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It was on Vicente, the vet’s, insistence
that we all have lunch with him that I was introduced to a
miniscule eatery of such charm and felicity that I remember
it with great fondness these forty odd years later. I even
remember the meal, let alone the place. It became one of my
favourites and I shall have much more to say about it in later
Parts of my story. Especially was it wonderful in summer time,
as you shall see. For now, it was suggested that we could,
at our leisure, make plans there for the party I had promised
my newly-made, newlywed, Ibicenco friends, Paco and Maria.
But before I begin to describe the attractions of having lunch
on a Mediterranean beach, just thirty meters from the sea,
I feel obliged to clear up what might otherwise be a growing
source of confusion in your mind. It is to Ibicenco names,
in general, that I am referring.
For centuries the island had been characterized
by only a limited number of patronymics, reflecting the relatively
limited number of families indigenous to the island. Prominently
among these were the names: Tur, Ribas, Costa, Clapes, Cardona,
and perhaps a few more. Intermarriage among these families,
over a long time frame, resulted in those patronymics dominating
the name game. Almost every Ibicenco I met in those years
was a Tur or a Costa, a Ribas or a Clapes or a Cardona. My
nearest neighbour today is a Cardona. And, since the island
custom was to preserve the metronymic in a going name, most
names consisted of three parts, viz., the Christian name followed
by the patronymic followed by the metronymic. Thus, a typical
island masculine name might be, Vicente Costa Cardona. Such
a name would signify that Vicente was a son in the Costa family
and that his mother was a Cardona. Now a funny thing happened
in the name game. Just as the family names were relatively
few, so the Christian names were also relatively few. For
whatever reason Christian names seem to have been restricted
largely to Vicente, Armand, Jesus, Paco, Antonio, Juan, Arturo,
and so on. Or to Maria, Catalina, Josefina, Dolores, Carmen
or Sonia. The end result was that after awhile all Ibicenco
names began to sound and even look alike. There could be Antonio
Costa Tur, Vicente Tur Costa, Juan Tur Tur, and countless
other combinations of the same relatively few family and Christian
names. So when I speak of a Juanito, who lives on a west coast
beach, in a house without a roof, and then speak of perhaps
a half dozen other Juanitos, you will understand that there
is a reason behind the multiplicity of Juanitos on the island,
and also, behind the multiplicity of so many almost identical
names, in general. So I shall have to be quite careful in
specifying to which Juanito, or which Vicente, or which Pepe,
I am referring. And I hope you will bear with me if, from
time to time, you find that I have been insufficiently clear
in my identifications.
You will remember that it was Vicente the
vet, Paco’s cousin, who insisted on having us with him
for lunch. There were the four of us. Maria and Paco, Vicente
and myself. After a last look at Flipper, who continued asleep
in his little cage and seemed to be responding to treatment,
we all boarded my little Renault. Vicente directed me to a
beach, the name of which I learned, was Playa d’en Bossa.
It was a lovely beach. It lay just west of Es Vive, a charming
little suburb of Ibiza town. It went on and on and on forever.
The sand was the colour of wheat and as fine as hour glass
stock. It was sand as clean as sun, wind and water could make
it. It was sand born of Nature, over the millenniums. And
on this vast swath of untouched beauty, this colossal work
of oceanic art, I saw not a single intrusion by man. The entire
Playa in my sight was virgin. There were no buildings whatever
in view. No humans, either. It was so solitary and so alone
in its feeling, that like Robinson Crusoe, I found I was startled
when I saw some faded human footprints in the sand. I learned
later that there was one small apart-hotel on the Playa, much
further west than was Juanito’s kiosk, but on that day
I did not see it. It was a very long beach, as I have said,
and was beyond my field of vision.
I said the entire Playa in my sight was
virgin? Well, almost virgin. I suppose the concept of partial
virginity is insupportable, but that is the way it struck
me. For it was to the one man made structure on that magnificent
beach that Vicente took us. It was a humble, primitive structure.
It was a seaside kiosk, coloured a faded-blue, and of minimum
additional attributes. It was hardly a structure at all. But
it was man made. And so it quite unconsciously and quite innocently
carried with it the portent of the Hell that Playa d’en
Bossa would one day become. But, alas, there was no one there
to read the warning. Directly south of it, across the water,
lay Formentera, Ibiza’s little sister island. About eleven
miles away, she was just visible as a low-lying shadow on
the horizon. In those days she was perhaps the last beautiful,
untouched island paradise in the world. But she, too, would
end up much like the Playa from which I first saw her.
