by Steve Deeks
After a few minutes my face muscles were not quite so tense. “Oh well everyone else here looks like they’re from another planet so I may as well join them,” I muttered to Andy, as he sniggered at my demise. “Are we nearly done yet? Simon’s didn’t take this long did it?” I enquired to the woman, who seemed to be intent on conjuring up a masterpiece. “Not long now,” she replied with barely a blink of the eye. As more time passed I consoled myself with the thought that at least she was making sure everything was right. “There you go, all done,” she finally announced with a big enthusiastic smile, before handing me a mirror.
As I looked in the reflection, I spontaneously glanced away having nearly been permanently blinded by all the colours that were now entrenched on my once pure face. Open mouthed and speechless I looked in the mirror again, then away before looking back to double check that my eyes weren’t deceiving me after possibly being slipped a hallucinogenic pill in my drink by one of the resident hippies when I wasn’t looking. “You happy with my work?” the woman smiled beamingly, making it almost impossible to disagree. “No it’s fucking shit, I look like a heroin addict,” I said shaking my head in disgust. At least that was how I wanted to react. Along with pouring a bottle of bleach in her face. But instead I opted for a less confrontational response. “You’re quite the artist aren’t you?” I quipped rhetorically, putting on a brave - if not severely botched - face.
I had a stinking suspicion that she may have deliberately stitched me up. After all, I was left with a sea of colours blended across my face, including an army of scary red dots that made me appear as though I had a cross contamination of leprosy and chicken pots. “You look great man,” Simon chirpily observed, as he put an arm round me. This, if nothing else, confirmed my desperate appearance.
I quickly drank some more goon in a bid to forget who I was and waited for the mini bus. “At least it’s dark so no one can really see,” Sam said comfortingly, sensing my pain. “And they’ll all be too fucked to notice you…plus there’s way bigger freaks than you here.” This cheered me up. Kind of. The free bus finally arrived and we climbed on board and set off through the windy mountainous roads before finally arriving at our destination somewhere deep in the jungle.
After a quick toilet stop on some nearby bushes we made our way through the darkness, following the sound of trance music that was getting louder the closer we got. Wading through the soggy field we finally got to the rave, which, it’s fair to say, was based on something of an economically efficient model, containing a modest sized marquee with two speakers at the front of the stage, which in reality was nothing more than a table where you would have been lucky to squeeze in six people. There was a couple of stalls offering a selection of food and drink, plus other essential rave items including glow sticks, hats, whistles and a wide variety of vital drug paraphernalia, not to mention enough strange looking concoctions to sink a small battle ship.
It was still early – before midnight – but in any event there was a mill of people at the front bouncing about to the music like free spirited orangutans who had been plied with amphetamine. One woman with beaded hair flapped her arms about like she was trying to take off, while a lonesome barefooted man with his mouth wide open did his impersonation of a breaststroke swimmer. All of which was taking place next to a couple who appeared as though they were auditioning for the Kamasutra position(s) of the year award, as they strangely absorbed their bodies slowly between one another, alternating between crouching down to the ground before motioning upwards. I fully expected the woman to pull out a butt plug at one stage and casually plant it up her man but fortunately, to my surprise, this never materialised.
Deciding I needed to capture this magical moment, I walked over to the pair and brazenly took a photo of them on my phone before smugly wandering off, leaving them to their weird parallel universe. I was glad I had gone to the rave now and knew that even if all else failed I could happily stand and watch these crazy people in amazement.
Wandering about in a daze I bumped into Andy, who I had lost in amongst the mayhem. While I felt sorry for myself with my face defiled by paint, I quickly realised that perhaps my problems weren’t as bad after all, especially as Andy had just returned from some nearby bushes after helping his blind drunk friend as she vomited everywhere. His other female friend was also well refreshed judging by her slurring words and the vexatious scorn that was being directed at anyone who happened to be within shouting distance. “You’re a fucking cunt mate,” she bellowed venomously, spit flying from her mouth, while waywardly pointing in the direction of no one in particular, causing shocked revellers to fearfully look over their shoulders, unsure if she was directing her abuse toward them or some other unfortunate person. The truth was she didn’t know herself. But at least she could take pride in having made a genuine impact on the night. “You want some too you fat prick?” she shouted to another smattering of people, happily minding their own business. And so on it went.
Andy looked a beaten man and shook his head in disbelief at how his Christmas was unfolding. “Think I might have to call it a night and get them back before they do any more damage,” he sighed wearily, resigning himself to the bare faced reality of his unfortunate predicament, caused through no fault of his own. “Normally I’d have just finished my Christmas roast and would be chilling with some beers in front of the box…now I’m stuck in a fucking jungle in the middle of nowhere with these two pissed out of their skulls, trying to stop every Tom, Dick and Harry kicking the shit out of us. Oh well, least your face is cheering me up a bit.”
