Tim Jonze recounts his first holiday without parents at age 16, a package deal to Ibiza with a company called 2wentys. The trip quickly descended into a nightmare of constant drinking, humiliation, and bizarre incidents, including a mystery poo in a sink and sanitary products thrown onto their balcony.
The Arrival and the Rep's Announcement
On the coach from Ibiza airport, the Irish club rep yelled, 'First the bad news: all the great clubs—Amnesia, Space, Pacha—they're CLOSED!' After a confused silence, he added, 'But the good news? We're gonna have a fucking amazing time anyway!!!' Cheers erupted from the lads and ladettes onboard. Jonze and his friends—Wes, Marc, and Gav—had no real plan. They had just turned 16 and looked it, especially Jonze, who barely seemed to have hit puberty. The travel agent took their cash without fuss.
First Morning: The Mystery Pooer
On the first morning, Jonze and Wes were jolted awake by banging on their door. Marc and Gav screamed accusations: 'You did this didn't you! Don't lie to us! It was you!' They were dragged to Marc and Gav's room, where an awful smell made Jonze retch. Overnight, someone had broken in and pooed in their sink. Despite the stench, the hotel refused to help, shouting 'Clean it up, clean it up!' Marc and Gav were forced to do so. Even today, the scent of Lynx Africa—used in industrial quantities to mask the smell—takes Jonze back there.
Day Two: Sanitary Products from Above
Unwanted bodily matter became a theme. On day two, the girls in the room above found it amusing to lob their used sanitary products down onto Jonze's balcony. There was no escape from the chaos.
The Militant Party Schedule
Jonze had assumed they could do their own thing, but club reps press-ganged everyone into a militarily strict 'party' schedule. It cost a fortune and consisted of constant drinking and frequent opportunities to expose genitals to the public. His mates were giddily keen, so Jonze went along. It was a terrible decision. Every morning, they were forced out of bed at dawn to grim pool or beach locations for lager and 'games,' like a random guy standing on a diving board while drunk women tried to yank down his shorts with their teeth. Jonze formulated an emergency plan: if singled out, he would turn and run.
The Breaking Point: Tired of Life at 16
Time passed torturously slowly. On day four, Jonze saw a postcard of a character in a red PVC devil outfit breathing fire, with the caption: 'If you're tired of Ibiza, you're tired of life.' He thought, 'Oh God, that's me. I'm 16 years old and I'm tired of life.' He felt like a total failure. What he didn't know then was that he would later return to Ibiza, dancing on podiums and partying on the beach until dawn at Manumission, Space, and other clubs. He wasn't tired of life; he was a terrified kid making terrible choices, relieved to board the plane home.
