Global Nomads: Techno and New Age as Transnational Countercultures in Ibiza and Goa

Global Nomads

A uniquely ‘nomadic ethnography,’ Global Nomads is the ﬁrst in-depth treat-

ment of a counterculture ﬂourishing in the global gulf stream of new electronic

and spiritual developments. D’Andrea’s is an insightful study of expressive indi-

vidualism manifested in and through key cosmopolitan sites. This book is an

invaluable contribution to the anthropology/sociology of contemporary culture,

and presents required reading for students and scholars of new spiritualities,

techno-dance culture and globalization.

Graham St John, Research Fellow,

School of American Research, New Mexico

D'Andrea breaks new ground in the scholarship on both globalization and the

shaping of subjectivities. And he does so spectacularly, both through his focus

on neomadic cultures and a novel theorization. This is a deeply erudite book

and it is a lot of fun.

Saskia Sassen, Ralph Lewis Professor of Sociology

at the University of Chicago, and Centennial Visiting Professor

at the London School of Economics.

Global Nomads is a unique introduction to the globalization of countercultures,

a topic largely unknown in and outside academia. Anthony D’Andrea examines

the social life of mobile expatriates who live within a global circuit of counter-

cultural practice in paradoxical paradises.

Based on nomadic ﬁeldwork across Spain and India, the study analyzes how and

why these post-metropolitan subjects reject the homeland to shape an alternative

lifestyle. They become artists, therapists, exotic traders and bohemian workers seek-

ing to integrate labor, mobility and spirituality within a cosmopolitan culture of

expressive individualism. These countercultural formations, however, unfold under

neo-liberal regimes that appropriate utopian spaces, practices and imaginaries as

commodities for tourism, entertainment and media consumption.

In order to understand the paradoxical globalization of countercultures, Global

Nomads develops a dialogue between global and critical studies by introducing

the concept of ‘neo-nomadism’ which seeks to overcome some of the shortcom-

ings in studies of globalization.

This book is essential reading for undergraduate, postgraduate and research stu-

dents of Sociology, Anthropology of Globalization, Cultural Studies and Tourism.

Anthony Albert Fischer D’Andrea has recently earned a PhD in Anthropology at

the University of Chicago, where he is Research Associate at the Transnationalism

Project.

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Global Nomads

Techno and New Age as transnational

countercultures in Ibiza and Goa

Anthony D’Andrea

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First published 2007

by Routledge

2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN

Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada

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ISBN10: 0–415–42013–X (hbk)

ISBN10: 0–203–96265–6 (ebk)

ISBN13: 978–0–415–42013–6 (hbk)

ISBN13: 978–0–203–96265–7 (ebk)

This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2006.

“To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s

collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.”

ISBN 0-203-96265-6 Master e-book ISBN

Contents
List of ﬁgures vii
Acknowledgments viii
1 Introduction: neo-nomadism: a theory of postidentitarian 
mobility in the global age 1
Global nomads: instance of cultural hypermobility 1
The signiﬁcance of expressive expatriation: circuits of 
mobility and marginalization 7
Globalization: network, diaspora and cosmopolitanism 10
Aesthetics of the self: post-sexualities in a digital age 17
Neo-nomadism: postidentitarian mobility 23
Nomadic ethnography: methodological challenges 31
Book overview 36
2 Expressive expatriates in Ibiza: hypermobility as 
countercultural practice and identity 41
Introduction: ‘ﬂuidity of experiences’ in Ibiza 41
Ibiza contexts: entering the ﬁeld 44
Spatial and inner mobility: traveling and nomadic spirituality 47
Expatriate media: ‘people from Ibiza’ 58
Expatriate education: ‘international schools’ 61
Expressive lifestyles 65
Conclusion: the aesthetics of centered marginality 75
3 The hippie and club scenes in Ibiza’s tourism industry 78
Counterculture and commodity 78
Utopian sites under siege: Punta Galera 80
The hippie scene: autonomy and tourism 81
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The club scene: underground and industry 94
Bohemian working class 113
Ibiza imaginary: transgression, nostalgia and diaspora 120
Freak diaspora: the centrifuge island and orientalism 127
4 Osho International Meditation Resort: subjectivity, 
counterculture and spiritual tourism in Pune 131
Osho movement: counterculture and commodiﬁcation 131
Institutional and ideological contexts: the world’s largest 
meditation center 134
‘Osho International Meditation Resort’: practices, trajectories 
and rituals 139
Culture of expression: psychic deterritorialization and 
institutional control 159
Charisma and rationalization: sex, counterculture and 
tourism 166
Conclusions: ‘enlightenment guaranteed’ 171
5 Techno trance tribalism in Goa: the elementary forms 
of nomadic spirituality 175
Introduction: the psychedelic contact zone 175
The Pune-Goa connection: rebel sannyasins 179
Goa, tourism and ‘hippies’ 181
Day Life: the social organization of the trance scene in 
northern Goa 185
Night Life: nomadic spirituality in psychedelic rituals 204
Psychic deterritorialization: madness in India 214
Conclusion: nomadic spirituality and smooth spaces 220
6 Global counter-conclusions: ﬂexible economies and 
subjectivities 222
Notes 228
Bibliography 234
Index 245
vi Contents

Figures

2.1 Ibiza map 42

2.2 Expatriate children 48

3.1 Punta Galera beach 80

3.2 Drum party 82

3.3 World’s largest nightclub 94

3.4 British bar workers 113

3.5 Postcard of Ibiza 121

4.1 Osho meditation resort 131

4.2 Sannyasins socializing 139

5.1 DJ and sadhus 175

5.2 Trance party in Pune 179

5.3 Anjuna hippie market 185

5.4 Crystal healing practice 202

5.5 Techno bike Amazon 207

5.6 Trance party near Anjuna beach 210

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Acknowledgments

This book is based on a doctoral research conducted over the course

of several years, places and multidisciplinary incursions. I would like to

thank Elizabeth Povinelli, Saskia Sassen, Joe Masco, Kesha Fikes, Tanya

Luhrmann, Arnold Davidson and Arjun Appadurai for their advice

at former and latter stages of my education at the Department of

Anthropology at the University of Chicago.

From the ﬁeld, I am grateful to Gary Blanford, Kirk Huffman, Ronnie

Randall and Nora Belton for their contribution to the development of

this project. I also thank Georgia Taglietti, William Crichton, Antonio

Nogueira, Roberta Jurado, Peter Hankinson, Tirry and Toni for their

generous support to my ﬁeldwork in the club scene of Ibiza. In India, I

wish to thank Swami Prasado and Boyan Artac, as well as Dilip Loundo

and Alito Siqueira for interactions at Goa University.

I am also grateful to other friends and colleagues, in particular to

Graham St John and Adam Leeds, who have read parts of my manuscript

and made important comments. I also appreciate the kind permission of

Ronnie and Stephen Randall, Ekki Gurlitt and Krishnananda Trobe to

use photos and an extended quote. Finally, I thank John Urry for allowing

that my work be available in book form.

This research was indirectly funded with a CAPES Foundation fellow-

ship to conduct my doctoral studies at Chicago. I also thank the Center

for Latin American and Iberian Studies and the Gay and Lesbian Studies

Project, both at the University of Chicago, for sponsoring segments of my

ﬁeldwork with travel grants.

While grateful to the sedentary dwellers of Goa, Pune, Ibiza and Chicago,

I wish to dedicate this book to global nomads – expressive expatriates,

New Agers and Techno freaks – who enabled me to learn something

about their lines of ﬂight.

Anthony Fischer D’Andrea

Chicago, January 2007

1 Neo-nomadism

A theory of postidentitarian

mobility in the global age

‘The nomad does not move.’

Deleuze and Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus

Global nomads: instance of cultural hypermobility

Ibiza island (Spanish Mediterranean), summer 1998 – We left Café del

Mar in the busy touristy town of Sant Antoni, and drove north toward

a secluded lighthouse where a ‘Goa trance party’ was scheduled to happen.

‘Goa trance’ is a potent subgenre of electronic dance music developed by

Western neo-hippies (‘freaks’) on the beaches of Goa state (India) in the

early 1990s. My companions that night were four UK and US expatri-

ates who resided in Ibiza or visited the island regularly: two yoga teachers,

a jewelry trader and a journalist, women in their thirties and forties,

wearing light hippie, gypsy-like clothes and a crystal dot on the forehead.

An Italian party promoter had told us about the event. The police busted

his own party a week before, ‘because of the vested interests of big busi-

ness: club and bar owners.’ In Ibiza, Goa and elsewhere, trance parties

are usually illegal, being secretively announced through word-of-mouth

across the alternative populace that, at various levels and degrees, embraces

free open-air ‘tribal parties’ in secluded, natural settings.

In a confusing maze of precarious dirt roads, we joined a caravan of

lost drivers and, having noticed several vehicles suspiciously parked amid

dry vegetation, we decided to stop. The night was absolutely dark. Thin

ﬂashlights and the eerie stomping of techno music afar were our only

leads as we blindly stumbled toward the venue. By the cliff edge, the light-

house projected three solid light beams of mesmerizing beauty. Beside it,

a camp formation with a few tents and banners was dimly lit in ﬂuores-

cent purple. UV lights produced a phantasmagoric glow on colorful fractal

drapes, white clothes, teeth and eyes. A delicate scent of incense pervaded

the air, blending with the acrid smell of hashish smoking. A crowd danced

in front of the DJ (disc jockey) tent located between thundering loud-

speakers, while many others scattered around.

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There were a few hundred people, mostly white young adults. Many

wore hippie or military garments in a fashion resembling psychedelic

guerillas. In their everyday life, they worked in ‘hippie’ (touristy) markets,

nightclubs and bars, and in a variety of informal occupations in handi-

craft, music, wellness, therapy and spirituality. Outsiders readily labeled

them hippies, punks, freaks, ravers or New Agers. However, refusing such

labels, they rather represented themselves as ‘alternative people’: rebel-

lious expatriates from European and American nations. By late autumn,

many would have departed to India and their ambivalently rejected home-

lands, returning to Ibiza next spring.

Trance parties hybridize orientalist and cybernetic elements. Trance DJs

are idiosyncratic men whose personalities well suit anthropological descrip-

tions of witch doctors, now in digital edition. Psychedelic drapes displayed

Hindu, Buddhist and fractal ﬁgures in fantastic shapes and colors. From

potent speakers, Techno trance music pulsated in sonic gushes that rever-

berated pleasurably upon the skin. Its multilayered rhythms were extremely

powerful and complex, yet monotonous and hypnotic. Topped by ethe-

real, often spooky arpeggios, the music pumped restlessly throughout the

night. People danced individually, alone but in the crowd, and the predom-

inant mood was joyous, albeit reverential.

As the morning came, the dancing crowd was seen covered in red dust,

ﬂoating upward due to continuous feet stomping. Some young women,

fashioned like barbarian warriors, screamed wildly whenever the music

took an exciting shift, like the gears of an unstoppable machine. Some

people danced with closed eyes, drawing gentle tai chi-like movements in

the air. But, after long hours, the crowd was bouncing in a steady, remark-

ably dull fashion, indicating physical tiredness as well as various degrees

of mind alteration. I spotted Shiva, an old blond German hippie, dancing

in a seemingly trance state. Staring aloof into the sky, he jerked as if

musical tweaks electrocuted his body. Recently returned from India,

German Shiva now seemed to be on an ‘intergalactic journey.’ A hairy

Frenchman in chef uniform was selling sandwiches over his rusty scooter,

while a Brazilian drug trafﬁcker observed the frenzy from his ostentatious

Mercedes Benz parked nearby.

The Mediterranean now shined magniﬁcently in bright golden and blue

– a quasi-psychedelic experience in itself. But my friends were tired and

wanted to leave. On the way out, we saw two skinny men dragging

garbage bags, picking a few empty cans and cigarette butts, as usually

done by ecologically minded promoters. Against the incoming ﬂux of

people, I overheard a variety of European languages and also Hebrew.

Someone mentioned that the party would carry on for three days – as

long as the crowd endured, and the police did not show up . . .

This anecdote depicts a rare density of multinational and expressive

elements gathering at the margins of a tiny island. In it, Ibiza appears

as a node of transnational ﬂows of exoticized peoples, practices and

2 Neo-nomadism

imaginaries whose circulation and hybridization across remote locations

suggests a globalized phenomenon. This story also indicates how digital

and orientalist elements may congeal in a ritual assemblage that sustains

alternative experiences of the self. In the convergence of the global and

the expressive, mobility across spaces and within selves becomes a cate-

gory that structures the social life of peoples claiming to embrace the

global as a new home and reference.

By integrating mobility into economic strategies and expressive lifestyles,

I refer to these subjects as expressive expatriates, and, more generally, as

global nomads, notions employed to rethink and stimulate a debate on

globalization and cultural change. The empirical dimension of this research

was based on multi-site transnational ﬁeldwork conducted in Spain and

India from 1998 to 2003, and will be discussed in detail throughout the

book. In this opening section, I will outline the general architecture of

this investigation, summarizing its development in genealogical lines, and

highlighting how its ethnographic horizon has posed speciﬁc method-

ological and conceptual challenges to current research and scholarship.

This is a book on cultural globalization, as an effort to understand

how global processes of hypermobility, digitalization and reﬂexivity inter-

relate with new forms of subjectivity, identity and sociality. Considering

the sheer scale, speed and intensity of transformations being brought about

by globalization, this study is also, and by consequence, an inquiry into

cultural change. In order to enable a clear and efﬁcient strategy of analysis,

I investigate cases of cultural change that appear as explicit, assertive,

and even radical in the scope of contemporary possibilities. I thus selected

the topic of countercultures, which can be tentatively deﬁned as self-

marginalized formations that, in various forms of experimentalism and

contestation, seek to foster a critique that revises modernity within

modernity. In this view, modern countercultures are at least 200 years

old, referring back to Rousseau’s nostalgic reﬂections on the malaises of

civilization and reason.

In other words, this book investigates contemporary forms of counter-

culture that unfold under the impact of globalization. As I will later

elaborate, Techno dance and New Age spiritual movements seem to pro-

vide lively instances of such a critique of modern institutional-ideological

regimes, but not without their own problematic contradictions and blind

spots, which are also scrutinized in this book.

Much will be said about the spatial and cultural sites of investigation,

but an introductory note is important from the outset. In my preliminary

explorations with Techno and New Age in a number of countries, a series

of apparently serendipitous encounters and discoveries led me to the island

of Ibiza located in the Spanish Mediterranean, a place which turned out to

be as extremely rich as problematic for an empirical investigation of the

interrelations between globalization and counterculture.

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Neo-nomadism 3

In Ibiza, I identiﬁed a unique populace of expatriate individuals who

share some deﬁning features, roughly summarized: (1) They reject their

original homelands and seek to evade state–market–morality regimes.

(2) They partake in a cosmopolitan culture of expressive individualism,

manifested in multiple variations of New Age and Techno practice.

(3) They seek to integrate labor, leisure and spirituality into a holistic

lifestyle that romanticizes non-Western cultures, and particularly India.

(4) They overlap with a cultural-artistic elite that establishes a symbiotic

relation with political economies of tourism, entertainment, wellness and

media sectors which appropriate alternative formations in commodity

form. (5) These expatriates engage with practices of mobility that are

pivotal in reproducing the other features.

The mobile feature of expatriate formations introduced a methodolog-

ical challenge to my doctoral ﬁeldwork. While following anthropological

canons that prescribe a locally grounded ﬁeldwork, I realized that Ibiza’s

expressive expatriates periodically depart to other countries where they

stay for extended periods. Due to its material, cultural and temporal

aspects, it became clear that this semi-deterritorialized phenomenon could

not be properly grasped by conventional ethnographic methods alone. In

order to obtain a more accurate picture, I would have to follow these

subjects to places and along practices of mobility crucial to their material

and symbolic reproduction. I had to follow and even travel with my

natives to India. Yet, more than cruising the same pathways, the point

was to foreground mobility as a practice and discourse of identity forma-

tion, considering that meanings and experiences of movement are better

assessed within the movement itself.

Toward a methodology of hypermobile cultures, I sought to combine a

nomadic sensibility for natives’ routes, ﬂows and rituals, with a macro-

ethnography of translocal sites (Clifford 1997; Appadurai 1996). I qualify

this macro-ethnography at three levels: (1) an ethnography of local forma-

tions and subjectivities in a locality or site; (2) the socio-economic con-

textualization of mobile formations in a place (thus corresponding to their

vertical integration); and (3) a translocal ethnography that tracks ﬂows,

nodes, directions and periodicities (thus deﬁning the horizontal integration

across and beyond spaces). These tasks generate multi-layered datasets

which enable the comparison between the vertical and horizontal integra-

tion, thus shedding light on the conditions of (im)mobility. More gener-

ally, the articulation between nomadic sensibility and macro-ethnography

provides the grounds for a ‘nomadic ethnography,’ which embodies a tran-

sition from the Ptolemaic geocentrism of conventional anthropology to an

Einsteinian perception of the relativity of placement and displacement in

a globalizing world.

