Cave Dwellers

Posted on April 19, 2015 by swamsteker under Blog

The San Miguel caves, once a favorite hiding place for smugglers

Most of us would agree that the era in which humanish creatures called subterranean dens their home is safely lodged in ancient history. Sure, visiting them is a popular diversion among tourists, who are awed by the sheer inconceivability of our ancestors actually cooking, sleeping and having sex underground. Like moles, or rather, rabbits. After having been guided through a labyrinth of low-ceilinged grottoes, the vacationists are usually pretty relieved to be able to stand up straight and leave the humid limestone atmosphere. Modern man turned his back on cave-life. Unfortunately, I don’t think we can conclude that this act led him to enlightenment, or even a minimal grasp of the concepts that Greek philosopher Plato knew would lie outside of that cave, in the true reality.

Plato’s cave

For those who haven’t got a clue what I’m talking about, a brief explanation of Plato’s cave allegory: Plato visualized humankind as a group of prisoners in a cave, chained with their backs to the entrance. They only see the shadows of real things that move behind them. Some, however, (according to Plato, only the philosophers among us, of course) manage to unchain themselves and venture out of the cave. At first bewildered, they see the actual Forms, the unchanging essence of everything, whereas the people in the cave only see a reflection. The prisoners see the picture of the book, the ones outside see the book itself. Like a holographic Michael Jackson performing on stage, years after his earthly body had ceased to be. Basically it just comes down this: most of us are in the dark, while some of us aren’t.

Michael Jackson resurrected

Punta Galera

I think it’s pretty ironic that, in this day and age, the allegory in practice often seems reversed: a lot of people who are trying to catch glimpses of some spiritual truth are returning to these holes in the ground. Caves and the areas around them are still used for worship or spiritual activities, and people are reluctant to tell about their locations. Supposedly there is one somewhere along the West Coast of Ibiza that’s only accessible by boat, where they have full moon parties, high solely on their own spiritual energy and the secrecy of it all. The caves are often adorned with drawings and sculptures, some of which bear witness to rituals that were performed. Occasionally, these signs silently tell of more uncanny rites, like that time we discovered a large bloodstain next to a wax-sculpture at Punta Galera. It’s not surprising this stuff happens on Ibiza: every resident you talk to, even our straight-forward gardener, mentions the island’s special energy. And I guess Punta Galera is one of those hubs where it gathers…

Light show in the cave

So whether it’s for spiritual awakening or merely hedonistic motivation, caves in Ibiza are also used for parties. Secret parties, never announced anywhere. Those fortunate enough to be included (after fifteen years of holidays in which I desperately tried to discover those parties, I’m in!) receive their directions by text. A road that is not really worthy of this definition leads us to the middle of somewhere. What lies beyond the makeshift parking lot is what many consider the ultimate party-location: a bare limestone cave. Forget posh clubs with comfortable seats, bars and bathrooms. Here you sit on the rocky cave-floor, be it somewhat softened by a few large pillows. You bring your own booze and you urinate underneath one of the many Sabina trees just outside the cavern’s mouth (I hadn’t taken this into account, having opted for a one-piece catsuit, so for me, this activity meant squatting in the bushes half-naked at a temperature of 8 degrees Celsius). Stilettos are not a great idea. The deepest part of the cavern is not high enough to stand up straight, and when you accidentally hit your head on the ceiling, small particles of it end up in your perfectly styled hairdo. After a few hours most of the booze has been drunk.

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Ken Abel

Ohm G Gutbrod

While these aspects of the Cave Rave might be a bit primitive, the sound and light are definitely not. A cave is acoustically well-suited for music, and the sound system and light show are impressive. Generous disc jockeys work for the mere love of their trade and to the beat of our capricious desires. Inside this hole in the ground, we are treated to the best of the island: DJ Ken Abel, Ohm G Gutbrod and Manolo Molina serve us their slickest beats. Ken Abel is the driving force behind many secret and not-so-secret parties. Together with Donaes Platteel he keeps the island’s groove alive during winter time, with cool sets at places like Sushi Point and Hotel Ocean Drive.

The cave is heating up with very happy people. Even the sober individuals are amiable and grateful for being here. The strict invitation code pays off and nothing here resembles the sometimes anonymous clubbing atmosphere at the large venues. Is this spiritual exploration? Why not. Especially with the reborn moon out in full force and people connecting so freely, whether or not assisted by mind-altering substances. In the middle of the campo the overflowing moon illuminates the wilderness and us. Darkness can only be found underneath the straight Sabina trees and in the hearts of some of us.

