My holiday from hell: I went to Ibiza at 16 – and am still haunted by what I saw in a bathroom sink
My Holiday From Hell: Ibiza at 16
The Departure and the Bad News
My holiday from hell - "First the bad news," shouted our boisterous Irish representative as our coach rattled away from the airport. This was the beginning of my holiday from hell. The revelation sent shockwaves through the vehicle: every major venue—Amnesia, Space, Pacha—had shut their doors. A bewildered quiet fell over the passengers. Then came the silver lining. "But the good news?" he bellowed with enthusiasm. "We're gonna have a fucking amazing time anyway!!!" Enthusiastic cheers erupted from the young men and women aboard, most of whom likely hadn't intended to visit those prestigious clubs regardless. As for our particular group… honestly, I don't think we possessed any strategy whatsoever.
Four of us—myself, Wes, Marc, and Gav—were embarking on our inaugural journey without parental supervision, completely clueless about what awaited us. The Easter package we'd been persuaded into booking was through an organization named 2wentys, whose slogan might have read: "For those who find Club 18-30 a little too refined." None of us actually belonged in our twenties. In reality, we had all just celebrated our sixteenth birthdays—I personally appeared as though I'd barely made acquaintance with puberty. Nevertheless, the travel agent seemed unconcerned as she collected our money, so we departed.
The Sink Incident
BANG! BANG! BANG BANG BANG!!! The sound echoed through our hotel corridor at an ungodly hour on our initial morning. Someone was hammering relentlessly against the door of my room shared with Wes. "You did this didn't you!" Both Marc and Gav were yelling from across the hallway. "Don't lie to us! It was you!" We stared at each other in complete confusion. They pulled us into their chamber: oh dear. The odor nearly made me gag. Overnight, some unfortunate soul had infiltrated their accommodation and defecated directly into their washbasin.
Even today, the slightest whiff of Lynx Africa – deployed by my friends in industrial quantities to try to cover things up – takes me back there.
The hotel management refused to acknowledge any responsibility. "Clean it up, clean it up!" they commanded repeatedly. Consequently, Marc and Gav were compelled to perform exactly that task. Unwanted bodily waste quickly emerged as a recurring motif throughout our stay. This was only the start of my holiday from hell.
Escalating Misfortunes
On our second day, the female occupants of the room directly above us determined it would be entertaining to "break the ice" through an unconventional method—tossing their used sanitary products onto our balcony. There was absolutely no way to escape this indignity.
I had anticipated having freedom to explore independently, but the club representatives swiftly conscripted everyone into their militarily rigid "party" itinerary. This arrangement proved expensive and involved nothing more than continuous drinking and regular opportunities to expose one's genitals to unsuspecting bystanders. My companions were enthusiastically eager to participate, so I joined them as well. A profoundly poor decision.
Each morning we were dragged from our beds at dawn and transported to some dreary pool or beach destination to begin consuming lager and engaging in "games." These activities might include, for instance, a random male being summoned to stand atop a diving board while intoxicated women attempted to pull down his trousers using their teeth. I developed an emergency strategy: if selected to participate, I would simply turn and flee.
Despair and Reflection
Time crawled forward agonizingly slowly. On day four, I distinctly recall walking past a souvenir shop and spotting a postcard displaying an extraordinarily rebellious figure dressed in a red PVC devil costume, breathing flames. The inscription stated: "If you're tired of Ibiza, you're tired of life." Oh God, I thought to myself, that describes me perfectly. I'm sixteen years old and I'm tired of life. I felt like an absolute failure.
What I wished I could have understood at that moment is that someday I would return to Ibiza, dancing on elevated platforms and celebrating on the beach until sunrise following events at Manumission and Space and all the other legendary venues. I wasn't exhausted by existence at all; I was merely a frightened teenager making dreadful decisions, grateful to board a plane and escape that place entirely. Looking back, my holiday from hell was simply a rite of passage I hadn't yet recognized as such.