The Ibiza I Love: an island tribute
The Spanish writer, artist and athlete Igor Ramirez García-Peralta dives into the history of Ibiza and spills the secrets on a decades-long romance with his adopted island.
"Here there is still that precious and rare mingling of backgrounds, ages, talents, ideologies and depth of pockets that doesn't happen anywhere else. That's the magic of Ibiza."
It seems fiendish to reduce 40 centuries of history to a single night of excess, but Ibiza has that illusory effect. Its essence, some think, can be condensed into a worn-out party brace- let or a jar of fetishised sea salt. The fame of Ibiza, however, predates the arrival of the first sunflower-bearing hippies, the consolidation of the party establishment and the era of mass tourism. Its privileged geographical location played a key role since the 7th century BC, when the Phoenicians turned the bays of Eivissa and Sa Caleta into dynamic commercial ports, whilst neighbouring Mallorca and Menorca were still dozing in their deep pre-historic siestas.
More recently, a new wave of residents settled to the Pitiusas – Ibiza and Formentera – escaping the gruelling reality of city life and the discomfort of their one-bedroom apartments. Some claim a revival of the island, but I would argue that it was never dead. Journalists and editors who were sniffy about Ibiza are magnanimously giving it a second chance. I wonder though, whether they were really sniffing at our island, or rather at their own countrymen, who still arrive on crammed low-cost flights and shop topless at our supermarkets. To mind comes the recent, haunting and never more literal image of a traveller dressed as a cockroach on a plane from London. One thing is certain: Ibiza doesn’t leave anyone indifferent. You love it or hate it. Many believe this to be mutual: the island either seduces you, covering you head-to-toe with lavender-scented oils, or expels you, sometimes in the most humiliating fashion, with disarrayed flip-flops, a lobster-red sunburn and a hefty police fine.
Saying that Ibiza has special energy is as obvious as describing water as wet. But this is a peculiar form of energy. One that mutates. It can be equally powerful and hypnotic at the overcrowded privé of DC-10 as under the canopies of the almond trees in Santa Inés. It pains me to put Santa Inés and DC-10 together in a sentence, but I do believe both are under the same vibrant spell, this energy that speaks to our most primal nature, decoding ancient pleasures, some calmer than others. It tingles on the tip of our tongue and galvanises our senses into the quest for eternal gratification. It makes us happy, as simple as that, and that is why we are all here. But invariably, summer after summer, that energy morphs into a different beast, sprinkled with glitter and ketamine, as if the seasonal reopening of the Starbucks at the airport presses some obscure acupuncture point that releases its demons. The truth is though, as much as some of us, the full-time residents, would like to erect a fortress to hide from tourists and their wireless-printer-resembling rental cars, which invariably end up parked in unimaginable locations, Ibiza owes something of its existence to them.
The first hotels opened their doors almost 100 years ago. Among them was the Gran Hotel, later known as Hotel Montesol on Paseo Vara de Rey, Eivissa’s most emblematic tree-lined street. The names of our boulevards, valleys and beaches tell something about the history of the island: Benimussa and Benirrás (Beniarrayz) date back to the Al Andalus era and the centuries of Muslim rule over most of Spain; whilst Vara de Rey can be traced back to Joaquín Vara de Rey, a general of the Spanish Army and a celebrated local hero who was born in Ibiza and elevated to the status of patriotic martyr after his death during the Spanish-American war in Cuba. Spain had a heavy identity crisis during the last decades of the 19th century, after losing the majority of its colonies in the Americas. The Pitiusas were also struggling with their own Hispanism, overshadowed by Mallorca and Menorca. Despite being later starters in historical terms, over the centuries both ended up developing a closer connection to the mainland. But it was precisely that apparent neglect and isolation – that ‘undiscovered’ allure – that turned Ibiza into a dream destination for intellectual luminaries like Albert Camus, Man Ray, Raoul Hausmann and Pierre Drieu La Rochelle.
The next decades were dark: the atrocities of the Spanish Civil War, which, for many, still twinge like open wounds, followed by the Second World War plunged Ibiza into devastating poverty. Between 1940 and the mid-fifties, Ibiza very nearly faced the risk of becoming depopulated. But in 1958 the first commercial flight landed on an improvised, dusty strip. Something was about to change.
