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ME AND IBIZA
Well of course I
was born here, so that should explain my feelings at least in part.
I nevertheless like to think my decision to remain on
the island, rather than
go off live somewhere else, is an objective one.
I started reading books at a very early age: my parents had a book and
stationery shop.
I read of the
snows of Canada, and of
the jungles of Africa,
and of Asia’s exoticism.
I was sure I’d be heading somewhere fabulous as soon as I grew up.
In the end I left and had my time off the island.
One year in America plus two on mainland Spain.
I then came back, aged 22, to have a short rest and consider my next
move.
It was then, I feel, that my roots really began to dig into the island’s
soil.
The longer I stayed, the cozier it felt.
I’ve often asked myself why it was so.
Perhaps it is because
Ibiza
is a kind of microcosm
with a bit of everything, where nothing is overwhelmingly,
spectacularly, beautiful, and nothing is terribly ugly, and where
everything seems made to the measure of man: the
fruit trees look just
the right size to be picked, the
hills are exactly right for a
leisurely climb, and the
distances are always manageable, no matter where you go.
Or maybe it is the magnetic force
of the rock of Es Vedrà,
the staggering masculinity
of the Mediterranean cathedral, off the southwest coast, in secret
alliance with the feminine serenity
of Tagomago island, off
the northeast, to watch over the main island, by sending some kind of
protective waves across to each other to keep its fields beautiful and
fruitful and its pine forests thick and healthy.
Or is it just ancient Dalt Vila,
where each stone reeks of millennia of life, and of death.
Where on grey windy days I could swear you hear voices, moans and
laughter from the past, coming from shady nooks, or from behind thick,
cold, whitewashed walls.
But then on the other hand it might be
its people, with their attitude to life, tolerant of
newcomers, resigned at the regular invasions and skeptical of the
magical formulas come from abroad.
Or simply the sound of the
Mediterranean lapping at the shore, as it has always done, since
time immemorial, oblivious of hunger, war, parties and capitalistic
crises.
Is it really possible to pinpoint how the island gets into your soul?
Can you put your finger on what it is that makes your beloved special?
And actually, come to think of it: is it … love? Or is it deeper than
that?
A feeling of which love is only a part?
Like the feelings for a mother, feelings that do not question nor look
for faults: simple acceptance.
Why should I think I have a right to pass judgment anyway?
by IBIZA
GUIDE: Hector
Bonet Member
of the A.P.I.T.I.F
- Association of
OFFICIAL TOURIST GUIDES for Ibiza and Formentera
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