A Letter from Ibiza
“Dos mojitos, por favor.”
A mojito is a Cuban mint julep, mixed with rum rather than bourbon. It was Ernest Hemingway’s second favorite drink. The shot of gin first thing in the morning from the bottle beneath the bed took top honors.
Somewhere just on the dark side of dawn in an Eivissa nightclub, I was trying to convince the waitress to deliver another round of mojitos so that I could continue my conversation with the leggy Catalan brunette sitting beside me on the nightclub’s rooftop terrace. The waitress seemed to hear me above the music thundering out of club, and went off to fetch our drinks.
I watched the waitress ‘con permiso’ her way through the crowd of good-looking, depraved and decadent euro-youth before turning my attention back to my Catalan companion. One thing was certain, we were not the only people on the terrace discussing cocaine and sex.
Eivissa is the Catalan spelling of the Mediterranean island that Spaniards call Ibiza. To the Greeks it was called the Isla Pitusas, the island of pines. Rugged pines still rise along the island’s rocky hillsides and shoreline. In the valleys and plateaus a dusty red soil supports olive, fig and almond trees that rise in meat rows on farmsteads that look today very much as they would have in the time of the Carthaginians who founded Eivissa City.
The newspapers say that Spanish farmers are planning to join the anti-fuel tax revolt that is spreading across Europe. My brother wrote an article for the Wall Street Journal Europe arguing that these weren’t truly tax revolts but raids on the state treasuries by special interests. He has a point. The French truckers relaxed their protest when the government promised a tax-rebate, which means more government red tape and doesn’t relieve the tax burden on most French drivers.
Governments use loopholes, ‘directed’ tax-cuts, and rebates to grant favors to special interests and control their citizens. They are a form of interventionism. A wise man once said, however, that we shouldn’t oppose tax-loopholes. We should try expanding them, so that the manipulative favoritism is eliminated.
More generally, we should support anti-tax revolts regardless of what we think of the underlying motives of the protesters. These sort of raids on state treasuries are double blessings: they let people keep what they earn and they deprive the state of money it would spend to attack the liberties of the people.
Here in Eivissa, however, it’s difficult to imagine that the farmers’ protests would have much effect. Life has a slow pace amidst the red clay and harsh hills, especially beneath the stifling Mediterranean summer sun. If the farmers brought everything to a halt I’m not sure anyone would notice. Unless they blocked the discos at night. But most likely these Catalan olive growers will keep on keeping on, tending their trees grown up around the occasional Carthaginian ruin.
The Romans, and later the Visigoths, followed the Carthaginians. Muslims took the island before the turn of the first millennium, and held it for more than three hundred years.
Eivissa’s modern history begins with the Christian Reconquista sponsored by Juame I of Catalunya and Aragon in 1235, long before Nato bombers got into the business of preventing such ‘ethnic cleansing.’ (My suggested bumper sticker for folks opposed to Nato interventionism: “If Nato Had Got Here Sooner, Your Name Would Be Mohammed.”)
Over the next seven hundred years, the island prospered as a trading hub for Catalan merchants, and suffered during the various continental wars. In the 1960’s the island attracted the attention of Europe’s flower-power set, which discovered free-love and drugs were even more enjoyable on sandy beaches beneath the Mediterranean sun. Tourism boomed, becoming the islands major industry. Its infamous all-night discos gave birth to the Rave sometime in the late-eighties. Besides the fine sandy beaches surrounded by sparkling blue waters, Eivissa’s nightlife is the reason people come here.
The drug of choice among the club-hoppers is Ecstasy, a narcotic with the best marketing-oriented name imaginable. In truth, the drug reportedly delivers a mildly good time but doesn’t come close to living up to its name.
Most users I’ve met seem mildly disappointed with the effects. I understand that America’s drug-warrior industry is currently throwing a hissy-fit about an ‘ecstasy epidemic’ supposedly sweeping America’s youth. No doubt some of this is the usual foundation grant seeking, fund-raising, and job-maintenance mania. Still let me propose this slogan for their Ecstasy abuse prevention programs: “You’ll have more fun with whiskey.”
Europe’s young and reckless in Eivissa hardly confine themselves to Ecstasy. On my first day on the island, an attractive group of men passed by the café where I was breakfasting. I smiled at them, and said, “Hola.” They replied in Italian, “Ciao” and kept walking. One suddenly turned around, and boldly strode back to where I was sitting. She had the brightest smile, and her walnut Italian eyes gleamed in the morning light. “Ciao,” I said.
“Ciao. Do you have any hashish or marijuana to sell us?” she asked.
This was the first time I’ve ever been mistaken for a drug-dealer. I felt myself grasping for the proper response. My knowledge of Italian culture is limited: I Promessi Sposi, Dante, Ezra Pound being kept in a cage by the U.S. Army, and what I read about the Lega Nord, the semi-secessionist movement in Northern Italy. No help there. Finally I gave her a conspiratorial grin. “Too many police,” I said. I nodded a bit to the group of men sitting in their bathing trunks at the far end of the café. “Talk to me later.”
