(by Pablo Burgués)


- Oh, great Pablo, you who know everything (and otherwise you make it up), could you tell us how the Hippie issue began in Ibiza?

- I’m delighted with your question…

Well, my friends, all started in San Francisco (U.S.A.) in the mischievous 1960s when a small group of youngsters began to rebel against the old values of American society. To end with capitalism, social injustices and constant wars, this movement proposed a new paradigm based on peace, environmental friendliness, free love and, taking advantage of the occasion, stuffing themselves with marijuana and LSD because sweet things never made anyone bitter.


When the Vietnam War broke out, many of these long hair youngsters decided to escape their funny country to avoid being conscripted. In spite of what it may seem, those boys were no fool, so, instead of hiding in barren and icy places such as Siberia, Alaska or Soria, they chose more “cool” and heavenly locations such as Goa or Ibiza. And this is how these places became world references regarding peace, love and bellbottoms.

The inexorable passing of the years, media scandals such as Charles Manson case and alopecia ran down the moral foundations of the movement, that became a simple aesthetic fashion that, as any fashion, died slowly until it extinguished completely.

But even though now it is easier to find an Iberian lynx copulating with a Komodo dragon than a hippie, there is a magical place where a small population still resists at liberty: Ibiza.

 Well, the other day I had the great honour of catching sight of a real hippie, or at least that’s how that human being called himself. From now on I’ll call him Whistles (later on you’ll understand why).

Whistles is a “true hippie, not a plastic one as there are now”, and he always uses the plural when talking about his clan, beginning every sentence with “we, the hippies”:

- “We, the hippies, make a living with what we do with our hands”. The always-humorous chance made that at that moment my eyes focused on his left hand, that was happily scratching his crotch. That image seemed a pure poem to me.

- “We, the hippies, don’t live in houses, we live in caves because we are on the margins of society”. 

- We, the hippies, don't give our surname to our children, just in case. I have 3 daughters from 3 different women and I don’t talk with neither of the 6. When they were born their mothers asked me which surname they should take and I told the same to the three of them: the one you like, unless mine”.

We, the hippies… do you buy me a beer?”

A couple of drinks later, the ego of Whistles gained ground over his Hippieness and the first person plural became the first person singular:

- “Once I took a dose of LSD during a flight”.

- “I’ve lived in the world’s most expensive cities: Sydney, Los Angeles, London… and I’ve never paid a single Euro for a house, I’ve always lived as a squatter”.

- “I played for Real Madrid for 3 years, in “Camacho’s quinta”. Afterwards I was football referee for other 33 years”. As an irrefutable proof for that information, my new friend showed me a worn-down black whistle he had hanging around his neck and started to offer me a lengthy display of his most distinguished whistles.

After that show of strength, and just in case I still doubted that his life had been like a movie, Whistles looked into my eyes and asked me: “Do you know Pili and Mili?” They sound familiar to me, I replied. Weren’t they some twin sisters that made films in the 60s? “That’s right, boy. Well, let me tell you that I fucked with Mili”.

Don’t ask me why but I liked that guy very much and at the end of the night I agreed to take him to Saint Jordi church in my car, because he usually sleeps there on Fridays. On the way, he told me he had slept in every church at the island and after that he offered me a detailed report on the pros and cons of all of them. The “top one” of his Hippie-Advisor was Saint José church: “What a welcoming portico, that’s indeed a 5 stars”. Yes, 5 stars of Bethlehem, I told him, but either he didn’t hear me or my fine humour didn’t please him at all.

In saying farewell he told me that I could meet him at his cave whenever I wanted, I was invited and I could sleep there if I liked. I told him I rather prefer to sleep in a house but anyway I promised I would visit him someday. After 15 days I kept my promise and what I lived there was a more than religious experience… But I’ll tell you about that next week ;) 



Translation: Dora Sales

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