodus-like experiences to reconnect them with real life -- get to avoid it.

In this case, because they're able to fly out of Black Rock City's official municipal airport. Which, in 2016, offered scheduled flights for the first time, starting at around $700 with taxes for a one-way flight to nearby Reno.

For example, here's superstar Katy Perry taking a suspiciously dust-free selfie from the playa -- probably because, as you can see in her glasses, she has just arrived at the airport.

🔥AlivE🔥

A photo posted by KATY PERRY (@katyperry) on Sep 2, 2016 at 2:35pm PDT

There's a lot of resentment over the fact that elite attendees are allowed to get away with this sort of thing. This year, veteran Burners are divided over reports that a closed-off camp named White Ocean -- led by the son of a Russian oil tycoon and DJ Paul Oakenfeld -- was the victim of vandalism. The buzz among Burners is that it was an inside job, likely committed by some of the so-called sherpas who are paid to work there (some of whom claim they went unpaid).

But this talk of simmering class warfare on the playa misses the point. Let the one percenters arrive by air, their hair perfectly coiffed, their fake fur robes handed to them on arrival.

Because as much as they might claim their time on playa is "life-changing," they are not getting the authentic Burning Man experience they paid top dollar for.

Embrace the suck

The best homemade bumper sticker I saw out on the playa this year said simply: "Make Burning Man Suck Again." It wasn't just a clever take on a tired old Trumpism. For me, it crystalized something about the event I've been attending, on and off, for the last 17 years -- something I learn and then forget every year.

Burning Man, at its best, sucks. It's supposed to. In the crucible of the desert, in the process of having to think about the basics of survival in the most inhospitable environment on Earth, community is formed.

You become capable in ways that go far beyond the confines of your cozy, safe, somewhat boring middle-class life. You become the best version of yourself.

Now, if you've never attended Burning Man, but you have had to listen to attendees drone on about how good it is, you can probably sympathize with the woman in this just-released parody video:

What starry-eyed first-timers like this never mention is the mundane crap that makes up much of the Burning Man experience, largely because they have edited it out of their own heads.

To stay out of the med tent, you ideally need to drink around a gallon of water a day (don't forget your electrolytes!), which in turn mandates near-constant refilling of your Camelbak and trips to the increasingly sucky Porta-Potties up to a dozen times a day.

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What's that? You wanted to get more than three hours of uninterrupted beauty sleep? Your overworked bladder doesn't care. Nor does that dance camp across the road, or the guy with the megaphone humorously passing judgment on passers-by.

Sleep deprivation is a serious problem on the playa, and it's truly astonishing that the average Burner in the street tends to be as consistently genial as Mr. Rogers nevertheless.

Out here, the more you possess, the more of a struggle it can be. Anything that can move must be inside a container at all times or staked down with rebar, since those dust storms arrive with no notice. Shade structures, indispensable if you don't want sunstroke, must be tied down with all the knots you probably last used in the Scouts. Nothing, short of items you've vacuum-sealed, will remain without at least a thin coating of the ubiquitous dust.

The dust is not your friend.

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You may have heard about the ridiculous amount of cellphone data coverage this year, and I can't have been the only guy to shake his head watching the young 'uns cycle past on the playa at night while looking at their phones.

But like everything about life on the playa, device connectivity seems to have come at a price. I already know of three people whose iPhones suddenly stopped charging after its encounter with that insidious dust. At least one requires a new logic board.

For those whose phones died taking dope Instagrams, we salute you.

SEE ALSO: 50 dope Instagram pictures from Burning Man 2016

Back to the insane amount of prep work this supposed vacation takes. Because it's a Leave No Trace event, you have to figure out your own trash and recycling system. Ideally, you'll also want to build an evap pond for all your grey water, and rig up a shower on a rope-and-pulley if you don't want to stink the place up. Let's not get started on all the tricks necessary to keep food refrigerated without electricity. (Pro tip: fill your coolers with frozen bottles of water.)

Even experienced Burners arrive at the playa realizing they've forgotten a half-dozen essential items. The most itemized system of containers goes awry after a few minutes. Searches for That One Thing You Absolutely Need can take hours.

When I jokingly groused to my campmates this year that "50 percent of Burning Man is moving stuff from one surface to another," no one disputed the made-up statistic. It's true, more or less, and this is the half of the experience that is quickly forgotten the moment you hit that blacktop at the end of Exodus.

Feel the Burn

So why do it? Why go? Why do people put up with this? Are we all just victims of a kind of Burning Man amnesia? Or is it that the other 50 percent of the time is so good, it makes up for the hard part?

The answer, I believe, is neither. It's becauseBurning Man is hard that it's worth it. Your reliance on basic utilities are stripped away, forcing you to make do. And despite the principle of radical self-reliance that permeates the event, you are soon humbled into realizing how much we rely on each other. There's a reason why the vast majority of Burners cluster together in camps, themed or otherwise.

Camp life is both the most essential and the least documented part of Burning Man. It takes careful planning and the picking of just the right friends. A camp full of dehydrated egomaniacs who are screaming at each other by Day 3 is going to have a burn that's a thousand times worse than a camp where everyone works together calmly and efficiently to set up their little pre-assigned slice of playa together, no matter how long it takes; where camaraderie is forged in the heat of the job.

Sure, the art out there is nice and all, but a good camp with solid people is like gold dust. Especially if everyone has agreed to cook meals in advance on a rota. Never in the real world, not even at Thanksgiving, are you this grateful to sit down for dinner. Everyone just seems closer, happier, even wittier. There's a reason why Burner culture feels like a collision between thousands of improv artists, and it starts in camp.

Cooperation doesn't end at the individual-to-camp level, of course. Each camp, whether it realizes it or not, is part of a larger network that can help avert disaster. The culture of the event is such that, if one camp comes to another for help, that other camp will drop everything to find a solution.

That's part of what made the White Ocean vandalism so interesting. So far, the only details of the crime we have to go on is the camp's Facebook post, which reads in part:

A very unfortunate and saddening event happened last night at White Ocean, something we thought would never be possible in OUR Burning Man utopia. A band of hooligans raided our camp, stole from us, pulled and sliced all of our electrical lines leaving us with no refrigeration and wasting our food and, glued our trailer doors shut, vandalized most of our camping infrastructure, dumped 200 gallons of potable water flooding our camp.

Reprehensible and distinctly un-Burning Man-like acts, to be sure. (Although it's worth remembering that 200 gallons of water would be absorbed into the cracked lake bed in minutes, if not seconds; its vandalizing effects would be less serious here than in the real world, and a camp that size would likely measure its water capacity in thousands of gallons.)

But hang on: "sliced all our electrical lines leaving us with no refrigeration and wasting our food."

Perhaps White Ocean didn't realize that it was in a city full of people successfully keeping food cold for days on end with ice, not electricity. Or that ice is one of the two commodities you can officially buy on playa. (The other is coffee, because coffee.)

If it wasn't a camp that walled itself off -- literally, with a tight ring of RVs -- maybe White Ocean would have known they were part of a wider network of folks well-practiced in helping each other.

If it had made a genuine ask, the camp would have found its fridges filled to the brim with donated ice within hours, billionaires or no billionaires. Not even the sushi needed to go to waste.

That's the kind of lesson you learn when you endeavor to strip civilization away, then rebuild only as much as you need.

Sometimes, seeing what that looks like is worth even an 8-hour wait in traffic -- a line of people that were tired, dusty and more thoroughly together than ever.