“Bikini party! We’re all getting dressed up! “ I’m told by my group of lovely boy mates, who I love so so much, but tend to pretend I don’t know them when they go into fancy-dress mode. I have visions of the boys turning up in bikinis or man-kinis but am pleasantly amused at their effort when I get to the infamous “Bushwaka bar” that evening… They’re kitted out in an assortment of brightly colored swim shorts, water pistols or ‘super soakers’ as I am corrected, goggles, tight fitting swimming hats, and little yellow arm bands.
Apparently I’ve missed some lewd paddling pool action on the stage of the bar involving a banana and a female volunteer, but never fear, I am updated with excruciating detail, before I remind my lovely friends that they may count me as one of the boys, but I definitely don’t need be involved in trade-secrets like one of the boys..
They’re not small lads by any stretch of the imagination, and the armbands “suitable for 3-4 years old” cunningly serve to highlight any appearance of a bicep or two. (Very clever boys.) One of them comes up with the ingenious idea of rubbing suntan cream into every girl that wanders past with bare skin- “Sun cream is part of the fancy dress, it’s a bikini party” I’m told. I’ve underestimated them. They turn themselves into a bit of a tourist attraction; girls wanting photos with the soggy group of half naked boys with very big grins on their faces. I’m not quite sure if this tactic will actually win them a lady at the end of the evening, but they definitely get a few hugs, a few cream rubs, and lots of attention…
This particular bar has girls dancing on the bar surfaces- a very clever tactic on busy nights; men are too busy staring at the scantily clad chicas balancing between glasses and bartenders pouring drinks (health and safety would have a fit) so customers are distracted from any sort or queuing system and tis much easier for non-gawping customers to slide effortless to the front and get served quickly, i.e, me.
At some point I end up with a blue beach bucket on my head and a rubber ring around my neck but when I look around, I see this actually makes me fit in quite well. There is a random assortment of colored plastic spades dotted around the dance floor, people waving them around and bashing each other over the head enthusiastically. Three of them end up in my handbag by the end of the evening (spades, not people) and we decide its is completely necessary that we make an octopus out of sand tomorrow on the beach. (I’m not quite sure where this idea came from, but true to form with our stolen spades, an octopus is created on the beach the following afternoon.)
As the evening progresses, buckets of water are being thrown around the bar, and I look at the manager’s face- expecting him to be roaring at his employees for drowning his bar and making a hideous mess, but actually he is semi-naked too, happily splashing about with everybody else, receiving gallons of water in his face and laughing. Note to self- I want his job. The job I definitely don’t want is of the other bartenders; I have to wade out towards the door, not just through people, but through water- it’s going to take more than a bucket and mop to shift it.
Outside, the 300 wet people in various states of dishevelment begin to wander in several directions- towards Pacha nightclub, the kebab shop (one cleverly built right opposite), or home. I think our group is going towards to the home option when a waterfall drops from the sky, quite literally and nearly drown us. I look up, unable to tell if it’s coming from the bar or from someone’s apartment in protest to the noise. In response, everyone looks at each other in mock-horror (girls who have had their carefully applied makeup and hair ruined- real horror.) To be fair, if you had moved to Spain for a more relaxed life, for Spanish style siestas and ‘manana’ mentality, and you ended up in an apartment directly above the Bushwaka bar where it’s like every day is your birthday and the parties never stop- I would probably be jumping off the balcony, not throwing water off it.
We take it in good jest (considering we’re all wet anyway) and I fit in a taxi between boys and armbands and a battered swimming hat that is being flicked about like catapult.
Another day, another party…
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