Blue bliss in Ibiza

Party land

A picturesque island in the Mediterranean, Ibiza has now turned into a party hotspot for Hollywood celebs. Preeti Verma Lal explores the diverse history of the island.

The oompah beat of the drums was getting tangled with the beats of my pounding heart. Faraway, I could hear a faint hum of Vengaboys’s We are going to Ibiza. I was already in Ibiza, a once-upon-a-time cluster of fishing villages and a busy trading post. A bunch of tourists lay on the silken sand — the ones who rub sleep off their eyes at noon, take early evening naps and wait for a disco sunrise. Sand was caught in the hem of my peasant frock, but why was I watching out for shadows? No, not of a lissome Kate Moss or a dainty Penelope Cruz who have homes on the island. Not even Jade Jagger. I was wary of Hannibal Lecter. Yes, Hannibal, the cannibal. The one with small white teeth, combed-back hair and widow’s peak. Lecter was born in Ibiza. And it was his shadow that I was cagey about in the island, which was founded in 654 BC by the Phoenicians who dedicated it to the god of music and dance.

Land of churches

“Boom. Boom”. Suddenly, I shuddered at what sounded like a Smith & Wesson gun gone berserk. I turned around. Dreading to see blood on the cobbled courtyard of Sant Miquel Church, the island’s oldest church. No blood. I heaved a sigh. It was Emilio Vergara, the guide, mimicking an old Ibizan ritual, when gun-toting men had to empty their guns in the courtyard before murmuring a prayer at the altar. In 14th century Ibiza, loaded guns were prohibited inside the church. Guns, however, were not only emptied in praise of the Lord. Even for the lady that a valiant man lost his heart to. In the Church’s courtyard, a man in love emptied his gun to proclaim to the world — “She is mine. Stay away.” Vergara did scare me with his gun-sound, but, in Ibiza, I was empty-handed. All I had was a pen. To write a two-sentence note for Jesus in the prayer petition book that lies on a small mahogany table.

That, however, is not the only church that I knelt at in Ibiza. Every village (there are 20 of them) has its own parish church — unadorned churches with white facades, tidy pews and a crucified Christ. But it is in the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Snows in the Old Town where Christian piety began in Ibiza. From Phoenicians to Romans to Arabs, Ibiza had seen many a conqueror and many a religion. Much before, Ibiza was conquered by Guillermo de Montgrí, Peter of Portugal and Nuno Sanç, a Church-deal was signed between the three. The decree stipulated that one of the first obligations upon conquest would be the establishment of a parish dedicated to Saint Mary. When victory fell their way, the Christians kept their word to God. The parish was established in 1235 in an already existing building — a mosque adapted for use by Christians. Today, the Cathedral lords over the Old Town, a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

The not-so-large island boasts of two more World Heritage Sites: Sa Caleta, the 8th century BC Phoenician settlement; and the posidonia seagrass meadows on the seabed of the Sea Salinas Reserve Nature. There’s more to the island, though. Much more to the town that was part of the ancient Phoenicians’ Route of the Sun in western Mediterranean and was settled by seafarers. There are churches as old as the sea; there’s a well-preserved necropolis; old andalusi walls still stand as testimonial to a forgotten era; in villages, locals still celebrate a peasants’ festival; posidonia still forms lush meadows underwater; and the walled city still basks in — and lives — its unforgotten past.

Culture vulture

That unforgotten past comes alive in the Puget Museum, in vivid landscapes painted by the father-son duo of Puget Viñas and Puget Riquer. Peep out of the large windows, and Ibiza seems spread out in the glory of the Mediterranean sun that turned a non-descript village into Europe’s favourite summer holiday spot. In the 1950s, they all started coming.

Hippies. Hollywood stars. Singers. Writers. Mavericks. Monied. Women who wanted a bronze tan. Men daring to conquer the waves. Tourists. Loads of them. DJs churned loud techno sounds. Someone coined the word “chill out” (yes, the word was coined in Ibiza!).

Ursula Andress, the svelte first Bond girl, bought a tiny cottage, triggering a trend for the celebrities to build second homes in Ibiza. Athina Onassis, Aristotle’s granddaughter, still has a home in Ibiza; FI champion Nikki Lauda just put his up for sale. Boy George hopped in last year into El Corsario, a 17th century palace — the only obelisk dedicated to a corsair. There’s a handprint of Penelope Cruz outside El Palacio Hotel. There are stories about Elizabeth Taylor walking on the stand. And Mike Jagger shaking a leg in Pacha, the discotheque that is bathed in blue at night.

Drive around Ibiza and one by one you leave behind the island’s sun/sand/Sangria clichés. Step into Sa Caleta, a 2,500-year-old Phoenician settlement, and you’d feel you have travelled very far back in time. From behind the iron railings, one can still see the stone/mud-brick structures that have crumbled with time. The nearby salt marshes throw in the white in a turquoise landscape where the scent of rosemary is heady and where wild asparagus grows along thorny shrubs and dainty wild purple flowers.

When the evening starts melding into the night, the oompah beat of the drums gets louder, discotheques start dusting their padlocks open, bars start buzzing, the harbour snoozes for the night and all around there’s the staccato sound of the stilettos and boots. Ibiza changes its colour at night. But I prefer the purple of the Sa Caleta wild flowers.