The world that is Kabul is awash with tears, living in unspeakable horror. This is looking back at a time without such fear and shame.
The late, naughty Fanny Brice is supposed to have said, “I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor. Rich is better”.
Forty years ago at 2 o’clock in the bloody morning I landed in Ibiza clutching a set of keys, a piece of paper with a smudged address, a tired 13-year old boy in tow. It was August, full season, noisy, hot, every single hotel room -which anyhow I could not afford- booked.
A friend of a friend in Madrid had found me a tiny house belonging to Lola Floes, a famous flamenco dancer/singer. Upon landing and after fighting hordes of sweaty, smelly fellow passengers, using my native Spanish I managed to secure a taxi. He dropped us at the top of steep hill and pointed: “Allí”.
Down we went dragging our suitcases on the stone steps looking into every house trying not to miss the one we had rented. It felt like the whole neighborhood was up, fighting, listening to flamenco music or watching reruns of Dynasty dubbed in Catalan; I later found out that in Ibiza no one goes to bed before 4.
We finally arrived to a small white dwelling sandwiched between two tiny houses and no room for privacy; you literally lived with your neighbors. There was a decent size living room –two concrete slabs with mattresses’ and some cushions for my son and the au pair- and an airless bedroom for me with a tiny window. In the hallway one bathroom and a door leading to what I assumed was the kitchen. I opened the door, turned on the lights and a large contingent of cockroaches the size small Korean cars ran for cover. I promptly switched off the lights and told my son “We will never come in here again. We will eat out”.
My son looking more worried by the minute and probably longing for his father’s plush flat back in Geneva -Filipino maid included- was none too reassured. “Tomorrow arrives the au pair from London” I said none too reassured myself, “and things will get better, promise”.
She did and they did.
We were staying in Figueretas, a popular blue collar neighborhood with a beach at the bottom next to a noisy pub ran by a couple of Australians who doubled as bouncers. It was cheap and had a beach, ok by me. Next morning the lovely S. arrived and we went down to the beach.
All the women were topless, the young, the not-so-young, those who would never see this side of fifty again, the fit and the fat. My young boy, bought up in a strict Catholic school –we soon took care of that -was flummoxed. Eyes big as saucers he looked towards moi for clarification.
In my new found women’s Lib I thought this was the perfect occasion unbeknownst to his father to give shape to a modern man. “Darling, women have won the right to show their bodies as they want. Just like men. It is not polite to stare at their breasts. They are just being natural”.
He took in this new and valuable info all while darting furtive glances in the direction of every boob at his eye line level. Being a rather young 13 he soon turned to snorkeling enthusiastically and promptly forgot to check the boobs.
Figueretas was nice but crowed and predictable. I heard there were magnificent coves around the island. “But you need a boat or a car”. Had no boat, decided to rent a car. The sweet roofless Mehari jeep took care of half my budget. This was before cell phones and credit cards. It came down to having a car for 2 weeks or me skipping dinner.
Every day off we went exploring the island, a basket with Serrano ham and baguette, some
fruit and lots of water; Ibiza’s beaches lie below the cliffs and the climb back in 30 degree weather is tough. One day we parked above Aguas Blancas. Once down I looked around and everybody was buck-naked as suits a proper nudist beach. (Merde)
My son promptly came over and very seriously stated: “Mum I know about the right of women to show their bodies and that it’s not polite to stare at their breasts. I understand, Mummy. But please, please don’t take off your bottom part”. Poor kid. He probably thought, “She’s going to give me another drivel about women’s rights and drop her knickers in front of everybody and I will die”. I did not and after a while I got used to walking past the male equipment on display, most of which was nothing to write home about.
In the evenings we would go to the old town. The streets held a party every night. My son and S. would order a nice dinner and I would watch them eat. On the third week I got an invitation airline ticket included to go to Malaga for the weekend.
I left them with enough money and instructions to be at the Locutorio (Call Center) every day promptly at 8 pm so I could check on them.
On the second day they got robbed.
Some desperate bloke broke into our dinky house –you had to be really desperate to steal from us- and took off with S.’s watch and my son’s Walkman and all their cash. “Ok” I said my heart racing. “I cannot change my plane. Go down to the pub and tell them to give you breakfast, lunch and dinner and I will pay them when I get back”. So they did, bless their Aussie hearts
A few days before the end of our holiday I spotted the “Marala,” an elegant motor sailing yacht and one of the last grande dames of the Golden Age majestically entering the harbor. I knew that a friend was on board. I raced to the port and asked them to radio the boat. They promptly send a tender to pick us up. That next three days we ate sumptuous meals surrounded by strangers.
Being rich is good. You eat all you want and the food is certainly better but when you are a tender 13 nothing beats the experience of watching a drunk patron flying out of an Australian pub at noon and landing face down on the sand next to a pair of giant knockers.
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