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The colossal decision I had made to settle
permanently in Ibiza brought with it, understandably, a flood
of feelings. I remember particularly the powerful, self-congratulatory
feeling. It was as if I was shaking hands with myself to celebrate
an achievement of the utmost significance. I also remember
the simultaneous feeling of extreme exhaustion. To make that
choice had taken so much of my emotional energy that I found
I could not immediately bring myself to drive on towards Santa
Inés. Because I just sat there, caved in behind the
steering wheel, while the glorious panorama of the Corona
burned itself into my consciousness, and while, at the same
time, the immense implications of my impetuous resolve began
to flood in on me; Flipper began showing unmistakable signs
of impatience. So, summoning up a focused effort, I obliged
myself to open the passenger door of the little Renault. He
instantly jumped out, exuberantly, and began to frolic in
the trackside greenery of the lonely trail we were following.
I fell back into my seat and into torpid introspection, and
half slumbered off. Then, as the minutes became multiplied,
and while I was in a state of what I can only describe as
suspended animation, I found I was able to slowly generate
a wonderfully welcome renewal of energy. While I nodded on,
I could actually feel myself being refreshed; it was like
heavy dew on dry leaves. Time began to live again. And it
was the animated example of Flipper’s charming normality,
his insouciance in the flora, which finally brought me fully
back to wellbeing. I found I could start the motor. Then I
blew the horn twice, which was code for “Let’s go!”
in our inter-species communications system, and Flipper immediately
jumped back into the Renault as I put her into first gear.
We rolled slowly on, down and down and down in the magic Ibiza
sunlight, beauty all around us, onto the vast open stretch
of the plain of the Corona; and then on into Santa Inés
itself.
It could not really be called a village.
Perhaps ‘hamlet’ would be more like. It had a few
small, very white houses, very much asleep, and a rambling,
very white, bell-towered fortress church. There was also,
just near the church, a pleasant looking restaurant and bar
establishment, now deserted. Some invisible chickens were
sounding off in the mid afternoon heat and a pair of easy-loping
hound dogs moved off gracefully as we arrived. They never
even looked at Flipper, which must have depressed him. I found
out later that they were the real thing, native island hounds,
descended from Egyptian ancestors. It was all so unselfconscious
of its own biblical serenity that one dared not even photograph
it, lest the poetry be violated. Its half dozen ancient, gnarled
olive, and huge algarroba trees, invited you so agreeably
into their shade that it was impossible to refuse. I gingerly
moved the Renault into the shadow of one of these patriarchs
with a strong sense of trespass. The tree must have been a
thousand years old. From the look of it, the Renault could
have been the very first car ever to enjoy its hospitality.
If the garrulous chickens were invisible,
so were the people. I thought at first that it was still the
siesta hour, which would tend to explain the deserted scene,
but glancing at my wristwatch I found that it was near five,
an hour at which activity should already have begun. Failing
to find society, I decided to walk in a direction which I
knew, from having studied a small map which Hungry Hannibal
had given me, would take me at last to the coast. With Flipper
tripping along beside, behind and in front of me, we set off.
At first we followed the track, and walking
at a good clip, soon left the church and its cluster of white
houses well behind. In a few minutes there was a fork. The
right hand track led toward the coast and the sea while the
left continued in what I knew from my map, would be its circumvolution
of the great almond plain. As soon as we had made about a
hundred meters our track fizzled out and a pristine pine forest
closed in on us. These island pines were sturdy, first growth
trees, standing well together and creating a refreshingly
cool ambiance. Their aroma was heady, penetrating. What breeze
there was sighed softly through them and enough sunlight filtered
down through their latticework of branches to make free walking
possible on the thick bed of pine needles which covered the
forest floor. It would have been easy to become lost in such
an untouched setting had it not been for the hint of a path
which began to manifest, and which I followed carefully. As
we went on I noticed that Flipper had begun to sidle closer
and closer to me. To the little dog the great pines must have
been as intimidating as an elephant would be to an ant. So
I picked him up, held him close in my arms, and walked on.
After a moment I could feel his little body relax. I looked
down at him. His eyes were closed.
When at last we came to the coast, it was
a sudden, even a frightening, arrival. We had been steadily
mounting an incline so it was only as we abruptly reached
the top of it that we discovered we were on the shallow lip
of a great cliff. To the left and right of us, in imperial
postures, ranged jagged monuments of native rock. Ahead of
us and high above, a few sea gulls glided noiselessly and
effortlessly in the pellucid air. The sea which lay far below
in vast swathes of purple, blue and green, dazzled the eyes.
