In the summer of 2022, I gave “Burning Man” a whole new meaning. Although, instead of soaking up the sun at the famed American festival, I found myself selling not-so-Smart Whip to a crowd of gas-heads in a Welsh forest – and nearly needing a skin graft for it. My name’s Tia, fabulous POWDER writer and your friendly neighbourhood burn dealer.
It was June 2022.
The academic year had just finished, the sweet smell of summer was in the air, and around twenty of my closest friends and I had escaped to South Wales to sesh the weekend away at Gottwood Festival, an electronic music festival advertised as a “mystical little party…hidden in the depths of the Welsh forest.”
Two days after we arrived, the energy was still ecstatic, the good vibes completely and utterly contagious, setting the tone for a summer 2022 that was going to be one for the books.
On our second to last night, a Saturday, we ran into a cheery Northerner selling Smart Whips – canisters full of nitrous oxide that are usually used to fill a balloon, which is then inhaled. We thought: ‘What are the chances of getting hold of laughing gas in the middle of the Welsh woods?’ so we, of course, bought as many as we could afford. At £80 a tank, the prices were double the standard in London – we’d been monopolised.
But my intoxicated self saw an opportunity to make my money back and, if I was lucky, net a profit. I knew if I was dumb enough to spend £160 on two canisters, other festival goers would be too, so I decided to sell three balloons for £20.
I laughed as the crowds gathered around, practically throwing cash in my face, desperate to get hold of a balloon.
That afternoon, security circled the grassy auditoriums in front of the various stages, meaning I had to be discreet. I had the Smart Whip wedged down the left side of my leggings, with my North Face waterproof hiding it; a combination of ecstasy, alcohol and nitrous numbing my body, I was completely oblivious to the extreme freeze that was burning my hip. It was only three hours later – when the gas was all out – that I felt a huge lump and blazing pain on my left side.
I’m a tough-tittied party girl, so I wasn’t going to let what I thought was a small burn ruin my night. I dance the night and the pain away…
The next morning, I woke up in my tent, sweaty and in complete agony, to find my hip was awfully blistered and raw. In a sudden panic, I woke my best friend, passed out next to me, and she moved like lightning when she saw the severity of my hip. We ran straight to the paramedics’ tent.
A combination of ecstasy, alcohol and nitrous numbing my body, I was completely oblivious to the extreme freeze that was burning my hip.
Tia Brown
The paramedic was wary of popping the blisters in case of scarring, so he bandaged the burn instead. I was presented with two options: travel home to London alone a day early, or ride out the last night at the most magical festival I’d ever been to. Obviously, I chose the latter.
However, in the 24 hours that followed, my hip continued to flare and there was liquid oozing through the bandage. The smell was awful, and I couldn’t even shower or clean it due to the risk of infection. My weekend in Wales was ready to end and all I could think about was getting home to the advice of my medical-practitioner mum. My friend made sure I was driven home because there was no way I was getting on a packed train to London feeling – and smelling – the way I did.
Within seconds of my mum seeing the burn, we were off to A&E.
It’s always a drag hanging out in waiting rooms; but that day felt extra draining. There’s no doubt it was the combination of a massive comedown and the anxiety that I might’ve permanently scarred my body selling not-so-fucking-Smart Whips. It was at that moment I vowed to never touch them again.
I was finally seen by an A&E nurse after hours of waiting and she took pictures of the burn to send to a specialist before treating it. It felt like my leg had been dipped in the River Styx.
The whole circumference of the burn had to be bladed off with a scalpel, leaving raw flesh where the burn used to be. This was to avoid any infection. Ironically, gas-and-air was provided, and many hours, tears and broken sleeps later, my burn was smothered in medicated Manuka honey and I was sent home.
The following month was crucial to my healing. I didn’t smoke, I didn’t leave the house except when I was going to the hospital, I ordered every vitamin under the sun and I hibernated. Not exactly how I anticipated spending my first month of the summer.
The heatwave in London that year didn’t make it any easier either; I couldn’t swim nor sunbathe. I spent the time in my bedroom with my Argos fan on full blast binge-watching Desperate Housewives for the hundredth time.
I’ve never wished I could turn back time more. I hated the thought of laughing gas and I was cross with myself even more for being so silly to sell it. I’ve lived to see another day though: the burn healed magically in the weeks that came with hardly even a scar to show for it. It seems justice, for me, was kind.
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