Books on Ibiza
Bibliomaniacs' Corner by Martin Davies
John Anthony West The Egyptian Connection
'O
Solon, Solon, you Greeks are always such children; there is no such a thing as
an old Greek.' Egyptian
priest, reported in Platos Timaeus (ca. 360 BC)
Back in July I mentioned an etymological link between bibliomania and papyrus, and
the time has finally come - as we will soon be sounding biblio-mysteries from
ancient Egypt - to fill you in. Papyrus is a word so ancient that
scholars are far from agreed about its original meaning. One oft-cited theory
links it to ancient Egypts royal bureaucracy - pa-pyrus meaning that
which belongs to the House (pa); plausible, I thought, until Dr Ossama
Alsaadawi drew my attention to the fact that bab, the precious rolls on
which ancient Egyptians wrote these usually religious texts, simply means chapter
while rs signifies praises; putting the two together produces babrs
(i.e. papyrus), a chapter of divine praises. The reed from which the
scrolls were made grows in only a handful of locations, principally along the
banks of the Nile, making papyrus a key commodity for ancient Near East merchants.
To make the link with bibliomania we must sail north along the Levantine
coast to the mighty Phoenician entrepôt of Gubal, whose principal asset
was its proximity to the cedars of Lebanon, exchanged for papyrus from
timberless Egypt. As literacy took off in the first millennium BC Gubal suddenly
found itself at the hub of a booming paperchase, reflected in the citys
Greek name, Byblos - a Hellenization of papyrus (or babrs). The
information-age equivalent would be renaming Los Angeles Tinsel Town
or replacing Santa Clara with Silicon for the valley outside
San Francisco with an exceptional density of millionaires. So closely did Gubal
(or Byblos) become linked with its chief import that it even gave the Greeks their
word for book, biblâon (plural biblâa),
from which we derive bible and bibliomaniac. Another closely-related Greek word,
papuros, passed down via Rome and the Battle of Hastings to become the
English word for paper. And while were on the subject, book
derives from the writing-tablets made of beech (bôk in Old Saxon)
on which runes were notched, while library comes from the Latin application
of ink to the inner bark or liber. Egyptian paper, Greek bibles, Latin
libraries and Anglo-Saxon books - each bears lively witness to the many layers
in our eclectic tongue. Platos Timaeus (quoted
above) has recently been enjoying a fresh lease of life as the original source
for the Atlantis legend. The Egyptian put-down forms part of a lengthy preamble
which leads to a description of the fabled continent just before it sank beneath
the ocean waves around 10,000 BC. Atlanteans over the past decade have been joining
ranks with a new breed of maverick Egyptologist, the latter bringing geological
and astronomical data to bear in a controversial redating of ancient Egyptian
civilization. One of the trailblazers is John Anthony West, former Manhattan copywriter
turned astrologer, whose Serpent in the Sky (1979) popularised the ideas
of Schwaller de Lubicz, author of an unorthodox study about the Great Temple of
Luxor. But hang on a minute: where does Ibiza fit into all this? It just so happens
that Wests second book, Osbornes Army (1966) was a novel and
like Norman Lewiss Tenth Year of the Ship (1962, see Weekly Edition
075 Saturday 3rd August 2002) is set in a thinly-disguised Ibiza. Our
subject was born into a comfortable New York family in 1932, making him a fully-signed-up
member of the beat generation. After studying economics at Lehigh University he
worked as a copywriter in New York until 1957 (when his first short story was
published), before giving up the rat race to join countless other New York beats
on the road. Quo vadis? his fellow-admen might have asked. For many it was a toss-up
between Paris and Ibiza and thanks to a private income West could have taken his
pick; but in 1954 Hemingway had won the Nobel Prize and three of his most successful
novels were set in Spain. Even though that country now lay under the iron grip
