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But I’m done.Īs I finally step outside, the greeting of midmorning sunlight makes me feel twice as dirty. Hundreds of people remain glued to the dance floor, still going strong. My shirt is lost on the floor somewhere, never to be seen again. I’ve never looked worse in my life, but as the club is devoid of mirrors, I’m the only person who can’t tell. “They brought condoms, right?” I ask the nearby resident dealer. Meanwhile, a large “dark room” located just off the dance floor - pitch black with narrow hallways and a leather sling - has accumulated an orgy of thrusting, grunting silhouettes. Up near the DJ, two guys take turns spewing into the swaying crowd. Not far off, an uncanny “Human Centipede” re-enactment expands before my delicate eyes. Modest lovers disappear into dark alcoves removed from the centre, but many embrace their inner exhibitionist and bang away right there on the dance floor.Īt one point, I see a girl penetrating a guy with a strap-on penis. Sexual acts take place in every nook and cranny. Men and women dance completely naked, their pupils so dilated you could push a screaming ten-pound baby out of them. Picture: Gavin Fernandoīy now, the club has fully descended into its trademark decor of shameless hedonism. Reporter Gavin Fernando pictured after spending 24 hours at Berghain nightclub in Berlin.
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I shake my head and crack a joke about my deceptively shady resting face. At the urinal, a tall, serious Swiss guy with a deadpan voice casually asks if I’m selling ecstasy, explaining he’s been unable to purchase anything because everyone assumes he’s an undercover cop. If they catch you with anything illegal, you have two options: leave and take them with you, or dump ‘em in the bin and slide on through.īut nobody is having trouble scoring. While I only received a quick pat-down at the entrance, I’ve been told the staff do inspect shoes and socks at random. You’d think people could openly conduct their business dealings in a place like this, but security is actually vaguely strict on illicit substances - hence the curious abundance of full-bowled clubbers.
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Even GHB - a colourless liquid depressant said to be loathed by the bouncers - is offered to me for free on four different occasions. Underneath the stalls, you’ll rarely see less than four or five pairs of shoes at a time.Ĭocaine, ketamine and ecstasy are the most popular drugs available, and thick clouds of weed smoke permeate the entire venue. The most popular hangout spot is the upstairs bathroom, which is gender-neutral and jam-packed with people lining up for free cubicles. It’s like a super unappealing Heinz Chunky Soup commercial. I jump aside at the last second, but a thick glob of her orange-red spew hits my arm. As I open my mouth to ask if she’s OK, she abruptly projectile vomits. Near the bar, a young girl staggers up to me. The sense of timelessness is integral to Berghain’s character, with the sunless interior designed to keep you from knowing whether it’s day or night (you can thank Steve Jobs for my cute little time-stamps).īy now everything - the hard acid techno, the stench of sweat and urine, the onslaught of swaying zombies - is completely saturated in drugs. The outdoor bar closes after sunset, and everyone moves inside. Cameras are banned, and partygoers are made to tape up their camera phones before they enter.
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People of all ages and skin colours are rolling their diverse little faces off in harmony, from the young Turkish guy in a head-to-toe white lace wedding dress, to the 60-something, seemingly genderless Chinese person donning a shiny pinstripe suit.Ī sneakily taken picture inside Berghain nightclub. While the techno heads on the main floor dance in solitude, the vibe out here is friendly, social and upbeat, with the DJ playing amped-up remixes of everything from the original ‘70s You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real) to Kylie’s Can’t Get You Out Of My Head. It’s almost the end of summer, and most people have congregated on the outdoor dance floor. Stage fright? Don’t worry, he’ll be there all day.ĭuring the afternoon, the party is relatively calm.
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While you zip up, he breathes a satisfied “Danke” and returns to his position - until the next walking bladder comes along. When nature calls, his job is to answer the phone, y’know? Y’don’t know? All right, fine - he crouches down beside you and drinks your urine. In the light, the first person I make eye contact with is an earnest German man in his 30s, who stands obediently by the men’s urinal wearing nothing but a leather dog collar. I stumble towards the bathroom, my vision struggling to adjust.
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