Spain went through a brief period in which most drugs were decriminalized. Pressure from the ‘international community’ put an end to that years ago. One substance banned in most western countries, however, remains legal in Spain: Absinthe. The bane of Victorian society can be found on the shelves of many bars and cafes throughout Spain, but the best is made near Barcelona or on Eivissa. Sometimes called “The Green Faerie,” Absinthe is translucent green liquor distilled from wormwood. When mixed with sugar it turns a milky, opaque shade hue of green. It’s meant to be drunk slowly, as Hemingway’s Jake discovered in The Sun Also Rises.
Vincent van Gogh was reportedly high on absinthe when he severed his ear.
It was my attempt to get a glass of absinthe that led to my conversation with the Catalan woman. The bartender was refusing to serve me any absinthe on account to the incident the night before.
There had been a fire. I started it. Tonight I could not be served absinthe, the bartender told me.
Let me explain. Drinking absinthe always involves a ritual designed to dissolve sugar into the liquor. Among the various alternative techniques, the most dramatic requires dipping a sugar cube into the absinthe, and lighting it on fire. As the sugar caramelizes, it is dripped into the absinthe glass, where it blends to produce the desired effect. When dripped too quickly, I discovered, the sugar can fall into the glass while still aflame. This ignites the absinthe in the glass. My attempt to extinguish the glass only succeeded in knocking it over. The flaming green liquid streamed across the bar, lapping over the edges, lighting my shoes on fire.
We had a few exciting moments trying to put out the fire before it spread. Still. No one was hurt, and I thought I deserved another chance. Maybe I could mix the sugar with one of the rituals not involving fire, I proposed. But the bartender would not be reasoned with.
At that point the woman beside me at the bar spoke up. “May I suggest a mojito,” she said in Catalan. It was close enough to Spanish for me to understand. Then in English she said, “American boys like mojitos because they all want to be Hemingway.”
I ordered mojitos for us both before telling her that I didn’t understand how Hemingway and the rest of the International Brigades had escaped with their reputations intact after fighting for the Stalinist side of the Spanish Civil War. She asked why I was more sympathetic to Franco’s Nationalists. I gave three reasons. First, in the government schools where I was educated, Franco’s victory was taught as a ‘great tragedy.’ This makes out a prima facie case in favor of Franco. Second, Franco resisted the sickening secularism that infected European governments east and West in the 20th Century; he upheld the role of faith in public life. Third, if you compare post-Franco Spain with post-Soviet Russia, it is easy to see why Franco was to be preferred over Stalin.
Her reply disabused me of sympathy for Franco. To the Catalans, Franco was first and foremost a relentless centralizer, suppressing the Catalan identity and language. His military career had taken shape in the long, futile Moroccan campaign, an adventure in renewed Spanish imperialism opposed from the start by both the Catalan merchant class and Barcelona’s radical anarchists. As Caudillo, Franco continued his army bed prejudices against regionalists and nationalists in Catalunya and the Basque territories. ‘National Unity’ was at the heart of Franco’s regime, she explained. The Catalan language was banned from schools, Madrid encouraged a million largely poor and unskilled Spaniards to immigrate into Catalunya, and little in the way of self-government was tolerated. This argument was far better at winning me over than she could have anticipated. There’s no way she could have known that painting Franco as theSpanish Lincoln would have such a powerful effect on my thinking.
Since 1979 Catalunya has enjoyed a measure of independence from Madrid. The regional government has more power, and Catalan is taught in the schools and has once again become the primary language of the region. The devolution of power, however, is far from complete. Madrid continues
to exercise control of the region, and enriches itself on taxes taken from Catalunya’s prosperity. To make matters worse, the devolution may stall as an alliance of socialists, communists, and centralizers have gained power in recent elections by appealing to the immigrant vote-the 40% of Catalunya’s voters who come from other regions and often resent the resurgence of Catalanism. To have come so far only to turn back would be an authentic great tragedy, the Catalan brunette told me.
When we’d talked out Spain’s politics we turned to the United States. She was alarmed by President Bill Clinton’s recent move to deepen U.S. involvement in Columbia’s civil war by delivering $1.3 billion dollars of additional foreign aid to the Bogotá regime. Actually, it’s far worse that that, I told her. Clinton is not merely sending cash that at least could be easily stolen, and therefore kept out of the civil war. He’s sending attack helicopters, herbicide, and military “advisors” into the Columbian jungle.
Her primary concerns were for the impact the U.S.-backed intensification of the conflict would have on the environment and human rights. No doubt things will get far worse for Colombian farmers, forests, and critics of Colombia’s rulers. But as an American abroad in the world, I told her, I worry more about my country getting drawn into this forty year war between Colombian Marxists and their government opponents. The political violence in the region stretches back into the mid-19th Century, and certainly beyond. Once again, it looked like the U.S. was marching determinately into a foreign bedlam of ancient animosities.