However, as this methodology allowed me to probe transnational

countercultures as an empirical social phenomenon, the resulting picture

introduced a new order of challenges, this time at a conceptual-theoretical

4 Neo-nomadism

level. As I located my study within the scholarship on globalization and

critical theory, it became clear that none of these intellectual ﬁelds alone

would sufﬁce to address the cultural implications and possibilities of

globalization, in particular those related to hypermobility pressures.

In anticipation of a discussion carried out later in this chapter, global

studies currently stumble on two basic problems (Urry 2003; Povinelli

and Chauncey 1999). Global studies have overemphasized the description

of social forms (networks, ﬂows, systems) at the expense of a conceptu-

alization of cultural contents (subjectivities, experiences, desires) that

unravel under the impact of global processes. In this connection, predom-

inant concepts of network, diaspora and cosmopolitanism have been

overused, precipitously crystallizing over the course of a decade in biases

that preclude alternative ways of investigating and conceptualizing cultural

globalization, such as its ﬂuidic and metamorphic components.

In the scope of critical studies,

this book draws on Foucault, Deleuze

and Guattari as seminal references whose thought empirically resonates

with the expressive and mobile tropes of global countercultures. To begin

with, in their social and ritual life, Ibiza expatriates fully instantiate

Foucauldian notions of self-shaping/shattering and of aesthetics of exist-

ence. It is almost as if he had written a script that they decided to perform

as their real lives. As will be discussed later, rather than dandyism, the

aesthetics of existence must be understood as an ethics of the self that

opposes dominant biopower regimes, and seeks to engender a holistic

balance of life principles beyond modern fragmentation. However, while

attempting to eschew the tentacles of nation-state regimes, expressive

expatriates problematically replicate aspects of the logic of neoliberal

capitalism. Yet, rather than dissolve the dialectic that permeates the book,

I sought to keep it as a productive tension that is dynamically inscribed

in global countercultures. I thus assessed them in relation to proximate

contexts, rather than imposing some macro-sociological explanation that

determines agency and consciousness, more or less arbitrarily deﬁned by

the intellectual according to their own theoretical afﬁliation. On the other

hand, under conditions of globalization, it also became clear that the

countercultural aporia vis-à-vis systemic co-optation cannot be addressed

within the scope of critical studies alone. In face of the centrifugal drives

that characterize expatriate countercultures in Ibiza, Foucauldian notions

of aesthetic self-formation are not enough to address the fundamental issue

of hypermobility that structures them.

A dialogue between global and critical studies is a necessary condition

for understanding the cultural implications of globalization. An insight

into this junction derives from the nomadology of Deleuze and Guattari.

A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia stands as a powerful

even if intuitive entry into a semiosis of globalization as entailed upon

issues of subjectivity and cultural change. In this connection, I have

sought to integrate predominant tropes of global and critical studies into

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Neo-nomadism 5

a conceptualization of ‘neo-nomadism’ which can be deﬁned as an ideal-

type that allows us to identify, describe and measure cultural patterns and

effects of global hypermobility. In particular, neo-nomadism addresses

new forms of identity that are based, not on sameness or ﬁxity, but rather

on a principle of metamorphosis (chromatic variation). In other words,

neo-nomadic lifestyles, subjectivities and identities can be addressed as

expressions and agents of the postidentitarian predicament of globaliza-

tion. The point then becomes how we can operationalize this analytical

device at the empirical level.

To this end, I turned to Techno and New Age multiple manifestations,

yet focusing on those segments that produce these forms as a vanguard

predicated on expressivity and mobility. In this book, I examine rave,

therapy and travel as probable expressions of a countercultural regime,

which also embodies and entails the impact of globalization upon self-

identities and socialities. More speciﬁcally, Techno and New Age provide

sites of experience, meaning and struggle, by which neo-nomadism mani-

fests itself in two different ways: one as a stabilized form of self-cultivation

(nomadic spirituality), the other as a temporary condition of acute self-

derailment (psychic deterritorialization). In the former, this study veriﬁes

a cultural pattern of religious practice whose nature is multiple, ephemeral

and contingent. It can be captured in the notion of nomadic spirituality,

which operates as an empirical and analytical category that informs how

ﬂexible subjectivities navigate under the volatile conditions of ﬂexible capi-

talism. Nomadic spirituality is empirically detected in most New Age forms

of self-spirituality and other closely related practices of self-development,

while more widely reﬂecting social processes of multiculturalism, reﬂex-

ivity and consumerism. Conversely, in the latter, psychic deterritorialization

stands at the intersection of schizoanalysis and the psychiatry of travel,

and it refers to an acute condition of personal derailment by which the

symbolic references of the self are radically uprooted, inferred from

the dramatic alteration of behavioral, cognitive and affective modes of

the subject in relation to its predominantly ordinary states. While varying

in degree, intensity and duration, these cases are frequently reported during

long-haul travel, meditation marathons and psychedelic experiences that

mark ‘contact zones’ intersecting Romanticism, postcoloniality and glob-

alism. Postidentitarian experiences seem more pronounced in spaces of

symbolic power, usually locations embedded in Romantic imaginaries

of exoticism and mystery.

Curiously, back at home the subject quickly regains his or her cognitive

abilities to operate normally in daily life; however, assailed by existential

dissatisfaction, the subject may no longer be willing to cope with conven-

tional routines that structure urban life in advanced societies. Not by coin-

cidence, most expressive expatriates that I interviewed in Ibiza and India

reported that they experienced some sort of personal crisis around the

liminal experience of travel, which consequently prompted them to take

6 Neo-nomadism

their chances in trying a new lifestyle in semi-peripheral locations. In their

utopian narrative of crisis and conversion, traveling can be either symp-

tomatic or etiological of processes of postidentitarian effect. Yet, in the

case of expressive expatriates, spatial and identity mobility have combined

as a neo-nomadic way of life.

Finally, even as cases of nomadic spirituality and psychic deterritorial-

ization require a proper historical contextualization, I would rather argue

that they index the possibility of metamorphic identities which, in turn,

refer to the basic predicament of cultural globalization. They may or may

not become more socially pervasive (although I would argue that such is

the case, due to globalization processes in the rise). In any case, the research

on cultural hypermobility sheds light on crucial aspects of contemporary

life, particularly in sites extensively exposed to global inﬂuences.

It is within this general picture that this book seeks to make empirical,

methodological and theoretical contributions. In addition to an empirical

account on expressive expatriation, this study provides an analytical model

that can be employed in the investigation of neo-nomadic formations

and development processes in other paradoxical paradises (such as Bali,

Bahia, Byron Bay, Ko Pangnan, etc.). Furthermore, this research speaks to

a range of topics under the rubric of globalization and cultural change:

expatriation, travel and tourism; countercultures, subcultures and lifestyles;

alternative religiosities, youth and subjectivity formation, in addition to

disciplinary interests in cultural studies and the sociology and anthropology

of globalization. Finally, as mentioned, this research seeks to develop a

conceptual bridge between global and critical studies, which may contribute

to a re-evaluation of a model of identity and subjectivity formation under

conditions of globalization.

As a necessary remark, although touching on a variety of geographical,

topical and disciplinary scholarship strands, the main focus of this research

lies on a populace of neo-nomadic expatriates that navigates those spatial

and cultural sites, and within certain empirical and theoretical contexts.

Within these parameters, I have sought to cover all the relevant studies

about Ibiza, Goa, New Age, Techno, cultural globalization and critical

studies (in addition to parallel incursions in studies on tourism, subcultures,

dance and therapy, among others). I do not claim to have read all the

available references, since this is not only unfeasible but also inefﬁcient

to a certain extent, insofar as the goal of investigating and understanding

the relations between globalization and counterculture remains uncom-

promised.

The signiﬁcance of expressive expatriation: circuits of

mobility and marginalization

As a counterpoint in migration studies, the terms ‘expressive’ and ‘expa-

triate’ depart with the predominantly utilitarian and essentialized under-

standing of the mobile subject, whether in neoclassical, historical-structural

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Neo-nomadism 7

or systemic-transnational strains (Castles and Miller 2003). Most studies

have focused on material conditions that propel labor migrants, political

exiles and wealthy expatriates to move geographically, usually against

the restrictive conditions of the nation-state. The scholarship has thus

tended to reify the macro, meso and micro factors that it detects empiri-

cally, thus reafﬁrming the determinacy of systemic and material conditions

over agency.

Even relatively free-ﬂowing subjects – such as businesspeople, ‘expats’

and other metropolitan subjects – stumble on economic and ethnocentric

orientations that regiment them by systemic regimes. In a classic example,

Aiwa Ong investigates highly mobile Chinese businessmen as agents of a

global ﬂexible capitalism enabling a modular type of citizenship. Within

this logic, ﬂexible citizenship is deﬁned as ‘the localizing strategies of sub-

jects who, through a variety of familial and economic practices, seek to

evade, deﬂect and take advantage of political and economic conditions in

different parts of the world’ (Ong 1999: 113). Their mobility is determined

by economic interest and political negotiation, maximizing business oppor-

tunities on a transcontinental scale, as well as the basic parameter that

deﬁnes their will to be ‘cosmopolitan.’ Cultural capital is thus accumu-

lated in order to facilitate material gain in the arena of international oppor-

tunities. In the analysis of institutional regimes that enable displacement,

Ong detects a type of agency which is propelled by the logic of ﬂexible

capitalism, resulting in a ‘utilitarian post-national ethos’ that combines

economic instrumentalism with familial moralism (p. 130).

In contrast, although conditioned by political economies of postindustrial,

post-welfare societies, global nomads embody a different type of agency,

one that is informed by cultural motivations that defy strict economic

rationale. Many have abandoned metropolitan centers where they enjoyed

a favorable material situation (income, stability, prestige), whereas others

no longer wanted to survive day by day under the exclusionary violence

of neo-liberal economies. In either case, they have permanently or period-

ically migrated to semi-peripheral locations with a pleasant climate, in

order to dedicate themselves to the shaping of an alternative lifestyle. They

retain the cultural capital that would allow them to revert to previous

life schemes if necessary, and, likewise, deﬁne new economic goals when

entering alternative niches of art, wellness and entertainment. Nonetheless,

they have accepted the instabilities and hardships that characterize alter-

native careers (parallel to those directly suffered in neo-liberal settings but

not quite the same), insofar as they feel that they can actualize cherished

values of autonomy, self-expression and experimentation. Ironically, these

subjects seem to have reached the apex of Maslow’s hierarchy of human

needs by turning it upside down.

In considering the systemic conditions that constrain mobility, it is neces-

sary to take into account the subject’s proﬁle (citizenship, class and race)

in relation to circuits of mobility that include her. Certain nationalities (First

8 Neo-nomadism

World), social class (upper strata), occupations (highly educated profes-

sionals) and ethnicities (white) greatly facilitate international travel.

However, some destinations (tourist-dependent countries), exquisite occu-

pations (artistic, therapeutic, expressive) and mobility trajectories (a copi-

ously visa-stamped passport) may contribute to the movement of those who

do not ﬁt the ideal proﬁle. In this regard, my study provides a contrast with

migration studies which have emphasized conditions of immobility, and it

also questions theoretical studies on cultural globalization that neglect an

empirical ﬁne-grained analysis of meanings and experiences that hyper-

mobility entails.

Mobile peoples (migrants, expatriates, exiles, pastoral nomads, etc.) are

internally differentiated in terms of motivations and life strategies. Most of

them display parochial identities based on homeland nostalgias, reinforced

by contexts of socio-ethnic exclusion (Appadurai 1996; Hannerz 1996):

they are displaced peoples with localized minds. Conversely, expressive

expatriates, such as those seen in Ibiza, reject their own homelands spa-

tially and affectively, resituating national origins in terms of reversed eth-

nocentrism. They make critical assessments about compatriots, tourists and

more conventional expatriates which they deem parochial and conformist:

in effect, expressive expatriates are displaced peoples with displaced minds.

Important to say, this cosmopolitan expatriate type must be considered,

not as an expression of any ‘subculture,’ but rather as an instance of an

ideal-type relating to emerging forms of transnational practice, identity

and subjectivity interrelated with global processes and conditions of hyper-

mobility, digitalization and reﬂexivity. These subjects inhabit a shifting

nebula of ﬂuidic and blurred sub-styles that evade conventional codes

deﬁned by modern regimes of the nation-state, morality and market. In

this connection, this book more speciﬁcally focuses on meanings that lie

at the intersection of mobility and resistance, expressed as self-induced

marginalization.

Despite the number of travelogues and autobiographies written by expres-

sive expatriates (Odzer 1995; Stratton 1994), scholarly references remain

scarce and elusive. Studies on bohemianism and cosmopolitanism make

tangential comments about alternative subjects that, inhabiting the fringes

of modernity, mysteriously overlap with artistic, cultural and economic

elites of the metropole (Blanchard 1998; Watson 1995; Green 1986).

Even the excellent study by Richard Lloyd on neo-bohemians takes place

in the postindustrial city: Chicago (Lloyd 2006). In academic conferences

and informal conversations, I observed that expressive expatriates have

been sometimes compared with ‘bohemian bourgeois’ (Brooks 2000) and

‘hub culture’ (Stalnaker 2002), with whom they appear to share some

basic features, such as the cultivation of expressive individualism, cosmo-

politan tastes and travel experience in the form of leisure or self-discovery

interests.

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However, expressive expatriates sharply depart with metropolitan elites

on crucial topics of consumerism, labor ethics and monadic individualism.

Their critical stance has been more mildly articulated by mainstream

authors, such as David Brooks and Stan Stalnaker. Brooks notes that the

commodiﬁcation of meaning fosters lack of solidarity, solipsism and even

nihilism in post-suburban environments (Brooks 2000: 221–2). Similarly,

Stalnaker – who writes from the perspective of a global marketing analyst

– warns about the limits of unchecked consumerism: ‘It is at this point, if

you haven’t somehow connected to something larger, past the material

existence, that you ﬁnd hate and despair’ (Stalnaker 2002: 151). And he

further suggests, ‘In the near future, spiritualism will be a leading factor

in the cultural conversation of the [urban] hubs’ (p. 192).

By problematizing ‘solidarity’ and ‘spirituality,’ expressive expatriates

hinge on crucial conditions of contemporary life, not only from the view-

point of the elected periphery but also from the very center itself. While

consumer societies, according to expatriates and marketing analysts alike,

appear to be blindly marching toward the abyss of spiritual void, cultural

dissent in the West often manifests itself in the will to escape toward

marginal positions and locations. The margin seems to provide some favor-

able conditions for the experimentation of alternative lifestyles that attempt

to integrate labor, leisure and spirituality in ways that are deemed more

meaningful according to those who evade the center.

A curious paradox evinces the signiﬁcance of alternative modernities.

While attempting to eschew modern systemic regimes, expressive expa-

triates engender spaces, practices and imaginaries that are gradually

captured by capitalist economies (tourism, entertainment, advertising) and

regulated by the state. Places such as Ibiza, Goa, Bali, Ko Pangnan, Bahia,

Byron Bay, San Francisco, Pune, Marrakesh, etc. have become attractive

tourist and trendsetting centers subsequent to the arrival of bohemians,

gays, beatniks, hippies, New Agers, ravers and clubbers (D’Andrea 2004;

Ramón-Fajarnés 2000; Wilson 1997a; Odzer 1994). As it seems, despite

being numerically small, expressive expatriates are disproportionably inﬂu-

ential upon the cultural sphere of mainstream societies, particularly the

youth and other dynamic segments of society. This process of evasion

and capture reveals the ambivalent disposition of desire and conﬁnement

that mainstream (sedentary) societies displays toward countercultural

(nomadic) formations.