The principal feature of this small kiosk
was a side-wall to side-wall, open horizontal space in its
front wall, the one facing the sea. At a comfortable height
was a narrow bar set firmly on the lower section of that sea-facing
wall. A few bar stools in front of it gave comfort to the
weary. These stood on a rough platform resting flush on the
sand, and made of close-placed, wooden loading palettes. The
platform also supported the kiosk’s main frame as well
as a few rickety wooden tables and chairs. The interior held
a large, dilapidated old fashioned ice box, some rough shelving
on which stood minimal stores of glasses, cutlery, plates
and all the odds and ends needed in a small restaurant. I
remember there was even a container of saccharine tablets.
There was a full size domestic butane cook stove and a restaurant
size grill, also heated by flames fuelled by bottled gas.
Outside, in the rear, were elementary facilities for washing
up. With running water. But there was no electricity. A few
blackened glass-chimney oil lamps sufficed for low level night
time general illumination, and there was a small battery powered
radio that provided an ear-offending mix of music and raucous
Spanish commercials and newscasts. The place was run by Juanito
and his wife, Maria. It was called, simply, “Juanito’s”.
Despite its tatty character, somehow it did not defile. It
was so demure, so inoffensive and so insignificant in the
grandeur of the Playa d’en Bossa, that it did not vitiate
the virginity of the beach. Leading me to having spoken of
partial virginity. It was set among a few waving palm trees
growing just where the sand began.
Vincente appeared to be one of the regulars,
for his greeting to Juanito and Maria was intimate and warm,
as was theirs to him. I was introduced, as usual, as the new
boy on the block. My credentials seemed already known, because
Juanito immediately asked why Flipper was not with me. His
voice sounded like a growl, like so many of the men’s
on the island. But it reflected nothing of his character,
which was cordial and at the same time rather placid. He was
always chewing on a dead cigar butt, making him completely
unintelligible to me and only a little less so to the others.
(Many years later, when Juanito had long given up the kiosk,
I remember meeting him by chance on a visit to my carpenter.
He had a dead cigar butt in his mouth.) Maria was all smiles
and hands wringing, hands drying, hands-to-black-hair touching,
hand clasping hand. She hurried inside as soon as we were
seated at one of the tables and there was an immediate clatter
of pots and pans as she started heating up our lunch. There
was no menu. You ate what Maria prepared for you. I soon learned
that was a good thing, for it permitted her to take advantage
of the best offerings in the market on any given day’s
shopping.
Later on, when I had myself become a regular,
we could place an order a day or two in advance for what we
called a “feast”. This would be for either meat
or fish and it was almost always for dinner, usually during
late spring, summer or early fall. That way we could swim
just before we ate. There was no plastic in the waters of
Playa d’en Bossa in those days. And the swimming was
delightful. A “feast” was built around the fish
or meat main dish, accompanied by a stomach stuffing variety
of minor dishes, which seemed to have been invented by Maria.
They were invariably delicious. But what made these “feasts”
exceptional was that they were custom cooked for you. It was
Maria’s special gift to soon learn exactly how you liked
your food prepared. She was, indeed, like a hovering, anxious
mother to all of us. For Maria had no children of her own.
And so we all somehow became her children.
Just as we were about to start eating, two
new people arrived. They took a nearby table and greeted us
politely. Then they greeted Juanito and Maria. They were both
women. They were both foreigners. They were both dressed in
a manner which instantly identified them as being permanent
residents of the island. And they were both called Mimi. One
of them, very tall she was, was called Big Mimi. She became
known to me as the Nanny who looked after the children of
foreigners who had to temporarily leave the island. The other,
very short, was called Little Mimi. She became known to me
as the one who looked after the foreigners themselves. (L’il
Mimi was small, but Oh my!) In no time at all they had joined
us. The formalities were not much observed in those days.
It was not uncommon for people to meld together since they
were usually known to each other in the first place. But even
when strangers were involved, it didn’t take much to
bring them together. Our two tables were put side by side
and we began to make plans for the party I had promised to
give in honour of the newlyweds. The two Mimis were delighted
with Maria and Paco and enthusiastically endorsed Vicente’s
suggestion that it would be fine if it was held at a bar called
La Parra. Which was in La Marina, on the port. Without the
slightest hesitation, I agreed.
I also happily agreed to have a look at
a guest house called Casa Paput which was highly recommended
to me by Big Mimi. In her understated, shy way, she said it
was empty and looking for a permanent tenant. It belonged
to a neighbour of hers called Jutta, who lived in a señorial
casa payesa adjacent to it. It was about a kilometre out of
Ibiza town, and, she said, had charm and comfort. Moreover,
it would be inexpensive. If I liked, she would make arrangements
so that I could see it. Things were looking up on the Playa
d’en Bossa that day.
Harold Liebow
haroldliebow@ibizahistoryculture.com
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