Before heading off to Rhodes with 8 friends, nearly everyone I told about the trip put on a warning face.
Once they'd heard we would be spending a week in the "rape capital of Europe", everyone had their own piece of advice to give- always stay in groups of four, carry rape whistles, tasers, pepper spray, attack dogs, all of which definitely would not fit in your handbag along with a camera and those precious euros. The images the media give you of Faliraki, one small town on the island of Rhodes packed full of bars, clubs and restaurants, are of huge groups of British tourists- all members of the 18/30 club or on some package holiday- having drink poured directly down their throats, staggering along the streets and disappearing into dark alleys together. So this is, partially, what I was expecting when we got out to Billy's Apartments in Faliraki.
We got in at four in the morning, and one of my friends swore she had been smelling the "Greek air" from the moment she stepped off the plane. But aside from the air, there wasn't all that much that was Greek to get used to. Granted the plumbing system for the island couldn't handle toilet paper (a startling and strange thing to get used to), but the amount of people who were if not English themselves, at least fluent in the language, made the transition from Bristol to Faliraki almost seamless.
Of course, that was what the Thomas Cook representatives were there to do. Over-enthusiastic and pink-clad, they sat us down in the bar on our first morning and introduced us to the Hangover Chair and insisted we say Wooo after every excursion they pitched to us, all efficiently planned and priced out by the Thomas Cook head office.
This is where the infamous nature of places like Faliraki is born- bar crawls, foam parties, school parties, banana-boat / open-bar midday excursions for just twelve euros, fifteen euros, twenty euros entry with a free bar for two hours. If you've paid twenty euros for two hours' worth of an all-you-can-drink bar, you'll want to get your money's worth, which means drinking twenty euros' worth of alcohol in two hours. Cue the singing, fighting, groping in the streets, the stumbling and the dark alleys.
My friends and I opted in for one of these trips- the first-night barcrawl. We visited seven different bars and had a free shot at each one, but when we got to lining up for a club where they had bypassed the idea of shotglasses altogether and were, indeed, pouring sambuca directly into our mouths, I lost some of my enthusiasm.
We headed onto Bar Street and there was a tangible change in the atmosphere- it was far more crowded, more hectic, the air temperature rose noticably and inexplicably, and there was far more shouting, groping, stumbling. I even heard the phrase 18/30 thrown around a few times.
This was where Faliraki's bad reputation can easily be found- in the dark and confusion outside those clubs it was easy to see how someone could be pulled away from their friends, a drink spiked, a fight started. At a couple of points on that first night we lost one or two of our group, and panic ensued until we found them again on the arm of the guy they'd met in the previous club, who was, we all agreed, usually alright.
After the first couple of hangovers from that first night had died away, we usually stuck around the same three bars for the rest of the week, and spent so much time there that the PR guys outside got to recognising us, knowing our names, and have now added us all on Facebook. They'd make sure we had drinks, sometimes give us a deal, and help out when someone had apparently disappeared. When the inevitable spat broke out and someone ended up sat outside looking upset, the PRs would be there asking if we were okay.
Partially because of this bad reputation, then, when someone recognises you in Faliraki, they look out for you. And if you're with friends who will look after you too, you've got it made. My eight friends and I spent a week in Faliraki without anything untoward or non-consensual happening, and without staying in every night. Lots of shots were consumed. One night we spent sixty euros on drink for the apartment, and another we stayed out until half seven in the morning and watched the sunrise from the beach.
Coming home, we were all quiet. We looked at a cloud-covered sky for the first time in a week and all wished we were back there. I've read reviews saying that two weeks is not enough time to spend in Rhodes, so one week certainly wasn't- some of my friends have said they'll go back out there to work next year, some have said they'll go back next month.
If you go to Faliraki, or anywhere, for that matter, expecting the bad reputation to raise its ugly head, it will do. If you go to bar street and walk alone and leave your drink uncovered then chances are you'll have some nasty experiences. But if you're with friends and you make friends out there, there is really nothing to fear but fear itself.
