How Life Comes Today – A series of some of my more obsessive
traits and observations.
A Ponderous Day in Paradise - Part Two
Now that we are fully charged it’s time to go out. Tonight is dedicated to Coco Bongo, and we
have heard nothing but good things from everyone at the resort. We had to track down the guy to sell us
tickets and some of the group even managed to fail at the menial task during
the course of the day and had to purchase upon departure. We were planning on going with a rather large
party composed of some of the wedding party, the bride and groom, and a bunch
of other people we had met at the resort.
This secondary group composed of two boys from Ohio and a Russian girl
that had attached herself to us after 10PM each night when her folks shut
down. Gee decided to puss out do to a
severe infection in his foot and in his colon, too bad for him. Over-all, about
twenty people we knew were on board and showed up to board the bus to
inebriated oblivion at the mercy of Coco Bongo.
Since it’s already after dark everyone is drinking and
primed for the night. Some of our fellow
adventurers even managed to show up intoxicated and I am jealous since I am all
about the pre-funk, especially since I don’t know what the night holds. Immediately I strolled to the bar and started
ordering drinks. Don’t judge, I did well
today and probably only had about twenty alcoholic beverages and I have
napped.
As I sit and sip my Mojito, I am in the perfect place to
watch the congregation and I already have checked in and got my applicable
wrist band indicating ‘open-bar;’ lucky
me, unfortunate them. It does not take
long for people to start streaming into the lobby. Soon, the well-dressed females show up in the
‘fuck-me’ skirts and the guys are all kitted out with their most expensive
pieces that scream ‘I can provide.’ It’s
been fun watching the late nights and now having the knowledge of who’s with
whom and the interdependent dramas of people and the sub-sets they have formed
on vacation as well as a handful of names.
Guys that I have seen shot down in burning embers cast glances at their
old hopefuls from previous nights and smile wildly at their recent tackles or
targets. Some have shown up together,
others meet as we do and slowly congregate as the party grows larger. Our party begins to form up as the bald
headed and well-manicured host arrives.
He’s busying himself answering a plethora of questions, processing
sales, attempting to get people into lines, talking on two different cell
phones, and counting people. After a few
failed attempts at counting us he demands on properly formed lines with females
in one line and males in the other, both side by side. With much procrastination we finally achieve
what he wants, however; this does not help him count. The bald anchor is a bore and this repetitive
counting is hurting my buzz. Apparently
I am not alone in my sentiments as other people start heckling his abilities to
count. He barely registers the insults
and counts again. After what seemed like
endless counting, the bus arrives and everyone cheers as departure is soon
eminent.
At this point, we have about 80 people buzzed and some
drunken people waiting to get on the bus.
From some stroke of luck for the bald man, we manage to stay in
line. Once again we count before
announcing that women are to load the bus first. With this many people a tour bus is the only
thing that will hold so many people.
It’s obviously an older tour bus but should suit our needs. After the women load it’s time for the men
and we saunter on up. I was at the back
of the line, by design, and ended up at the front of the bus. Being at the front is usually terrible in all
other histories of riding the bus, until I became an adult. When you are a kid, sitting at the back of
the bus is cool. You can chat with no
fear of the bus driver over hearing, you can tease and hurt other kids, and
everyone has to wait for you to get off.
When you are an adult though, sitting at the back of the bus means you
could be assaulted, spit on, urinated on, or anything else. Hell, sitting at the back of the bus used to
mean you where sub-human at one point.
This is a dramatic change from riding as a child. Now, I just want to be the first off and I
think my gamble will be beneficial on this particular night. Once we are all seated, we are on our way.
As we begin our drive the bald maestro takes the stage,
speaking first in the Queen’s English before switching over and repeating
himself in unclean Spanish. After a
brief ring-a-round of one sentence in each he breaks into full English, saying
he will than state everything in Spanish again afterwards. Thank god because the back and forth was
making me paranoid and schizophrenic. After
droning on about where to meet and stating we will be left, and blah, and blah
he brings up drugs and that we will be searched. At this my mind picks up, not because I have
drugs on my person but because he states we can’t bring anything in with
us. In a deluge of logic I sputter out
loudly, “So you best take them all now.”