of its dictator, the Pityusan archipelago remained, paradoxically, a unique and
sun-soaked haven of freedom and tolerance. For a new generation of writers there
was no real contest: Ibiza, in Wests own words, was a beautiful, completely
unsoiled place, the home of what was a very bohemian colony
Over
the following nine years he became a key figure on the local scene, mingling with
Dutch scribblers and working away on satirical short stories about the American
way of life for journals like Atlantic Monthly and Shock. Ten were
brought together for his first book, Call Out the Malicia (1961) translated
into Dutch the same year (Huilen met de wolven). Throughout the early sixties
he typed up his one and only novel, Osbornes Army (1966) which enjoyed
enough success to appear three years later in Dutch (Osbornes rebellen)
and in paperback as part of the Penguin New Writers series. In a biographical
note West declares that it was conceived on a trip to Puerto Rico and written
over six years on Ibiza. The island on which it is set is called Escondite
(Hideaway), but although West places it in the Caribbean, there can hardly be
any doubt that the original is far closer to Ibiza: The
sierra forming [the islands] spine ends in a cape of rock, a jutting tawny
wedge three hundred feet high; stone bastions, cliff-coloured, terrace the top,
and above these bastions, rising from patchwork greenery, stands the fortress
White, faded pink, faded ochre, mullioned with green, the town tumbles
down the hollow of a hill; its apex, a ruined cathedral: its base, mansions graced
the broad beach
You
mean no one knows about this place? Grimes
spins the wheel neatly, corrects, and noses the boat up to a tilting jetty: Sorta
looks that way.
Osbornes
Army,pp. 10-11
As
we saw in Lewiss The Tenth Year of the Ship, the character and name
of Grimes, a well-known local painter, was simply irresistible for novelists.
The gallery of island bohemians - the majority of them European - clearly points
to a Mediterranean backdrop: Awaiting
the mail boat became ritual on Escondite
everyone gathered at Theodores
bar long before the possible hour of arrival and drank away the interim - most
of the natives showed up as well, so newcomers were greeted with a great deal
of noise and waving. Even Marsh dropped work (perhaps this boat would bring that
one right woman who spoke his language, not that it mattered). Stefan Verduin
showed up, with Jan van Gent and Marja. Van Gent was considered Hollands
finest young poet: anthologies beginning at 1300 finished at van Gent. He had
been writing advertising copy and television plays.
p.
128
The duo is probably Jan van Gent
and Marja are Hugo Claus and his wife Elly. Other Ibiza legends either appear
under their own names (Grimes and Stephen Seley) or with appropriate aliases:
the primitive painter Charlie Orloff thus becomes Freddy Rosoff while
Ernesto Ehrenfeld, failed writer and successful art dealer is transformed into
Kurt Krummer. Expatriate life on Hideaway
features a certain amount of bitchy infighting, but is relatively idyllic until
the beats find themselves jostling for elbow-room with two new waves of visitors.
The first to come ashore are the hippies - soiled
jeans and filthy shirts - unbuttoned, but tied pirate-fashion at the east - many
were draped with bead necklaces; all wore sandals or bare feet; their beards ranged
in texture and scope from the lichenous to the dendroid; each had a rucksack strapped
to his back; a copse of guitar stems bristled. The women were similarly dressed
and equipped, and coiffed like octopi
They didnt do very much; they
just hung around, a scruffy, idle, self-styled hagiocracy. Sometimes they went
swimming, sometimes someone strummed a guitar; occasionally there was a lethargic
verbal exchange in the cults unintelligible Bêche-de-Mer, but mostly
they just sat in the shade, in big disorderly groups, smoking the free marijuana
and staring at their feet, or at nothing at all: occasionally one would stand,
signal his chick, and they would slouch off together
There were not enough
habitable houses remaining to shelter all these newly-arrived painters and writers;
some set up tents on the beach.
p.