The aid to Colombia is officially “agricultural,” intended to assist the Colombian government eradicate cocaine crops. But the civil war and the drug war are inseparable since the Marxist insurgents control much of the cocaine crop. In fact, my Catalonian is convinced that what really motivates the Colombian regime is the desire not to eradicate this valuable commodity but to control its distribution while rubbing-out the rebels.Even if the U.S. aid succeeded in shutting down cocaine production in Colombia, the drug-farming would merely migrate to Columbia’s neighbors, just as drug-dealers in New York City shift their activities from one neighborhood to avoid the police.
Recently the authorities discovered a submarine in the hills of Colombia. According to Pravda, sorry, I mean the Herald-Tribune, the sub was being built by drug smugglers, and could have transported 11 tons of cocaine. Somehow the Herald-Tribune figured this strengthened the Clinton Administration’s position on Columbia. Surely it should do just the opposite.
Forget for a moment your doubts about the credibility of this story. I know it has all the marks of a set-up, including a Russian connection (the instruction manuals for building the submarine were Russian). And after Kosovo we should all assume anything we hear supporting American interventionism abroad is a lie. But if this story were true, it would only indicate what we already know: that the situation in Columbia is not an ordinary drug-interdiction program, and our aid is not agricultural. We are supplying arms, aid, and advise to one side in a deadly civil war, fought between well-equipped and well-funded armies. As the Herald-Tribune put it, typically only navies of sovereign nations posses the sort of submarine supposedly found in the Columbian hills.
She wanted to know how Clinton the Vietnam war-resister could possibly want to start America down the road to war in Columbia. Perhaps we should suspect another affair-of-the-pants is giving him this bravado, just as cuddling with Monica Lewinsky gave him the courage to oppose New Gingrich during the 1995 government shut down, she offered. I told her that it was more likely merely typical Clintonite hubris and sophistry. The Clintonites are supremely confident that they are always right, both morally and tactically. And they can talk themselves into any position necessary to advance themselves in power.
When the Clinton Administration in 1994 launched an attack to overthrow the government of Haiti, I was at Oxford. Strobe Talbot visited to give a lecture on the role of the U.S. in the world. The talk was nonsense, and most of the questions harmless. My hand went up toward the end, and Talbot announced that mine would be the last question. From my pocket I produced a copy of the letter Clinton had written from Oxford opposing America’s involvement in the internal disputes of sovereign nations, particularly Vietnam. After reading the letter, I asked: “Since Clinton recently launched an invasion force that resulted in the overthrow of the government of Haiti, I’m wondering whether you think he was wrong back in the sixties or is he wrong now?”
I never expected Talbot’s reaction. He turned purple with rage. “No dictionary in Oxford would call our installation of the democratically elected leader of Haiti an invasion!” he bellowed. This was gobbledygook. An invasion is an invasion, even if it is justified. Recall the Second World War’s Invasion of Normandy. But to the Clintonites, the words war, invasion, and attack are reserved for the official enemies. The U.S. and our vassals are peace-keepers and democracy-builders. They believe that reality somehow bends to their linguistic connivances. Sex with Monica? It all depends on what your definition of “is” is.
The dons at Oxford were taken aback by Talbot’s unmannered response. Even worse, he had dodged the question. The question was not about the definition of invasion but about how had his boss gone from articulating the principles of non-intervention and national sovereignty to launching a global crusade for democracy and human rights? Talbot behaved as if such a question was beneath the dignity of his office (whatever that is).
Sensing his answer had not been enough, Talbot approached me on his way out. I should have been intimidated because obviously armed bodyguards surrounded him. He took my hand in his, and gave it a shake. “That was the easiest closing question I’ve had,” he lied. I could see he was calmer now. His complexion had returned to pasty. But a vein still bulged and pulsed in his neck. My friends sitting close by could not believe this master of the American hyperpower felt the petty need to attempt to embarrass a twenty-something undergraduate who had asked a troubling question.
I looked at his lying eyes and said, “Go to Hell, asshole.”
Clinton can push us into wars going back centuries in the Balkans and in South America, wars that will only spread to neighbors when the catalyst of American power is introduced, because he believes with all his heart that his wars are peace.
The story impressed my Catalan friend. She laughed and touched my arm. Her look made me suspect she only half-believed the details but she liked the moral of the story. “You’re saying that America’s rulers are interventionists because they are deluded and evil,” she said.
Now it was my turn to smile. The mojitos arrived. We had talked enough truth about the world for this hour of the morning.
“Oh, John,” she said, “Maybe its not too late to stop it all.”
On the eastern edge of the sea the first fits of sunlight were visible. The breeze blowing onto the terrace was sunny and cool. We both took long drinks from our glasses.
“Yes,” I said, “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”
(Note: This was written and published way back in 2000. I had totally forgotten it until I went to White Star last night. The taste of absinthe brought it all back.)
