'IT'S NOT A PLACE, it's a state of mind." Whether you find yourself in Woodstock, Hell, Goa or Dundalk, you'll hear the cliché uttered in relation to the peculiar charms of the milieu. Whenever we are bound together by a mindset and behave in a similar way, the location is diminished and the communal state of mind elevated, writes John Butler
But the more it's applied, the less it comes to mean about any place. Is everywhere a state of mind? And if so, where have all the actual places gone - places that are only places, and not states of mind at all? While we're at it, are there many instances of the opposite being true - where something that should be a state of mind is not a state of mind, but an actual place? I can think of only one state of mind which is in fact a place and as such, it is far more remarkable. I'm talking about drinking tequila. Drinking tequila is a state of mind. Tequila drinkers are slammers, shooters, party animals. Tequila is commonly believed to be an "on" switch, the gateway to a "party" state of mind. Tequila is drunk for its effect rather that its taste. It is a state of mind.
And yet, in the middle of the Caribbean Sea there lies a physical destination called "Cuervo Nation". Cuervo is a tequila brand, but "Cuervo Nation" is not a state of mind - it's an actual place, an island where the constitution is based on round-the-clock consumption (and celebration) of every brand of Cuervo tequila, in its multifarious guises. Needless to say, this tiny 1 sq km island in the British Virgin Islands has been minted on behalf of the Mexican tequila company by a high-end advertising agency, or rather rented annually for the purpose of hosting a week of revelry for 25 competition winners (and fans of Cuervo tequila) from across the globe.
The competition winners came from South Africa, Scotland, Italy, Spain, the US and Korea - the top tequila-drinking countries in the world. The purpose was to transform people's perception of tequila from state of mind to place - to teach people to enjoy the taste of the drink rather than the effect it wrought upon them. This is the bleeding edge of cross-promotion, wherein event management collides with public service advertising to create (albeit briefly) an actual branded country, a Republic of Booze in the middle of the Caribbean.
I was hired to visit Cuervo Nation as a videographer. I would film the revelry which would then be edited and uploaded onto the Cuervo Nation website (Cuervo Nation has a national anthem, so of course Cuervo Nation has a website). I was convinced the social experiment would fail, and my imagination had already provided me with with a shot-list of grotesque, hedonistic images - grown men weeping, scantily-clad beach brawls, experimental dance moves. The usual tequila-based behaviour.
By the time I woke up on the first morning, the beach resembled the island from Lost. Pillowy soft white sand and bright green water, behind which hammocks were strung from the overhanging branches of bounteous trees. The Korean guy was already passed out on the beach, the South Africans were wrestling on a dinghy and the Spanish contingent sprawled in the shade, jabbering excitedly. In the bar, the Scots played pool, and the only thing any of these people had in common was the radioactive margaritas in their hands - X-Rated Slush Puppies in plastic Cuervo-branded cups. Everyone was drunk, and it was 8am.
I could see the organisers surveying the scene from the wicker restaurant patio at the centre of the complex. For them, the tropical storm clouds had already gathered. The holiday held the mutually incompatible characteristics of being entirely based on alcohol and run by socially responsible Americans, so safety was high on the agenda and ensuring it a constant challenge. Of course, the idea had to be for everyone to drink tequila, and the organisers had to facilitate this in as many ways as possible. But at the same time, the worst possible outcome for the Cuervo people, the agency and the contestants themselves, would have been if someone drunkenly fell out of a coconut tree and cracked their head open.
Resolved, the organisers whistled, bellowed and bullhorned the competition winners into action, with twin weapons to hand - activities and food. There was to be no hanging off the bar for 18 hours, no laying on the sand clicking fingers for refills. Over the next three days, every time a row of competition winners found themselves holding aloft a waterski on top of which shots of Cuervo had been arranged for them to drain as one, they would have to run 200 yards immediately after in the name of fun, with brightly coloured Cuervo Nerf balls under their arms. Upon rounding a stake in the ground they would have to run back and deposit the balls in a Cuervo-branded plastic goal in return for which they would be rewarded with a huge pork taco.
The organisers' energy was Herculean. Sure, drink four raspberry Cuervo daiquiris but then eat two full watermelons! By all means, slam a shot of Cuervo Gold and chew a slice of lime but then it's beach football! At night, marshmallows were toasted and almost forced into mouths, and people were figuratively slapped around the cheeks and revived with fillet steaks. And it worked. By day two, the Cuervo Nation state of mind began to take hold. Scots and South Africans sipped the same margherita for two hours, better able to kayak to the far side of the bay. By the end, people sampled Cuervo brands as if at a wine-tasting, spitting them out into buckets and talking about the finish. The party state of mind had somehow become a nation of socially responsible enjoyers of premium tequila. Viva tequila, but one sip at a time.