Globalization: network, diaspora and cosmopolitanism

This section discusses the main concepts of globalization, noting that they

do not account for the critical features of global nomadism. Globalization

is, at once, an empirical reality, an umbrella term and an analytical para-

digm. It refers to the growing importance of translocal connections in

shaping social life, which becomes disembedded from the determinations

10 Neo-nomadism

of proximate spatiotemporal contexts. It derives from the intensiﬁcation

of multiple social, economic, political, technological and cultural processes

that complexly interrelate in a manner that is unprecedented in nature,

speed and scale. More empirically, globalization is characterized by:

• the worldwide integration of markets under ﬂexible modes of produc-

tion and volatile ﬁnancial capital;

• the dissemination of new technologies of communication and trans-

portation;

• the post-Cold War multi-polarity; the rise of transnational actors and

new migration waves as well as the relative decline of the nation-state;

• the reconﬁguration of city landscapes, within urban networks and

hierarchies, alongside the rise of the transnationally linked ‘global

city’;

• and the emergence of reﬂexive and fundamentalist forms of social

organization and identity.

As this picture suggests, the highly disjunctive and hybridist nature of

globalization results in new patterns, risks and opportunities that deﬁne

the terms of a post-traditional order (Giddens 1994, 1991). In tandem,

the interaction between local and translocal forces deﬁnes the spatiotem-

porality of a given social formation, meaning that an alteration in the

composition of those forces is likely to reconﬁgure the levels of deterri-

torialization of the society. The difference between ‘transnational’ and

‘global’ is elucidative: the former refers to processes anchored across the

borders of a few nation-states, whereas the latter refers to decentralized

processes that develop away from the space of the national (Gille and

Riain 2002: 273; Kearney 1995: 548). As such, global interaction means

‘not the replication of uniformity but an organization of diversity, an

increasing interconnectedness of varied local cultures, as well as a devel-

opment of cultures without a clear anchorage in any one territory.’

(Hannerz 1996: 102). Composites of local and translocal forces may occur

at ‘border zones,’ shape ‘contact zones’ and constitute ‘global ecumenes,’

all of which can be understood as regions of persistent interaction and

exchange, asymmetries and exploitation, resistance and hybridization

(Clifford 1997: 195; Hannerz 1989: 66; Pratt 1992).

In globalization studies, the nature of agency and scale varies consid-

erably, according to the object of study and the intellectual purview of

the analyst. Studies that focus on systemic forces (capitalism, science,

modernization) tend to consider actors and places as being subordinate

to contexts of locality-making that lie beyond their control. Analyses of

transnational connections consider actors with an ability to navigate socio-

spatial hierarchies. Diaspora studies, at last, investigate actors that are

more actively engaged in the formation of imaginaries and public spaces

(Gille and Riain 2002: 279).

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However, over the course of a decade, these analytical strands have

rapidly adjusted to issues of replication and normalization, without con-

sidering methodological or conceptual alternatives that could more efﬁ-

ciently and creatively address patterns and complexities of globalization

that remain understudied (Urry 2003: 11–12). More speciﬁcally, notions

of network, diaspora and cosmopolitanism have precipitously forged an

understanding about mobile subjects that obstructs the perception of

unknown features and possibilities.

The notion of ‘network’ is the conceptual device most widely employed

in global studies. Comprising related notions, such as ‘ﬂow,’ ‘web’ and

‘circuit,’ its prominence in social sciences reﬂects the impact of informa-

tion technologies reconﬁguring social life as a ‘space of ﬂows’ rather than

a ‘space of places’ (Castells 1996). Assuming different topologies (chain,

hub, channel), a network is a system of interconnected nodes for maxi-

mizing information and energy output. Its potency is deﬁned by the number

of nodes, their interconnections and density, as well as by its relation to

other environs. Networks may overextend insofar as new nodular lines

remain possible. Nodes are not centers but switchers performing func-

tions within a general system that operates through a rhizomatic rather

than a command logic. Nodes vary in importance (depending on loca-

tion, density and energy) but are interdependent and replaceable. Both in

the physical and social realms, a network generates complex intercon-

nections that survive its constitutive elements, extending across time and

space (Urry 2003; Castells 1996).

However, the notion of network has been overused in global studies,

constraining the perception and sidestepping issues of power, meaning and

change. ‘The term “network” is expected to do too much theoretical work

in the argument, glossing over very different networked phenomena . . .

[It] does not bring out the enormously complex notion of power impli-

cated in diverse mobilities of global capitalism . . .’ (Urry 2003: 11–12).

John Urry also notes that the scholarship has relied on a model of

‘globally integrated networks’ (GINs), complex and enduring structures

characterized by predictable connections that nullify time-space constraints.

Transnational corporations and supranational organizations are examples

of GINs. These structures tend to be inertial, rigid and dependent on the

stability of macro systems (international markets, contracts and media/

rumor systems).

Yet, there are networked-like formations that cannot be understood

through the notion of GIN. Urry proposes the notion of ‘global ﬂuids,’

characterized as highly mobile and viscous formations whose shapes are

uneven, contingent and unpredictable. ‘Fluids create over time their own

context of action rather than seeing as “caused”’ (p. 59). Traveling peoples,

oceans, the internet and epidemics are variegated examples of global ﬂuids.

However, Urry does not provide further evidence for advancing his claim

12 Neo-nomadism

that global ﬂuids constitute ‘a crucial category of analysis in the global-

izing social world’ (p. 60).

Neither concept of network (GIN or ﬂuid) can address the meanings

and temporalities of the entities they seek to explain. As an alternative,

the notion of ‘diaspora’ has been largely employed in anthropological

studies of ethnic dispersion. Differing from linear migration and struc-

tured networks, a diaspora includes a full cross-section of community

members spread across diverse regions, while retaining a myth of unique-

ness, usually linked to an idea of homeland, real or imagined (Kearney

1995: 559). A descriptive deﬁnition of diaspora includes ‘a history of

dispersal, myths and memories of the homeland, alienation in the host

country, desire for eventual return, ongoing support of the homeland, and

a collective identity deﬁned by this relationship’ (Clifford 1994: 306).

Upon the tension between local assimilation and translocal allegiances, a

diaspora is diacritically shaped by means of political struggles with state

normativities and indigenous majorities (Axel 2002; Clifford 1994: 307–8).

Nonetheless, the relation between diaspora and locality is further frac-

tured by the socio-spatiotemporal disjuncture of globalization, engendering

‘degrees of diasporic alienation’ (Clifford: 315). Under global conditions,

the space and identity of such ethnic dispersions must be reconsidered in

terms of a ‘diasporic imaginary.’ Diaspora is conventionally understood

as being founded on a locus of origin that deﬁnes a people as diaspora.

However, ‘[r]ather than conceiving of the homeland as something that

creates the diaspora, it may be productive to consider the diaspora as

something that creates the homeland’ (Axel 2002: 426). As Brian Axel

proposes, ‘My conceptualization of the diasporic imaginary not only repo-

sitions the homeland as a temporalizing and affective aspect of sub-

jectiﬁcation; it also draws the homeland in relation with other kinds of

images and processes.’ (p. 426).

By breaking the social-spatiotemporal link that constitutes identity,

globalization enables a new form of diasporic imaginary, one whose nature

is post-essentialist. Under these circumstances, diaspora becomes, in the

words of Kobena Mercer, a ‘site of multiple displacements and rearticu-

lations of identity, without privilege of race, cultural tradition, class, gender

or sexuality. Diaspora consciousness is entirely a product of cultures and

histories in collision and dialogue’ (Mercer 1994: 319; see also Clifford

1994). Rather than origin, it values the critical voice in history, estab-

lished by means of power relations and cultural encounters. Although

some historians may note the risk of premature pluralism in this argu-

ment, there is a distinction between historical and essentialist accounts of

diaspora, for globalization introduces conditions of possibility for the

emergence of postidentitarian formations.

In this light, global nomads constitute a negative diaspora, as they see

themselves as part of a trans-ethnic dispersion of peoples that despise

home-centered identities. Their identity as a diasporic formation is not

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based on ethnic or national nostalgias, but rather on a fellowship of

counter-hegemonic practice and lifestyle. For consciously rejecting predom-

inant ethno-national apparatuses, their centrifugal moves do not conﬁgure

diasporic alienation; quite the contrary, although perhaps heralding the

ideal of an alternative homeland, their utopian drives are propelled by a

pragmatic individualism, often predicated on reﬂexive modes of subjec-

tivity formation (Lash 1994; Foucault 1984c, 1984f). Other than making

one’s soul the Promised Land, expressive individualism opposes diaspora

as a basis of personal identity. Therefore, diaspora does not sufﬁce for

addressing hypermobile formations that nest a type of sensibility that, in

the lines of Mercer, tends to reject exclusionary modes of identity forma-

tion based on gender, race, class and religion.

Negative diaspora thus reﬂects the reconﬁguration of self-identity under

the impact of global processes and structures. Media, urban and techno-

scientiﬁc apparatuses generate an unprecedented volume of images, signals

and information that gradually undermines the ﬁxity of social roles, iden-

tities and cognitive frames. These have to be renegotiated, as subjects are

forced to make uneasy decisions about their lives: ‘we have no choice but

to make choices’ (Giddens 1994: 187). This condition has been identiﬁed

as ‘the problem of inculturation in a period of rapid culture change

[. . .], as the transgenerational stability of knowledge [. . .] can no longer

be assumed’ (Appadurai 1996: 43). Frederic Jameson notes that the emer-

gence of colossal global systems has derailed the human capacity of social

perception and cognition, thus engendering disorientation (Jameson 1991:

45). On the other hand, Anthony Giddens and Scott Lasch are more opti-

mistic in assessing such semiotic excess as, in part, reﬂecting reﬂexive

demands which arise from the fabric of social life (Beck et al. 1994). In

this case, the problematization of locality-making becomes a resource

rather than a barrier in the production of meaning, inasmuch as the

aesthetic reﬂexivity that is entailed by modern reﬂexivity remains capable

of recalibrating notions of time, space and belonging at the local level

(Appadurai 1996; Lash 1994).

The question then becomes how reﬂexive subjectivities are constituted

under the deterritorializing conditions of globalization. However, although

dependent of speciﬁc objects and scales of analysis, the development of

new methodologies capable of addressing issues of deterritorialization has

been limited, since global studies have privileged the analysis of social

forms over cultural contents:

A troubling aspect of the literature on globalization is its tendency to

read social life off external social forms – ﬂows, circuits, circulations

of people, capital and culture – without any model of subjective medi-

ation. In other words, globalization studies often proceed as if tracking

and mapping the facticity of the economic, population, and popula-

tion ﬂows, circuits, and linkages were sufﬁcient to account for current

14 Neo-nomadism

cultural forms and subjective interiorities, or as if an accurate map

of the space and time of post-Fordist accumulation could provide an

accurate map of the subject and her embodiment and desires.

(Povinelli and Chauncey 1999: 7)

Within current scholarship, one possible way of overcoming this lacuna

involves the deployment of the concept of cosmopolitanism, retooled as a

mediation that translates aesthetic reﬂexivity into a social disposition that

is malleable to global environments. Cosmopolitanism has been described

as a ‘perspective’ or a ‘mode of managing meaning’ that entails ‘greater

involvement with a plurality of contrasting cultures, to some degree on

their own terms’ (Hannerz 1996: 103). Large cities have been celebrated

as spaces of multiculturalism, but long-haul traveling prevails as the manner

by which one is dramatically exposed to and potentially transformed by

the contact with alterity. According to Ulf Hannerz, ‘genuine cosmopoli-

tanism is ﬁrst of all an orientation, a willingness to engage with the Other.

It entails an intellectual and aesthetic openness toward divergent cultural

experiences, a search for contrasts rather than uniformity’ (p. 103).

However, this openness usually presupposes material and educational priv-

ileges that are restricted to a few. Most tourists, migrants, exiles and expa-

triates are not cosmopolitans due to a lack of interest or competence in

participating or translating difference: ‘locals and cosmopolitans can spot

tourists a mile away’ (p. 105).

Openness to plurality is not an altruistic gesture, for the main goal of

the cosmopolitan is to understand her own structures of meaning.

‘Cosmopolitans can be dilettantes as well as connoisseurs, and are often

both, at different times. But the willingness to become involved with the

Other, and the concern in achieving competence in [alien] cultures relate

to considerations of self as well’ (p. 103). In a psychoanalytical vein, cos-

mopolitanism exposes an element of narcissism in the development of the

self that is carried out through cultural mirroring (p. 103). In this con-

nection, it can be understood as a ‘therapeutic exploration of strangeness

within and outside the self’ by which ‘detachment from provincial identi-

ties’ alters personal references of self and alterity (Anderson 1998: 285).

However, proponents of a more localized and nativist form of cosmo-

politanism have criticized the predominantly universalist approach as being

tainted with elitism and aestheticism (Robbins 1998: 254; Clifford 1994:

324). These ‘discrepant cosmopolitanisms’ propose a different density of

allegiances that values local worldviews and afﬁrms cultural and historical

speciﬁcity. In it, hybridity overcomes translation by subverting colonial

dichotomies and hierarchies. Intellectuals have, in fact, been idealized as

cosmopolitans par excellence (Hannerz 1996; Braidotti 1994), even if their

competence is, more often than not, restricted to sophisticated rationaliza-

tions about the Other. To wit, although noting the performatic dimension

of the intercultural encounter, Ulf Hannerz and Rosi Braidotti claim that

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cosmopolitanism is, above all, a process of management of meaning and

translation. This conception virtually ignores the impact of affective and

visceral engagements with radical alterity in reshaping personhood. Such a

view reduces cosmopolitanism to little more than detached aestheticism, as

more popularly illustrated in bobos and hub inﬂuentials’ safe consumerism

of exotic commodities (Stalnaker 2002; Brooks 2000).

Nonetheless, both nativist and universalist schools of cosmopolitanism

neglect three critical issues. First, there is a substantial difference between

aesthetics and aestheticism that debates have overlooked. As will be dis-

cussed in this chapter, aestheticism refers to a form of detached apprecia-

tion as outlined above, whereas aesthetics relates to an ethical orientation

that potentially confronts the ﬁxity of biopower domination while rebal-

ancing life-values. Second, current debates reduce cosmopolitanism either

as a cognitive or as a behavioral capacity, respectively incarnated in sophis-

ticated intellectuals or skillful migrants as iconic examples. Instead, cos-

mopolitanism must be understood as a holistic disposition or attitude (in

social psychology terms), which comprises cognitive, affective and behav-

ioral components altogether. Third, debates on cosmopolitanism are often

anchored on speculative and idealistic assumptions, neglecting empirical

research and validation, particularly by means of cross-cultural analysis.

Among different types of mobile subjects, it seems that the ethical, atti-

tudinal and empirical dimensions of cosmopolitanism tend to overlap in

the ﬁgure of the ‘expatriate.’ Hannerz’s observations resonate with the

expressive expatriates foregrounded in this book:

The concept of the expatriate may be that we will most readily asso-

ciate with cosmopolitanism. Expatriates (or ex-expatriates) are people

who have chosen to live abroad for some period [. . .]. Not all expa-

triates are living models of cosmopolitanism; colonialists were also

expatriates, and mostly they abhorred ‘going native.’ But these are

people who can afford to experiment, who do not stand to lose a

treasured but threatened, uprooted sense of self. We often think of

them as people of independent (even if modest) means, for whom

openness to new experiences is a vocation, or people who can take

along their work more or less where it pleases them; writers and

painters in Paris between the wars are perhaps the archetypes.

(Hannerz 1996: 106)

As a writer in Paris between the wars, Walter Benjamin twice ﬂed to

Ibiza in 1932 and 1933. As a forerunner of expatriate life on the island,

Benjamin stayed at a friend’s house in the ﬁsherman parish of Sant Antoni.

‘There were only a few foreigners there,’ according to French art historian

Jean Selz, ‘a number of Germans and also some Americans. The foreigners

were often together, so I got to know him. Benjamin was 40, and I was

16 Neo-nomadism

28’ (Scheurmann and Scheurman 1993: 68). In a letter, Benjamin wrote

that Ibiza allowed him to ‘live under tolerable circumstances in a beautiful

landscape for no more than 80 marks per month.’ (Witte 1991: 33). Because

Ibiza was so isolated, his attempts to develop editorial contacts in Paris

proved unsuccessful. Nevertheless, he enjoyed the beauties of La Isla Blanca

amid a lively community of expatriates. Benjamin spotted bohemians in

bars and restaurants, toured with Gaugin’s grandson, and ﬂirted with a

Dutch painter whom he said to have almost included in his ‘angelology’

(Witte 1991). In Ibiza, Benjamin also experimented with opium and hashish

in the context of his interests in surrealism as a countercultural, liberation

movement (Thompson 1997).

