Joe Ridgwell

Beach Party

Karl told me about the beach party by leaving a note in the hut. He planned to wait for me on the other side of the island, in a bar we had been frequenting for the past couple of days. After reading the letter I got dressed, sprayed myself all over with industrial strength mosquito repellent, and crept along a jungle path in pitch-black darkness.

Our rented hut was on a secluded part of the island and aside from a few other huts and the sea, there was nothing else there. I felt a bit edgy walking along in the dark and begun imagining things and stuff, but I knew where the path was headed and you couldn’t get lost unless you were falling over drunk, and even then you would probably make it.

I found Karl in the bar, constructing a one-dimensional pyramid with some playing cards. He was the only customer. ‘Look,’ he said showing me the pack of cards, ‘If you buy four Tiger beers, you get a free pack of cards.’ One thing about travelling is you always have an excess of time on your hands, time is your enemy and it pays to be prepared. Good reads are essential, the ability to sleep a great deal helps, and board games like chess and backgammon are invaluable.

We had a few hours to kill before the party so we sat chatting about this and that, building card pyramids, and boozing. Then, just as Karl was in the middle of constructing a recording breaking twelve level pyramid, the sudden sound of loud baseline heavy music distracted him at the vital moment and the pyramid collapsed. I drained my beer, ‘Must be the beach party.’ Karl looked at the scattered cards in disgust, ‘Bullshit, I would have made it.’ ‘Come on, let’s check out the party.’

We walked slowly along a sandy path. It was a hot humid night with the slightest of sea breezes, which every now then rustled the fronds of the palm trees high above. The smell of the tropics was all around, a heavy, luxuriant, sensual smell, and in the velvet sky a few silver stars twinkled here and there. By the time we got to the beach the party was already underway and groups of travellers were plotted in little camps on the sand.

The islanders had rigged up a sound system and in front of this twenty or thirty people were dancing awkwardly to muffled-sounding techno. In the middle of the beach a sand sculptor was surrounded by a circle of attentive travellers, all watching his progress by candlelight.We meandered along the beach observing the scene. Some enterprising locals, armed with buckets filled with ice and drink, were patrolling the shore. The most popular drink amongst travellers was a cheap local whiskey, known as monkey juice because of a picture of an orang-utan labelled on each bottle. We sat cross-legged on the beach, Buddha style, and waited for something to happen.

After a few minutes a couple of traveller birds, both of whom were holding a bottle of monkey juice, approached. We chatted for a while and then, probably out of boredom more than anything, Karl made a move. He had charm, along with the looks of a god, and when he started in on his Opatija line, much to the interest of the two girls, I decided to have a dance. I steamed straight into the crowd and began doing some karate moves, but I couldn’t get into it. Then I did the funky chicken, followed by the mash potato, but still couldn’t get into it, and stopped when other travellers began pointing and laughing at me.

The problem was I wasn’t drunk enough and the music was rubbish. I took a gamble and accosted the DJ. It was a long shot, but I did it anyway. Did he have any Elvis? The DJ laughed and shook his head. Any Phil Spector, the Ronettes? The DJ held his hands up. I shouted out again, ‘Got any Northern soul, what about Al Wilson’s The Snake?’ The DJ looked at me like I was mentally retarded, played some more monotonous techno, and shouted at the crowd to make some noise. As the crowd made some noise, I shrugged my shoulders and walked off into the shadows.

I brought six tiger beers from one of the bucket men and found a secluded section of beach, a section of beach far from the party. I sat down on a large rock and gazed at the sea for hours. At one point a pale blue moon appeared from behind a silver cloud and I wondered what to do with the rest of my life. I thought long and deep. I’d been away from home for three years and had travelled the world, but this trip was probably going to be my last for a long, long time. I didn’t have a clue what the future had in store because there was nothing to look forward to, apart from an old childhood bedroom, a mountain of debt, and a date with the job centre.

I stared at the blue moon and back to the sea. I did this several times for no particular reason. Almost twenty-eight and I hadn’t even managed to master a trade. I was up shit creek and I knew it. Back home people of my generation were getting their lives in order. They were building successful careers, buying automobiles, and climbing the first rungs of the property ladder. Some were even rearing the next generation, the next generation born to die. Maybe I was depressed or something. I’d fought all my life to be a non-conformist, but this is a difficult path to follow and without money almost impossible. Where are the rebels? I asked the moon, but the moon didn’t answer and just beamed an ethereal moon glade across the surface of the water.

Some enchanted evening for someone, somewhere, but not for me. At some point I entered a coconut grove, ‘Something has to turn up,’ I told myself encouragingly, as I weaved between the shadowy, swaying trunks. I leaned against a trunk and contemplated ways to postpone my return to the UK, trying to delay the inevitable, and sipped my beer. Suddenly, a loud swishing noise followed by two dull thuds, interrupted my ruminations. Shocked, I looked up. In the gloomy darkness I could make out large bunches of shadowy coconuts nestled at the top of each palm tree.

I came across a coconut and rolled it under my foot; it was massive, bigger than my head. If a coconut that size landed on my head it would have killed me outright. I decided to get out of the coconut grove and head back to the party. In my prolonged absence the beach had transformed into a battlefield, casualties everywhere, crashed out on the sand. The music had stopped and the sound system had been put away, but a few stragglers were still wandering about disjointedly, and a few hardcore groups remained huddled around glowing fires. The sand sculptor had disappeared and someone had walked all over his sculpture, so now it was just the ruin of a sculpture, and the whole scene reminded me of death.

I looked at the bodies asleep on the beach; some still clutching monkey juice bottles to their chests like prized possessions, or comfort blankets. That could’ve been me crashed out on the beach I reflected, or maybe swimming naked in the sea with a beautiful girl, but I was older now, even slightly jaded. I conducted a search for Karl amongst the wounded and dying, but was unable to find him anywhere. He was gone and the party was over.

Eventually I found the jungle path and walked back to my hut, but on opening the door came face to face with Karl having it off with one of the girls from the party. Karl’s white arse was going twelve to the dozen, and the girl’s legs were dangling in the air. For a few moments I was a voyeur, and then a sudden urge to tickle the soles of the girl’s feet overwhelmed me, but I successfully resisted the temptation. Then I closed the door as quietly as possible and sauntered towards the seashore.

At the shore was a small wooden jetty. I walked to the end of the jetty and sat down. In the morning it would be time to leave the country, and if Karl wanted to come all well and good, but if he didn’t I’d still leave. Sometimes that’s all travelling is, a succession of goodbyes, until once more alone again. I watched a rising pink creep across the horizon and waited for God to show his face.