Posted by: Team McSlade | May 18, 2010

We like to party

The evening took us to a beach party at Ushuaïa. Thinking that it might have a subtle Home and Away feeling to it, we were pleasantly surprised to not see the Summer Bay Diner, but a club heaving with people dancing on the certified dance floor, and grass, sand, decks, under umbrellas and even in the sea.
Correct, no bringing 30 tonnes of sand into a hall and calling it a ‘beach’, this was the real deal with regular Ibicencos walking past with their dogs after dinner.

We sat near the water’s edge with a few Finnish mates and heckled punters who needed at least one of the following items: rooms, or fitting bathing costumes, or brains, or better methods of attracting the opposite sex.
Honestly, if you think doing a standing back somersault and then trying to get your love interest to perform the same feat (after failing at the cartwheel challenge) is a plausible angle, go right ahead; but from the sight on the beach it wasn’t going to work. Then adding to this farce with a re-enactment of the water scene in Dirty Dancing, really dude, we all know that ‘No one puts Baby in the corner’ but this is ridiculous.

Security were red hot on checking our wrist bands, yet not too fussed at the hordes who decided to wander off to the supermarket and buy bucket loads of booze. Clearly keeping themselves in a job was not in their best interest, still they are security guards, and these ones were not bright. ‘Free’ drinks passes saw whiskey poured quite deeply into tall glasses and with that a bottle of coke given to sort yourself out.
A Mexican mate, Andrés, had timed his birth nicely and had his 25th on this evening. A few rounds of both ‘Happy Birthday’ and drinks came his way with a mock tear wiped away and more photos than the paparazzi, we do believe he had a cracker of a birthday.
Livin’-it-large was the order of the evening, and I am sure a few soup divers from the previous night’s effort on the ferry were again burning it to the ground. Human pyramids were formed, however having weak dudes on the bottom row is cause for casualty and with cold water, bravado and small bikinis comes swimming in the sea, because you can.

Ahh, Spain, booze and stupidity, may God bless you all.

We split to get the 10 o’clock bus, to head for Pacha, an institute of a nightclub, pumping out good tunes for the past 40 years and one of the reasons we came on this trip. Alas, as we waited for the bus, we got a call to return to Ushuaïa, the beach club, to get our Pacha tickets.
Dazzling with ineptitude, just a minor glitch there, it’s amazing how such massive details can be forgotten and overlooked. Add to this, if we didn’t go back and by a ticket, it’d be 35€ on the door (rather than 22€).

So with this detour taken, we returned to not find the 10pm bus waiting or arriving, thus we took a cab back to the hotel to change into the Pacha outfits and state of mind.
A quick dash for cash saw Ryan collect a random Turkish guy heading to Pacha. He knew a few of our Turkish contingent, yet the almost fatal waft of whiskey oozing from Ufuk’s (yes, that is his name) aura and ‘water’ bottle was slightly unsettling. A near maelstrom when working out cabs and revellers was averted with excess cabs and people shoved into them. We found ourselves in a cab with a Brazilian couple who were lovely (and as it turned out we had a photo of them from the beach party too).

Finally at Pacha, our expensive tickets in hand and all members of our touring party accounted for we rolled in through the doors. Here the security was not affected by the salt air, thus our camera was asked to be placed in the cloakroom. There’s something unsettling about a digital SLR and two large lenses that makes some think ‘professional photographers’. So before the nominal 2€ cloak room charge was paid, we did a hot lap, took photos and then handed over the contraband.
The heat was not only in the time we did the lap in, but in the air. Tranquila had been applied to the rules governing a safe number of people in a confined area, the dance floor was not sighted, merely several thousand bodies waving hands (you couldn’t call it dancing and the Melbourne shuffle was definitely not making an entrance here) to house music.
A few beefcakes were robotically dancing on podiums in cammo pants, but the winner was the saxophonist who jumped up on a platform and tooted his little heart out with a bit of doof backing him up. Later a bongo drummer bashed out a solid tune too.
We were sick of the ‘clowns in a mini’ routine on the dance floor and found a open patch of floor in an upper area, we jigged away to the tunes, laughed at girls dressed in all white sitting on dirty, wet bars and taking photos like they were on the front of Vogue. The Russian mail order bride that had Jo take a picture of her and Igor was quite comical too.

Due to the fact that we are certifiably ‘old’, we also reminisced about the Wednesday nights at Cargo, or Tapas (the Rundle St years) on a Sunday and the similarities to what we were witnessing in terms of the music. Adelaide was blessed with dance music in the 90’s and as such we felt a sense of having already had what we were now witnessing. Granted the clubs in Adelaide never held 12 thousand people in one night at one time, but the DJ’s knew how to spin a record.

At 3.30 we pulled the pin, found a few mates filing out the door with the same idea, got a cab, the cab driver berated us for heading home early and we stumbled into bed.

Day 2, done, dusted and enjoyed.

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  1. Cargo… those were the days…

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