In the early 2000s, connectivity would not have been such a problem

for Benjamin. With email and low-airfare jets, he would perhaps have

stayed longer in Ibiza, although intense urbanization and price inﬂation

have become main complaints among residents more recently. Nevertheless,

throughout the century, Ibiza has been imagined as a utopian paradise,

hosting successive waves of marginal subjects ﬂeeing the metropole: artists,

bohemians, beatniks, hippies, gays, freaks and clubbers. For such a density

of cultural experimentation in a setting of intense modernization as that

island has suffered, French sociologist Danielle Rozenberg has claimed

that, ‘Ibiza is paradigmatic to those who interrogate the development of

contemporary societies’ (Rozenberg 1990: 3). These expressive expatriates

have inadvertently contributed to Ibiza being imagined as an icon of plea-

sure and freedom amid large segments of the Western youth, an icon that

is now rampantly exploited by leisure capitalism, with contradictory effects.

But, while globalization conceals the forces of history, neo-nomadism

embodies a much longer diachrony that can be traced back to the 1960s

counterculture and even further back to nineteenth-century Romanticism.

Aesthetics of the self: post-sexualities in a digital age

The subjects discussed in this book ascribe to a cosmopolitan culture of

expressive individualism. Any practice that allows for the exploration

of personal capabilities in creative, pleasurable and transcendent ways are

of potential interest for expressive expatriates. As such, after ﬂeeing the

homeland, they become personally and/or professionally involved with

therapy, art and spirituality, and their experimentations with hedonism

and sexuality often reﬂect conscious decisions about transforming their

self-identity modes. These dispositions and their wider circumstances res-

onate with philosophical discussions about an aesthetics of existence which,

according to Foucault, refers to the possibility of an ethics of the self that

is capable of confronting the axiological challenges of modernity. Self-

aesthetics, as a practical lifestyle or philosophical speculation, is predicated

on a fundamental question: how does, can and must one conduct one’s

own life under conditions of moral freedom?

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In this context, self-aesthetics must be considered in its crucial interre-

lations with ethics and politics, schematically considered at three different

levels: (1) aesthetics as an emphasis on forms of coexistence that results

from a world of polytheism of values; (2) aesthetics as a site of resistance

against power-knowledge (biopower) regimes forged by the state and

science; and (3) aesthetics as a lifestyle that sustains alternative experiences

of the self and sociality.

The axiological crisis of modernity is marked by the acute fragmenta-

tion of life-spheres (religion, economy, politics, science, pleasure, intimacy,

etc.) and their gradual colonization by technical reason. The overwhelming

expansion of objective culture undermines the subject’s ability to develop

autonomously (Simmel 1971). To this challenge, Romantic thinkers have

proposed the aesthetic as a realm of self-cultivation (Bildungsideal) by

which a holistic personality can be cultivated against the corrosive effects

of modern specialization. Yet, in face of the imperatives of modernity,

such a view resulted in a withdrawal from the world of action, fostering

a narcissistic style of excessive reﬁnement, formalism and detachment, also

characteristic of cosmopolitan aestheticism.

Within this intellectual context, Max Weber rebuked the Romantic view,

seeing it as a powerless response to the meat-grinding effects of modern

rationalization. In order to tame the ‘iron cage’ of modernity and the

everlasting specters of demagogy and tradition, Weber proposed an ethics

of personhood that integrates vocational specialization with an acute polit-

ical awareness. The self must adhere to a secular ideal of vocation (Beruf ),

which presupposes an ‘irrational’ choice for compliance with one life-

sphere and its core regulatory principle. Nonetheless, Weber soon realized

that the vocational stance is better actualized by means of a political

aesthetics that strives to balance such ends-oriented ethics (embodied in

the principle of conviction, as in science or religion) with a means-oriented

ethics (regulated by the principle of responsibility, as in politics) (Weber

1918). He thus hoped that the cultivated subject would be able to regain

its ability to intervene in reality, while retaining some degree of autono-

mous development.

Presenting remarkable similarities with the iron cage diagnosis, Foucault

uncovered how science and state coalesce in biopower regimes, a complex

institutional-ideological apparatus geared toward the administration of

individual and collective bodies. It correlates with the more socially diffused

apparatus of ‘sexuality’ which forges the modern subject of discipline and

interiority.

In this light, the subordination of the self to a scientiﬁc voca-

tion, as proposed by Weber, would reafﬁrm relations of domination

entailed by biopower. In other words, by recurring to science and natural

law as sources of legitimacy, liberation gestures, practices and movements

remain entrapped in the epistemic vectors that they ultimately seek to

transcend.

18 Neo-nomadism

Conversely, power-knowledge regimes entail a multiplicity of forces that

escape and resist them. As Foucault noted, mechanisms of subjectiﬁcation

inadvertently enable tactical resistance, for power is better understood as

modes of relation that are both repressive and productive (Foucault 1976).

The exclusionary logic of the normal-pathologic thus contributes to prolif-

erate abnormalities that unfold both as representation and effect.

Furthermore, the historical decline of moral orthodoxies requires an

ethical response that, in highly reﬂexive sites, has revolved around the

problematization of the self in relation to itself. As such, once repression

is lifted, the problem becomes how to deﬁne and exercise one’s own

freedom in relation to others and to one’s own experience. In the scope

of sexuality, the subject thus becomes a battleground between moralities

of bourgeois interest and of bohemian expression:

A morality of ‘interest’ was proposed and imposed upon the bour-

geois class – in opposition to other arts of the self that can be found

within artistic and critical circles. The ‘artistic’ path [. . .] constitutes

an aesthetics of existence that opposes self-techniques prevalent within

bourgeois culture.

(Foucault 1984a: 629)

This is where latter Foucault meets post-Ascona Weber. The aesthetics

of existence substantially differs from aestheticism. As an ethics of the

self, it has effects of power with a potential for breaking away from

regimes of subjectiﬁcation that constrain experiences of the self and reality.

It is in this sense that Foucault envisages the aesthetics of the self as a

life politics. ‘“Couldn’t everyone’s life become a work of art?” This was

not some vapid plea for aestheticism, but a suggestion for separating our

ethics, our lives, from our science, our knowledge’ (Hacking 1986: 239).

Liberation movements would not only be aligned with values, methods,

orientations and dispositions that deﬁne an ethics of self-mastery (Giddens

1994; Foucault and Lotringer 1989; Foucault 1984a). A post-sexuality

age would also require ‘new forms of community, co-existence and plea-

sure’ capable of nurturing subjective and social modes that redeﬁne terms

of control, discipline and interiority.

How to scrutinize this conceptual horizon empirically is a critical ques-

tion. In this book, I investigate the possibility of a post-sexuality apparatus

being engendered in speciﬁc sites of Techno and New Age counterculture

and sustained by expressive expatriates. Yet, a bibliographic search on

the topic is disappointing. Besides a few sociological studies dedicated to

a taxonomy of sectarian subcultures, most accounts have focused on histor-

ical outlooks about the 1960s ‘radicalism,’ the 1970s ‘decline’ and the

1980s ‘co-optation’ (Brooks 2000; Frank 1997; McKay 1996; Roszak

1995; Zicklin 1983; Bellah 1979). The presumed disappearance of counter-

cultures conceals the fragmentation of ‘the sixties’ into a variety of

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single-issue movements, in turn, paralleled by a host of academic studies:

queer, ecological, feminist; subcultural, new religions, popular studies, etc.

(Clifford 1998). Within a wider socio-historical perspective, nonetheless,

all of these empirico-conceptual formations manifest a basic dissatisfaction

with the promises and rewards of modern civilization.

A note on the notions of ‘subculture,’ ‘counterculture’ and ‘alternative

culture’ is pertinent. These have derived and been questioned from diverse

academic purviews, notably those inspired by functionalism and popular

resistance (Bennett and Kahn-Harris 2004; Muggleton and Weinzierl 2003;

Bennett 1999; Redhead 1997; McKay 1996; Roszak 1995). But, in the

scope of this book, I propose a pragmatic deployment of such deﬁnitions.

The notion of ‘subculture’ refers to shared values, symbols and practices of

a group whose members also adhere to or function (more or less normally)

within a larger society. The adjective ‘alternative’ denotes subcultures that

seek some level of autonomy from or replacement of major social schemes.

It connects with the notion of ‘counterculture,’ which differs, nonetheless,

in intensity and amplitude: a counterculture is characterized by more acute

degrees of dissatisfaction, a critical stance and refusal of major institutions,

norms and values, in addition to the cultivation of transgressive practices,

identities and lifestyles that more consciously seek to confront dominant

culture. A counterculture is thus a type of radicalized subculture, operating

as a potent ideological referent in times of crisis. In the scope of this study,

I am interested in alternative formations that uphold countercultural drives

that can at least partially be traced back to the 1960s cultural upheaval

and, further back, to nineteenth-century Romanticism. Contemporarily,

scholarly studies and some empirical evidence suggest that Techno and New

Age potentially embody powerful sites of problematization of modern life,

questioning modernity within modernity.

As a hybrid of art, technology and proto-religion, Techno is ritualized in

multimedia dance events known as ‘raves’ or ‘underground nightclubs’ in

urban ‘wild zones’ (Stanley 1997) and as ‘trance parties’ in secluded rural

areas. These gatherings constitute temporary spaces of ecstatic experience

induced by technological devices with the implicit aim of shattering and

reshaping self-identities (Hutson 2000; Corsten 1998b; Hemment 1998;

Reynolds 1998; Saunders 1995). ‘Rave is more than music plus drugs, it is

a matrix of lifestyle, ritualized behavior and beliefs. To the participant, it

feels like a religion; to the mainstream observer, it looks more like a sinister

cult’ (Reynolds 1998: 5). Studies have debated on Techno’s cultural and

political meaning, notably its emphasis on hedonistic hyper-stimulation

and communitarian effervescence under digital paraphernalia (St John 2004;

Gibson 2001; Borneman and Senders 2000; Gaillot 1999; Gilbert and

Pearson 1999; Ingham et al. 1999). Nevertheless, Techno seems to develop

through a cyclic pattern of popularization and decline (Best 1997; Grossberg

1997; Thornton 1995), which conceals its origins amid marginal subcultures

20 Neo-nomadism

in global cities and secluded paradises during the 1980s, as classically typi-

ﬁed: ethnic gays in Chicago and New York (giving rise to house and garage

music), blacks in Detroit and London (techno and jungle music), and hip-

pies/freaks in Ibiza and Goa (trance music) (Silcott 1999; Reynolds 1998;

Collin 1997). New digital technologies of music, drugs and media have

become constitutive of these cultures of resistance which sought to oppose

the neo-liberal order of Thatcher and Reagan. Since then, these counter-

hegemonic formations have been disseminating through transnational ﬂows

of music, fashion and people, assuming new forms and meanings as they

localize and are appropriated by larger segments of the youth and enter-

tainment sectors.

In this book, Techno is an umbrella term that comprises the whole range

of electronic music genres (house, techno, jungle, trance, ambient, etc.), its

ritual sites (rave, nightclub and trance parties) and subcultural components

(fashion, music, drugs, lifestyle), all of which are associated with the rise

and popularization of digital technologies of art production, diffusion and

consumption, notably music and iconography. Techno, in sum, signiﬁes

the emergence of aesthetic–political–technological forms regimented within

a global counterculture that has to interact locally with multiple national

cultures and institutional apparatuses in a variety of places globally.

New Age refers to hybridizations of religion, art and science supporting

individualistic spiritualities. It can be seen as a cultural process that trans-

forms the religious sphere, as well as a rhizomatic ‘network of networks’

interlinking a heteroclite universe of practices and ideas (D’Andrea

2000; Heelas 1996; York 1995). Underlying its multifarious labels, the

New Age’s basic premise lies on the cultivation of the self (Bildung),

rendered as a precondition for a new secular and spiritual age. Deriving

from the early 1970s counterculture, its ethno-ecological, parascientiﬁc

and psychospiritual syncretisms reﬂect the social diffusion of a reﬂexive

mysticism formerly conﬁned within erudite circles of Romanticism

(Luckmann 1991; Bellah 1985). Manifested in casual statements such as

‘I don’t have any religion but my own spirituality,’ growing interest in

Zen, Yoga, Suﬁ, Cabala, Alchemy, Wicca, etc. indicates the psycholo-

gization of world religions and native traditions, resituated as instruments

for the reﬂexive and expressive cultivation of the self. Its basic artifacts

– music, meditation, body therapies, encounter groups, diets, drugs, etc.

– are conceived of as special techniques for the attainment of special

subjective moods. Yet, at a deeper level, the New Age also embodies a

contradiction between a logic of ‘love-wisdom’ and ‘power-control,’

reﬂecting either historical trends toward expressive individualism, or neo-

liberal ideologies of consumerism and competition (Bellah 1985). Inter-

facing religion and individualism, the New Age refers to the globalization

of a meta-spirituality that indexes multiple references and terminologies

about the cultivation of the self.

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Critical outlooks on Techno and New Age often reduce them to func-

tions or expressions of larger socio-economic processes. Their practices,

artifacts and imaginaries can be reformulated as charismatic commodities,

consumed by dynamic segments of the middle class to satisfy pseudo-

cosmopolitan consumerism (Carrete and King 2005). Techno and New

Age also operate as ideological icons that legitimate the rise of a new

global middle class (Stalnaker 2002; Mehta 1990). And, ﬁnally, by means

of leisure, self-effacing spaces, they provide compensatory escape-valves

for the (real or imagined) hardships of modern life. While not disagreeing

with the economic, ideological and functional aspects of such a critique

of Techno and New Age, it is necessary to reconsider the pertinence of

such claims for contributing to the understanding of further developments

and meanings of cultural phenomena that remain largely ignored, particu-

larly in their interrelations with recent processes of globalization.

Although studies on New Age and Techno do not usually interface

(except St John 2004), a careful comparison reveals a very tangible

common horizon, as this book will explore in detail. Initially, they unfold

through dynamic tensions that simultaneously entail social diffusion and

distinction, cultural transgression and co-optation, economic singularity

and commodiﬁcation, reﬂexivity and fundamentalism, utopia and dystopia.

They similarly embody cultural projects that strive for a lifestyle that

integrates expressive labor, leisure and spirituality, coupled with critical

discourses about regimes of state, market and morality. Their ritual and

discursive practices very similarly dramatize the impact of globalization

upon selves, identities and socialities. While praising local traditions and

celebrities, both movements celebrate global ecumenisms, sustained by

means of transnational exchanges that engender spaces of cosmopoli-

tanism, expression and mysticism. At the turn of the twenty-ﬁrst century,

Techno and New Age seem to coalesce into a single, globalizing digital

art-religion.

However, because transnational ﬂows of Techno and New Age neces-

sarily reterritorialize in local sites of struggle and signiﬁcation, a basic

dimension of analysis must consider the social and physical spatiality that

nest such formations. Due to their historical, geographical and cultural

features, Ibiza (Spain) and Goa (India) have been central nodes and iconic

references for these globalizing countercultures. Not only are these places

charged with ‘charisma’ and ‘movement,’ they are also linked through the

circulation of such alternative peoples, their practices, artifacts and imag-

inaries. In addition, both locations exhibit a similar picture: among the

wealthiest places in India and Spain respectively, Goa and Ibiza economies

are led by leisure industries that recast charisma as leisure commodity.

Global countercultures have to negotiate with localized national societies,

implying that expressive expatriates have to navigate turbulent environ-

ments of ﬂexible capitalism at the global and local levels, while establishing

ﬂuidic networks of support.

22 Neo-nomadism

In sum, as the iron cage of modernity becomes the silicon cage of global

capitalism, the ‘spiritless specialists’ (that Weber alludes to) reduce the

human into a carbon cage, a map of commodiﬁed genes and rights colon-

ized by high-tech engineering and legal intervention. In this dystopian

scenario, Techno and New Age provide ambivalent sites of resistance to

biopower. They defy the centralizing logic of legal administration of bodies

and spaces, by conducting nomadic practices and rituals. They appro-

priate techno-scientiﬁc knowledge, by transgressing their disciplinary

boundaries and original usages. They amoralize desires, by indulging in

degenitalized pleasures; and they criticize modern economic rationality,

by pointing out its ecological irrationality. Yet, the question to be asked

is to what extent such erotic-aesthetic moves constitute an overcoming of

biopower and sexuality. Through playful moves of micro-transgression,

Techno and New Age may be engendering either exercises of emancipa-

tion, or innocuous narcissistic escapes, or, echoing Weber and Foucault,

something other we don’t know yet what it is. Curiously, some of the

iconic characters of critical philosophy – the mad, the criminal, the artist

and the vagabond – are metonymically condensed on the ‘global nomad,’

a ﬁguration that leads us to the next section.

