On any a Sun holiday it is a near certainty that you will – at some point or other – be confronted with awful music, unsatisfactory food stuffs, overpriced drinks and intolerable people. With proper care, some solid preparation and a certain amount of luck, these annoyances can be somewhat avoided. In the case of Ibiza, however, they form the heart of the island’s booming tourism industry.

Without doubt, there is much mischief to be had on Ibiza. Those seeking amphetamine catalyzed expeditions through degradation and depravity don’t have far to search before finding the requisite ingredients to fulfill such desires. The thing with Ibiza, however, is that in 2013 all that kind of stuff is sort of pathetic.

On Ibiza I saw a gang of teenage girls on acid being motor-boated by a naked Irishman. I saw highly suspect and frankly unprofessional African drug dealers searching for their misplaced wares in bush rows. On Ibiza, I saw steroid fueled young adults from the North of England drinking any and every liquid within a two meter radius of their beef headed group. I saw middle aged ravers desperately clinging to – or possibly trying to recreate – the last scraps of youth. On Ibiza I saw a bikini clad violin player on a stripper podium, accompanying some of the worst dance music that I or anybody else will ever hear. On Ibiza I learned the true meaning of the phrase “enough is enough.” I saw a beautiful coast line ruined by gaudy beach side high-rise “budget” apartment complexes. I saw crowds of young tourists sporting an ultraviolet radiation induced skin-tone that I can only describe as hot-dog brown. I didn’t, not even briefly, join a conga line. I listened to desperate middle-class teenagers admit to having made a massive mistake in their choice of a summer working destination. On Ibiza I saw every description of tattoo on every conceivable part of the human anatomy and came to the realization that Burger King could – contrary to the assertions of liberal newspaper reading “foodie” circles – rightly stand as an exemplar of the higher end of the culinary spectrum. Believe me, after five days of eating nothing but stodgy tourist gruel, a portion of regular fries feels more of an indulgence than a foie-gras stuffed lobster. On Ibiza I was offered sex by an Argentinian prostitute and upon declining the offer had my wallet stolen by a gentleman that I assume to have been her pimp[1]. On Ibiza I learned next to nothing about the island’s history or culture, and while this is certainly nothing to be proud of, I feel that it is in some way an achievement.

San Antonio[2] , our hometown for the week, is a combination of Bartertown from the movie Mad Max 3: Beyond the Thunderdome and what I imagine a Geordie Shore theme park would look like. The aptest description I have so far heard of the area came from a work associate’s husband who described the town disyllabically as a “shit-hole”. The San Antonio waterfront is a gauntlet of nightclub PR touts, tat merchants, scam artists, drug dealers and inebriated Brits. With every 100m of travel you will be offered discount Roy Ban sunglasses, cocaine, ecstasy, tickets to a David Guetta show, ketamine, weed, free shots with every beer, a traditional British fry-up breakfast, more cocaine, a beachside massage, a Rilex watch, and even more cocaine. Drugs, it should go without saying, are everywhere. A 2010 study conducted by the John Moore University in Liverpool in conjunction with the European Institute of Studies on Drug Prevention found that around 44% of British holidaymakers aged 16-35 took ecstasy in Ibiza. In the summer of 2013, everybody is on the stuff. This is perhaps most evidenced in the perpetual 4/4 programmed beat soundtracking the downtown San Antonio area. There are no rustling trees, no bird calls, no crashing waves, only shitty dance music. It may prove worthwhile for cognitive researchers to study the effects of prolonged exposure to the mono-rhythmic thumping of electronica, but I found it had the incredible effect of rendering any opportunity for coherent thought impossible and after a few days I found the most basic of mental tasks to be a genuine challenge. After 7 days, my brain was entirely dilapidated and my body exhausted.

The experience of a week on Ibiza is kind of like a weird crossover between the argument relating to particle physics known as the Observer Effect in which the very act of observation will always alter the state of what is being observed, and the famous[3] line from Frederik Nietzsche that “when you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back into you.” For example, there’s this weird intensity with which holiday-makers discuss enthuse about the island. That peculiar sort of enthusiasm whereby it seems as though these people have to constantly remind themselves – and those around them – that they are in fact having a good time. The effect of which makes Ibiza seem less a tangible geographic location and more as a vague abstraction; a blank canvas onto which chemically unbalanced visitors are required to project their own distorted interpretations. The most powerful drug on Ibiza is the island’s reputation. And to a degree, it is kind of alluring. Don’t get me wrong, drinking sangria on the beach in the sun, sleeping till noon and partying the night away are not exactly bad ways to spend any amount of time. However,  after seven days of solid alcohol intake, sleep deprivation and prolonged exposure to the sun, I was ready to tap out. I left Ibiza physically exhausted, financially crippled and emotionally shattered. It wasn’t so much that I had not enjoyed my holiday – nor the obvious and trite platitude that I had survived it – but that I had tolerated it.

[1]Following a ten minute chase through the city, I was able to recover the wallet, unfortunately the pimp made away with its contents of €200, my significantly out of date provisional driving license and several creased post-it notes featuring my various jottings. It is a sad consideration to think that I would have actually saved myself a considerable amount of money if I had actually just gone with the hooker.

[2]Or Sant Antoni de Portmany as the locals know it

[3]“Famous” at least amongst Philosophy students and the clinically depressed.