And this is what a cave rave sounds like:

https://soundcloud.com/ken-abel/ibiza-cave-rave-san-juan-31jan-2015

Snowflowers in the Valley

Posted on February 24, 2015 by swamsteker under Blog

Winter paying a surprise visit to the island can’t deter the heralds of spring from working their annual magic. While temperatures drop to historically low levels and red soil and orange trees take on a mysterious white hue for a morning or so, many of the gnarled, lifeless-seeming branches dress themselves in their own luscious snow. The blossoming of the almond trees is one of the secret joys of Ibiza, a bonus usually reserved for winter residents. These first trees to sport their flowers are a glorious solace during what most people agree is the least agreeable time of the year. February is the month the island hibernates: it’s when even the restaurants that stay open all year close, shops make their inventory, hotels finally have the time to fix those leaking faucets and replace any broken mirrors or furniture. But the end of February also signifies an awakening, and Ibiza’s only true winter month has one brilliant prize that everyone looks forward to. Suddenly it seems like all trees on the island are almond trees, there are so many of them. But although their whitest pink tufts can be seen everywhere, to get the full-blown fairytale picture, you go to Santa Agnes de Corona.The curvy road leading to Santa Agnes will bring you up to a vantage point from which you have a magnificent view of the almond valley. What you see is the announcement of spring, looking like a touch of winter. Thousands of trees that have erupted in unbridled exuberance, life pouring out of the branches like juice from an overripe fig. The island doesn’t exactly turn into a colorless desert during wintertime, so the early blooms don’t function the way they would in harsher climates, like little dots of hope in a depressing world. It’s rather like they are trying to outshine and discourage the measly snowflakes that have dared to materialize. It’s as if they want to say, ‘we don’t need you, we are the white island’s snow, and we’ll do a better job than you ever will.’ Many of the island’s immigrants want to immerse themselves in this floral snow, feel the petals land on their face like they would with actual snowflakes, and for them, walks are organized. The most intriguing must be the full moon walk, when, if done at the right time, the moonlight illuminates the flowers and turns them into the ghosts of spring.

Sweet Gem, looking like a blossom herself…

Word gets around though, and in February Santa Agnes, normally a sleepy hamlet consisting of one road, one church and two restaurants, turns into a bustling meeting point for hiking tourists. Among the companies organizing the walks is Walking Ibiza, run by Toby and his daughter Gem, who takes care of many of the kids walks. Gem sparkles likes her name suggests and the kids love her instantly. She lets us in on some interesting nature facts, such as which plants and flowers are edible (a future post will be devoted to all the savory little plants you can find on Ibiza). She explains the difference between the trees with the white and the ones with the pink blossom. It turns out the almonds of the latter are just the tiniest bit toxic. Yep, infamous almond-scented cyanide, though you’d have to eat buckets full of the nuts to get it to bother you. Gem also tells us that this year the flowering of the trees seems a bit stunted, or at least stalled by what turned out to be the coldest winter in fifty years. But even now, in their demure state, the almond trees are a sight for sore eyes, with their grey, moss-covered bark, and the bluest Ibiza skies as their backdrop. As a final prize, we get to see the island’s largest olive tree with a circumference of twelve meters, so Gem tells us. The kids only care about the excellent climbing the tree offers…

Hiking in Ibiza is not to be missed, even when the almond trees have shed all their petals. Only when you traverse the routes that locals have discovered for you, you get a full taste of the breathtaking beauty of the island. Remote calas that are inaccessible by car can often be reached by speedboat or yacht. But by doing that, you miss out on the stunning paths that lead you to it, and that’s a real shame. Everyone that visits Ibiza with the intention to do more than just go to the clubs, beaches or restaurants (which are all really nice too, don’t get me wrong!) should try to take in at least one walk.

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Ibiza Oil?

Posted on February 1, 2015 by swamsteker under Blog

So picture this: it’s about 2 P.M. and you have just woken up after an epic night of clubbing at Pure Pacha. Feeling rather dazed, just a watery holographic picture of the past night hovering over your beaten up brain, there’s nothing you’d rather do than soak your abused feet in the crystalline Balearic seawater of Cala D’Hort. Once you have managed to get there, ignoring the heavy fog inside your head, you stumble upon the sand and flop down on the F*** Me I’m Famous towel you bought at one of those crappy tourist shops. Seconds after registering the majestic Es Vedra rock-island rising up out of the Mediterranean like a warning, your heavy eyelids drop shut, and you let your feet splash around in the surf. Ah, what bliss. But as you’re drifting off into your comfortable holiday dreaming, there’s an odd sensation. The water has attained a certain viscosity, as if you’ve stuck your feet into a tub of molasses. As the realization of this off-ness becomes strong enough to rouse you from your daydream, you hear dismayed screams. Something’s souring your summer reverie. You open your eyes, only to discover your feet have turned black. The entire surf has. A thick ribbon of shiny black goo lines the coastline of this once pristine beach.

