Back
in the 1960s, two of my grandfather’s sisters emigrated from Britain to Ibiza.
Neither ever married, yet I know that both could have taken their pick of a
number of educated, well-to-do gentlemen. The younger sister even had a perfume
made, in Paris, just for her, by an especially romantic (and enormously
wealthy) Frenchman, whose marriage proposal she ultimately turned down. They
were classy ladies, to say the least, and lived in Ibiza until they died, in
1977 and 1980 respectively. My only memento is a well-preserved picture postcard,
which they sent to me from San Antonio in 1970. It bears a photograph of a vintage
motor car, the type in which they were probably accustomed to being chauffeured
around the island.
If
either could visit Ibiza today, and witness what has become of its ‘nightlife’
(Figure 107.1), I am sure they would be privately disgusted. It has morphed
into un lío of drunks, druggies and dickheads,
revelling in limitless sea, sun and STDs. Decent, hard-working Ibizans have,
for years now, been confronted with a ghastly choice: if they want revenue, in
the form of tourists’ cash, then they have little choice but to tolerate the squalor
created seemingly by animals released from cages.
Figure
107.1: Ibiza, off its face and in everyone else’s
Copyright
© 2014 vice.com
Brits,
especially, have a lousy reputation in Southern Europe. Loud, aggressive,
ape-like creatures, who cannot cope with even a moderate amount of alcohol, stain
the landscape from noon till the small hours – and those are just the ‘ladies’.
In the morning, the Ibizans shake their heads, peg their noses and clean up the
detritus, in preparation for a repeat performance of pathetic, shameless
exhibitionism hours later.
I
ought to add: youngsters have a right to enjoy themselves, go crazy even. The
libertarian’s code, however, suggests that when the peace, rights and
well-being of others are infringed, the partying should stop. I have some
incredible memories of near-nihilistic nights in Bangkok and Tokyo in the early
1990s, but never were they either inconsiderate or antisocial. To every right,
there must be an equal and opposite responsibility.
Approximately
1,300 miles (2,100 km) northeast of Ibiza lies the ‘Ibiza’ that my great aunts would
have known and adored. It is the Croatian island of Hvar. This island paradise
lies a few miles off the Adriatic coast and is accessible by ferry. (I took the
one from Split to Stari Grad; the trip lasts a couple of hours.)
The
port town of Hvar is situated on the south coast, near to the island’s western
extremity. Its architecture, plants, colours and stunning harbour set it apart
from anywhere I have ever visited (Figure 107.2). It is practically perfect; nothing is contrived, meretricious, spoiled or soiled.
Figure
107.2: Paradise (to be) lost? Not if Mayor Rikardo Novak has his way.
Copyright
© 2017 Visit Hvar
Hvar’s
newly-elected mayor, Rikardo Novak (Figure 107.3) is determined to keep it that
way. Anyone caught boozing in the street will be hammered for €700 (£620).
Draconian? Perhaps, but Mr Novak, to his immense credit, believes in
deterrence. Male tourists will still be permitted to dress like overgrown
toddlers, but, if one dares to go topless, he will be fined a cool €500 (£440).
The financial punishment meted out to a topless woman I can only guess.
Figure
107.3: ‘They are vomiting in town, urinating on every corner, walking without
T-shirts … crawling around, unconscious. Young tourists are welcome, but they
will have to learn how to behave here.’
Copyright
© 2017 Vijesti
When
I learned that tourism on the island was booming, I was almost disconsolate. The
last thing it needs is a continuous invasion by herds of apes.
All
power to Mr Novak. I hope he will stick to his guns –
and fire them if necessary.
Copyright
© 2017 Paul Spradbery
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