Further adventures on the Costa Del Sol with Dennis Mckenna and Schwann - Part 6

Schwann Cybershaman's picture

If you’ve been following this rather long blog, sometimes rant, you’ll know that Dennis Joey and me have just spent three nights on Ibiza, but by the time I’d woken up on day four it seemed that we’d been here much longer. It hadn’t been that late a night and I’d slept well enough. There were no relevant excuses. It’s officially Saturday and it was time to return from forever, or to forever. Whatever. (There's a short movie at the bottom of the page, in case you want to skip to that now.)

We have pre-booked tickets for the return ferry and we’re packed and ready well before the 2.30 PM deadline. Time is always in the present! We say our goodbyes. I hug Richard and the Goddesses goodbye, wishing I could’ve stayed on longer but this had never been possible because Joey has a plane to catch at 9.00 AM tomorrow morning in Malaga, 600 clicks away, and Dennis has to return to Minnesota in three days time. We’re back on a tight schedule.

Even though there’s four hours of scheduled relaxation on the ferry back to the mainland, we’ll soon be racing at 160+ KPH along the speedway on the mainland. We avoid getting too loaded and thus make the harbor without getting lost. The ferry is where it should be. Of course there isn’t a queue because no one else is leaving! Once again, I experience character dissolution as I consider taking Dennis and Joey to the airport and putting them on a plane. Then I could return to Richard’s place and hang out for a month, or two. Unfortunately, this reality doesn’t last more than a moment.

Mounting the ramp of the ferry to leave Ibiza isn’t without a sense of loss because Ibiza is a place where you could lose your car, your wife, your life. It’s also a place where history is tainted by child sacrifice. For me, the island of Tanit remains an enigmatic place, somewhere I’ll try to return, if life works out that way.

Parking the car in the empty garage inside the bowels of the ferry, I find my way upstairs. Dennis and Joey are nowhere to be seen so I find myself a chair in the shade and try to relax. With the mainland due to appear in four hours time, I’ll soon be back on the speedway and this is my last chance to let someone else drive. Dennis appears and gives me a statement on President Bush’s mental health for my reel, but Joey is still missing. After a loud hooting of its klaxon, the ferry sails slowly past the outer breakwater. The seas are higher than when we’d arrived, but this isn’t any weather to worry about because I’m from the Cape of Storms and I don’t scare so easily. I wonder where Joey is, but I’m not inclined to search the ferry. It’s a big ship and I’m already here. Ibiza’s coastline is to starboard, and, just a short distance away from the mainland, is a small island hosting monolithic cliffs. I wonder what purpose it served our predecessors.

Other ambient stuff goes through my head. There’s no rush. Reaching for my ever-present camera, I film the island monolith, even though I have no practical use for the footage. Chronicling doesn’t need a reason. I’m just recording a slice of visual memory for retrieval at some later stage in my existence. I like it when that happens. You know. Years later, when you least expect it, the fractal moment jumping back at you. At one with my moment of introspection, I wonder how long society can continue to dance at the edge of the apocalypse, whether media violated, consumer dominated humanity will ever fight back? Is there a lesson somewhere that can be passed on to the next shift? If so, then someone please tell me; “What’s the lesson?”

At this time I fall into a shallow trance, peripherally aware that Dennis is reading a book with his eyes closed on the couch behind me.

It’s a quick four hours to the coast of Spain. The weather improves and the wind and wave action makes time disappear. We arrive back at Denia on time. I go back downstairs to retrieve the car then pick Dennis and Joey up on the quay. With the ferry and Ibiza behind us, I don’t ask how many miles we’ve got to go because it’s already 7.30 PM and Joey has a plane to catch tomorrow morning at 9.00AM, so he is already nervous enough. Back on the highway, lights flash by and we’re making like tron. Because the sun sets very late on the Costa Del Sol, it still feels like we’re in the middle of the afternoon and not early evening. After a while, I put on the Terence Mckenna CD I’d made out of Terence’s voice clips. Dennis nods sagely at his brother’s words, sometimes smiling, sometimes shaking his head, and sometimes laughing out loud. By this time, the city with the alien spaceship buildings is approaching on our left hand side. Dennis, who usually saw to it that I did what I said I was going to do, encourages me to take the turnoff into Benidorm to explore this phenomenon.

