The Man is a silent, powerful presence, always visible, the only real landmark. As you approach you see a small crowd, scattered in ones and twos and fours around the base. They are strangely quiet, caught in the sphere of a piece of art that truly inspires awe. Did you find the small entrance between the haybales at his feet? There is a room beneath him, a room which some brilliant soul has spattered with glowing liquid, so that sitting on a haybale you feel suspended in a box of stars. It is so quiet, no sound but the buzz from the Man's neon which, winking on and off, leaks purple and green light into the space. Soon it occurs to you that in only a few hours this whole room will be an eruption of flame, searing, roaring, collapsing. For a moment you imagine being trapped here, while ten thousand people circle outside, chanting "Burn Him! Burn Him!" You move on. Out there, though, you also find huge crowds, and are drawn to them by the promise of the flames at their hearts. Here's a throng, surrounding the main stage, staring open-mouthed at naked, leaping dancers, whirling huge torches in time to stunningly loud music. Men on stilts dance on beds of jumping firecrackers while two women mock sex in silhouette, behind a white screen. Other women pass torches between their legs, their dancing provocatively, openly, exuberantly erotic. On through the dark, past giant puppets five times your height and mysterious structures you assume will only find their intended expression when consumed by flame, you come to the Fire Lingam. Sit down. And wait.