Neo-nomadism: postidentitarian mobility

As this book will detail, for global nomads, mobility is more than spatial

displacement. It is also a component of their economic strategies, as well

as of their own modes of self-identity and subjectivity formation. In this

case, practices of spatial displacement are entwined with experiences of

auto-metamorphosis. Since studies on counterculture and consumerism

have shown that alternative practices tend to diffuse later into the social,

economic and corporate mainstream, it can be assumed that the global

countercultural experiences here investigated may provide invaluable

insights into new patterns of cultural globalization recoding contemporary

societies.

As previously discussed, prevalent notions of global studies – network,

diaspora, cosmopolitanism – are insufﬁcient for addressing the nature of

global nomadism and what it may more widely indicate about globaliza-

tion. An alternative conceptualization takes on the perception that

hypermobility tends to be more explicitly embodied in formations that

combine mobility and marginality. This combination is not unique to

expressive expatriates, but has been historically found among pastoral

nomads as well. At the level of the imaginary, nomads have long fascin-

ated the West, either as a contemptuous case of pre-civilizational barbarism

or as a romanticized ﬁgure of holistic freedom. Perhaps, it is not by chance

that socio-material forms of nomadism have contemporarily reappeared

in sites of hypermobility, such as motorized subcultures, alternative

markets, itinerant art, transnational lifestyles, computer hacking and

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science ﬁction, to name a few. However, traditional nomadism cannot

account for the meanings and forces that enmesh such hypermobile forma-

tions in contexts of globalization.

Considering the incommensurable differences, it would be misleading

merely to transpose an analytical model of pastoral nomadism upon

contemporary hypermobile formations. On the other hand, a series of sym-

metries should not be so readily discarded, since a series of insights may

be gained by means of a limited comparison between traditional and post-

traditional nomads. As noted by George Marcus, while requiring an embed-

ment in proximate contexts of analysis, high theories – such as Deleuze

and Guattari’s nomadology – ‘often anticipate many of the contemporary

social and cultural conditions with which ethnographers and other scholars

are trying to come to terms with’ (Marcus 1998: 86–7).

Keeping these remarks in mind, a dialogue between the anthropology

of nomadism and philosophy of nomadology provides conceptual founda-

tions for addressing cultural hypermobility as a rising global condition

that reshapes identity and subjectivity forms. This genealogy of nomad-

ology seeks to produce a theory of neo-nomadism as an ideal-type of

postidentitarian mobility. The recourse to the Weberian device not only

alleviates the aporia of representation that is raised in the anthropolog-

ical critique to nomadology (Miller 1993), but it also moderates nomothetic

excesses that tend to erase historical difference. Neo-nomadism must be

seen as a heuristic construct for describing, measuring and interpreting

subcategories of cultural hypermobility: displacement, marginality, deterri-

torialization and metamorphosis.

Nonetheless, there has been no interaction among studies of nomadism,

nomadology and globalization. Global and critical studies neglect evidence

on nomadism, whereas (mis)representations about the nomad freely circu-

late in cultural studies, literature and pop culture (Cresswell 1997; Miller

1993). In its turn, the scholarship on pastoralism is not immune to its

own bias:

anthropologists have often perpetuated a stereotype by deliberately

seeking out the most conservative of the nomads for study. Rather

than representing the norm, such ideal ‘pure nomads’ are exceptional

[. . .] [N]omadic pastoralism is made to appear far more isolated than

it actually is.

(Barﬁeld 1993: 214)

In face of such scholarly disjunctures, an assessment of these diverging

perspectives on mobility may contribute to identify signiﬁcant correlations

between cultural and mobile processes toward a conceptualization of

cultural hypermobility.

Nomadology refers to a style of critical thinking that seeks to expose

and overcome the sedentary logic of state, science and civilization (Braidotti

24 Neo-nomadism

1994; Deleuze and Guattari 1980). It denounces a categorical binary of

civilization whereby the dweller is positively assessed over the wanderer,

seen as menace, distortion and problem (Clifford 1997; Malkki 1992).

Migration studies have inadvertently embodied the imperial bias: ‘The

point is obviously not to deny that displacement can be a shattering experi-

ence. It is rather this: our sedentarist assumptions about attachment to

place leads us to deﬁne displacement not as a fact about sociopolitical

context, but rather as an inner, pathological condition of the displaced’

(Malkki 1992: 33). The privilege of ﬁxity over mobility – of roots over

routes – hinges on the issue of conventional modes of subjectivity: a

dialectic of identiﬁcation/alterity sustains a model of identity that constrains

the self within rigid and exclusionary boundaries.

While denouncing the moral premise of arboreal science, nomadology

is also the theoretical counterpart of radical experiments that seek to under-

mine sedentary identity (see introductory anecdote, Pini 1997; Reynolds

1998). In neo-nomadic sites of experience, identity is ritually questioned

as an apparatus of colonial domination whereby the self is encoded by

references imposed from the outside. The imprisoning model of identity is

denounced as totalitarian – hence, the provocative rhyme ‘identitarian’

(Braidotti 1994; Miller 1993; Deleuze and Guattari 1980; Foucault 1976).

Foucault’s valuation of transformation as a productive category of self-

formation illustrates the nomadologic gesture to avert the closure of iden-

tity: ‘Don’t ask me who I am, or tell me to stay the same: that is the

bureaucratic morality which keeps our papers in order’ (Foucault 1972:

17; see also Foucault 1978). To note, the bureaucrat is the icon and agent

of the sedentary State. Nomadology thus rethinks identity as ‘always mobile

and processual, partly self-construction, partly categorization by others,

partly a condition, a status, a label, a weapon, a shield, a fund of memo-

ries, etc. It is a creolized aggregate composed through bricolage’ (Malkki

1992: 37). Within this conception, nomadologic modes of representation

replace the exclusionary binary ‘either-or’ with a logic of additive possi-

bilities that ‘synthesizes a multiplicity of elements without effacing their

heterogeneity or hindering their potential for future rearranging (to the

contrary)’ (Masummi’s preface to Deleuze 1980: xiii).

Both nomads and neo-nomads have deployed mobility as a tactic of

evasion from dominant sedentary apparatuses. As such, while globaliza-

tion tends to favor countercultures by undermining the biopower of the

nation-state, neo-nomads emulate old patterns of pastoral nomadism. The

discussion below unbundles some of these afﬁnities, elaborating on how

nomadism unfolds into nomadology. As an important remark, most studies

on pastoral nomadism adopted in this chapter were chosen for their cross-

cultural and generalist approach, yet some ethnographies and localized

studies were also employed as control readings. My account on nomadism

is not merely a work of plain description, but a rereading driven by current

concerns with hypermobility and identity in a global age.

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Neo-nomadism 25

Traditional nomadism can be deﬁned as mobile household commun-

ities that carry their means of production within a single ecological niche

(Cribb 1991: 20; Khazanov 1984). By seasonally moving animals into

better pastures, nomads can accumulate a larger livestock, resulting in more

food, trading luxuries and prestige (Barﬁeld 1993: 12). Likewise, neo-

nomads (such as hippie traders, handcrafters, DJs, alternative therapists

and smugglers) exercise their skills along the way, and traveling becomes

a source of learning and charisma convertible into professional advantage

(D’Andrea 2004; McKay 1996; Rao 1987). Displacement does not deﬁne

nomadism if economic activities lie ahead or behind those on the move

(such as in the case of labor migrants and businesspeople). Nomadic move-

ment is deﬁned by both economic goals and cultural motivations: ‘In no

case do nomads “wander.” They know where they are going and why’

(Barﬁeld 1993: 12). Nomads value the ownership of goods and tools.

Insofar as they remain able to move and use free spaces, they have little

interest in owning or remaining attached to land (Barﬁeld 1993: 193).

Their deterritorialized relation with space is a central feature of nomadic

culture and mentality, one that reinforces their will to move.

However, political structures of central government have historically

curbed autonomous movement. Intermittent repression of Turkic tribes

by Central Asian states until the 1980s, state subsidies for the sedenta-

rization of Bedouins in Egypt and Israel during the 1960s, and difﬁculties

imposed by neo-liberal Britain upon gypsies and ‘New Age travelers’ since

the 1970s illustrate the coercive drives of nation-states to control nomadic

populations (McKay 1996; Cribb 1991). As a generalization, nomads face

more difﬁculties whenever central states concentrate power. Less mobile

pastoralists (due to livestock composition) are more vulnerable to state

control. These experiences thus indicate a positive correlation between

mobility and autonomy.

Nomadic modes of production are oscillatory and dependent on larger

societies (Barﬁeld 1993; Rao 1987; Khazanov 1984). Nomadism’s relation

to ‘the outside world,’ as Anatoly Khazanov puts it, is pivotal for under-

standing that it has arisen from both ecological and politico-economic pres-

sures (Abu-Lughod 1999: 42; Khazanov 1984: xxvii, 95). Archaeological

evidence suggests that nomadism probably emerged as a specialization that

stemmed from complex sedentary societies (Barﬁeld 1993: 4; Cribb 1991:

10; Khazanov 1984: 85). In this sense, agriculture and urbanism anteceded

pastoral nomadism, as ﬂexible capitalism and gentriﬁcation anteceded neo-

nomadism. In this context, relations between nomads and dwellers are

asymmetrical. While constituting the core of armies and extortive bands,

‘nomads need cities for necessities of life, whereas sedentary populations

need them for convenience and luxuries’ (Khazanov 1984: 82). Western

neo-nomads, likewise, adhere to ‘luxury’ ﬁelds (art, fashion, wellness and

spirituality), which have, nonetheless, gained prominence in high-modern

societies.

26 Neo-nomadism

Neo-nomadic formations have emerged under varying historical condi-

tions. For example, whereas the 1960s countercultural exodus resulted

from afﬂuent technocratic societies against which it rebelled (Roszak 1995),

the late 1980s rave diaspora sprang from the economic depression and

police repression of neo-liberal agendas (Reynolds 1998; McKay 1996).

‘In the 1960s the young dropped out, in the 1980s they are dropped out’

(McKay 1996: 52). Despite its dependent nature, nomadism, in both tradi-

tional and post-traditional forms, has been highly malleable in adapting

to turbulent conditions and economic uncertainties, such as those that are

now characteristic of globalization:

Nomadism with its ﬂexible multi-resource economic strategy is ideally

suited to the unpredictable environment [. . .]. External factors such

as trade routes, governments or states are grist to the mill; they are

the necessary substrate. [Nomads] change because the economic and

political climate changes, and nomadism is still the best method of

adapting and surviving.

(Lancaster and Lancaster 1998: 32)

Nomads likely are the most ancient ‘global ﬂuid’ (to use Urry’s term)

on the planet. Old and new stories that integrate mobility and margin-

ality provide valuable insights into an understanding of globalization

predicaments. Nomads are not the desert hermits that sedentary imagi-

naries have romanticized. Their conduct is informed by strict codes of

reciprocity and belonging that nest them in social networks indispensable

for survival (Barﬁeld 1993: 205). Yet, more than in most traditional

sedentary societies, there has been considerable room for agency and

decision-making among nomads. In fact, the central feature of nomadism

is the ‘maximization of unit autonomy’ (Abu-Lughod 1999: 79):

Each household is responsible for managing its own resources. [. . .]

The ability to move away from people with whom you are not getting

along [. . .] is one of the great psychological advantages of being a

nomad. It also highlights the common belief that once a household

establishes its autonomy, its success or failure is individual. [. . .] And

the price of failure is not only economic ruin, but in many cases the

loss of tribal identity itself.

(Barﬁeld 1993: 104)

A feeling of pride emerges from such representations of freedom, which

is far more important than land property and other riches. Despite their

dependence on economic exchanges with sedentary societies, nomads do

believe in the superiority of their way of life: ‘In the eyes of nomads,

an agriculturalist is a slave because he is tied to one place and is enslaved

by his own arduous labor, unable to resist them in any proper way’

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(Khazanov 1984: 160). Bedouins have been admired for ‘taking orders

from no one’ (Barﬁeld 1993: 64). The nomad’s ‘supreme value is autonomy,

[. . .] the standard by which status is measured and social hierarchy deter-

mined’ (Abu-Lughod 1999: 78–9). Such pride has even motivated Arab

statesmen to claim nomadic ancestry, a populist gesture facilitated by

‘genealogical amnesia,’ which is an ancient mechanism for forging alliances

(Ginat and Khazanov 1998; Khazanov 1984: 143). Contrary to the

belief of state and development ofﬁcials, nomads avoid being sedentarized,

and much less so assimilated, even when economic gain is promised:

‘Sedentarization means that stereotypes of thinking, behavior, a traditional

system of values and a traditional way of life are broken. [. . .] [It] tears

the nomad from a traditional system of social ties and deprives him of

important lines of defence’ (Khazanov 1984: 199; see also Abu-Lughod

1999: 43–4).

Nomadic women are also self-represented as being more autonomous

and virtuous than sedentary ones (Davis-Kimball 2003; Abu-Lughod 1999:

46; Barﬁeld 1993). As tight controls would hinder the economic efﬁciency

of mobile households, nomadic women live by values of modesty and

autonomy. In the Bedouin case, despite being theoretically subordinate to

men, ‘some women can achieve more honor than some men,’ as ‘the

system [of veiling] is ﬂexible, leaving room for women to make judgments

about relative status and even to negotiate status’ (Abu-Lughod 1999:

118, 163). In contrast with female dwellers, ‘they are never utterly

dependent of their husbands, and, having alternative paths to support and

respect, they rely less on a strategy [. . .] for security than do women in

other patricentered systems, such as the Chinese’ (p. 149). Because of that,

the sedentarization of nomadic societies often results in the deterioration

of the socio-economic status of women (Abu-Lughod 1999: 73; Curling

and Llewelyn-Davies 1974). Nonetheless, in any measure, ‘the status of

women in pastoral societies was generally higher than their sedentary

sisters’ (Barﬁeld 1993: 15).

Nomadic women – both pastoral and postmodern – often embody

warrior-like values and dispositions of honor, superiority, and disinterest

in romantic matters (Abu-Lughod 1999: 46, 153; Barﬁeld 1993: 146).

In a mythological vein, they have been feared as brave warriors, as

Hippocrates and Herodotus narrate about Sarmatian women who partici-

pated in mounted raids and could only marry after killing a man in battle

(Barﬁeld 1993: 146; Davis-Kimball 2003). In contexts of postmodernist

subcultures and predatory neo-liberal capitalism, Techno women cultivate

wildness, toughness and dexterity as impressive personality traits. Wearing

combat garments and dark sunglasses, they ride potent motorcycles down

dangerous roads in India, thus incarnating a motorized version of the

Amazon.

While sedentary societies generally fear nomads as untrustworthy and

irrational, more ambivalent segments of urban dwellers imagine such

28 Neo-nomadism

mobile beings as veritable embodiments of a holistic self and wholesome

community. The impersonalizing and fragmenting character of modern

life has motivated discontented intellectuals, from Romantics to post-

modernists, to praise the nomad for mastering a variety of social roles:

a shepherd and warrior, a worker and storyteller: ‘nomads already in

some measure exemplify that multiplicity of roles, that overcoming of the

division of labour, that multi-faceted human personality, which Marx in

the German Ideology predicted only for the liberated man of the future’

(Gellner 1984: xxi). Contemporarily, nomadism stands as an emblem for

oppositional segments of the urban youth in search of charisma, meaning

and togetherness (St John 2004; Comaroff and Comaroff 2000).

Paradoxically, the holistic shaping of the self is often accompanied

by experiments of self-shattering effect. In Western countercultural sites,

the modern identitarian self must be undermined before the holistic self-

shaping may take place. This is usually carried out by means of

‘intoxicating elements of orgiastic sensuality’ (Weber 1913): music, drugs,

dance, sex – devices that exacerbate the senses and overtake reason.

Deleuze and Guattari noted that, ‘architecture and cooking have an

apparent afﬁnity with the State, whereas music and drugs have differen-

tial traits that place them on the side of the nomadic machine’ (Deleuze

and Guattari 1980: 402). Psychic deterritorialization is thus unleashed as

‘spiritual journeys effected without relative movement but in intensity, in

one place: these are part of nomadism’ (p. 381). In collective rituals led

by cathartic therapists, New Age healers or Techno trance DJs, frames of

memory, cognition and self-identity are shattered in the realm of the trau-

matic/sublime, wherein the self is exposed and imploded as a heteronomic

prison, in part social violence, in part biographic illusion (Braidotti on

Foucault, 1994: 12; Foucault 1978).

