Fear and Loathing on Ibiza – Part 4 of the Dennis Mckenna caper

Schwann Cybershaman's picture


It's past midnight somewhere in the future, a fractal moment, or cross section of reality interconnecting with my past to represent a future I can understand. It's the last edit, the hyperdimensional stuff, the do-anything stuff. I remember filming Dennis reading from his notes at La Chorrera, the same notebook he'd written in before he, "dropped the pen"...before the transdimensional moment, when time would end and we'd continue as gods, able to bring things into existence by the uttering of words in a new language, a language of transdimensional codes. Translinguistic.


When he'd finished, I asked him if he thought they'd succeeded. He looked at me, somewhat bemused, before saying something like; "If we'd succeeded we'd all be living on starships right now".

But I couldn't help but wonder if he was holding something back, something he'd rather not think about because the void is a scary place, even for a master botanist, someone who has been to the edge, heard the forest speak, and all of that.

It's the hope that somewhere, somehow, someone or something had changed, something that none of us have yet identified, but something that is growing, slowly, rung by rung, as it takes spirit higher, and further away from matter, or at least things that don't really matter, like the stupidisation of education, the re-writing of history, the perversion of democracy and the distraction of the western masses away from global problems created by their resource abuse and ecological destruction, the brunt of which is borne by poverty inflicted minority civilisations of the third world.

But none of this was evident in the car on Ibiza at midnight as we attempt to follow Richard, Dennis and the girls back to Richard’s place, the plan being to persuade Dennis to come clubbing with us.

It only takes a bit of verbal distraction from Joey to lose sight of them in the heavy traffic. Maybe it’s just my lack of concentration, or maybe I’d earlier realized that Dennis isn’t a disco person. Whatever. Lights are streaming by on all sides. Joey and I are let loose on Ibiza!

Locking navigation over everything else, I manage to navigate to a nearby harbor that’s jam-packed with young, brightly colored, scantily clad humanity. Parking is easy because I’m a mojolocutus parking bot with zoned circuitry processes in direct communication with a cosmic parking lot inhabited by Gods and Goddesses so chill out because time is always in the present. Aaooom! I shiver as the wave passes through me.

Back on Earth, Joey is muttering something so negative about local fashion that I convince him into buying tickets to a nightclub called Privilege or was it Amnesia? The car is stashed and the only thing I know is that I don’t want to drive anywhere anymore, so even though the club is another town we head towards where the free bus to the clubs is supposed to be.

It doesn’t take more than a few hundred paces for us to become somewhat anxious about this ‘free’ bus, so I try flagging down a cab.
Instead, a wrecked Fiat of some kind pulls over to a shuddering stop next to us. Inside is an emaciated guy wearing black cutoff leather gloves and clutching at the cracked steering wheel with both hands like we’d take it away from him if we could. I try and smile benignly, briefly wondering if my life is at stake. The moon looks on while we barter for a ride to the club with the vampire cabby.

He tells us the club is in another town, but that he’ll take us there for 20 euro. We eventually agree on 10 and cautiously climb in. He’s smoking a hash joint. We strap ourselves in before taking a hit.

Our driver is from Rumania. He says we can have anything we like except acid, mescaline or grass. We look at each other and start laughing because those are exactly the things we don’t need.

“It’s only 2.30 in the morning”, I hear myself shouting, but the Rumanian doesn’t look worried because this is Ibiza and it’s cool that there are geezers like us in his cab. He tells us that the place we’re going is no good and we should rather come up the hill to Underground, where he’s going. I’m all for doing this because it’s in the moment. However, Joey is paranoid, so we agree that we’ll first go to Privilege and Amnesia, and then we’ll meet him at Underground.

The Rumanian vampire doesn’t drive very smoothly, so it takes him an indeterminable time to get us to the club. Fortunately, there are enough turns to convince me that we wouldn’t have been able to find our way here on our own. Staring at the throng in the parking lot, I’m not really paying attention when the Rumanian tells us that he’ll do us the return trip for the same price. Joey takes his cell-phone number. Ciao amigo!

Because it’s is more than 30 degrees on the island, no one is overdressed as we ponder grave weirdness under a full moon in a parking lot outside a giant rave club on Ibiza. Succumbing to a moment of Joey-induced panic, I check compulsively to see if I’ve lost any of my kit but can’t really tell because everything is out of focus. I separate what looks like money from the crumpled tickets and head towards the door.

Inside the club it’s 180 BPM. On raised platforms, weirdly dressed dancers gyrate, while a guy in a pink lycra swimsuit does acrobatic stuff while hanging from a rope. In the midst of all the high energy I’m suddenly very tired. This is not all that surprising considering we’d been on the go for longer than I want to think about. But we’re thirsty, so we let ourselves get charged 20 euro for a coke and a single scotch. I drink the scotch. Like the Rumanian had said, the place wasn’t exactly charging our batteries so I talk Joey into walking over to ‘Underground’, which, according to the vampire cabby, was only ‘500 meters away’, up the hill.