Manuel Fraga, Franco’s savvy Minister of Tourism, coined the phrase ‘Spain is different’ to promote a country which, for most Europeans, seemed stuck in the past. He presented it as an exotic destination just south of the Pyrenees, yet so refreshingly remote. Truth be told, tourism was a lifeboat for Spain and, particularly for Ibiza, where a generation of self taught businessmen embarked upon gargantuan developments, without any sort of urban planning or government regulation, forever scarring the landscape of some of the most beautiful coves and beaches of the island. The formula was simple: a small group of people would put together some money to buy cheap land. Conveniently, the cheapest parcels were by the sea since they weren’t fit for agriculture. Afterwards they would sign a deal with an international operator which, in turn, would finance the construction and secure preferential rates for years to come. Along with tourism came a voracious appetite for construction, infrastructure and asphalt. Coincidently, the sixties turned out to be a prosperous decade for agriculture, with production of almond, carob, new potatoes and dried apricots at their peak. But Ibiza decided to focus on the monocrop of tourism and in just a few years it would become its main source of income.
The real luxury of Ibiza comes from the meaningful connections you get to establish with people. Like the butcher who adds an extra breast of pollo payés, because he knows I have s race soon.
A second boom of international intellectuals, artists and their entourages arrived in Ibiza and the island’s name became synonymous with parties, excess and debauchery, as depicted in Barbet Schroeder’s first movie More (1969), a dystopian vision of hedonism with a soupy soundtrack by Pink Floyd. It tells the story of two sun-loving kids who end up chasing the dragon down the twisted rabbit hole of heroin addiction. By 1973 Ricardo Urgell had opened the doors of his hedonistic temple Pacha; five years later, in June 1978, Bob Marley performed at the now-demolished Plaza de Toros and in 1987 Freddie Mercury staged one of the most legendary parties to celebrate his 41st birthday at Pikes hotel. George Michael, Grace Jones, James Brown, Nick Cave, Irvine Welsh and our national treasure, Julio Iglesias, are just some of the names that sprinkled glamour, pesetas and cocaine all over the island. That is the Ibiza many of us still dream of and, I like to think, traces of it are still around. Geolocation hasn’t entirely replaced the treasure-map-like instructions to arrive at a house party – a rock painted blue, a heart carved on a tree. Still to this day, you need to follow those landmark references to reach my house. But, beyond Google’s incapacity to guide your way on the island, there is still that precious and rare mingling of backgrounds, ages, talents, ideologies and depth of pockets that doesn’t happen anywhere else. That is Ibiza’s magic.
But beyond Google's incapacity to guide your way on the island, there is still that preciousand rare mingling of backgrounds, ages, talents, ideologies and depth of pockets that doesn't happen anywhere else. That is Ibiza's magic. The island is again at a crossroads. Positive change doesn't come in an overpriced box of organic vegetables. Change, in my opinion, comes from respect. Respect towards nature, culture and that intricate patchwork of characters, which, for 60 years now, has been eating its own tail, like an ourboros, the symbol of life, death and rebirth. This summer some restaurants have installed minimum spendings per person (anywhere from €200 to €500), threatening to dissolve some of that magic because of a barbaric misappropriation of one very tricky word: luxury. We have another word for that in Spanish, though: hurtarada in Eivissenc, the island's dialect). Look it up. To me, the real luxury of Ibiza eludes the mega yatchs and the sweaty bottles of rosé. That great state of comfort comes from the sunrises, the sunsets and the change of seasons; from the taste of that perfect persimmon in late September and from the joy of picking wild asparagus by the road; ultimately it comes from the meaningful connections you get to establish with people. I don't only mean the Italian goalkeeper I met at the house of the ex-financier, marrierd to the hot, younger writer, but to the butcher at the rundown Santa Eulalia market, who adds an extra breast of his best pollo payés (local, free-range chicken) at no cost, because he knows I will be running a race over the weekend. That is quality of life, that is luxury. And that is the Ibiza I love.