Imagine a nightmare of clustered, skyscraper apartment buildings, some with washing hung out to dry, crowding a bay across which a huge cable is strung. It’s a beachfront-city slum, but it’s also the dream of every English-middle-aged-couple-with-a-small-kid to spend a week here. The cable mounted a hundred meters out in the bay over the water is to take you sky-sailing across the beachfront. Apparently it doesn’t matter that it completely wrecks the view of the bay. But if you don’t want to fret about the ruined view, an English film maker we meet tells us we can watch; “strippers over the age of 70”, at a bar just up the road instead. Dennis tells him that we’ve just come from Ibiza, to try and change the subject. We look at each other and try not to laugh. Joey wants to eat pastry but I demand real food before beginning the long drive home.

Unfortunately, none of us can ever agree on what ‘real food’ is, so Joey stalks off to phone some girlfriend while Dennis and I ingest meaningless starch served by an arrogant Spanish waiter who obviously hates tourists. Who can blame him? (No, I didn’t leave a tip.) This is what Miami would look like, if there were more fat middle aged, de-styled and basically clueless, people around. But maybe I wasn’t paying enough attention the last time I was there.

We cram ourselves back in the car and hit the road. The skyscrapers-to-hell are behind us. Dennis assures me that we only have to drive 300 clicks to Granada, while Joey wants to know if the food was any good. I tell him it was great, and follow Dennis’s instructions to the highway. Though we have half a tank, I prudently refuel at a handy gas station near the highway then back to dodging traffic. Hovering just under breakneck speeds, I drive the 300 clicks to Granada in record time, wondering whether time distortion isn’t with me again as the Alhambra goes by on the hill to the right. I’d been here with my family only a few weeks ago, a lifetime, ago. I had taken the tour, bought the T-Shirt, so I try to explain to my companions that it was once the jewel of Islam and also one of the wonders of the ancient world, but Dennis and Joey are talking politics by the time it disappears behind us.

It’s just as well we’d refueled outside Denia because all the gas stations are now closed. We see people sleeping in cars next to the pumps. This could have been us! Though I remember the trip up being much longer, we’re back home in Las Farolas before 3.00 AM. This is OK for Dennis and me, but Joey, who has been staying at the villa with me for the last three weeks, only has a few hours to pack. He proceeds to panic about how messed up all his stuff is before running around looking for things he already packed before we left for Ibiza, 5 days ago. Dennis goes to his bedroom, only to find my son, Leo, asleep. Dennis goes horizontal on the other bed. He is asleep before Leo wakes up.

I’m in the lounge hooking up to the net. Joey is pacing the halls. At this time Leo awakes and comes into the room demanding to know what the hell is going on. He’s still half asleep and very belligerent. All he can say in reply to; “Hi Leo”, is repeat; “You said you’d be back at 2.00 AM”, over and over again. Unfortunately I’m also rather tired and this leads us into an argument about the validity of greeting one’s father in this way. By now, Joey has locked himself in his room and we can hear Dennis’s subsonic booms from the lounge. Although Leo had earlier agreed to take Joey to the airport, he is now past reasoning with. Eventually realizing that this is a no-win situation, I persuade him to go home and cool off. Joey puts his head out of the bedroom long enough for me to reassure him that everything is OK because I’ll take him to the airport in a few hours. It’s 5.00 AM before I can fall asleep, knowing that I’ll have to be up before 8.

Ibiza is history

Schwann Cybershaman - July 2004.

View a real-time movie of the above blog