While I expect this to be ignored by the maestro, he instead repeats it
into the mic for the entire bus to hear. “As he said, best do your drugs now.” With
this I hear several people cheer and the sound of moving around. At this point I begin bantering with the
fellow and having a great time while the groom, three seats down is
emphatically trying to get me to swig off some rum in a brown plastic
bottle. I manage a few here and there as
the maestro paces back and forth but the groom is unsatisfied and is now
ridiculing me for drinking like a girl.
Since I am buzzed I cajole him back with cheeky rebuttals, but this just
in sensitizes him and I am forced to drink more of the warm swill that finished
fermentation in his pocket. At this
point I know we are in trouble as most of the bus is drunk before we even get
there. As the maestro concludes he makes
a final note about not puking or urinating in the bus on the ride home and a
brief note once again reminding us that the bus will not wait before swinging
back into Spanish to do the whole thing over again. Finally we make it.
The door is open and I scoop out in Playa Del Carmen
proper. The heat is nice and unlike
early in the day it is rather bearable in a paradise kind of way. A light breeze shifts the palms and the
maestro leads us down the street as the bus empties behind us with an LED
reader board above him from one of his iPhones.
I mercifully finish the bottle of rum with the groom and take notice of
the look in his eyes. Great, we are both
at a stage of drunk. Everyone behind us
is still cheerful and happy as pre-mentioned drugs or previous alcohol consumption
wakes them up from the slumber of the bus.
Then I see it, the promised place, it feels like I have been waiting for
this all day. The line is huge and spans
the length of the block. Scantily clad
are running around everywhere and my eyes drink it up in the wavy orange street
light permeated with loud sounds of traffic and people. I love this, I live for this, at least when
it comes around. I am by all rights an
owl, a creature of the night, and could live a nocturnal life by choice at any
point. My groups of friends are not
clubbers or dancers and hardly owls per
say but get enough booze in me and throw that all to the wind, dance with me or
not, I care not. Tonight we drink,
tonight we dance, and tonight we try to get into trouble.
After standing in the line a few moments some of us realize
we are out of booze. One of the girls
from the wedding party grabs my hand and steers me out of line towards a small
adjacent bar. She says she has to
pee. I respond that I didn’t care but
she promises to buy me a beer so off we go.
Of course there is a line for the woman’s and none for the men but she
refuses to go into the men’s. I have not
gotten my beer yet so I take the money from her hand and meander over to the
bar. There is a line and not much room
for it as I can probably lie down and touch both sides of the bar, it is that
tiny. The bar itself is decorated as a
kind of surfer/stoner bar motif with cultural references from Jamaica, Puerto
Rico, and Mexico. It’s rather confusing
to see this kind of infusion in a bar.
It is obviously for tourists but it just doesn’t click. I get tired of waiting and just walk up to
the front of the line. For some reason
no one says anything. Both the
bartenders are dirty British, Australians, and one has dreads. White people shouldn’t have dreads, and
really no one should as it is unclean to not cut or wash your hair. I ignore him and turn to the female Australian
and ask for two beer-whatevers. She
knows what’s up and hands me four, I let her keep the change. Finally we return to line victorious with
beer and I remembered the fundamental problem of anything fun in kindergarten. I have not brought enough for the rest of the
class. I quickly polish off my first as
the hands go out for sips and simply take a large swallow of the second beer
before leaving it to its fate against the lips of many. That beer does not have a chance. The line starts moving.
Some people on the street are jazzed for the action, and
they are already dancing and drinking.
Others are squeamish and look scared, like mice. These are the people that got roped into
going without knowing what to expect or how they should act, they are
uncomfortable. Looking around us, I see
a few more than I would like of our own people in the mouse phase. I decide to keep going, at this point there
is little that is going to help them, either they will click into the zone or
be left out and there is little I can do without destroying my own night. When people are like that and can’t snap
forth they sometimes need coercing. But
if you coerce you get roped. If you get
roped and they don’t plunge down the rabbit’s hole you are irreparably stuck to
them for the rest of the night.
Something you rarely ever want.
The happiness of me is at stake with such activities. Not tonight.