Despite the joke about my face you could not help but feel for Andy, after all it was Christmas and all he wanted to do was have a good night but instead found himself having a truly crap time. He was not the type to moan, though, and after forcibly rounding up his abysmally drunk mates, he somehow managed to herd them back in the general direction of the mini bus, which was a notable achievement in itself. “Don’t ya look at me ya silly cunts or I’ll fucking have yous, right?” The loud mouth girl wasn’t going quietly. Luckily for her, though, the group of six-foot plus meatheads she was trying to pick a fight with, sporting tattoos of the devil, knives and an array of other colourful symbols, just laughed at her. Well, laughed, and in the case of one of the members, showed how intimidated he was by flopping out his bare masculinity before giving it a good wholesome rub.
I wished Andy the best of luck as she struggled to get the girls and himself safely out of the vicinity. Moving away from the danger area I went to look for the Swedes and Ben. Having walked around like a stray dog for half an hour I finally spotted them near the front of the dance floor. “Where’ve you lot been?” I shouted, trying to be heard above the music.
“We’ve been here man,” Simon smiled contently, his eyes looking rather large.
I pointed at his face, “What’s happened to your eyes?” Of course I already had my suspicions what the answer may be.
“He bought this stuff from a hippie by the counter,” Sam replied, rolling his eyes paternally.
Simon shrugged, “The guy said it would help me have a good time…and he was right. You should get some man.”
And with that, he turned toward the speaker and started dancing by pretending he was bouncing an imaginary basketball and throwing it into a non-existent hoop. “Yeah I might do that,” I joked, as he threw another pretend shot in the hoop.
Ben, in typical brutish manner, couldn’t believe his luck, “What the fuck is he doing?”
I smiled, “He’s playing basketball, of course.” And then, after steadying myself, I threw a few shots in the imaginary hoop, before linking up passes with Sam and Ben and slam dunking a couple of balls, having accidentally slapped a bald headed guy, while elbowing another, as I followed through. Following a series of hard slapping high-fives to rejoice, I stood about, unwilling to demean myself by jigging to the strange music that I was being forced to endure, while squashed
like a sardine between a bunch of hyperactive zombies.
I managed to persuade Sam to leave the crowded dance area to escape for a bit – it would, of course, have been impossible to drag Simon away, while Ben was more than happy to stay and laugh at him. Wandering about the place I looked curiously at the collection of people happily sat around drinking, smoking and, last but by no means least, sucking on some form of contraption. No one was in their right mind here. In fact, it felt like it was illegal not to be engaged in some form of recreational stimulant. The side effects of such intoxication weren’t altogether unpredictable, with inhibitions dropping while amorousness spiralled, making for a dangerous combination, the type I had become desensitised to witnessing through no fault of my own since landing in Australia.
As I happily minded my own business while swigging my drink I glanced to my left where an odd looking couple with too many nose rings to count were engaged in full blown tongue intercourse that left you wondering if they were training for a new Olympic sport such was the intensity at which they were performing. I looked away in disgust only to spot a slimy looking man seemingly taking full advantage of a woman sitting down wearing a highly accessible skirt, with his hand straying into the dark abyss between her legs, with not even so much as a drop of discretion or self consciousness as he ploughed on full steam ahead. To return the altruistic gesture the girl’s hand was buried down the front of the man’s trousers, with her arm gently motioning up and down like she was milking a cow.
It was too much for Sam. “I must have a picture of this,” he squealed, eyes lighting up as he reached for his mobile camera. He strolled over to get a better vantage point and returned a happy man having snapped away incessantly like a paparazzi. “Your mum will like that one,” I observed reassuringly. Though, on closer inspection it appeared Sam got more than he bargained for thanks both to the angle of the shot and the invention of the flash. “We know there’s more than one jungle around here now,” I helpfully pointed out.
Sam nodded. “I will show my dad this one but not my mum.”
We continued our stroll across the field and before deciding to sit down on an inviting looking mound, we spotted a group of men holding hands while whispering sweet nothings into one another’s ears. There was also a female couple – who, if truth be known, could easily have passed as men – caressing each other’s breasts, while grubbily licking each other like they were dogs. It’s fair to say, though, you would definitely rather French kiss a rhino then one of these individuals, both of whom were covered in hideous tattoos that stretched up their necks with a wide collection of body piercings. “Perhaps you should get a photo for your scrapbook?” I announced.
“You’re right,” Sam’s eyes lit up again, as if he had stumbled upon a great piece of art. And then, with the minimum of fuss, did his usual and strolled over to his targets before unleashing his flash on them. “Another great photo,” he smiled on his return.
The night was getting on but it was still dark, though there was now a hint of brightness, suggesting we were well into the early hours. In my mind, however, it already felt like I had been serving a long prison sentence. “When are we escaping this shithole? And how are we getting back?” I asked curiously.
Sam shrugged his shoulders. “I’m guessing Simon will want to stay right to the end. No idea how we’re getting back…what about the mini bus?”
I had hoped for more incisive answers and became fearful we would be trapped in this jungle with hundreds of zombies while listening to the most monumentally tedious music anyone has ever heard, all of which made the idea of self-performing colonic irrigation seem like an attractive proposition.
