The Travel Episodes

Hippies of Ibiza

Mrs. Müller Drops Out

Ibiza is known as a para­dise for party animals. But the north of the Balea­ric Island is charac­te­ri­zed by its unta­med beauty and unspoi­led nature. An Eden for dropouts.
Gitti Müller finds peace. 

It’s a rainy evening in the 90s. My friends and I are discus­sing a possi­ble foreign inter­ven­tion of the German Armed Forces. Obviously irri­ta­ted by my anti-war atti­tude, one of them even­tually says to me, “Then why don’t you go to Ibiza and become a hippie!”

Many years have passed since then. It’s winter. Febru­ary. For weeks, gray wafts of mist have been sticking to the sky like chewing gum. Once in a while, they are joined by a drizzle. In the morning, I crank up the heating and try to lift my Vitamin D-deprived mood by doing some yoga. On the radio: Syria, refu­gees, Neo-nazis. That’s when I suddenly recall what I was told back then. 

Hippie on Ibiza.
Why not? Best, right away. 

There are no direct flights in winter, so I have to take a bit of a detour. And, there are also no tourists. Most clubs and bars are closed, the boom­ing elec­tro­nic basses are hiber­na­ting. Where I’m going, to the north of the island, it’s even quiet in the summer. I get myself a room in a small stone finca in the coun­try­side, with a shared kitchen and bathroom. The next village is forty minu­tes away by foot. I’m plan­ning to stay for four weeks. For the first two weeks, I’ll be all by myself in the middle of nowhere. The landlord is in Amster­dam, taking a break from the island. It could get pretty lone­some here. We’ll see how I’ll cope. 


Silence. All I hear are birds, a soft rust­ling in the pines, a barking in the distance. The mild winter air enve­lops me like velvet cloth. Later on, I look into the night sky and think: this is what peace feels like. 

Es Amunts

The north of Ibiza is a conser­va­tion area. With its unta­med beauty, “Es Amunts” attracts ever­yone who wants to be in tune with nature: hippies– aged and young-at-heart, self-proclaimed and studied healers and shamans, osteo­paths and reiki masters, masseurs, yoga inst­ruc­tors, gurus, dancers and musi­ci­ans, vegans and vege­ta­ri­ans. They all love Es Amunts, this unspoi­led land­s­cape with its wooded hills, rocks and fields. And so do I. I’m a city kid, but I love nature more than anything. 

When I’m doing badly, nature is the best medi­cine for me. Balm for the soul, honey for stres­sed nerves. 

Suddenly, life is easy and imme­diate again. 

In the morning, I go for a seven kilometer-long walk. The air is cool, moist and full of tempt­ing smells. The blossoms of the wild garlic are of a deli­cate rose color, rose­mary, thyme and pines emit their fragran­ces. I pass knobby olive and wild carob trees. Almond trees alre­ady carry their first fruit, still green, and orange and lemon trees flaunt their ripe fruit in a vibrant orange and yellow. For some time, I follow a small track through the woods, up a hill and over rocks over­grown with small, dark-blue orchids. I keep passing the tradi­tio­nal stone walls; once in a while there’s a typi­cal Ibizan homes­tead, white­wa­s­hed and cubic. With some, it seems as if the clock stop­ped ticking centu­ries ago: a stone house, a well, a thres­hing floor. Surroun­ded by trees and fields.

Yellow mari­golds blossom brightly on lavish green pastu­res; some­ti­mes there’s a knobby, anci­ent olive tree, defi­ant, looking like a lost sheep.

You cannot shift an old tree without it dying. 

The dark red, dug up soil of a recently plowed field compe­tes with the light spring green of its neigh­bo­ring pasture. Above, the wind is chasing white wisps of clouds over the deep blue sky. For a good hour, I walk through the land­s­cape with my senses wide awake, marve­ling and almost devo­tio­nal, feeling more alive with each step. Life can be so simple. At the end of my walk, I gather a bit of fire­wood, dried pine cones, tree bark and small bran­ches to make a fire in the oven. 