The entrance to this thing is wild. Red light pulses from every fixture, bass is
banging out the doors, and there are a lot of men in suites and taxi drivers
everywhere. The line gets more
disjointed as we move to the front and forms a blob of men and women at the
entrance. We go through the first of two
waves of sweepers and glorified people that just want to cop a feel. Having your package felt is awkward when it’s
not invited but there is a reward at the end.
They greeted us with a vodka-cran and although it wasn’t very good all
of the people down to get down put it down while the mice threw it away or
squirreled it along the descending steps.
I of course swallowed mine and a few others that people didn’t want just
to keep the buzz going, like an investment for the future. My mom raised no fool, investment is
important. Besides I don’t know how long
it’s going to be until I see another place to get a drink without a line. As you descend through the building you’re
cordoned off and down these red lit super-hot hallways. It’s musty and smells like stale booze and
vomit. Lucky, we kept going at a brisk
pace and round the corner to another shots table, tequila. Down it goes plus the mice’s share and still
pushing forwards with no care for the wellbeing of my party. The maestro leads us forth until we are
birthed into the main atrium with another bar and people standing around it. Already they scream for me to come buy a
drink. Why do they have whistles? I can still see another exit which must be
paradise and I plow forward, the bass is reverberating from the portal and the
maestro pushes through.
We break the plane and are greeted with a large open cavity
surrounded with bleachers and balconies stretching to the ceiling. Confetti is pouring forth from everywhere and
strobe lights pulse with the music. On
the far wall a stage hangs thirty feet in mid-air. Upon the stage a show is in progress and
dancers gyrate their bodies to the beat in hap-hazard looking costumes. The maestro steers us under the stage; and in
front of a bar at the base of everyone’s attention. We are literally positioned in-between the
stage and everyone else with only the stage and bar in front of us. Suddenly the entire joint begins to leak
light out and replaces it with complete inky darkness. I can feel the silence of a crowd in
anticipation of an explosion. It’s a
silent pent up energy wriggling in everybody just waiting to burst. It vibrates the air and makes my hairs stand
up on end. The beats of thousands of people’s
hearts are pumping, a gentle wave of inhales, and clenched fingers waits for
release. When the tension will get no
greater without snapping the trap is revealed, the gig is up, you’ve shit the
bed, and almost came too early. Luckily
the wall of intense white light is frightening and blinding and returns you
back to the current with a snap of bass and the party is under way. We start with an initial line up of the
Beatles, songs of love, happiness, flowers and all of that rabble-rabble. The stage is decorated with dancers painted
in flowers and people are swinging from the rafters on glowing hoops. It’s intense and I only just realized what I
got myself into. Coco-Bongo is a unique
night club because it is not only a club but a complete and intricate show with
acts, themes, stars, re-appearing characters and tributes. It’s fantastic and throughout the shows
different things happen. These things
include mounds of confetti, walls of Co2, intense light displays, water, and
balloons. The shows include anything
from Tron and Spider-man with aerial actors and scripted dialog to Michael
Jackson impersonators and LMFAO tributes with the box head dancer. The energy stays at the perfect level for the
entirety of the shows, girls are encouraged on stage and on bars, and there are
floods of dancing people everywhere. In-between
and during acts there is always a constant flood of drinks from our own
sections personal bartender and if he is not available, attractive proprietors
will blow a whistle into your face to get you to take a shot. There is no shortage of alcohol and everyone
is ordering anything.
At half time I notice we have lost most of our party. Either they have chosen to leave on their own
positions or have become separated with no terms of rendezvous. Under these circumstances I must assume it’s
a ship down, casualties’ total situation.
I spiral around and still see plenty of faces I recognize so at least I
am not alone. I am not so drunk that I don’t
understand the pitfalls of being left upon thy own devices, seeing other people
guarantees that I will stay out of those pits.
Onward.
When I thought things where winding down, the poor little
Russian girl that had attached herself to us for the night was suddenly pulled
to the stage above to dance during one of the performances and soon after she
was shaking her genetic codes gift to men while the lights and confetti
pulsed. There she was looking as
innocent as she could while dancing in a skirt so short that it was tugging at
the sun to rise while being blasted with CO2 jets from all angles, her hair
askew. The look on her face was pure
embarrassment and our whole remainder of our group cheered. As fast as she rose she was gone and the show
went on.
