Hola de España, cheeky-cheekies!
"You cannot bring camera in here," barked the neo-Neanderthal bouncer in broken English.
"Whuh?" was my eloquently-phrased reply.
"You cannot bring camera in here. You from Tillatedotcom?"
"Err, no, I--"
"You cannot bring camera in here, then" repeated the droid.
It was at this point that my evening photographing the Clubland night - featuring A-list superstars Kelly Llorenna and Flip 'n Fill (hey, there's no sarcasm here) came to a sudden and unexpected halt. Ah well...
Still, the Clubland night *was* good fun, even if it was totally cheesy and about 45% populated by drunken beer-boys (nothing wrong with that, except when one of them insists on bouncing his elbows off your face/head/shoulder/drink. Grr...!).
p.s. Es Paradis - sort your lives out. Upping the price of a bottle of water from €6.50 to €9.50 just 'cos it's a "VIP" area takes the screaming piss :P
Last night I managed to blag my way into Garlands at Eden (or "The Balearic Ritzy's" as a certain chap described it to me with a grimace). Again, the night was fairly good, even though the music was a 50/50 mix of cheesey commercial house and some pretty dark and dirty underground beats. Their bongo drummer was, in all fairness, a very nice touch :)
So I found myself this morning chatting to some new friends down at a place apparently known as Ket Cove in San An, named because of its association with a certain type of veterinary tranquiliser (and no, I bloody well haven't, and wouldn't, ta very much!). Suddenly, a girl - ok, woman (she was very much the wrong side of 30 to be a girl) - came running down hissing "the police are heerrre! They're about to come down!".
No-one really made much effort to move, although that was possibly as much to do with a large number of the clubbed-out beachgoers suffering from mental processes running at about 10% speed as the fact that no-one was massively bothered - from my point of view, this was mildly amusing, although rumours of undeserved beatings by the policia local and the guardia civil (Ibiza's two police forces) run rife through San An, so I did wonder what was in store for us if the plod should arrive.
True enough, a couple of seconds later, three male and one female police officers started taking a leisurely stroll down the stone path on to the beach. In my head I named the policemen Grumpy (not the happiest-looking chappie, although that might have been the early morning start), Lurch (he only grunted broken English), and Father Jack (his wasn't much of a speaking part - swear words only). The policewoman seemed to be the big-boss, possibly because she spoke perfect English with no trace of a Spanglish accent. I didn't have time to think up a title for her, but she'd have made a very good Bond girl (one of the bad ones that try to kill him, obviously).
As the police walked round hauling off people who were asleep or otherwise incapable of standing up by themselves, I noticed a few people around me making sandcastles... How odd...
After about ten minutes of sitting down (at the police's orders), we were told to get up, pick up as much rubbish from the beach as we could carry, and then leave the beach so, being good boys and girls, that's what we all did (some in a more wobbly state than others), leaving behind a largely-pristine stretch of sand.
As we trudged up the stone path back to the carpark, I realised there was a chap about my age crying his eyes out on the edge of the path. Between myself, another Brit, and the female policewoman, we managed to find out that he was a worker, and just moments earlier while the police had been detaining everyone else on the beach, he had been robbed of his €100 wages (probably a week's worth) at knifepoint in broad daylight by two men. From the way he'd reacted, I'd say that was probably all the money he had to live off, and that he was pretty certain he was in serious trouble during the robbery - the thought of something like that happening in a place like Ibiza is horrible.
The policewoman, while pleasant enough to deal with, didn't make any written notes, and told him he'd have to travel to the police station near Eivissa town (about 20 miles away) to file a report. I asked if we should take her name but, just as the police here get VERY upset if they think you're taking their picture (again, stories of beatings and smashed-up cameras circulate among photographers and tourists alike), she would only tell me that she is "the only female police officer in San Antonio".
And I promise, I wasn't trying to chat her up. Honestly.
Naturally, the resilience of clubbers is immense, and not two seconds had passed after the police had left the carpark by Ket Cove before everyone was back on the beach, but this time breaking up their sandcastles to triumphant whoops. Ah, methinks they weren't sandcastles at all, but possibly some kind of secret hiding places...? ;o)
Last couple of things: I was gutted to find out that I couldn't make the still-not-100%-definitely-happening DC10 reopening party this Friday night - ibiza-voice.com e-mailed asking me to photograph it - but they've been lovely and got me and the camera on the guestlist for Monday, so - if I'm back - it should be a very fun night.
Tonight was spent enjoying a pizza with Steph watching Forgetting Sarah Marshall on our balcony. A nicely chilled last night here :o) Shame I'll need to go on a diet for the rest of my life to burn off all that fat though ;o)
Tomorrow morning I'll be up at 6am and hopping on a plane back to the UK. I've managed to cock something pretty important up and as a result may or may not be allowed to return to Ibiza on Sunday. If not, Steph will no doubt keep you updated on her travels. Unfortunately, I'm not sure Facebook is allowed when residing at Her Maj's pleasure, so if it *does* all go Pete Tong, it's been a laugh :o)
Al (& Steph, although she's currently on her way to Cream. Lucky cow ;o).