In the evening, I will have a cozy get-together at my place, in fact, with myself. I will cook some­thing, open a bottle of wine, watch the fire and drink a toast to life. There’s nothing more to do. Have I become a hippie?


* * *

Second Chapter

When Is a Hippie a Hippie?

John Lennon was a hippie. He sang of peace and wore his hair long. But was that it? I meet someone who must know. 

Jon Michelle is 65 years old. He has a high forehead and long, dark hair. He grew up in Africa as the child of Swiss diplo­mats. He’s been living on Ibiza since the 80s. He’s sung mantras with Nina Hagen, and every Wednes­day evening, he orga­ni­zes the musi­cal program “Namaste” at the hippie market toge­ther with some friends. At the Inter­na­tio­nal Travel Trade Show (ITB) in Berlin, he repres­ents for Ibiza what the offi­ci­als have long been embarr­as­sed about, “Hippie­dom”. This has become the island’s unique feature. People have reali­zed that it’s not only about parties, drugs and sex. There are many artists and artis­ans among the hippies. 

So suddenly being a hippie is ok. 

Jon Michelle knows full well that this a a marke­ting stra­tegy of the tourist office. But, he empha­si­zes, he really is a hippie and sticks to it. I ask him how he defi­nes a hippie. 

“John Lennon was a hippie. Hippie means stop­ping the Viet­nam War, hippie means living without violence. That’s exactly what John Lennon says in his song “Imagine”. Imagine there were no reli­gion, no hunger. To me, that’s being a hippie. We didn’t become hippies to get stoned. To me, being a hippie is an atti­tude. And I am still living it.”

Jon Michell lives in Sant Joan, a small village and the chief village of the nort­hern province. White­wa­s­hed houses, orange trees, a church, a cemetery, three bars. Every Sunday, there’s a small market with home­made bread, laven­der honey, orga­nic vege­ta­ble, incense sticks, Tibe­tan prayer flags and singing bowls, brace­lets and silver jewe­lery, clothes and scar­ves, the sound of drums and guitars. It’s in parti­cu­lar during the winter months that the bars become a popu­lar place to get toge­ther for the ones who have stayed. And that’s more than a few. In the seven towns of the muni­ci­pa­lity Sant Joan de Labritja, 35% of the popu­la­tion are foreig­ners who are perma­nent resi­dents. In terms of numbers, Germans rank first, follo­wed by the British, Itali­ans, French and others. Most of them came during the 60s and 80s. 


Diffe­rent from many of his hippie friends, Jon doesn’t live in a finca, but in an apart­ment in the village. And that’s where I visit him. 

Normally, I wouldn’t visit a complete stran­ger in his apart­ment. What’s wrong with me? 

Am I alre­ady full-speed on the peace-love-and-trust-trip? 

Almost looks like it. Jon asks me to come in and, for a moment, I feel like I’m back in the times when I used to live with room­ma­tes; it’s been a while. There are color­ful blan­kets, Indian scar­ves and arra­ses, here a buddha and there some lovely draped flowers. Jon’s office is full of music: drums, guitars, flutes and all sorts of rhythm instru­ments, conven­tio­nal and exotic. The big veranda with a view of the land­s­cape is as color­ful as the rest of his apart­ment: the walls are pain­ted a warm red; light blue shut­ters and a shade-giving straw roof, flower pots and herbs, a big table with four chairs. 

Jon has three child­ren and one grand­son. His youn­gest daugh­ter is 11 years old. She alter­na­tely lives with him and her mother. He says it’s not easy to cover the living expen­ses, but some­thing always works out. Jon Michelle isn’t only a musi­cian. He also performs wedding ritu­als for people who don’t want to get married by the church. 

