The Local Tourist

So, rewind a few months this year, around April time, I had just got back the worst results of my degree, was at the end of my mental tether and quite frankly, needed some sun. Me and one of my closest girlfriends, Gabs, said what the hell and found a relatively cheap holiday package for a week in June/July to a place where we were guaranteed some sun and fun, Ibiza.

I'm going to be honest - my expectations were low, from what I had heard, Ibiza was all expensive nightclubs, adolescents, and 60 euro bottles of water. How wrong I eventually was.  The obvious mistake was the 'package' part of the holiday, but it was a cheap way to get everything sorted and to get out there. After 4 sweaty hours on a bus (the transfer was only supposed to be 30 minutes) with a non-English speaking driver who couldn't find our hotel, we dumped our suitcases in our room, and soon realised that this 4 star holiday was looking more like and 2 and a half (at a generous push). The initial Copacabana-banana holiday optimism had long wore off, even before we had to part with 20euros for wifi that didn't work (except if you hung around in the marble lobby looking like something inbetween a lost child and someone's mislaid mistress).

With me and Gabs both being over-organised, slightly neurotic law students, we had obviously done some research and put together an itinerary so we had planned to visit an amazing secluded beach club called Amante Beach, to watch the sunset from the reknowned Café Mambo and finally to visit a hippy market that I was pretty excited for but neither of us knew much about.

Amante Beach - Near Cala Llonga
We went to Amante Beach club on the first night for a 'movie night' that I had been super excited for since we booked it in May. We reclined on body sized bean bags with soft blankets, a glass of wine and unlimited popcorn. Until the movie came on on the big projected screen, the only light was from candles that adorned the beautiful scene and the amazing natural shine of the moon and the stars reflected on the sea beside us. The only sound was that of the ocean gently washing onto the pebbled shore and the distant murmur of guests dining at the restaurant at the main building. I felt truly relaxed for the first time in months, so much so that by the time the closing titles of 'Goodfellas' rolled onto the screen, I was ready for bed.

The next day we were back there, reclined on beds overlooking our own little slice of the Mediterranean sea, and I felt that horrible feeling creeping up again. Other girls in bikinis and my history of self esteem didn't go so well together, constant comparisons always led to zero self confidence - and I was travelling with an ex-Miss World contestant. But after a couple of days, numerous compliments from the said Miss World contestant, as well as her choosing only the best angles when taking my picture, I was surprised to see that my waist was much smaller than I thought, and my legs maybe weren't that bad after all, for the first time in years on holiday, I felt confident enough to pose for pictures, and god forbid - enjoy myself.

 

Las Dalias Hippy Market - Sant Carles - Saturday & Wednesday

Las Dalias hippy market was heaven on earth for me - imagine if Aladdin's cave, the markets of Morcocco and the colours of Asia had a collision, the after effect would be this place. I was instantly intoxicated, sure it was overcrowded and hot as hell, which probably added to it, but my eyes struggled to take everything in. There was stall upon stall, all lined up, going in different directions and stretching for a good half a mile in total. This place was a mecca for nomads, travellers and the smiling free-spirited. I felt like I had found a home. Colours and patterns adorned the walls, handcrafted goods and jewellery tempted me from every angle and brown-skinned foreigners with dreadlocked hair and wild eyes gazed into my soul. It was here that I learned Ibiza was actually one of the early hippy hotspots of the world, an island of sun, music, psychadelia and undoubtedly, sex. I discovered that the likes of Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin at one time both called Las Dalias home and performed there. I read that hippies from the USA arrived in Ibiza and were known as 'Peluts' and found haven there, and I couldn't help but feel a longing in my heart to have been part of that generation.

It was at this point that my perception of Ibiza changed, It was no longer just the crazy, overly-expensive party island - it had an entirely more profound personality. I longed to visit the Island back in the 70s, to walk barefoot on the scorching sand with dreadlocked hair and brown skin, to swim naked in the sea and to be amongst people of my kind, the free ones who are 'mad to live' as Kerouac so perfectly put it.

Café Mambo

So obviously, we had to venture at some point over to San Antonio - who goes to Ibiza and doesn't party? Waiting for us at Café Mambo was a table for two overlooking the best views of the sunset on the island, music good enough for anyone's taste, and a lot of people who were severely intoxicated. By severely intoxicated I mean struggling to function, dancing exuberantly and gurning for Great Britain. Despite my lack of desire to pop pills and party, these people looked like they were having the time of their lives. People of all ages, walks of life, backgrounds, were all here for one reason - to have a good time. Although not of the same mindset - to that I could relate. Ibiza gives off this unescapable vibe of wanting to forget reality - it really is no wonder that the likes of Dylan and Pink Floyd chose this magical island as their retreat.

As our week dwindled down to the final days, we looked forward to heading back to Amante Beach club for our final day in paradise. This, however, was brought to an abrupt halt when Gabs discovered the Island of Formentera whilst flicking through a tourist book at the hotel on one of the last evenings, she passed the book over to me and after reading "waters clearer than the Caribbean" and "The first island of freedom" I was sold. And so that was it, we walked down to the ferry (30 euros each for a return ticket) and we were blasting across the Med on a catamaran with overly-friendly sailors.

Playa De Ses Illetes - Formentera

After disembarking the ferry, and catching the L3 bus to our chosen beach, (8 euros each return but you could walk/cycle it on a budget) we were slightly disheartened by the fact that every inch of the beach seemed to be taken up by overweight alabaster tourists with cameras and coolboxes. We retraced our steps back to a smaller, secluded beach that the crowds had strolled past, and it was here that I felt it.

The sun beat down on us like castaways marooned on paradise. For miles all that lay before and behind us was white sand, golden rock and the ocean of every colour blue. There was the most intense turquoise that just hit your eyeline, which was surrounded by a navy colour hinting at deeper waters, there was sapphire and cyan, teal and azure, every shade of blue lay before me in a sparkling, rippling blanket. I have never been so overwhelmed by a sight. The shallows were perfect pools of liquid glass, so clear you could see all the treasures beneath. I felt as though I had been transported to a different time, where there were less people, and the only hope of survival was to use the fat of the land. It seemed untouched and remote, even with the glittering sea dotted with super yachts, it didn't feel like a playground for the rich to boast of their wealth, it just simply felt like we were all pirates in paradise who had found the treasure. At that moment, I missed the person I knew would appreciate this beauty as much as I would, my soulmate. It was a moment in time where he was supposed to be with me, drinking in natures beauty and not quite believing his eyes.

I couldn't help but feel some sense of impending doom, almost as if I knew it was only a matter of time before a tsunami of tourists swept the place, leaving behind litter, tourist guides and garish umbrellas - then I realised they were all already here, on the next stretch of sand. That gave me a pang in the chest again, one that left me wishing I was on this Island 40 years ago, when the early 'Peluts' descended and found their own private hippy-hideout, when the yachts were just fishing boats, and the tourists were just Spanish locals.

And now, sitting here back in dull old Wales with the exciting prospect of working off my overdraft all summer, I realise that a big part of me belongs in Formentera. It itches to seek out other places like this around the Mediterranean and claim them as my own, who knows, maybe I'll even start my own hippy-writer-musician-surfer refuge for likeminded people and we will all live harmoniously until we are sought out by the authorities or worse - by tourists. I guess the irony here is that I am a tourist attempting to become a local, I haven't up to now really felt like I've belonged anywhere other than in the arms of Kai or on the never-ending road, but a cheap impulsive package holiday might have just led to me finding a home.

 

(All pictures are my own)