It is in the context of these postidentitarian exercises that ‘becoming

minoritarian’ – a pivotal aspect of counter-hegemonic subjectivities – must

be understood. By emphasizing the macro-social dimension of violence,

Rosi Braidotti ignores the actual target of nomadic violence (Braidotti

1994: 26). Likewise, Christopher Miller misses the point when he criticizes

Deleuze and Guattari for overlooking the physical violence perpetrated

by Western African nomads during totemic rituals of ‘becoming leopard’

(Miller 1993: 30). Considering the force and target of countercultural

experiments (cathartic therapies, queer sexualities, radical sports, collective

psychedelia, mystical spiritualities, etc.), Miller’s argument must be re-

deployed: neo-nomads channel the destructive power of ‘becoming animal’

against the subject itself. By unleashing visceral forces against the cog-

nitive-affective-behavioral structure of the subject, the identitarian fortress

of the self is pounded and undermined, and recoded under the principle

of multiplicity (chromatic variation). But metamorphosis is never a guar-

antee of subjective or ethical freedom, as the lines of ﬂight that open up

the realm of creativity are also the ones that may degrade in lines of

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death, which reterritorialize in ﬁxity, alienation or self-destruction (Deleuze

and Guattari 1980: 513).

The derailment of subjectivities may interfere with institutional appa-

ratuses, as nomadologic practice de-signiﬁes the legitimacy of state control

over bodies and populations (biopower). However, as the absolute erad-

ication of transgression is impossible, these experiments are deﬂected and

marginalized, while exclusionary codes are reinforced through the very

process of suppression. The ritual exploration of the postidentitarian self

is then conﬁned to secret societies, to whom orgiastic devices remain as

catalysts of problematization and transcendence of the ﬁxed subject. Both

as tactical move and systemic effect, the postidentitarian self more likely

reemerges from a position of marginality, whereby metamorphosis may

operate more intensely. According to Deleuze and Guattari:

Minorities are objectively deﬁnable states, states of language, ethnicity,

or sex with their own ghetto territorialities, but they must also be

thought of as seeds, crystals of becoming whose value is to trigger

uncontrollable movements and deterritorializations of the mean of

majority. [. . .] The ﬁgure to which we are referring is continuous vari-

ation, as an amplitude that continually oversteps the representative

threshold of the majoritarian standard, by excess or default. In erecting

the ﬁgure of a universal minoritarian consciousness, one addresses

powers of becoming that belong to a different realm from that of

Power and Domination. [. . .] Becoming-minoritarian as the universal

ﬁgure of consciousness is called autonomy. It is certainly not by using

a minor language as a dialect, by regionalizing or ghettoizing, that

one becomes revolutionary; rather, by using a number of minority

elements, by connecting, conjugating them, one invents a speciﬁc,

unforeseen, autonomous becoming.

(Deleuze and Guattari 1980: 106)

Autonomous becoming is the principle of the war machine, a political

ﬁguration that must be considered in anthropological and nomadologic

terms. According to pastoralist studies, nomads congregate in tribal con-

federations as a response to external pressures. The Zulu expansion during

the nineteenth century was motivated by the Dutch–British colonization of

Southern Africa (Barﬁeld 1993: 47). Yet, it is the thirteenth-century Mongol

empire that epitomizes the war machine. How do peaceful herdsmen

become terrifying warriors? How did a tiny population of pastoralists con-

quer both China and Russia? Main historical conditions include the rela-

tive prosperity of the Chinese empire as well as the uniﬁcation of Mongol

tribes under Temujin’s leadership; nonetheless, it was the rational milita-

rization of the mounted archer that secured Mongol supremacy over Asia

for over four centuries (Turnbull 2003; Torday 1997; Barﬁeld 1993).

According to Deleuze and Guattari, the mounted archer is a paradigmatic

30 Neo-nomadism

example of a machinic assemblage: inertial elements – animal, man, tool –

come together under certain circumstances resulting in extraordinary

effects: the continental conquest. At the realm of neo-nomadism, ‘raving’

also functions as a machinic assemblage (of music-body-drugs-dance) that

emerges under certain conditions (of digitalization, hypermobility, reﬂexiv-

ity, neo-liberalism), resulting in the undermining of the identitarian self

(D’Andrea 2004). Resonating with globalization as an eschatology that

derails cognitive abilities (Jameson 1991), Techno is the ﬁrst counterculture

to have emerged under the direct impact of global processes.

In sum, the neo-nomad instantiates the action of the postidentitarian

predicament upon the self, its identity and subjectivity, recoded under

conditions of globalization (Braidotti 1994: 1). Interpreting this action, at

the level of molecular aggregations, neo-nomadism develops as a war

machine that opposes the state, unleashing forces of chromatic variation

that breaks down molar formations, deterritorializing identities into the

smooth space of multiplicity. The tracing of a line of ﬂight opens up the

possibility of new experiences of the self and sociality, usually arising

from self-marginalized sites of modernity, yet developing from its center

toward the periphery and then back in an oscillatory pattern. The war

machine is not war but uncontrollable mobility that creates a smooth

space of creativity, beyond rather than against the state.

The war machine was the invention of the nomad, because it is in

its essence the constitutive element of smooth space, the occupation

of this space, displacement within this space, and the corresponding

composition of people: this is its sole and veritable positive object

(nomos). Make the desert, the steppe, grow; do not depopulate it,

quite the contrary. If war necessarily results, it is because the war

machine collides with States and cities, as forces (of striation) opposing

its positive object [. . .]. It is at this point that the war machine becomes

war: annihilate the forces of the State, destroy the State-form.

(Deleuze and Guattari 1980: 417)

Nomadic ethnography: methodological challenges

The empirical horizon of this research derived from a multi-sited mobile

ﬁeldwork which, assuming Ibiza and Goa as its analytical nodes, has

focused on the social and ritual life of expressive expatriates that live and

travel within global circuits of countercultural practice, contemporarily

embodied in Techno and New Age formations, and paradoxically enmeshed

in local politico-economical apparatuses of state and tourism. I have

conceptualized these people through the notion of expressive expatriation,

in order to avoid essentialist notions of migrant community or youth

subculture (as bounded ﬁxed entities), and to enable a direct assessment

of cultural patterns of globalization and counterculture, as outlined in

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previous sections. The research orientation is thus both idiographic and

nomothetic, examining speciﬁc empirical phenomena, in order to illumi-

nate and understand wider processes of cultural globalization.

As its basic hypothesis, this research proposes the existence of a global-

ized counterculture: mobile formations constituted by transnational ﬂows

of subjects, practices and imaginaries self-identiﬁed as cosmopolitan yet

critical of regimes of the nation-state, market and morality. More speciﬁc-

ally, Techno and New Age formations have been analyzed as ritual sites

of experience and meaning that dramatize how globalization processes

affect subjectivity forms, which tend to become more ﬂuidic, metamorphic

and cosmopolitan.

The basic methodological question is, therefore, how the postidentitarian

effects of cultural hypermobility can be empirically identiﬁed, analyzed,

measured, interpreted and generalized. Due to the disembedded nature of

social life under conditions of globalization, such transnational ﬂuidic form-

ations cannot be properly captured within the highly localized strategies

of conventional ethnography (Appadurai 1996: 52). Arjun Appadurai has

proposed the need of a ‘macro-ethnography of translocal sites’ in order to

address the new role of social imagination, which partially overlaps with

a mapping of transnational formations dubbed ‘scapes’ (p. 33). Yet, despite

the insightfulness of global metaphors (cyborg, scape, nomad, rhizome,

etc.), ‘there have been no guides for designing research that would exem-

plify and fulﬁll such visions. This requires a more literal discussion of

methodological issues, such as how to construct the multi-sited space

through which the ethnographer traverses’ (Marcus 1998: 89).

Some speciﬁc methodological issues must be considered in the ethnog-

raphy of hypermobile formations. First, taking on my critique of global

notions outlined above, global studies still need to integrate meaning and

scale into a model that is capable of addressing the topic of subjective inte-

riorities under conditions of globalization (Povinelli and Chauncey 1999).

Second, global nomadism must be understood less for its multi-sitedness

and more for its ﬂuidic and deterritorialized nature. As such, a strategy of

analysis must integrate displacement and deterritorialization as main

processes in the production of subjectivities and localities. Yet, third, a

research on cultural hypermobility is also challenged at the levels of data

collection and representation, since academic requirements of systematiza-

tion often contradict the intrinsically ﬂuidic, contingent and metamorphic

nature of neo-nomadic patterns. The activity of data collection must become,

accordingly, more ﬂexible, informal and context-dependent, partly mimick-

ing mobile phenomena in their own suppleness:

The key to doing research in complex transnational spaces devolves

less from methods, multidisciplinary teams, or theoretical frameworks

– although these are, of course, important – than from the suppleness

of imagination. Transnational migrants are exceedingly creative in

32 Neo-nomadism

ﬁnding regulatory loopholes, resolving daunting ﬁnancial problems,

or more globally, making their way through tough transnational spaces

that require imaginative and decisive solutions to ongoing economic,

political, social, and legal problems. If we can appropriate some of

that epistemological suppleness, we will understand a method that

will change the way we do anthropology.

(Stoller 1999: 92)

Having these issues in mind, I have sought to develop a methodology

that tries to integrate a nomadic sensibility toward routes and rituals of

mobility, with a notion of macro-ethnography that deploys methods

of multi-sitedness and translocality in context (Marcus 1998; Clifford

1997; Appadurai 1996). The result is a nomadic ethnography that tends

to undermine the excessively localized yet disengaged strategies that char-

acterize conventional ﬁeldwork: ‘These [new] techniques might be under-

stood as practices of construction through (preplanned or opportunistic)

movement and of tracing within different settings [. . .] given an initial

conceptual identity that turns out to be contingent and malleable as one

traces it’ (Marcus 1998: 90).

Using the fast car race as a metaphor, the ethnographer must expand

her perception of movement by going beyond the spectator gallery. By

engaging as a pilot, the analyst will richly perceive and experience the

trembling of slowly moving entities running at high speed through blurred

surroundings. By engaging movement within the movement, this analytics

of hypermobility displaces the geocentric (Ptolemaic) paradigm of main-

stream anthropology in favor of a relativist (Einsteinian) perception of

spatiality. This investigative disposition requires more than applying the

formula of ‘following the people’ (Marcus, p. 90). Nomadic ethnography

includes multi-site comparison, not as serial units of analysis, but as ‘a

function of the fractured, discontinuous plane of movement and discovery

among sites’ (p. 86). In simpler words of pragmatic effect and conceptual

repercussion, in addition to traveling toward the native, the analyst needs

to travel with and like the native, sharing positions, perspectives and sites

while on the move and throughout the uncontrollable and shifting circum-

stances of hypermobile ﬁeld research.

Even though each research project is tailored according to more speciﬁc

questions, some general procedures are likely to recur in nomadic ethnog-

raphy, more so during initial stages of ﬁeldwork. Agreeing with George

Marcus, this type of research ‘is designed around chains, paths, threads,

conjunctions, or juxtapositions of location in which the ethnographer

establishes some form of literal, physical presence with an explicit logic

of association or connection among sites that in fact deﬁnes the argument

of the ethnography’ (Marcus 1998: 90). The researcher must thus consider

the links among places, peoples and experiences, considered as heuristic

resources that may lead to a disclosure of underlying patterns, motivations

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and intervenient conditions that constitute mobile formations. Spatial and

cultural sites can be thus visualized as centrifugal vortexes (‘powerful and

ﬂuid currents’) by which local and translocal intertwinements can be more

easily detected. Although seemingly complicated at ﬁrst, this approach

compensates the initial effort by facilitating the scope of choices and infer-

ences in a second plateau of investigation.

As a general orientation, the analysis must assess political economies

and socio-cultural processes that envelop the hypermobile phenomena

under consideration. At the political–economic level, it is necessary to

investigate what is the role of material contexts in enabling and repro-

ducing neo-nomadic formations; how these formations participate in such

contexts; how different actors under variegated interests appropriate space;

and how translocal (global and national) forces enable and constrain prox-

imate contexts. At the cultural level, it must be asked what is the nature

of motivations and meanings that regiment subjects in hypermobile forma-

tions in given locales and circuits; how speciﬁc sites of experience and

meaning sustain their everyday life; and how their ritual practices entail

forms of subjectivity, intimacy and sociability enmeshed with mobility and

other global processes. In order to answer these questions, a host of sites,

scales and links must be considered in the design arrangement and the

implementation of the methodology, which will be structured at three

ethnographic levels:

1 Ethnography of mobile subjectivities, lifestyles and identities: in each

geographic site, the ﬁeldworker must identify and translate sub-scenes,

practices and imaginaries that constitute hypermobile formations

locally. Through analysis of ritual and social interactions, the goal is

to identify forms of subjectivity and sociality as well as the categories

that frame experience and interpretation.

2 Socio-economic contextualization of mobile scenes, subjects and

communities: in each geographic site, the ﬁeldworker must locate neo-

nomadic formations in socio-economic, political and environmental

contexts, both at local and translocal levels. It is necessary to under-

stand how economies (e.g. tourism, leisure, media), major morali-

ties and state surveillance affect trajectories and strategies of mobile

subjects and deterritorialized communities. This picture deﬁnes the

vertical integration of neo-nomadism in a given locale.

3 Translocal ethnography: the goal here is to identify the ﬂuidic and

connective nature of hypermobile formations across different spaces

(two, at most three, geographic locations), in order to verify their

horizontal integration beyond given locales. The ﬁeldworker must

identify which and how translocal ﬂows, circuits and webs sustain

hypermobile subjects and communities. The degree of overlap or

disjuncture between the vertical and horizontal pictures discloses how

neo-nomadic formations are integrated locally and globally.

34 Neo-nomadism

In this book, methods of data collection were geared toward generating

knowledge about the biographic, subcultural and contextual dimensions

of transnational countercultures, as an empirical phenomenon and a con-

ceptual instance of cultural globalization. These datasets therefore seek to

provide empirical elements whose analysis may illuminate the nature of

related agencies, meanings and structures. The methods mostly employed

in this research can be qualiﬁed as follows.

Archival search

Archival search of primary, press and scholarly sources were carried out

to inform other ﬁeldwork procedures, and was particularly useful before

and after the ﬁeldwork. Ibicencan and Goan newspapers, Techno and

New Age magazines and audio-visual materials, scholarly articles and tech-

nical reports were systematically clipped and indexed into a bibliographic

management software. Although open to novelties, three basic topics

remained central to this inquiry: (1) narratives about expressive expatri-

ation (trajectories, lifestyles and imaginaries); (2) relations between alterna-

tive formations and political-economic institutions deﬁning contexts of

constraint and deterritorialization; and (3) transnational circuits through

which alternative elements circulate, thus seeking to identify patterns of

mobility and ﬁxity.

Interview methods

According to ﬁeld observations and other studies, formal interviewing

methods may actually hinder data collection, depending on the topic of

analysis and circumstances surrounding the ethnographer-informant

rapport (Saldanha 1999; Stoller 1999). In order to secure good inﬂows

of information, I conducted mostly unstructured and informal interviews,

which were often resumed along random encounters, and always tran-

scribed as soon as possible. I sought to detect spatiotemporal itineraries,

economic strategies and life orientations that constitute countercultural

and expatriate formations. Information was consolidated in order to evince

patterns of social network and native categories. In this connection, I

frequently interrogated their opinions about visual and audio artifacts,

both countercultural and popular ones, as a way of identifying the native’s

point of view.

Ritual analysis

Participant observation in Techno and New Age rituals was a main method

of data collection in order to examine the multi-layered interrelations

among subjectivity, counterculture and globalization, in terms of social

structure and experience. Conceptualized as dramatic sites of cultural

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analysis, I attended holistic centers, nightclubs, Techno parties (raves) and

hippie markets, seeking to identify spatiotemporal narratives, performance

and interactivity. In speciﬁc rituals, I observed how key characters (ther-

apists and DJs) interacted with the audiences seeking to identify relations

of power and knowledge, as well as corporeality, affection and identity.

These datasets contributed to address the nature of subjectivity and

sociality forms prevailing within transnational countercultures.

Network analysis

By envisioning Ibiza and Goa as strategic lenses into global countercultures,

I sought to map the spatiotemporal ﬂows of subjects, practices, objects

and imaginaries outlining the shape and identity of global circuits. I located

their trajectories by means of interviews, follow-up (mostly email) corres-

pondence and by traveling with them. The goal was to identify nodes,

timings and periodicities that they adopt for moving and resting, in addition

to underlying motivations and strategies. By tracking a series of individual

trajectories (via ﬁrst or third person reports), I was able to detect recur-

rences which probabilistically outline a global map of alternative sites and

cycles. I paid particular attention to how mobile subjects manage economic

budgets (at daily, seasonal, yearly, and life cycles) and participate in local

and translocal environments and networks. These datasets contributed to

assess the possibilities and conditions that enable molecular trajectories

of mobility within the molar blocks and cracks of sedentary society in a

global age.