“Under­stan­ding that love is a gift is the focus of the cere­mony. Love is by no means a given. We cele­brate love and honor the four elements; fire, water, air and earth.“ 

He doesn’t see hims­elf as a shaman or even priest. Rather, he wants to offer the newly­weds and their guests a nice setting for their promise of life and love. The cele­bra­ti­ons take place at the beach, on a rock or on a moun­tain top. 

Jon belie­ves that the island is under the influ­ence of the ferti­lity goddess Tanit. 

Several cult sites were exca­va­ted on Ibiza. The cave Es Culleram near Sant Vicent in the north of the Island is one of the most known ones. Tanit is a peace-bringing, femi­nine energy. Exactly what attracts many artists and spiri­tual people. 

On Ibiza, being aggres­sive is cons­i­de­red uncool. 

Whether it makes a diffe­rence to be a young or an old hippie, I ask. After all, I’m not that young myself. I mean, hey, maybe there’s an expi­ra­tion date or some­thing.

Good we’ve clea­red that up. 

Hippies don’t retire. Once a hippie, always a hippie. But what about insurance? Health insurance, pension insurance, acci­dent insurance, nursing care insurance? I guess a hippie doesn’t have that. If you’re young that’s not a problem. You think, it’ll be fine. But what about when you’re advan­ced in years?

Concer­ning this, Jon also has some wisdom to offer, “You lose quality of life if you constantly try to insure yours­elf – which, in fact, you really can’t. But people think that that is quality of life. Truth is: the more you learn to have faith, the safer you will actually feel.”

There might be some­thing to it. Just trust in life.

How much time do we lose because we lock doors, cars, bikes, arbors and offices? We search for our keys when we leave, we dig for them in our purses, when we return, we unlock, we lock. And? Are there fewer burg­la­ries, fewer thefts? At best, more broken doors and windows. And, precious life­time lost, which we could have spent doing more plea­sant things. 


* * *

Chapter Three

Rain, Rain, Rain

Being connec­ted to nature. Feeling the rain. Listen­ing to the song of the forest. How is life as a tree? 

It’s raining. It’s strumming on the roof and swoo­shing in the trees. Gree­dily, bushes and trees, their light green buds and blossoms which are awake­n­ing these days, drink up the water, giving their thanks by emit­ting their woody and floral fragran­ces that daze the air. 

I’m still in bed, looking up at the ceiling’s wood beams and wonder if they’re really imper­vious to water. It’s cozy in my little room with the rustic, unplas­te­red stone walls. It doesn’t bother me that it’s raining. 

In the past days, I have made contact with nature on my walks. 

I’ve tried wild garlic, eaten borage blossoms and taken home some rose­mary for the kitchen. Cherry blossoms, almond trees, pines and olives, figs and orange trees, they all whis­pe­red to me, “It would be so nice if we got a little bit of rain. We have to make do with what comes down in spring, as many months of drought follow.”

One time, I took a break at a clea­ring and did a few yoga stret­ches, stan­ding. When I was doing the “tree”, a posi­tion where you’re stan­ding on one leg while the other one is bent and your arms are reaching for the sky, I imagi­ned what it was like to actually be one of these trees. I picked out a pretty croo­ked pine and took up the same posi­tion; stret­ching my left arm down­wards, analog to the tree’s protru­ding branch, and stret­ching my right arm stee­ply up. I imagi­ned how my feet grew roots into the soil. 

How is life as a tree? 

What’s it like to stand here when the sun rises, only expe­ri­en­cing this one outlook, always, day in and day out, in cold and heat, rain and sun, always this one segment of reality, a whole life long. Spring, summer, fall and winter. Year in and year out. The pine can live up to 200 to 250 years. The oldest olive tree is 4,000 years old.