We looked for her but fresh drama was a stir in this small
group of acquaintances and I thanked the stars that I had promised to not get
into any sort of trouble from anyone from the wedding party. This would be the second exodus of the night
as more members of our party hemorrhaged home in tears and arguments. The drama was palpable and there would be no
recovery for those involved while on this trip.
Most of the drama-teers where leaving the next day anyways and I had a
Russian girl to look for as she still had not returned and it was evident that
the show was coming to a close. So with
that in mind I began circling the lower floor hoping to locate her. Still she failed to materialize. Upon rejoining the group we figure she might
have been escorted out front so have the group traversed outside, including
myself. It’s easy to leave, simply take
a left at the bathrooms instead of a right, a flight of stairs and you are
dispatched back to the street of Playa proper.
It’s still hot out but it feels like bliss compared to the inferno
below. I see two of our now lonely group
propped against the building and they are obviously ready to go and I stroll to
greet them while anxiously looking for the Russian girl in which there is still
no sign of. People are starting to pour
out and the street is filling up with patrons of various states of drug usage
and alcohol consumption. This is not a
good time to hover on the street as the locals are starting to mingle into the
crowd which is a recipe for theft, drugging, kidnapping, and fighting. Luckily for us the two escapees are well
enough away from the crown on the opposite side of the street.
I cross quickly and greet them. They have not seen the Russian girl at all
and I am worried. We are after all
outspokenly responsible for her. Her
impromptu date soon meets me out front and I can tell by the look on his face
that he is also empty handed. I meet up
with him and we wiggle back into the club without security noticing and run
around as fast as we can between piles of ribbon and mounds of wet
confetti. Music is still playing and
they are trying to usher people out. We
dart we zag we make progress when he finally sees her on the third floor. He sprints up retrieves the package and we
extract back out. Our known group is
still congregating so I spark a cancer stick.
As I pull it out of the pack a group member asks me nicely for one and I
respond in kind, noticing from the corner of my eye that a local female is
approaching with a step that can only mean she works hard for her money. I step a few paces as she enters and ask for
a cigarette. While I usually hate giving
out cigarettes to people I don’t know, I figure the easiest way to get her away
is just to hand one over and step away.
It works but when I light my acquaintances cigarette she takes the
opportunity to ask for a light as well.
I step towards her and extend out the lit lighter and she comes in for
the flame. She’s near the end of her
prime and the low cut daisy dukes are not doing her any favors. In the last second of conflagration I feel
her hand reach behind me and aim for my wallet.
Once again, momma raised no moron and had taken precautions which
included buttoning that back pocket button.
No free lunch for her.
I exploded into a verbal assault. If you have known me long enough you have seen
one. It’s terribly frightening but much
like the Baratheon’s, Ours is The Fury.
In a matter of less than fifteen seconds I had reduced her
to a slurring quagmire and the only comprehendible retaliation I received was
“I am not a prostitute.” I called
bullshit flicked my cigarette at her and joined our amassing group of survivors
where they whisked me away towards our departure location, probably for the
best.
I remembered what the Maestro had said very vividly, be on
the bus at the designated time or find another ride. The concept was simple but we were the only
ones on the bus. We waited. We were still
the only ones on the bus, despite several inquiries from passing by tourists,
and we waited. It felt like forever. Still we were the only one on the bus. Finally a small party manages to stumble on
board. They were the ones who
specifically spoke Spanish and went past us with a whoosh to their seats. Hotel bound, the driver switched the ignition
over and we slammed the door. If there
was anyone else coming they were going to need to find a new way home. The bus had less than a one third of the
people we had embarked with.
I don’t remember much of the bus ride, it was dark and the
lights had been lowered to tempt us with sleep.
Occasionally a spark of laughter would go up from the Latino party but
otherwise it was a tomb. Among our own
party most of the conversation was petty chit chat and trying to figure out
what had happened to the rest of our party but with little enlightenment we
stumbled back into silence. When we
arrived back at the hotel the club was still pumping terrible music so we went
to check it out and drink, of course…and so the night went on, even if it
already was 3AM. For when you have a day
in paradise, even a ponderous one, you best not waste it.