Sam, though, had the calmness of a Buddhist Monk as he sat sipping his goon, “We’ll figure something out.” Was that it? That was his proposed solution to our impending dilemma? It never ceased to amaze me just how unfazed the Swedes would be at any given obstacle. It wasn’t just them. Every Swedish person I had ever met was the same. “Look a giant meteor is heading right for us?” you may hysterically yell.
“Don’t worry, we’ll be ok,” they would reply softly, having slowly brought themselves to look up from the newspaper their head was buried in, before returning to sip their freshly roasted coffee. And, of course, somehow they would be right.
While I was fearing being held captive in the jungle and forced against my will to dance naked around the fire, Sam was only thinking of his next sip of goon. I admired the calmness of the Swedes, even if sometimes you felt like they needed a rocket up their backsides.
We spotted Simon and Ben walking nearby and shouted them over. If anything, the Swede’s eyes were bigger than before. That combined with his devilish face paint, not to mention his penchant for throwing a pretend basketball, which he was still doing even though the dance floor was some distance away, all helped Simon to blend in naturally with the other folk at the rave. “You been having fun?” I asked teasingly. But the Swede was in a strange world of his own and continued to stare straight ahead at nothing in particular.
Ben was more forthcoming, “These people need shooting.”
While I empathised with Ben, the irony of his comment wasn’t lost on me or Sam, “Is shooting people you don’t like the German answer for everything?” Ben, as usual though, took it all in his stride and laughed it off. It was hardly a convincing rebuttal. But still, it was good to see a German with a sense of humour.
Daylight was straining to break through, making it a whole lot easier to see across the field. The place had emptied out a fair bit and now resembled a rubbish tip-come-field-orgy gathering. There was a variety of desperate drunkards engaged in saliva exchanging with random people they had only just laid eyes on, clearly determined to go home with a little something and shrug off their feelings of worthlessness having not being desired until people were too drunk to care what they looked like.
While traipsing through a particularly strong whiff of Bob Marley’s favourite pastime, a bare-chested man walking nearby decided to helpfully point us in the direction of some entertainment not to be missed. “If you want a laugh then head to that hut over there,” he sniggered while stabbing his finger. “Follow the path a bit, you can’t miss it.” Without any hesitation we jumped up and headed over to the location, keen to provide some relief from the growing boredom. We stood still in silence behind some bushes like soldiers ready to ambush the enemy.
Just when we were beginning to think we had been the victims of a practical joke we finally caught sight of the shocking occurrence.
“That’s what we call a sandwich in Germany,” Ben, grinning from cheek to cheek, said admiringly. Simon, unsure if he was hallucinating, finally realised exactly what was happening. “I’ve seen it all now,” he mumbled with a shake of the head.
“Yep she’s getting fed from both sides,” I replied matter-of-factly, as if narrating on a wildlife show involving three participants, two male and one female, who in her varied role was also sucking feverishly on one of the fellow’s midrange like you would on a quickly melting ice pop on a hot day. One of the men, it transpired, looked suspiciously like Rick, the crazy Dutchman.
“Picture time,” Sam announced with Machiavellian relish, before moving in to get a better view of the action and add to his photography portfolio to show his family back home.
Sam was joined by Ben, with both soon snapping away like seasoned professionals, alternating their vantage points, while occasionally bending down on one knee to ensure the best possible snaps. “Is that Rick?” I muttered to Simon, who was hanging some way back with me.
Then, without any warning, Simon shouted, “Snake”, causing the threesome to momentarily glance over, causing us to dive for cover. “What are you doing?” I screeched, worried our cover would be blown, for want of a better word.
“I thought I’d see if it was Rick,” Simon replied.
“Fuck off,” a Dutch sounding voice came roar
ing back.
“It is Rick,” I laughed.
“Hey Rick, how you doing, it’s me Steve,” I waved.
“Oh hello mate, I didn’t realise,” he came back after momentarily pausing to look up.
“You look like you’ve got a lot on your plate.”
“Yesh it’s been a busy night,” he smiled.
“It sure looks that way,” I muttered before adding, “You about tomorrow?”
“Yesh, maybe I’ll be able to come over to Arts Factory,” he said before waving and continuing his roasting session without further ado.
Desperately looking around for the mini bus, the depressing news soon spread that the last collection had already come and gone. I looked at Sam mockingly, “So how are we getting back now?” He smiled with a hint of embarrassment. And rightly so.
“I knew it,” I said, feeling vindicated, while at the same time monumentally pissed off at our predicament. There were no taxis we could see and no other discernible mode of transport other than walking. So, reluctantly, off we went on a journey into the wilderness.
Having walked for about 15 minutes and feeling in need of a good long sleep our mood was helped when we discovered a half full goon bag. We passed round the disgusting wine as continued along our tortuous journey on the road to nowhere.
But then, out of nowhere, some crazy bearded man started beeping his horn as he approached us in his 1970s style campervan, before enthusiastically winding down his window prompting a giant cloud of marijuana smoke to pour out. “Hey mate,” he said nodding his head at Simon, having taken a giant puff and blowing it casually out of his mouth, infecting the rest of us with the disgusting smell that was becoming way too familiar to my nostrils for my liking.