I stood like that for a long time, breat­h­ing, making contact with the surroun­ding trees and plants. The longer I stood, the more multi­fa­rious ever­y­thing became that was within my sight. I disco­ve­red more and more details which had been hidden to me before: here a small orchid blossom on the ground between blades of grass, there a tree stump that seemed to have a face, infi­nite diffe­rent shades of green surroun­ding me. And, the ground was no longer just a surface, it was a realm, an earth, with moun­ta­ins and valleys, ravi­nes and lowerings, a whole land­s­cape to my feet, which I’d never regis­te­red before although I had daily passed it. So that’s what standstill feels like; so in motion and so rich in detail, a micro­cosm where ever­y­thing is connec­ted with ever­y­thing. So that’s what life feels like when we allow it to be, when we listen care­fully; when we oursel­ves become a tree. 

Which is why the rain makes me happy, now that I’ve had my tree expe­ri­ence. Hope­fully the joy will last, I think, then halcyon days lie ahead of me in Germany. 

Rain on Ibiza is a rare good. In April, all it does is rain tourists, for months, about four million per season. They shower after getting up and before having a meal, they splash in the pool, drink tea and coffee, require fresh bedding, if possi­ble daily, spic and span washed rental cars and nice green gardens that need to be wate­red twice a day. The water table is sinking rapidly and it’s getting tight for all those who are not hooked up to the public water system. So mainly for those living in the coun­try. The farmers and the hippies. 


* * *

Chapter Four

Spirit and Spirits

Of Ayahuasca cere­mo­nies, healing frequen­cies and rain pray­ers.

Some­ti­mes, Ilona says, she prays for rain. Ilona is from Germany and, for a decade, has been living in a finca in the coun­try with her part­ner and son. She’s set up a medi­ta­tion tent next to it. Some­ti­mes she performs cere­mo­nies in there. For the moon, for women’s power or for the rain. 

Ibiza’s inter­na­tio­nal commu­nity is always open to and expe­ri­en­ced in what the spiri­tual market has to offer: yoga and dance, ayur­veda and thai massa­ges, shiatsu, reiki and watsu, mantra singing and medi­ta­tion, singing bowls and smud­ging ritu­als, coaching and self-discovery. There are some who perform Ayahuasca cere­mo­nies, where the parti­ci­pants drink a brew of hallu­ci­no­ge­nic vine from the Amazon, and, under the super­vi­sion of a male or female shaman, first vomit and then find them­sel­ves. Three days long. 

But Ilona doesn’t think much of West Euro­peans who do a work­shop in the Peruvian jungle, stick a feather in their hair und come back as shamans. After all, she says, there is also tradi­tio­nal know­ledge about the power of ener­gies and herbs here. 

I don’t believe in magic. But on Ibiza it’s easy to open up to all kinds of spiri­tual ideas. Close to San Rafael, I meet Manuel Este­vez. He’s a musi­cian and has some unusual sets going on. His thing is elec­tro­nic music, beyond main­stream. He combi­nes sounds from nature with rhythms that invite you to dance. His music is based on the Solfeg­gio frequen­cies, which are a set of six tones. Alre­ady in anci­ent times, these frequen­cies were belie­ved to have healing effects. In the Middle Ages, monks used them in their Grego­rian chants. The native music from the Andes or the Hima­la­yas is also based on the Solfeg­gio. Manuel sees hims­elf as a music shaman who synchro­ni­zes people’s ener­gies. And that’s what it looks like when he’s at work: 

That’s right. On a Friday night, I was there when Manuel played his sets. I danced and danced, hour after hour, filled with a deep joy. Without any drugs. Simply driven by the magic of the sounds. 


* * *

Chapter Five


Ibiza is an island of contrasts. The rich and addic­ted in the South, the dropouts and gurus in the North. Whether people accept each other or ignore each other? I learn that a shared glass of wine, enjoyed in an amiable atmo­s­phere, can unite. 