Is this a future scenario for the Balearic archipelago? The people of Alianza Mar Blava think so. With an exposition on the 24th of January at P/Art Ibiza they once again wanted to draw attention to the plans for building an oil rig in the stretch of Mediterranean that separates Valencia from the Balearic Islands.

A performance by Maria Claudia Heidemann, ethereal as a porcelain doll, dancing on stilts as if she was born with them, opened the art show. She gently swayed to the sounds of whales and dolphins, two of the many sea creatures put in jeopardy by all the steps that are involved in the search for oil. Following Heidemann was a speech by Flor D’Agnollo of Alianza Mar Blava, castigating the politicians for allowing Cairn Energy to go ahead with their test drilling, and urging the government to look for sustainable energy instead of desperately holding onto fossil fuels.

When D’Agnollo concluded her speech, we discovered that the black plastic garbage bag on the floor contained a human being. Amanda Cardona Orloff was rolling around in it, eerily resembling oil washing on waves. When she freed herself, she was the oil-smeared sea personified. Pacha DJ Beatriz Martinez, better known as B Jones, treated the visitors to the sounds of her track ‘Ibiza says no’, which can be bought online and the proceedings of which will go to Alianza Mar Blava.

So what’s the deal? Cairn Energy, a company that has also been drilling in the arctic, is responsible for this ludicrous plan. Ludicrous, first of all because the Mediterranean is an all but closed-off basin. In the case of an accident causing oil leakage, the oil is stuck like a goldfish in a fishbowl. Another reason why any plan to find new oil wells is ridiculous, is the availability of massive amounts of solar energy, especially in a place like the Balearic Islands. Sure, we still have to find a way to store all this sun energy, but it might be wise for companies to dedicate their time investigating how to do that instead of where to find what’s left of the dwindling amount of fossil fuels. Anyone but the oil companies themselves can come up with tons of reasons why this would be preferable, but one of them is the detrimental effects all stages of oil exploitation have on marine life. Part of the damage has already been done, since the seismic testing involves extremely loud noise amounting to a level of 250 dB. This is twice as loud as when you would be standing next to an airplane taking off. Marine scientist Matthew Huelsenbeck, who was interviewed by National Geographic regarding the same procedure in the Arctic, tried to explain the effect on marine animals, and put it this way: “Imagine dynamite going off in your living room or in your backyard every ten seconds for days to weeks at a time”. The Balearic sea is a habitat for both dolphins and whales, and this noise alone kills them off or disorients them from their seasonal routes.

Most of the islanders are fiercely opposed to the plans. But taking a stand against oil extraction presents a dilemma, especially for the people of Ibiza, who travel back and forth to the island by planes or ferries that run on kerosine or diesel, and who depend heavily on the tourists that do the same. No one wants oil to wash up on the gorgeous beaches of Ibiza, but everyone still needs it. They need it to make the plane and their awesome jetski fly, to enable their 4×4 to take on those sloping rocky roads and to fuel generators that supply electricity at those secret parties.

Read more: http://alianzamarblava.org/es/

To buy the track ‘Ibiza Says No’ by B Jones: https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/ibiza-says-no-feat.-aaron/id895769933?l=es

National Geographic article on the effects of seismic tests on marine animals: http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/energy/2014/02/140228-atlantic-seismic-whales-mammals/

Roadkill

Posted on December 11, 2014 by swamsteker under Blog

Every morning, at 8:25 AM, we need to drive a little under twenty minutes to get our kids to school. “So, what’s the big deal?”, all Americans will say, and I guess there’s plenty of Spanish who would react pretty much the same way. However, for the average Dutch person, a trip like that, merely to drop your kids off at school, borders on the outrageous. In Amsterdam, the elementary school our children attend is within walking distance, and the journey to school never exceeds five minutes. But it still feels like we have to hurry to make it in time. Now that we have to take the car to drive almost twenty minutes, we never feel rushed. And we’re rarely late. How come?