Book overview

Perhaps it is not surprising that an ethnography of hypermobility would

combine thick description with travelogue as its main narrative genre.

Although any research enterprise comprises a retrospective construction

which coadunates a priori objectives of inquiry with an a posteriori review

of empirical results, speciﬁc events in the empirical and methodological

horizons may confer a distinct shape to ethnographic representation. In

this book, rather than reclustering datasets according to discrete topics of

analysis, the multiple encounters between ethnographer and subjects, places

and situations are presented in a way that mostly reﬂects the actual chronol-

ogy of ﬁeld engagements in space and time. Each chapter is thus based on

a geographical location (Ibiza, Pune or Goa) where sub-sites (Techno and

New Age) and themes (biographies, scenes, contexts and ideologies) are

examined.

This genealogy of ﬁeld discoveries is very useful in devising an adequate

methodology for scrutinizing hypermobile formations. As such, it is neces-

sary to foreground ﬁeld engagements and the micro-decisions implied, as

they actually occurred, in order to evince how they impact on the ongoing

36 Neo-nomadism

assessment of research strategies, thus corresponding to a logic of inves-

tigation that is simultaneously rational and improvisational. In other

words, the genealogical thread induces an archaeology of cultural patterns

related to the effects of globalization upon self-identity and sociality forms,

as veriﬁed and anticipated in the transnational countercultures of expres-

sive expatriates.

At a very basic level, the book seeks to provide an unmediated account

of global countercultures and their proximate contexts. For a simple

reason, this move is necessary because, despite their inﬂuential interrela-

tions with mainstream societies, neo-nomadic formations remain largely

unknown in and outside academia. In this connection, this geneological-

archeological travelogue seems to be the narrative genre that best reﬂects

the need of a proximate interpretive account about hypermobile forma-

tions as a veritable ‘total social fact,’ to paraphrase Marcel Mauss. This

representational strategy seeks to enable an organic perception of the

spatiotemporality as restructured by cultural hypermobility, while reﬂecting

the rhizomatic and ﬂuidic nature of globalized formations. In addition, it

provides an ontology of countercultural subjectivity by which a sedentary

subject becomes a neo-nomad: minoritarian and metamorphic.

Besides this introductory chapter, the book comprises four ethnographic

chapters and a conclusion. The current Chapter 1 is titled ‘Neo-Nomadism:

a Theory of Postidentitarian Mobility in the Global Age,’ which, as it was

seen, develops a theoretical discussion on how hypermobility engenders

new forms of subjectivity and identity predicated on a pattern of chromatic

variation. As notions of network, diaspora and cosmopolitanism preclude

a better understanding of emerging forms of cultural hypermobility, I

propose that tropes of ﬂuidity, rootlessness and aesthetic sensibility must

be reassessed through the prism of nomadism, enabling an alternative way

of understanding global mobility as a trend and predicament. To that

end, the chapter is developed upon a dialogue between the anthropology

of pastoral nomadism and the philosophy of nomadology, suggesting neo-

nomadism as an ideal-type of postidentitarian mobility, a heuristic device

that describes and measures the interrelations of spatial displacement,

psychosocial deterritorialization and cosmopolitanism. The nomothetic

assessment of how such categories behave then seeks to shed light on

how deterritorialized phenomena imbricates with the plane of locality and

toward limited generalization. The term ‘neo-nomad,’ in sum, designates

a social type and a concept that refers to the loose institutionalization of

hypermobile strategies and post-identities in sites of intensiﬁed globaliza-

tion. The need of empirical engagement with such conceptual framework

leads us to the following ethnographic chapter.

Chapter 2 is titled ‘Expressive Expatriates in Ibiza: Hypermobility as

Countercultural Practice and Identity.’ It focuses on Euro Latin-American

expatriates who migrated to Ibiza island in order to shape an alterna-

tive lifestyle. The chapter identiﬁes their economic strategies, biographic

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Neo-nomadism 37

trajectories and social practices, all of which coalesce in a cosmopolitan cul-

ture of expressive individualism. By examining an economy of representa-

tions about expatriate life, the island and mainstream life, this mostly

descriptive chapter provides the ﬁrst stepping stone into the world of global

countercultures, and introduces the main empirical argument of research:

expressive expatriates embody hypermobility and expressivity as pivotal

counter-hegemonic practices of subjectivity and sociality formation in tune

with the effects of globalization. A contradiction, however, complicates this

picture: their presence on the island is a magnet that attracts a much larger

number of sedentary peoples, such as tourists and migrants, interrelating

with the development of socio-economic and state apparatuses that, at a

second moment, threaten the sustainability of alternative sites, practices and

imaginaries – a phenomenon that leads to the next chapter.

Chapter 3 is titled ‘The Hippie and Club Scenes in Ibiza’s Tourism

Industry.’ By focusing on the political economies of entertainment that

structure the island’s socio-economic life, this chapter elaborates on the

paradox of the commodiﬁcation of countercultures. To that end, a struc-

tural analysis of hippie markets and nightclubs is provided within the

contexts of mass tourism and modernization. In addition, critical evidence

is provided about the transnational character of these alternative scenes,

both locally and abroad. Expressive expatriates regularly travel to exotic

locations and their ambivalently valued homelands in a nomadic-like tri-

angulation. In particular, they value India highly, both in terms of the

exotic commodities that are brought to Ibiza’s boutiques and hippie

markets, as well as in terms of symbolic references to spiritual and body

practices, as instances of a reﬂexive aesthetics of existence. Considering

the material and symbolic signiﬁcance of romanticized (non-Western)

cultures within expressive expatriate formations, I was compelled to take

my ﬁeldwork to India.

Chapter 4 is titled ‘Osho International Meditation Resort: Subjectivity,

Counterculture and Spiritual Tourism in Pune,’ based on ethnographic

ﬁeldwork about a quasi-religious organization, fashioned as a ‘meditation

resort,’ located in Pune (India). Ibiza expatriates have been attending the

place, in a frequency that deﬁes statistical chance. There they engage with

meditation and therapy practices centered on the radical cultivation of the

self, as elements of what can be termed more generally as countercultural

spiritualities. The resort is inspired by the teachings of Osho, formerly

known as Bhagwan Rajneesh, who died in 1990. After an outline of the

organizational structure, typical groups and biographies, the chapter ana-

lyzes main ritual practices that disclose core tensions in the formation of

Western subjectivities. Upon evidence, I examine two contradictions: ﬁrst,

how the organization simultaneously promotes and controls expressive

behavior, and, second, how countercultural therapies fail to intervene in

non-Western subjects. These conundrums are considered within the context

38 Neo-nomadism

of a gentriﬁed commodiﬁcation of Osho resort (an ‘ashram’ turned into a

‘commune’ and then into a posh ‘resort’). However, dissenting voices have

broken apart from this ofﬁcial orientation and seasonally gather in ‘under-

ground’ sites of transgression and illegality located in northern Goa, leading

to the subject of the next chapter.

Chapter 5 is titled ‘Techno Trance Tribalism in Goa: The Elementary

Forms of Nomadic Spirituality.’ It identiﬁes the main economic, social,

biographic and cultural elements that constitute the ‘Goa trance scene’ in

Goa, known as the global capital of Techno trance counterculture,

attracting thousands of ‘trance freaks’ from all over the world each

winter season. The chapter examines the extent to which such formations

instantiate and illuminate issues of mobility and marginality in relation

to contexts of globalization: the contact zone and global countercultures.

The chapter thus analyzes how expatriates have to negotiate with local

actors and forces in order to territorialize the trance scene in Goa, and

consequently to enable the ritualization of alternative subjectivities, iden-

tities and socialities. More speciﬁcally, I argue that a trance party is a

ritual practice whose patina of sacredness dangerously problematizes the

modern self by means of a nomadic spirituality, basic category that sustains

meanings and practices of a postidentitarian lifestyle. Finally, the chapter

opens up for a discussion about the interrelations between spatial and

subjective deterritorialization, by assessing ﬁeld evidence with seminal

studies on the psychiatry of travel, and under the light of Deleuzian schizo-

analysis.

This study is located within global and critical studies, which I attempt

to integrate by means of an empirical and conceptual investigation of

countercultural expatriation. As such, in the context of globalization,

Techno and New Age formations, particularly those of expressive expa-

triates, are assessed as globalized phenomena that express and entail the

socio-spatiotemporal disjuncture of globalization: mobility, digitalism,

multiculturalism and reﬂexivity. In speciﬁc, the investigation of the ﬂuid

cosmopolitan features of expressive expatriates requires the development

of new methodologies of translocality and network mapping which I have

sought to outline in this chapter.

In the context of modernity, these countercultural formations are exam-

ined as sites of experience, meaning and struggle that contradictorily resist

and reﬂect modern regimes of subjectivity formation (see discussion on

biopower and aesthetics above). The hypothesis is that Techno and New Age

coalesce in a counter-apparatus whose practices foster metamorphic and

post-national forms of subjectivity, identity and sociality, as instantiated in

semi-peripheral sites of aesthetic-erotic experimentation, such as the cos-

mopolitan pockets of Ibiza and Goa. This counter-hegemonic apparatus seeks

to depart from the modern regimes of the market, state and morality that

forge the modern subject of sexuality (desire, discipline and consumption),

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heralding the possibility of alternative experiential–institutional–ideological

formations, here termed ‘post-sexuality.’ In sum, I attempt to examine how

the hypermobile and expressive practices of neo-nomadism refer to a ﬁeld of

possibilities, contradictions and agencies that is in tune with the rise of

complex globalization.

40 Neo-nomadism

2 Expressive expatriates

in Ibiza

Hypermobility as countercultural

practice and identity

‘Si vols ser algú, acudeix a Eivissa.’

‘If you want to be somebody, go to Ibiza.’

El Temps magazine, 2000

Introduction: ‘ﬂuidity of experiences’ in Ibiza

Summer 1998, Barcelona – my pre-ﬁeldwork explorations on transnational

networks of alternative spirituality in Spain were coming to a standstill.

Just as in any other big city, New Age practices, artifacts and symbols

have become innocuous commodities for a gentriﬁed middle class, losing

its original drive to re-form subjectivities beyond religious dogma and

modern fragmentation. However, while I reassessed my ﬁeld engagements,

I also noticed a rising culture of electronic dance music which excited seg-

ments of the urban youth in dynamic cities such as Barcelona, Paris and

Chicago. As these enthusiasts claimed, Techno culture heralds the possi-

bility of self-emancipation by means of the new technologies of digital art,

manifested in multimedia dance events characterized by their effervescent

nature and the digitalization of spiritual tropes. Upon these pieces of evi-

dence, I questioned to what extent Techno and New Age would share the

same cultural space dedicated to issues of self-formation in a globalized

world. In terms of research operationalization, I was told that Ibiza would

be the best place in Spain for conducting this type of investigation.

A few days later, I attended a yoga teleconference in uptown Barcelona,

and, by chance, met Nora, a yoga teacher and American expatriate who,

by sheer coincidence, lived in Ibiza. As I mentioned my interests in devel-

oping a ﬁeld study on the island, she agreed with my ideas, and noted

that there was a ‘guest room’ in her apartment whose informal reserva-

tion had been canceled. I thus extended my pre-ﬁeldwork into Ibiza, and

found an extremely rich site for investigating the interrelations between

countercultures and globalization.

Ibiza is a small island in the Spanish Mediterranean, long imagined

as a ‘utopian paradise.’ The 1969 cult ﬁlm More (with soundtrack by the

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band Pink Floyd) depicts Ibiza as an atemporal garden where young bodies

explore hedonistic pleasures in unimaginable freedom. In addition, Ibiza

is ‘the clubbing capital of the world,’ featuring the largest and the best

nightclubs on the planet (Dancestar 2004; Guinness 2003). With a popu-

lation of 108,000 inhabitants, Ibiza socio-economic life is largely dependent

on tourism, which brings about 1.7 million visitors each year (Govern de

les Illes Balears – Conselleria de Turisme 2006, 2003; Govern de les Illes

Balears – IBAE 2004). In anticipation of the detailed statistical data

provided below, it must be noted that, along with many social indicators,

Ibiza features one of the highest per-capita income rates of Spain. On the

other hand, mass tourism resulted in intense urbanization and ecological

degradation of its resources and landscape. As a result, the international

press has come to benchmark Ibiza ambivalently, either as an exciting

paradise or as a saturated tourist trap. This begs the question of why,

among so many tour destinations, has Ibiza become an index of (a threat-

ened) paradise on earth.

Ibiza’s demographic proﬁle is revealing. About half the island’s popu-

lation is non-Ibicencan, mostly working-class people from mainland Spain,

42 Expressive expatriates in Ibiza

SAN

ANTONIO

IBIZA

ISLAND

IBIZA

ISLAND

IBIZA

TOWN

SANTA

EULALIA

PORTINATX

SANTA

INES

SAN

MATEO

CALA

D'AUBARCA

CALA

BENIRRAS

SAN

MIGUEL

PORT

SAN MIGUEL

CALA

XARRACA

SAN

JUAN

CAN

SORT

SANTA

GERTRUDIS

CALA

D'EN SERRA

SAN

VICENTE

AGUAS

BLANCAS

SAN

CARLOS

LAS

DALIAS

CALA

MASTELLA

CANAR

HIPPIE

MARKET

CALA

LLONGA

SOL

D'EN SERRA

PLAYA

S'ESTANYOL

TALAMANCA

JESUS

MOTEL

SAN

RAFAEL

SAN

JORGE

FIGERETAS

PLAYA D'EN BOSSA

PLAYA ES

CAVALLET

SES

SALINES

PLAYA DES

CODOLAR

CALA

JONDAL

CUBELLS

SAN

JOSE

CALA

D'HORT

CALA

VEDELLA

VEDRA

CALA

TARIDA

CALA

CODOLAR

CALA

CONTA

CALA

BASSA

CALA

SALADE

PUNTA

GALERA

MAMBO

CAFE DEL MAR

QPQ

AMNESIA

PRIVILEGE

EDEN ES PARADIS

KUMHARAS

SUMMUM

PORT DES

TORRENT

NAIF

KMS

COVA

SANTS

JOCKEY

ON BEACH

CALETA

DC10

SAN TRINCHA

SPACE, BORA BORA

& KONGA

BLUE ROSE

PACHA

EL DIVINO

AEROPUERTO

Figure 2.1 Ibiza map – the main road from Eivissa to Sant Antoni extends for

14 km.

Source: Courtesy of Ronnie and Stephen Randall.

Latin America and Africa. As they emphasize, economic advantage is their

basic motivation for migrating to the island, where they mostly work in

the construction and hospitality sectors. A segment of wealthy European

citizens, mostly Germans and British, purchase their ‘second homes’ in

Ibiza, while isolating themselves in ethnocentric enclaves, criticized by the

Spanish press for their limited interest in local culture. For many of them,

Spain merely provides good real-estate opportunities coupled with the

notion of ‘home-plus-sun.’

However, another segment of foreign residents do not ﬁt any of these

migrant or expatriate types. They came neither for better wages nor for

reproducing their nation in sunny lands. Quite the contrary, they left their

homelands in order to shape a singular lifestyle, by which they attempt

to integrate labor, leisure and spirituality in a cosmopolitan and expres-

sive fashion. In fact, many have abandoned favorable material conditions

(income, career, prestige) in their homelands and accepted a new order

of instabilities that characterize alternative careers in semi-peripheral loca-

tions, as long as they feel that they can actualize cherished values of

autonomy, experimentation and expression. These ‘expressive expatriates’

become hippie traders, handcrafters, musicians, DJs, party promoters, body

therapists, yoga teachers, gardeners, food artisans, spiritual healers, drug

dealers, tour guides, alternative entrepreneurs, etc. Most are drawn from

educated, middle or upper social strata in advanced societies, often well

connected to artistic, cultural and economic elites both locally and abroad.

In their biographies, experiences of mobility are signiﬁcant and usually

related with some cosmopolitan interest. As a result, nationalities are fading

references in the increasingly hyphenated mosaic of mixing citizenships.

Many expressive expatriates are born of bohemian or artistic parents of

differing nationalities, hold dual or multiple citizenships, and speak various

languages ﬂuently. Their cosmopolitan taste often verges on naive xeno-

philia, as they report intense experiences with traveling, propelled not by

strict business interest but rather by a personal quest frequently referred

to as ‘spiritual’ or ‘existential.’ Many have lived in three or more coun-

tries, including long stays in South Asia or Latin America. India in par-

ticular stands as a very important symbolic, and even material reference.