In the South of the island, the basses boom through the mega clubs, the temp­les of elec­tro­ni­cal music, which are merchan­di­sed through and through. Each club sells t-shirts, clothes, purses, mobile cases, cups, stickers and wallets with the club’s label, be it Pacha, Amne­sia, Space or Privi­leg. In the South, you also find the beaches of the rich and the beau­ti­ful, the hotspots for cele­bri­ties and millionaires, drug dealers and real estate agents. In the North, howe­ver, live the dropouts and hippies, the artis­ans and veggie prophets, yogi­nis and gurus. And the Ibizans live amid it all, serenely watching how, over the past deca­des, their island is being trans­for­med.

In the 60s, long before Ibiza was cons­i­de­red a party island, the farmers were flab­ber­g­as­ted when these light-dressed young people came flut­te­ring onto the island like color­ful butter­flies. They wore feathers and blossoms in their hair, carried a guitar under one arm, held a joint in one hand and sang songs from the flower power move­ment. The Ibizans simply called them “the long­hai­red” and found them a bit odd; these hippies with flower wreaths in their hair, who came to the village pub once a month to pick up their German, French, Cana­dian or Ameri­can checks which had been sent from home to their P.O. box. And, who, apart from that, knit brace­lets. They came and stayed. Like Noelle, who has lived on the island for forty years. When I visit her out in the coun­try, I drive about 20 minu­tes on a dirt road from Sant Joan towards the sea.
Her house is a soli­tary house in the middle of a garden. In the 70s, she came here at the age of 25 with her little son. Toge­ther with two other women she star­ted a commune. They didn’t own a car. Every morning, the kids walked to the village school in Sant Joan. There was neit­her elec­tri­city nor running water. And still, it was love on first sight. 

The farmers couldn’t quite under­stand why these crazy foreig­ners wanted to live in these dila­pi­da­ted stone houses by cand­le­light, in the middle of nowhere, without any modern conve­ni­en­ces. But it worked out perfectly. Because the farmers couldn’t think of anything nicer than to live in a city apart­ment. With running water and elec­tri­city, radio, tele­phone and TV. The perfect match, so to say.

But aside from their rental agree­ments, they didn’t really get toge­ther and barely got to know each other. In Ibiza Town there was one who wanted to change that. And he’s the one I’d like to meet now. There­fore, I must leave my quiet place in the coun­try and drive into the city. 

In an alley in the Old Town, not far from the Plaza Vara del Rey, Juan still has his bar. In memory of his birth­place he named it Bar San Juan. In the summer­time, long queues form on the street, even before the bar is opened. In the winter­time, busi­ness is slower. Regard­less of the season, there is often only one dish of the day. Fresh and inex­pen­sive. Once it’s sold out, it’s sold out. 

Juan is the owner and in his late seven­ties. He has close-cropped grey hair and wears fifties glas­ses; almond-shaped eyes with laugh­ter lines twinkle behind the thick lenses. The boss, so he, deci­des who gets to sit where. His father intro­du­ced this concept in the early 60s when the flower people were floo­ding the island. 

Juan’s father wanted to bring the down-to-earth farmers of the island and the mantra-singing hippies toge­ther at one table, so they would get to know each other. “Out on the street, they wouldn’t even greet each other, but here, with good food and a bottle of wine, they became friends and signed rental leases, some­ti­mes star­ted an affair or a family,” Juan tells me. And a bottle of wine, whether it’s been orde­red or not, always stands on the table. Ever­yone can help them­sel­ves to it as they like. 

The hippies from back then still like to cele­brate today. Which is why I wasn’t as soli­tary in those four weeks as I thought I would be. 