Well, this school starts twenty-five minutes later, which might have something to do with it. But when you take the increased commuting time into consideration it really equals out any advantage the extra time in the morning would provide. Here, we leave home no more than ten minutes later than we would in Amsterdam.

But it’s in precisely that drive, taking up such a substantial amount of the pre-school morning, where the answer lies to the zen-disposition we are blessed with when we get to leave our kids in the capable hands of their English speaking teachers. First of all, the time spent in the car takes care of any hurried feelings that might be present at the moment of embarking. Usually, everything that needs to be in the car is, so that vexing thought can be released at the moment the key is in the ignition. Secondly, the car is comfortable. It’s warm (yes, it does get cold here as well) and dry, as opposed to the often bleak trips we made by bicycle in Amsterdam, facing freezing wind and rain. All of us get to relax into a little daydream. Well, the driver not as much, of course.

However, the most important element in making the day start off right is the landscape we get to traverse and the absence of other vehicles. The time schools start is rush hour in all cities in the world, which means it doesn’t matter whether you travel by car or by bike, the journey to school or work is stressful by definition. Here, we get to take a deserted country road to school. The only point in our Ibiza commute that might be regarded as a wee bit taxing, would be the moment parents from all over the island arrive at the Morna International College with their Range Rovers and Jeep Cherokees, needing to squeeze through the narrow entrance to park their car in the crowded parking lot. That parking lot, by the way, is as lush as a parking lot can possibly get, with lots of pine trees and gravel and pieces of tree-bark to park on.

The island itself is the biggest treat in the early morning. It does rain and it does get clouded sometimes, but in general, the sun greets us in a crystal clear sky. And even when the weather isn’t that great, the skies and the horizon and the sunrise join to make such a pretty picture. Our drive takes us through the back-country of Ibiza, if you can speak of a such a small island having that, which means we pass small agricultural plots, vineyards, olive and orange groves, and lots of pine forests. This is the time of year the oranges ripen, and the trees are laden with fruit, adding a dash of color to the abundance of green. Because of the rain, in summertime all but absent, the hills and meadows are greener than I’ve ever seen them before, and they’re covered in tiny white and yellow flowers. The carob tree grove we pass welcomes us with its heavily sweet scent, instead of the exhaust fumes we so often get to inhale in the big city. When we set out for school, the sun has just come up, and its optimistic rays spotlight the natural beauty of the island, reflecting off the dewdrops on the grass. It’s enough to take your breath away. By the time we reach school, the light and scenery have worked their magic, calming any bickering or lingering distress. Could a commute be any better? Every once in a while, we get stuck behind a tractor or other slow-moving agricultural vehicle, but even that cannot wreak havoc on our mood.

There’s only one downside to our daily commute that we don’t have to deal with (or not nearly as much) in Amsterdam. Roadkill. My kids’ road to education is strewn with untimely snuffed out lives of residents that belong here as much as we do, in fact even more so. A parade of poor, witless hedgehogs, rabbits and cats that are more or less disfigured by the onrushing car they only see the split second before it rips open their skull.

A while ago, on the way back home, the kids safely in the car after a day filled with various educational exercises, my throat tightened as we neared what turned out to be a tortoiseshell cat, still alive, while its brains were scattered across the concrete. Its hind leg was hovering a bit in the air before it landed softly in surrender to the inevitable. I screeched to a halt, jumped out of the car, holding onto a desperate sliver of hope that I could still get this animal to the vet to be saved. But when I approached it, I saw only death in its eyes.

This was the only afternoon the drive home failed to make me happy.

Halloween at Pikes

Posted on November 25, 2014 by swamsteker under Blog

Note to the reader: the following text has aged somewhat since the actual event. It really was written right after the Halloween party, at 6 AM, but at the time I didn’t have the balls to publish it.

I just returned from a Halloween party at Pikes Hotel, a place where some twenty-year-old memories of mine were created. Because of the state I’m in, I want to warn anyone who reads this in advance: my account might be a little incoherent and not exactly conscientiously written. I might even repeat myself, but hopefully it won’t be boring. I can’t guarantee anything.

Pikes Hotel is a wonderful boutique (I really dislike that word but that’s what it would be called) hotel with quite an illustrious history. Famous people, mostly Brits, flocked to it and added to its original flair. Wham’s Club Tropicana was filmed there, and a room is dedicated to Freddy Mercury, a regular when still mortal. Apparently, Kate Moss is there for every Halloween party they throw, except for this year. Darn. But then again, the gathering was so eclectic, who needs her? Besides, at Halloween parties almost everyone is more interesting than they would be at other parties. And you get to ogle to your heart’s content, without feeling uncomfortable. Halloween is like a show, or a museum with music. Even if you don’t talk to anyone, you still have a good time just looking. And most of the people that come to this party are not tourists, unlike the club vacationers that come here during the summer to party their brains out for a week or two. They are people that have chosen to live here, and they are a very different lot.

