Wednesday, 31 October 2012

Freewheelin' in S.E.A - Day 6: Tyre-d of waiting for you

We had planned to get an early start and hire motorbikes, then ride around the area seeing sights, but after waking up at 8am, showering and getting ready it took everyone two hours to eat breakfast, then the guys stated they still had to shower, meaning it would be gone 12pm before we’d even got started. Now, ever since I was younger I’d always thought I’d die in a road accident, which has meant that I’ve always avoided riding bikes, but I was willing to overcome my fears in my quest to say YES! to everything I’ve ever hated or been scared of, however when Maddie stated she’d rather join the other three amigos and go tubing I concluded that that was a better idea. We grabbed a few cans of Beer Lao from the local store, and I bought a waterproof sealed bag to hold my camera, iPod and mini speaker before grabbing our tubes, signing a declaration that it was at my own risk, then being marked with the number 22 on my hand.

Let me stand next to your tyre

They drove us up river on the back of a truck which held our tubes on the roof, and dropped us off at the starting point. It was dead quiet, and along the riverbank stood a plethora of abandoned bars. I could imagine it popping off on a busy mid-afternoon, I could see the spirits of a thousand ravers, staggering around, slipping into the water and doing stupid shit to each other for the amusement of their imaginary friends. I was glad that they had been shut down. This was infinitely more peaceful, the way you’d imagine it was meant to be enjoyed before a couple dealers and opportunists took a strangle hold to the neck of the community in order to generate the wrong kind of tourism. It was bliss as I drifted along smoking a chopstick and staring at the sun. I saw some waves breaking up ahead and thought ‘Yippee’ as my tyre dipped into them. I didn’t realise that the breaking was caused by high rocks being hit by the water floating past them, until one of them met my back with a sharp sting which felt like it may have sliced me. The impact nearly knocked me out of my ring, and my beer got lost in the battle to save my spliff, which was a success. Ieke followed, also taking a hit, then Eran’s ring got caught, and he ended up standing on the rock. It looked like he was walking on water, which for an Israeli Muslim could be considered by some as a slight against the power of Lord Jesus. Either way, it looked pretty cool. We found a nice sandy spot and drifted towards it to check out each other’s wounds and catch some rays. Thankfully we were relatively unscathed, but you could imagine the panic of that same situation whilst on ‘shrooms or opiates. Not recommendable. I broke the silence with my mini speaker sending sounds of the sixties, and beyond, across the river which everybody was happy about. After about forty-five minutes, we jumped back in our tubes and floated for the last hour to the end point. We then sat along an old bridge that crossed the water for another hour, sharing a spliff and blaring some tunes, the bridge swaying along with our hips as we danced under the lowering sun.

A bridge over formerly troubled water 

Now in much need of food, we hit up an organic spot that farmed their own vegetables, and once we’d ordered, the waitress shot off on a moped, returning ten minutes later with a bag full of food. Even Jay-Z’s trainers aren’t as fresh as that. Speaking of fresh, I took my 66th shower of the week soon after, got ready and went outside to hang with the Spanish armada, who had recently returned on their bikes. I nicked Diego’s keys to take his scooter for a ride, no helmet, no experience, just keys and a throttle, which I turned fully, whizzing up the street for about half a mile, then taking four left turns and ending back at ours ten minutes later. Another first, and I didn’t die. Win, Win.

My day crew were all ready by this point, so we hit up The Otherside again, this time getting involved in the squared off seating area, drinking cheap whiskey with coke and red bull by the bucket load, singing along to a load of suspect songs, and speaking with the others about our respective lovers that we were all missing even more, in our emotional states, before being joined by Paul and Eric. Then the DJ dropped it again, Celine Dion doing my first name no favours at all as the strangled cats all shrieked along. We downed our remaining drinks and joined the rest of the revellers next door at the Moonlight Bar for another bucket. Standing in the toilet queue I said hello to a stranger, and he introduced himself as Dion. I excitedly told him that was also my name, and we hugged. He’d never met another Dion before, and I’d only met two myself, up until then, both at the Secret Garden Party on consecutive years, which is a strange coincidence in its own right. After another hour, the lights went off, and everyone stood chatting in the dark bar, unfazed. I assumed by the lack of reaction that this was normal protocol, but I thought it was pretty shit. I swiftly regrouped the crew and we all left together, grabbing burgers and pancakes from the street sellers outside. My last J left me swerved in the kind of way that smoking when really drunk does to most people, although I’m usually immune, or maybe just levelled by other substances. I noticed it in the wet room, nearly slipping as I reached for my towel, and as I laid on my bed the contours of the room span like a vortex. I clung onto my covers, buzzing whilst simultaneously sinking into a semi-surf sleep. I had to be up in 5 hours. What a pickle.

No comments:

Post a Comment