We were looking straight down at the water from such an enormous
height that it was impossible to estimate how far below the
water really was. It was a height that brought on dizziness
if one looked down too long. In the far distance a fishing
boat with two tiny human figures on it could be discerned
in the glare; surrounded by distant silence, the image was
miniaturized, was only half there. The boat was sleepwalking
on the waters and we were seeing it in a dream. But the trance
was sharply shattered when Flipper suddenly barked and scrambled
out of my arms.
In the next moment, I knew why. For if I
listened intently, if I strained to hear, I could make out
the distant sound of music! The melody escaped me, though
it was carried harshly by what sounded like a crude flute
or whistle, but the rhythm, even the explicit beat of a drum
and the sound of castanets, became clearer as I concentrated.
Little by little I heard more. Now I was able to make out
even the sound of tambourines. It was intoxicating to hear
such music while standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking
the Mediterranean Sea! And it was music which beckoned, which
beguiled and which begged to be heard close up. But how to
get close up? How to find the musicians? I left it to Flipper
to do that. He ran on ahead, barking excitedly and quite securely
leading us in the right direction. As we floundered through
underbrush leading back into the pine forest, I followed him
as closely as I could…and the music became louder, and
louder, and louder….the flute became more shrill and
more shrill….and then Flipper had outstripped me and
was gone and I could only advance in the same direction he
had set and then, and then….there they were! Flipper
had found them!
They were gathered in a large circle, seated
on the pine needle bed. Opposite to me I could see cook fires
over which great chunks of what later turned out to be lamb,
were roasting. Wine was generously evident in the shape of
large sheep bladders of it which hung on convenient branches
here and there. That they were country people was immediately
evident by their rough dress and their innocent manner. They
were clapping their hands in unison with the beat of the drum
and the clatter of the half dozen enormous castanets. High
above the percussion soared the sweet shriek of the flute,
its independent wail repeated over and over again. All eyes
were focused on the centre of the circle in which a dozen
or so young couples were solemnly dancing on a well beaten
swath of plain earth. I had time to register that the couples
were dressed in dramatic island finery; for the girls, beautifully
fashioned long sleeve, many colour blouses, overlaid by flashing
webs of golden-necklace, resplendently pillowed on their bosoms.
They wore ample head scarves, pleated skirts that were very
full, ankle-long, and beneath which, only the peeking tips
of their shoes could be seen. As for the boys, they were in
full dance regalia, as well. They wore blousy white shirts
and trousers, wide black sashes and red caps with elongated
crowns that folded over to front or back. But it was the castanets
which held me. These were giant wooden clappers, managed mostly
by the girls. They made a tremendous racket out there in the
pine wood, but at the same time they seemed absolutely in
harmony with the huge trees, the wood from which they had
long ago been fashioned.
This pleasant forest prospect was irreverently
exploded by Flipper who scampered into the middle of the circle,
barked once or twice for attention, and then sat down. He
cocked his head, and waited for me. There was absolute silence
for a moment. Then there was near pandemonium. Everyone was
on their feet shouting and applauding. Everyone it seemed
knew who Flipper was, and, when they saw me hesitatingly joining
them, their welcome to me was as generous as it was astonishing.
The mystery of the missing people of Santa Inés was
solved. These were the people of Santa Inés! They were
the same people who had been missing from the white houses,
from the restaurant and bar, from the white church fortress
with a bell-tower. It all came together as I saw them in this
setting which clearly said they were enjoying a communal fiesta.
They came to me to greet me and to welcome me, and to astonish
me by letting me know that they all knew me, too. For some
of them had been on the quay in the morning when I had photographed
Flipper during the unloading of my Renault. Some of them had
been there and seen that wonderful shot I had got of Flipper
looking down at me as I shot up from underneath the little
car in its loading net, high above me. And those who had seen
it had lost little time in describing it to all of those who
had not. And all of them thought that it was a wonderful thing
that a little dog should so dramatically pose for his master
who was a photographer. Not too many special events happened
in Ibiza in 1964, and so it didn’t take much to make
an event special. So when one did happen, it appeared that
it was celebrated with huge enthusiasm. Needless to say, we
were wined and dined until we could wine and dine no more
and at last the time came to return to Ibiza town and the
Delfín Verde.
And that’s what happened to me in Santa
Inés.
Harold Liebow
haroldliebow@ibizahistoryculture.com
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