Ibiza’s individuality. An air service was inaugurated in 1958, but when I was there the most direct route from Spain was by a grossly overcrowded ship sailing once weekly in winter and twice weekly in summer from Barcelona. It required long foresight and a fair amount of luck to obtain a passage on this; sailing times were sometimes changed without notice, and in my experience letters to the Compania Transmediterranea, who are the owners, were rarely answered. One’s best hope of getting to Ibiza in the summer season was to arrive in Barcelona on the day previous to sailing, and to be ready to queue at the company’s office soon after dawn on the following morning. The seacrossing still takes all night, and conditions probably parallel those of a pilgrim ship plying between Somaliland and the port of Jeddah. Decks are packed with the recumbent but restless forms of passengers doing their best to doze off under the harsh glare of lights, installed with the intention of reducing contacts between the sexes to their most impersonal level. This concern for strict morality gives the ships of the Compania Transmediterranea, as they pass in the night, an appearance of gaiety that is deceptive.
Island transport is by buses of a design not entirely free from the influence of the horse-drawn vehicle, by taxis which until recently were impelled by what looked like kitchen stoves fixed to their backs, and by spruce-looking farm-carts without much springing. The choicest spots in the island are only to be reached on foot, or with the aid of a bicycle, which has to be carried across flowery ravines. Once, when I was temporarily interested in spear-fishing, I asked a Spanish friend on the mainland where to go with a reasonable chance of seeing that splendid Mediterranean fish, the mero, which has practically disappeared from the coastal waters of France, Spain and Italy. He said, ‘That’s easy enough. All you do is to look out for a place without things like running water and electric light … a dump with rotten hotels, where no one in his right mind wants to go.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Ibiza,’ he said. ‘That’s it. That’s the place you’re looking for.’
The description was most exaggerated and unjust. You can find a bleak, clean room in a fonda anywhere in the island, and if it happens to be in Ibiza town itself, or in San Antonio or Santa Eulalia, there may be a piped water supply, and almost certainly a small, naked electric bulb that will gleam fitfully through most of the hours of darkness. What can you expect for thirty pesetas a day, including two adequate – often classical – Mediterranean meals? Ibiza is very cheap. (I know of people who still pay rents, fixed in the early years of last century, of one peseta a month, for their houses.) Resourceful explorers have found that by taking a room only, at five pesetas a day, and buying their food in the market, they can live for a third of this sum. The standard price for drinks in backstreet bars – whether beer or brandy – is two pesetas, as compared to fivepesetas in Barcelona. The strong wines of Valencia and of Tarragona are sold at six pesetas a litre. The proper drink, though, of Ibiza, is suisse – pronounced as if the final ‘e’ were accented. This is absinth mixed with lemon juice, and costs one peseta a glass. At the colmado of San Carlos – a village once famous for excluding as ‘foreigners’ all persons not born in the village – you can see the customers on Sundays line up, a glass of suisse in hand, to receive an injection of vitamin B in the left arm, administered by the proprietress, Anita. The injection costs five pesetas, and is supposed to ensure success in all undertakings, especially those of the heart, during the ensuing week. These economic realities make Ibiza the paradise of those modern remittance men, the freelance writer who sees two or three of his pieces in print a year, and the painter who sells a canvas once in a
Island transport is by buses of a design not entirely free from the influence of the horse-drawn vehicle, by taxis which until recently were impelled by what looked like kitchen stoves fixed to their backs, and by spruce-looking farm-carts without much springing. The choicest spots in the island are only to be reached on foot, or with the aid of a bicycle, which has to be carried across flowery ravines. Once, when I was temporarily interested in spear-fishing, I asked a Spanish friend on the mainland where to go with a reasonable chance of seeing that splendid Mediterranean fish, the mero, which has practically disappeared from the coastal waters of France, Spain and Italy. He said, ‘That’s easy enough. All you do is to look out for a place without things like running water and electric light … a dump with rotten hotels, where no one in his right mind wants to go.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Ibiza,’ he said. ‘That’s it. That’s the place you’re looking for.’
The description was most exaggerated and unjust. You can find a bleak, clean room in a fonda anywhere in the island, and if it happens to be in Ibiza town itself, or in San Antonio or Santa Eulalia, there may be a piped water supply, and almost certainly a small, naked electric bulb that will gleam fitfully through most of the hours of darkness. What can you expect for thirty pesetas a day, including two adequate – often classical – Mediterranean meals? Ibiza is very cheap. (I know of people who still pay rents, fixed in the early years of last century, of one peseta a month, for their houses.) Resourceful explorers have found that by taking a room only, at five pesetas a day, and buying their food in the market, they can live for a third of this sum. The standard price for drinks in backstreet bars – whether beer or brandy – is two pesetas, as compared to fivepesetas in Barcelona. The strong wines of Valencia and of Tarragona are sold at six pesetas a litre. The proper drink, though, of Ibiza, is suisse – pronounced as if the final ‘e’ were accented. This is absinth mixed with lemon juice, and costs one peseta a glass. At the colmado of San Carlos – a village once famous for excluding as ‘foreigners’ all persons not born in the village – you can see the customers on Sundays line up, a glass of suisse in hand, to receive an injection of vitamin B in the left arm, administered by the proprietress, Anita. The injection costs five pesetas, and is supposed to ensure success in all undertakings, especially those of the heart, during the ensuing week. These economic realities make Ibiza the paradise of those modern remittance men, the freelance writer who sees two or three of his pieces in print a year, and the painter who sells a canvas once in a
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