The immediate vicinity of the club is surrounded by moving waves of ravers and we get offered a joint and some blotter by a German girl who can’t get her lighter going. We spend some time hanging out and talking to her, but when the blotter kicks in we move on. Some time later, we find ourselves walking up the hill in the general direction of the Underground club. There’s only moonlight and the oncoming kamikaze traffic. Because there is no pathway other than the road itself, we have no choice other than to dodge the oncoming cars.

Joey keeps saying stuff like; “We could get ourselves killed’, and “where’s the car”, but this doesn’t sink in because we really have no idea where we are on the island, nor do we know the name of the town where we dumped the car.

“Good stuff”, says Joey, so it doesn’t matter if we’re lost because we’re laughing while two girls are running down the hill towards us like they’ve just ingested vast quantities of slimming tablets. They pause briefly to speak to us in stuttered gibberish, which Joey pretends to understand.

“No”, he tells me, “they are not going in the direction of our car because we don’t know where are car is, right?”

Nodding, I pack up laughing. The girls take this as a bad sign and start running across the road. Joey calls after them, but though one drops her bag and nearly gets run over trying to retrieve it, they’re downstream.

We slog on up the hill for another 20 minutes while more people go by in the dark. Everyone is friendly and loaded, but by this time we’re wondering what’s going on because we’ve been walking up a hill for forever and the lights in the distance don’t seem to be getting any closer. I’m almost regretting my earlier enthusiasm when Underground appears behind some big trees right next to us.

Before we’re able to understand where all the traffic is coming from we’re back to dodging SUVs in a parking lot again, eventually making it onto the dance floor of Underground. Here, blonde bimbos rule peeled bananas in the early hours of the morning. Babble aside, it’s a cut from the next Sodom and Gomorra movie. Keeping a grin stitched to my face, I pull the now-protesting Joey through crowds of smoke, drug, liquor sodden, off-their-face people, until he begs me to take him home.

Once this would have been a good idea, but now it’s the moment I’ve been dreading all evening. It’s after 5.00 AM but there’s still one trick left up our sleeves, and that’s if we’re lucky enough to reconnect with the Rumanian so that he could drop us off where he’d picked us up.

Of course this all assumed that Joey had taken the number down correctly and that the Rumanian was alive and conscious enough to remember where he’d picked us up, and not drunk on the blood of his latest victim.

None of this bears thinking about because a little voice is begging me to take it home so I’m sure I sound more confident than I really am when I assure Joey that the Rumanian is waiting for our call because he needs 10 euro for another hit of whatever he’s on and driving with him is not frightening because we’re more desperate to get home than he is to get loaded, right?

Joey giggles tiredly but energizes to make the call. This is good because I’m beyond dialing numbers on a cell phone, beyond worrying about the Rumanian and almost beyond caring. Joey is gesticulating wildly but I shrug my shoulders. It’s OK if he’s lost it, but instead the Rumanian is parked a few paces from where we’re standing, and almost in the direction of Joey’s trembling index finger.
Stumbling over to the cab in a spontaneous fit of relief, it’s not even amazing that the Rumanian is pleased to see us, pleased we went to Underground, pleased about everything. He’s so pleased that he lights one up as we head back down the hill. We look at each other and laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Nothing we’ve done has turned the Rumanians head, so we give him 15 euro instead of 10. He is very pleased with this and drives away with a spectacular U-turn, waving at us as he spins the old cab around, probably headed back to Underground, or some other dodgy place.

By now, Joey and I are pretty worn out. It’s been a long day, what with Dennis, Tanit, Richard, the Dream Dancers, our night out, and everything else I’ve forgotten. We head back up the harbor wall in the direction we think we’ve illegally parked the car, hoping that it hasn’t been towed away.

It doesn’t take more than 15 minutes to find the car where we’d left it but it’s now 6.00 AM and returning to Richard’s place wont be easy because we can’t remember exactly where it is, nor have we got Richard’s phone number or address.

For a time, things look hopeless as we cruise around aimlessly, looking at all the other people who cant find their way home looking at us, but we’re cooler because we’ve got the top down and the CD is saying “Drums please…”, so I make like I know where we’re going. Summertime, anyone?

It’s not too long after we’d given up all hope of ever finding Richard’s place again that I think I recognize the circle around which Dennis had guided me on our return from Tanit, yesterday? At that stage Dennis had been navigating and I hadn’t been paying attention as hard as I should, so we’d gotten home without mishap. However, Joey is another kind of navigator. After repeatedly telling me he recognizes the street we’ve just gone past, he eventually slumps back in defeat, telling me something I already know;
“We’re lost, china”.

The fact that I’ve lost my navigator during a hyperspace jump provides immediate desperation. Notwithstanding the fact that I really don’t know where I am, I feel the force. It spits me up this side road which leads to a yield sign turning right past a construction site. We drive uncertainly along a road for a few hundred meters before Richard’s condo is revealed on the right hand side. Lighting my best smile, I turn into the parking lot. We’d been lost but now….we’re found? I don’t think so, but at least we’d sleep and live to tell but sharing a room with Joey isn’t going to be easy, not after last night, whenever ‘that’ was.

We split a sleeping pill and hope for the best. I giggle my way to sleep, wondering what Ibiza thinks of us South African geezers.