Loukia gets in the raving spirit…

When you hear the words Ayia Napa, the last thing you’d think of is a small monastic town discovered by a hunter and dedicated to the Virgin Mary, right?

When you hear the word Malia, the last thing you’d think of is a town rich in ancient ruins and historic monuments.

Even when you hear the word Ibiza, the last thing you’d think of is an Island tortured under the control of every empire, which ruled Mediterranean civilization.

When hearing any one of these, the first things you probably think of are chavs, alcohol and an abundant selection of substances and STI’s. It’s a hot and clammy cocktail of the things small Mediterranean islands have to offer, from June to September. But before we judge these places as an archipelago of chavvy and chlamydia ridden clubs (which granted much of the time they are), they are also the places responsible for much of the success and exposure our homegrown urban artists have/get today.

Back in the late 90’s when I was still a minor I first discovered the tuuuunes dem from the London undergrounds. People like Heartless Crew surfaced and began to brainwash the music world and my whole being, with moody bars and heavy basslines. Ayia Napa, a small town in my beautiful little Island of origin, became the holiday home of UK flows. Ten years on and it seems it’s still so. If you’re a fan and regular raver of these scenes, specifically grime, funky or even bassline then from time to time over the next two months England will probably be a lot quieter than usual – especially in terms of the best DJ’s and the best MC’s. All the most popular are currently dispersing themselves across the Mediterranean Sea where they occupy a handful of islands and do damage to the ears, feet and sexual health of all the 18 to 25 year old holiday-makers.

For the next couple of months, you’re more likely to meet your favorite MC and your favorite DJ on a random Mediterranean island than on the streets of London Town. It’s an odd sensation when you’re sat on the beach, with sand in places where sand shouldn’t be, curing the world’s worst hangover with a sex on the beach (either interpretation appropriate) and looking like a bag of crap whilst simultaneously playing volleyball with members of Boy Better Know or seeing who can hold their breath longer under water, you or Marcus Nasty, or quite simply rubbing in your suntan lotion whilst Radio 1’s infamous Westwood is dropping some bit fat tunes in the background – odd but fantastic.

As Rudeboy-Lover-Numero -Uno (my official middle name) and as the spawn of Aphrodite, I find myself quite lucky to be from the island of Cyprus. Since my birth until the present day I have spent most of my long summers in the beautiful hot and sunny motherland. A place where it rains lemon juice, snows olives and where people wear halloumi necklaces. And a place with grime, funky and rude-boys galore – Mother Nature could not have chosen a more appropriate place to make me from (except perhaps if she’d made me from the depths of East London).

SO, if you fancy a holiday that will sound like a weeklong weekend in the musical ghettos of the UK but will look and feel like a Fijian(ish) retreat, you know where to go.  It’s time to make yet another season’s worth of sweaty, stinking and stupidly smashed raving memories.

 OLI OLI OLI……You know the rest!

*Disclaimer – always drink sensibly and always strap up. It’s not about alcohol poisoning and accidentally breeding – it’s about good times and good vibes.  

Words: Loukia Constantinou

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