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 seńorial 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. |