* * *

Chapter Six

End of Story

Yes, I’m a hippie.
And, oh, wouldn’t it be lovely to live here…

After four weeks of living out in the coun­try, I feel at home on Ibiza and comple­tely rene­wed. The inter­na­tio­nal commu­nity comes up with a lot of ideas in order to connect. Via social media and word-of-mouth propa­ganda they orga­nize hiking and yoga groups, movie nights and private parties. I like these people. They are crea­tive and open-minded, tole­rant and a bit crazy. Not ever­yone here calls them­sel­ves a hippie; but after four weeks of reflec­ting and all the talks I’ve had, I no longer consi­der “hippie” a role but more an atti­tude towards life. Peace­ful, crea­tive, in touch with nature and spiri­tual. Inso­far, I can say for myself: yes, I’m a hippie. And, oh, wouldn’t it be lovely to live here. Like Sandra. Who owns the finca where I stayed as a guest. 

But life here is expen­sive. Too expen­sive for me. And for others as well. Many had to leave the island in the past years because they could no longer afford the high costs of living. The times when a small stone finca was sold by hand­shake and paid in cash are over. Several of the long-established hippies have alre­ady emigra­ted to Thai­land. Others to Brazil, Colum­bia or southern Spain. The explo­ding real estate prices have caused rents to spiral, so that many inha­bi­tants, even locals, no longer know where to live during the summer months. Waiters, cooks, vendors and others who make their living from tourism, share apart­ments at horren­dous prices. A room with a shared bath and kitchen for 1,000 Euros a month or 500 Euros for a slee­ping place outside on the balcony: the exor­bi­tant rents during peak season have caused people to quit their jobs and try their luck else­where. Over 900 apart­ments have disap­peared from the regu­lar housing market and reap­peared on Airbnb, Tripad­vi­sor or Owners­di­rect in the summer months. Off the books and unli­cen­sed, ridi­cu­lously high short-term rents are gained. 

If I had gone to Ibiza back when during a heated peace debate I was told, “Then why don’t you go to Ibiza and become a hippie!”, who knows, maybe I’d be living in the beau­ti­ful stone finca of a nice Ibizan who hasn’t raised the rent for 20 years. But then my life wouldn’t be, what it is, and I wouldn’t be, who I am. In the end, I am too much of a hippie to lose myself in “shoulds” and “woulds”. It’s all good. And who knows. Maybe I’ll be back soon. 

In the winter, at the latest. As a seaso­nal hippie. 


* * *

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Comeback mit Backpack

Gitti Müller

My first attack of wander­lust, in 1980, took me on a year-long back­packing trip to South America. Back then ruck­sacks like that weig­hed a lot, and the jour­ney was exhaus­ting. Since then I just can’t stop – today I always have my laptop and DSLR in my bag. As a tele­vi­sion jour­na­list and anthro­po­lo­gist, I get around quite a bit, but I always feel at home in Latin America.

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  • monica blok on 2. Juni 2016

    I loved Gitti Muller’s travel episode on Ibiza and the older gene­ra­tion of foreig­ners living there. It’s inte­res­ting to see how people from the ‚hippy gene­ra­tion‘ live there with a very defi­nite philo­so­phy of life, and that they are able to survive there still, on this island which is also a place which is the oppo­site of ever­y­thing they believe in. Here we see the other side of Ibiza, which is more sober, where people are still sear­ching their souls and trying to live a life protec­ting their surroun­dings, not only party­ing and consuming for a short period and then leaving the mess behind. It makes one sad to think that this part of Ibiza is beco­m­ing more and more extinct, that the people trying to protect the island are often driven away because of the high cost of living. All these thought came to me while reading this piece and looking at the peace­ful videos and photo­graphs. It made my heart want to go back there soon, to enjoy it while there is still this ‚hippy energy‘, a light-heartedness and the possi­bi­lity of a simple life in beau­ti­ful nature (if even for a short while). Thanks, Gitti, for remin­ding me.

    • gitti on 2. Juni 2016

      Thanks Monica! I m sure you ll still find peace and lovely surroun­dings on the island. Enjoy!

  • petra on 20. Juli 2016

    gefällt mir sehr gut!