On Ibiza, island of parties, the 31st of October is the best party of the year. Everyone who lives here knows it, but they don’t tell. Whereas in summer, you can see billboards for the club nights pop up like mushrooms in a moldy forest, the Halloween fests are barely advertised in local tabloids, and the places that accommodate them don’t even mention it on their websites. I’m not exactly new to this island, but it wasn’t until last year I started to become aware of something I was missing out on. Most clubs have already shut down for the season and only a few venues host an All Hallows Eve party, but they go out of their way to do it.

Although I have been madly in love with Halloween since the first time I was introduced to it (’twas in Los Angeles, where they certainly know how to throw a horror fest), this year my feelings towards ‘el dia de los muertos’ were shook up. It turned into something I didn’t know I was allowed to love anymore. Death has taken away such an important part of my life, can I still make fun of it? Should I party in its name? Am I supposed to relish the elaborate make-believe graveyard the people of Pikes Hotel have created on their lawn, when it was only a month ago I said farewell to my father in a real one? Can I paint my daughter’s face so that it resembles a skull or an evil templar? It feels like a twisted form of blasphemy. But then again, it doesn’t feel like the same thing; death is not a skull or a zombie or a ghost. It’s emptiness, an unfathomable abyss of loss, and most of all, the absence of life. Not just of the deceased’s life, but also of the people who loved him. With the death of someone this close, a piece of the life of the ones who remain behind, seeps away. Like a rechargeable battery than won’t ever be able to fully be charged again. So I decided to go after all, in a futile effort to fill up that gigantic void inside of me with images of gratuitous diversion.

The Pikes hotel is legendary. It’s also the perfect haunted house, with so many nooks and crannies you get to pass through; it takes a couple of rounds to understand how it’s laid out. An old finca, an Ibicencan farmhouse, it still retains many of its original elements, like the millstone in the middle of one the rooms, so substantial you can hardly walk around it. It’s charming with serious star-attraction.

The last time I hung out here was over twenty years ago. Lured by the stories of celebrities that were supposed to lounge at the pool bar everyday, I headed over there, riding a scooter and wearing a more than presentable white dress, because, well, you never knew who you might meet at a place like that. I walked onto the deserted grounds. No stars anywhere. Hesitant about how to proceed, I lingered on the terrace for a few moments, the harsh afternoon sun thrashing my bare shoulders. Finally, I decided to act all worldly and sit down at the bar to drink…orange juice, of course. Fortunately, there was a bartender, but she was the only one present. My juice all but downed (I do that very fast, drinking, that’s why I have to take care with alcohol: it usually goes down like lemonade, or well, juice. Sipping is something that’s beyond my abilities), I rose, ready to mount my scooter. But as I was doing this, a guy walked up to the bar. He had a mustache (absolutely not done at that day and age) like a mariachi and a sly smile. He knew what I was here for.

Tony Pike and Grace Jones

Tony Pike and I had some amusing conversations. I accompanied him to a couple of parties and a special Privilege club night, and got a taste of what it’s like to be the owner of an (in)famous rock star hotel on a small island, how people approach you. Interesting research material.

A few hours ago, I saw him again for the first time in twenty years. Although the mustache had gone, I did recognize him, and at eighty, he still looks pretty good. One of Pikes’ employees, a gorgeous and sweet skull girl that served beer from a hole in the wall, told me he still attends every party. Guess it keeps him young. I didn’t go up to him; he wouldn’t have recognized me.

As we danced and chatted our way through the Beetlejuices, the clockwork orange staff, the many walking dead and the party people holding plastic chainsaws and axes, we were let in on the night’s big secret: the Witch’s Tit. Only the Chosen were allowed to suck the mesmerizing motherly ambrosia from her rubbery nipple. Another delectable hotel employee, who assisted in the suckling, told us it had been Tony’s idea, which goes to show that living a life of neverending fiestas is good for you. Was it magical milk, that the Witch so generously offered to us, unworthy mortal souls? Nope. It was orange juice, just like that first time twenty years ago.

Or was it…?

Vamp at Pikes

For anyone who doesn’t want to pass up the best party venue on an island that has made partying into an art, Ibiza Spotlight puts it even more elaborately and convincingly.

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