188-90
Even less welcome are the grockles
(a dated word meaning holiday-maker), whose arrival on a massive scale
threatens the status quo in a far more sinister way: The
town was quaint, the natives friendly, the art colony
picturesque, the beach sandy. Though he pointed out the
impossibility of docking the big cruise ships and the need for a landing launch
And Simon Sr. chuckled as his son concluded; So you see, Dad, the
place is wide open and waiting; an absolutely golden opportunity and nobody has
any sense there.
p.
206
'Nobody has any sense there.'
The Simon dynasty would be delighted by developments on the docking front: Ibiza
will soon have a dique large and sophisticated enough to berth the Starship
Enterprise itself. Cruise-ship tourists come in all shapes and sizes: nouveau-rich
garment czars, branch chiefs, henpecked chiropodists, rasping viragos from fashion
magazines, Kodachrome families and Iowa schoolteachers with peeling arms.
But this colourful cross-section of western humanity proves too much for our eponymous
hero, who gathers around him an unlikely task-force of ten likeminded heroes,
bent on expelling the unwanted visitors and turning back the clock as far as it
will go. First taking a party of grockles hostage, they manage to secure the immediate
departure of not only the entire tourist community, but also shopkeepers, hotel
personnel, parking-lot attendants, travel agents, gigolos and even balloon vendors.
A concession is made for construction workers, now needed to restore the island
to its original virgin state, a rather daunting task: how long, the author asks
rhetorically, would
it be though before the destruction workers could blow up, tear down, carry away,
and dispose of the hotels and apartment houses; the cabarets, cinemas and equipment
sheds?
Before the latanier palm and ceiba tree again grew on the site of
the Waffle-orama and the U-Needa-Hotdog? Before the fraternal and benevolent sea
silted over with sand the debris-filled harbor, and coral again grew and fish
swam in their rightful dominion?
p.
281-283
The Pityusan branch of Friends
of the Earth might well ask the same question, substituting fig-grove (figueretes)
and underwater Posidonia meadows for latanier palm and ceiba tree - and Pizza
Hut and Macdonalds for the gastronomic concessions. The following morning a line
of destroyers blockades the bay backed up by troop transports. The rebellion is
soon over, the instigators apprehended, and the free world breathes an immense
sight of relief. The last thirty pages of the book are given over to screaming
headlines in a variety of typefaces and languages. The final extended piece is
heavy with unconscious irony: Progress can resume its stately march now that the
oddball lunatics have been removed from the picture. By
the time Osbornes Army was published West had left Ibiza of his own free
will and was busy mugging up astrology and Egyptology in London. His new career
as guru of alternative prehistory began modestly with The Case for Astrology
(1970), co-written with his Dutch translator Jan Gerhard Toonder. This was followed
by the unexpected global bestseller Serpent in the Sky: the High Wisdom
of Ancient Egypt (1979) and a companion volume, The Travellers Guide
to Ancient Egypt (1985). These would have joined the ranks of countless other
alternative Egyptology books, barely noticed within dusty academic departments,
had West not in 1989 approached a geologist from Boston University, Professor
Robert Schoch, to establish a scientific base for Schwallers observation
that the Sphinx had been eroded by water. As it is, his work has led to something
of a prehistoric tidal wave. Those wishing to know more about this controversial
redating of the Giza complex might like to consult the authors webpage at
http://www.jawest.com The former advertising copywriter,
satirical scribbler and astrologer is not just a rebel Egyptologist though: he
also takes guided tours of grockles round the monuments of ancient Egypt. It tickles
the heart to know that the author of Osbornes Army now ministers
to the very package tourists earlier at the receiving end of his biting satire.
A gentler, more peaceful character (rather Hollywood in sola topi) gazes out from
his webpage, one that recently wrote the Foreword to a childrens book, The
Story of Bes (2000) which is all about the principal deity of Ibiza. Back
in a fortnights time with more on that tale - the recovery of a lost papyrus
Martin Davies martindavies@ibizahistoryculture.com
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