    • gitti on 29. Dezember 2016

      das freut mich

  • Hajo Müller on 29. November 2016

    Hallo Gitti,
    habe eben Deine neue Home­page ange­schaut (sie gefällt mir sehr gut) und bin beim Bericht von Ibiza hängen geblie­ben. Deine kurzen Geschich­ten und Inter­views von den Menschen dort haben mich sehr berührt. War selbst 1975 zum ersten Mal auf Ibiza und habe im Norden auch ein paar Hippies getrof­fen. Auch einige sehr einfach im Landes­in­ne­ren lebende Bauern durfte ich kennen­ler­nen. Werde nie die sehr alte Frau verges­sen, die mich spon­tan auf der Strasse zu sich nach Hause auf einen Kaffee einlud und mir auf Fotos ihre ganze Fami­lie zeigte, die alle woan­ders lebten. Ihr wehmü­ti­ger Satz: „En otros luga­res, sin duda es hermosa“ klingt mir heute noch in den Ohren. Damals hatte ich auch die Idee, in Ibiza leben zu wollen, mir hat aber der Mut gefehlt, es zu wagen. Wer weiß was für ein Mensch ich heute wäre…
    Danke jeden­falls, dass Du mich daran erin­nert hast.
    Nächs­tes Jahr im Früh­jahr Segele ich von Mallorca aus wieder nach Ibiza und um die Insel herum. Bin gespannt, wer und was mir dies­mal begeg­net.

    • gitti on 29. Dezember 2016

      Hallo Hajo,
      1975 hättest du auf jeden Fall noch güns­tig eine alte Stein­finca kaufen können. Aber ein Segel­boot ist auch nicht schlecht. Viel Spaß auf Ibiza, da gibt es sehr schöne kleine Buch­ten. Liebe Grüße

  • Benjamin Diedrich on 21. Januar 2017

    Ein wunder­vol­ler Schreib­stil hielt mich an zum weiter­le­sen, des Ibiza Berichts!

    Du hast mich zum Nach­den­ken und schmun­zeln ange­regt!
    Vielen lieben Dank für deine Liebe an diese Insel — Ibiza !

  • Leo on 7. Mai 2017

    Hallo Gitti, wunder­schö­ner Bericht! Darf ich fragen wie du auf diese Finca gekom­men bist? Über Airbnb? Wäre sehr nett wenn du ein paar mehr Details verra­ten würdest ;) Ganz herz­li­chen Dank schon einmal und viele Grüße!

  • Hank Watahomigie on 4. Juni 2017

    Toller Beitrag! Ich würde mich wirk­lich freuen noch öfter neue Posts hier zu lesen! :)

  • Tommy on 8. August 2017

    Wow, ein sehr schö­ner Bericht mit tollen Fotos und Videos.
    Habe ihn gleich mal in meinem neuen Ibiza-Blog vorge­stellt.
    LG Tommy

  • Ibiza Magic on 7. November 2017

    Schöne Story und tolle Fotos. Deshalb habe ich es mal in meinem Blog geteilt.

  • Erika on 10. November 2017

    Hola Gitti, durch Zufall habe ich dein tolles Buch gele­sen und deine Repor­ta­gen in Süd-Mittelamerika haben mich hell begeis­tert.
    Ich habe nach der Pensio­nie­rung alles zusam­men gerafft und konnte somit jedes Jahr als Pack­pä­ke­rin, in Hostels für einige Monate, in Südame­rika, über­le­ben. 14Mal war ich dort. . Ich träume und lebe immer noch von jener glück­lichs­ten Zeit meines Lebens.
    Die Orte du die beschreibst, erlebe ich wieder im Geist mit Farben. Danke für deine Repor­ta­gen. Erika

  • Tim on 25. Januar 2020

    Great arti­cle about Ibiza. It is actually really beau­ti­ful island, behind all the party madness and drunk tourists, you can find so many hidden gems. Magi­cal beaches, great trek­king trips, friendly local people, authen­tic restau­rants hidden in small villa­ges. Just rent a car and go and disco­ver the other side of Ibiza.