And the hangovers.
Once they'd heard we would be spending a week in the "rape capital of Europe", everyone had their own piece of advice to give- always stay in groups of four, carry rape whistles, tasers, pepper spray, attack dogs, all of which definitely would not fit in your handbag along with a camera and those precious euros. The images the media give you of Faliraki, one small town on the island of Rhodes packed full of bars, clubs and restaurants, are of huge groups of British tourists- all members of the 18/30 club or on some package holiday- having drink poured directly down their throats, staggering along the streets and disappearing into dark alleys together. So this is, partially, what I was expecting when we got out to Billy's Apartments in Faliraki.
We got in at four in the morning, and one of my friends swore she had been smelling the "Greek air" from the moment she stepped off the plane. But aside from the air, there wasn't all that much that was Greek to get used to. Granted the plumbing system for the island couldn't handle toilet paper (a startling and strange thing to get used to), but the amount of people who were if not English themselves, at least fluent in the language, made the transition from Bristol to Faliraki almost seamless.
Of course, that was what the Thomas Cook representatives were there to do. Over-enthusiastic and pink-clad, they sat us down in the bar on our first morning and introduced us to the Hangover Chair and insisted we say Wooo after every excursion they pitched to us, all efficiently planned and priced out by the Thomas Cook head office.
This is where the infamous nature of places like Faliraki is born- bar crawls, foam parties, school parties, banana-boat / open-bar midday excursions for just twelve euros, fifteen euros, twenty euros entry with a free bar for two hours. If you've paid twenty euros for two hours' worth of an all-you-can-drink bar, you'll want to get your money's worth, which means drinking twenty euros' worth of alcohol in two hours. Cue the singing, fighting, groping in the streets, the stumbling and the dark alleys.
My friends and I opted in for one of these trips- the first-night barcrawl. We visited seven different bars and had a free shot at each one, but when we got to lining up for a club where they had bypassed the idea of shotglasses altogether and were, indeed, pouring sambuca directly into our mouths, I lost some of my enthusiasm.
We headed onto Bar Street and there was a tangible change in the atmosphere- it was far more crowded, more hectic, the air temperature rose noticably and inexplicably, and there was far more shouting, groping, stumbling. I even heard the phrase 18/30 thrown around a few times.
This was where Faliraki's bad reputation can easily be found- in the dark and confusion outside those clubs it was easy to see how someone could be pulled away from their friends, a drink spiked, a fight started. At a couple of points on that first night we lost one or two of our group, and panic ensued until we found them again on the arm of the guy they'd met in the previous club, who was, we all agreed, usually alright.
After the first couple of hangovers from that first night had died away, we usually stuck around the same three bars for the rest of the week, and spent so much time there that the PR guys outside got to recognising us, knowing our names, and have now added us all on Facebook. They'd make sure we had drinks, sometimes give us a deal, and help out when someone had apparently disappeared. When the inevitable spat broke out and someone ended up sat outside looking upset, the PRs would be there asking if we were okay.
Partially because of this bad reputation, then, when someone recognises you in Faliraki, they look out for you. And if you're with friends who will look after you too, you've got it made. My eight friends and I spent a week in Faliraki without anything untoward or non-consensual happening, and without staying in every night. Lots of shots were consumed. One night we spent sixty euros on drink for the apartment, and another we stayed out until half seven in the morning and watched the sunrise from the beach.
Coming home, we were all quiet. We looked at a cloud-covered sky for the first time in a week and all wished we were back there. I've read reviews saying that two weeks is not enough time to spend in Rhodes, so one week certainly wasn't- some of my friends have said they'll go back out there to work next year, some have said they'll go back next month.
If you go to Faliraki, or anywhere, for that matter, expecting the bad reputation to raise its ugly head, it will do. If you go to bar street and walk alone and leave your drink uncovered then chances are you'll have some nasty experiences. But if you're with friends and you make friends out there, there is really nothing to fear but fear itself.
And the hangovers.
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