Mobility thus seems to lie at the core of how expressive expatriates culti-

vate self-identities and lifestyles.

Quantitatively, they comprise a smaller share of the 12 per cent of non-

Spanish inhabitants who are ofﬁcially recognized as residing on the island

(Govern de les Illes Balears – IBAE 1996). Nevertheless, the following

observation requires our attention:

Demographic data do not reﬂect the ﬂuidity of experiences taking

place in Ibiza. The island has seen a quantity of foreigners that is

much higher than what a census can register. [. . .] Many travelers

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Expressive expatriates in Ibiza 43

stop by Ibiza and Formentera for undetermined periods, while many

others voluntarily have chosen the islands to enjoy a different lifestyle.

(Rozenberg 1990: 117)

In this chapter, I examine this ‘ﬂuidity of experiences’ as a result of

transnational mobility and aesthetic reﬂexivity which are constitutive

features of neo-nomadic lifestyles. As such, I seek to demonstrate that

mobility is more than spatial displacement for expressive expatriates: it

also corresponds to reﬂexive forms of subjectivity formation that seek to

eschew dominant apparatuses of the nation-state, market and society

(biopower – see theoretical discussion in Chapter 1, pp. 17–23). In addi-

tion, I propose that Ibiza’s problematic modernization in part derives from

the entwinement between globalization and countercultural formations on

the island. In other words, Ibiza’s utopian imaginary has arisen from the

continuous presence of these self-marginalized subjects who inadvertently

occupy the center of its creative life, an expatriate populace that crafts

much of the seductive charm of the island. As such, ‘the social study of

Ibiza is paradigmatic for those who interrogate the development of contem-

porary societies’ (Rozenberg 1990: 3).

This chapter is divided into four main sections. First, socio-economic

data about Ibiza is provided as an outline of the general contexts that

embed expatriate formations locally. Second, I identify typical biographic

trajectories as well as media representations of expressive expatriation,

as evidence that indicates how mobility practices are interrelated with

utopian imaginaries, particularly in privileged locations. Third, I examine

‘international schools’ as an instance of the tense institutionalization of

expatriate ideals vis-à-vis main legal and moral apparatuses. These are

small privately run organizations that, originally founded by expatriate

teachers under the countercultural inﬂuences of the 1970s, currently

embody a heteroclite, often contradictory host of parochial, nationalist

and cosmopolitan orientations, which sheds light on issues of education,

citizenship and cosmopolitanism in a global age. Fourth, the chapter further

elaborates on the cultural dimension of expressive lifestyles, by examining

spiritual and bohemian practices, as well as by detecting the limits of such

expatriate cosmopolitanism, as the concern with the self often stumbles

in narcissistic discourses about the exotic Other. In sum, this chapter

unravels a pattern of religious individualism that I call ‘nomadic spiritu-

ality,’ a notion that accounts for the multiple experimentation with

practices and discourses of self-development that seek to attain certain

states of behavior, desire and interiority.

Ibiza contexts: entering the ﬁeld

I usually took the overnight ferryboat from Barcelona to Ibiza in my ﬁeld

trips from 1998 to 2003. The ship was modest in size and comfort, but

44 Expressive expatriates in Ibiza

large enough to accommodate several dozen vehicles inside. From the rear

deck, teenagers watched the harbor shrinking in size, as the boat slowly

dragged itself out of the maze of industrial docks, and then ﬁrmly heading

south. Speakers ampliﬁed the bored voice making announcements in

Spanish, English and Catalan. As the night grew damper and colder, only

a few youngsters remained outside, drinking beer and smoking hashish.

A solitary female ‘hippie’ wearing a poncho stared at the dark horizon,

while a dreadlocked ‘freak’ couple held an ethnic drum. The atmosphere

indoors was quite different. In noisy halls, serious women wearing vintage

dresses looked after their boxes of sweets and other gifts. Daring tourists

tried the restaurant, with its food of dubious quality and rude staff, while

others chatted loudly in smoke-clouded bars. Later in the night, the monot-

onous humming of boat engines resonated with the snoring of passengers

here and there. In the large passenger room, someone passing by would

invariably wake me up. I got up and walked over the legs of those sleeping

across the passageway. Speakers then announced that breakfast was being

served, and arrival was due in a couple of hours.

Out in the open, a beautiful sunrise and a cold morning breeze stood

in contrast. Alongside the east coast of Ibiza island, the boat passed

Tagomago rock, and the white-dotted town of Santa Eulária. Groggy pas-

sengers came out in the wind, juggling with jacket buttons, cigarettes and

cameras. The boat ﬁnally turned right into the bay of ‘Ibiza town’ (known

as Eivissa by natives). On the left side, the imposing medieval fortress over-

hangs uptown. On the right side, people danced by the ﬂashing lights of

a marina terrace, the elegant nightclub El Divino. Down in the harbor a

dozen people waved at acquaintances on the boat side decks. Tour guides

yawned, holding logo plaques and mobile phones, ready for their workday.

I usually chose the ferry trip over the forty-minute ﬂight, mostly for

ethnographic reasons. Despite being somewhat tiresome, the spatio-

temporal insulation of the maritime journey seemed to remit passengers

and crew into a space of hopes and stereotypes that in part reﬂects social

life in Ibiza. The boat trip could in a sense be seen as a ritual, performed

in quasi-ceremonial timings, spatializations and behavioral patterns. More

personally, it somehow facilitated my tuning in with the island, literally

making me feel ‘the entrance in the ﬁeld.’

Geographically, Ibiza is located in the Western Mediterranean sea, about

92 km east of the city of Valencia in the peninsula, and in an imaginary

line that vertically links Barcelona to the Algerian coast.

Being the third

largest of the Balearic Islands (Mallorca, Menorca, Ibiza and Formentera),

it extends 41 km by 19 km, comprising a total area of 541 sq km. Due

to its smallness and isolation, Ibiza displays a high level of insularity both

in geographical and psychological terms (Maurel 1988). The topography

consists of elevations of about 400 m high, smooth tops, irregular shapes

and open valleys. The coast is characterized by steep cliff formations and

only a few sand strips. The climate is Mediterranean with sub-tropical

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Expressive expatriates in Ibiza 45

inﬂuence: mostly warm and dry, with an average temperature of 17°C

rising to 25°C during the summer. Moderate rain falls during early autumn,

while the winter is fresh and humid. Vegetation and fauna are poor,

restricted to small pine and olive trees, seabirds and salamanders (Maurel

1998).

Tourism is responsible for 80 per cent of Ibiza’s wealth (Govern de les

Illes Balears – IBAE 2004; Maurel 1988). With a 108,000 population,

this tiny island hosted over 1.7 million tourists each year during the early

2000s, generating annual revenues of US$1.5 billion

(Govern de les Illes

Balears – IBAE 2004; Govern de les Illes Ballears – Conselleria de Turisme

2003; Govern de les Illes Ballears – Conselleria d’Economia 2002). Seven

mega-nightclubs are a pivotal attraction. It has been estimated that about

11 per cent of visitors fall into the ‘club tourism’ category (El Temps

2000). Ofﬁcial ﬁgures indicate that Ibiza’s clubs and disco-pubs amass

annual revenues of about US$110 million (Govern de les Illes Ballears –

Conselleria de Turisme 2002). In this connection, tabloid press and tourism

campaigns in Europe capitalize on the idea of ‘sun, fun and sex galore,’

attracting a carefree youthful clientele, as an important segment of the

tourist activity. In general, most tourists are drawn from the British and

German working class (40 and 20 per cent of the total, respectively),

followed by the Spanish and Italian middle class (15 per cent each) (Govern

de les Illes Ballears – Conselleria de Turisme 2006: 23). As economic ﬂuc-

tuations in Britain and Germany have a direct impact on local tourism,

Ibiza has been seeking to diversify its clientele by recurring to Spanish

and other national markets.

Overall, local governments have been trying to moderate the intense

urbanization and hotel concentration which followed the airport’s opening

to international ﬂights in 1966 (Ramón-Fajarnés 2000; Joan I Mari 1997).

But high seasonality remains as a problematic feature of Ibiza’s tourism,

since 70 per cent of visits are concentrated in the period between June

and September. This creates environmental pressures on water and energy,

in addition to problems with pollution, trafﬁc jams and social stress. In

correspondence, seasonal unemployment affects the population during

winter, even though the state provides welfare beneﬁts. By all means, after

centuries of poverty and isolation, La Isla Blanca often tops Spanish and

even European rankings for economic growth and per-capita income, as

well as social indexes for inﬂation, consumption, divorce and drug abuse

(Govern de les Illes Ballears – Conselleria d’Economia 2002; Joan I Mari

1997; Rozenberg 1990). While gaining a reputation for such rampant

massiﬁcation and hedonistic debauchery, Ibiza has dazzled as a charis-

matic icon of freedom and pleasure among segments of Western youth.

Politico-administratively, the island’s capital Eivissa has a population

of 35,000. Among expatriates and tourists, it is known as ‘Ibiza town.’

The island has four district towns (Sant Antoni, Santa Eulária, Sant Josep

and San Joan) and various small parish villages.

An Insular Council

46 Expressive expatriates in Ibiza

located in Eivissa is democratically elected to govern the islands of Ibiza

and Formentera (smaller portion in the south with 4,000 inhabitants –

both islands are known as Pitiusas). The council reports to a larger inter-

insular organization located on Palma de Mallorca, the largest of the

Balearic Islands. Likewise, Catalan is the language adopted in bureau-

cratic and educational systems, as Balearic populations speak both Spanish

and local dialects of Catalan (Ibicenco, Mallorquín and Menorquín). In

the electoral arena, after decades of conservative rule in Ibiza, a coalition

of the Socialist and Green parties was elected to power in 1999, reﬂecting

general concerns with environmental and urban issues. However, backed

by the mighty hotel and tourist sectors, the right-wing Popular party

regained power in 2003, and actively sought to cancel the chief Socialist

deliberations: the ‘construction ban’ that had revoked most building

licenses in the countryside, and the ‘ecotasa,’ a tourist tax charged on

hotel guests for funding environmental projects.

Demographically, Ibiza displays a very peculiar conﬁguration, as census

agencies diverge on exact ﬁgures. According to the 2001 national census,

Ibiza had 93,000 inhabitants (against 76,000 in 1991, 64,000 in 1981,

45,000 in 1971 and 38,000 in 1961). However, two years later, this ﬁgure

jumped to 108,000 (Govern de les Illes Balears – IBAE 2004). This discrep-

ancy stems from the amnesty which incorporated a number of unregistered

foreign migrants. In private correspondence, a state technician explained

to me, ‘Considering that the Pitiusas have witnessed strong immigration in

recent years, it has become difﬁcult to know their exact population at any

speciﬁc moment.’ In terms of origin, about 55 per cent of island residents

were born in Ibiza, 35 per cent are immigrants from mainland Spain (mostly

working-class families from Andalusia, and the remainder from Catalonia,

Valencia and Castilla), and the remaining 10 to 15 per cent are foreign,

dual and multinational citizens of the EU and abroad (Govern de les Illes

Balears – IBAE 1996). In decreasing order, foreigners are Germans, British,

Latin Americans, Moroccans, French, Italians, Dutch, in addition to a

myriad of other nationalities. This mosaic reﬂects the ﬂuidity of foreigners

living and moving across the island, in ways that render impossible to

quantify precisely the expatriate population (Rozenberg 1990).

Spatial and inner mobility: traveling and nomadic

spirituality

Upon disembarkation, I took a bus to Sant Antoni on the West coast of

the island. Nora lived near ‘The Egg,’ a Columbus monument located

beside the marina sidewalk. It was 9:00 and street commerce was just

about opening. Only a few people were on the streets. Rowdy groups of

white kids were apparently returning from a night out, as they looked

untidy and drunk, stumbling and speaking English with a sharp British

working-class accent.

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Expressive expatriates in Ibiza 47

Nora rented the top (third) ﬂoor of an empty building located at the

end of a sunny alley. She divided the apartment into two areas. The

‘working area’ comprised two rooms. The largest was reserved for yoga

classes, with wide curtains hiding the veranda, and pictures of body chakras

(centers of energy), Hindu gods and the Indian guru Gurumayi were on

the wall. The smaller room was reserved for massage therapy, and con-

tained a massage table, sets of colorful crystals, a CD player and a map

of the human feet (for reﬂexology massage). The ‘more intimate’ area, in

Nora’s words, comprised three bedrooms, for herself, her daughter and

summer guests, besides a bathroom. A light curtain separated both areas

by the kitchen, where clients, friends and acquaintances usually gathered

before or after sessions.

The apartment location reﬂected the juxtaposition of rural and urban

sceneries characteristic of Ibiza. The front area faced a ten-story hotel which

catered for expansive British kids in ‘party mode’ during the summer. In

contrast, the three bedrooms enjoyed a bucolic view of the countryside

with a few hotels dotting in white an olive-green hill at the horizon. Nobody

lived on the two ﬂoors below. The building belonged to a hard-working

native family. Two years later, an English DJ and I rented the smaller

ground-level apartment during the season. Toward the end of my doctoral

ﬁeldwork, Nora moved out, as the family had plans to revamp the building,

renting out rooms for foreign seasonal workers and young tourists.

Nora’s daughter Adina was 12 years old when I ﬁrst met her in 1998. A

few years later she initiated a career in modeling. Her multinational back-

ground was typical of expressive expatriates. Adina spoke ﬂuent Spanish,

English, German, Catalan and French. Born in Ibiza, she held rights for

48 Expressive expatriates in Ibiza

Figure 2.2 Expatriate children at a hippie party.

three citizenships. Her father was a musician and judo teacher, a German

expatriate (separated from Nora when she was four). Adina deﬁned her

national identity in complex ways, assessing her sentimental and rational

preferences over different afﬁliations, settings and labor possibilities. Nora

commented: ‘Adina should follow her heart and her mind when making

decisions.’ She believed that Adina’s terms of allegiance should be deﬁned

not in relation to nationalist ties but to her own personal aspirations.

This multinational proﬁle embarrassed Adina in the predominantly

parochial environments of Sant Antoni, a town mostly populated by

working-class residents and tourists. At school, she stood out from other

Spanish kids due to the expressive occupations of her parents (yoga teacher

and musician), a Germanic-like semblance, multiple language skills and

travel experiences. Nevertheless, Adina remarked to have friends ‘like me,’

she said: multinational, multilingual, often multiethnic, children of expa-

triate parents. Stevie was her best friend, a Dutch-Spanish citizen, also a

polyglot at age 11. Her mother was a Dutch handcrafter who had lived

in India and become a ‘sannyasin’ (a disciple of Osho/Rajneesh). During

vacation months, Stevie traveled with her family to Madrid, Holland or

Argentina. Such patterns of cosmopolitan mobility were recurrently veri-

ﬁed among most expatriate children.

Nora’s biography and motivations well illustrate those of most expres-

sive expatriates, as will become clear throughout the book. Daughter of

trade unionists in California, Nora studied dance, French and psychology

as an undergraduate at Iowa and Berkeley. In the late 1970s, she moved

to Paris in order to develop language and dance skills, but she felt that

she was stagnating after a few years, because her career did not develop

as she had wished. Dissatisﬁed, it was suggested that she take a break in

Ibiza. She fell in love with the island and decided to move there. In order

to make a living, Nora began teaching yoga classes, a system that she

had learned from her mother during childhood. Nora also worked as a

musician at hotels with her German partner. After separation, Nora went

to India and stayed in an ashram, and had plans to live there. In the

ashram, she worked as a translator in various meditation workshops.

However, a disagreement with the management led her to return to Ibiza,

where she developed a small business with a Colombian expatriate,

producing and selling tofu (soy cheese) at ‘hippie’ (touristy) markets. This

brief summary of Nora’s biographic trajectory reveals a signiﬁcant level

of travel and residence in different countries (the US, France, Spain, India),

which begs the questions of why Nora decided to return to and stay in

Ibiza for so many years (since 1984). She explained:

Ibiza is a very powerful place like nowhere else. But if I didn’t have

Adina I would have traveled more, maybe coming to Ibiza and staying

here for a while from time to time. I decided to stay here because Spain

is a good place to raise a child. After separation, I could have come

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Expressive expatriates in Ibiza 49

back to America, but that country is just too paranoid, they see a

child, and say “don’t touch, don’t touch!” while, here, people are more

relaxed, they are warmer. They may hold your child, say marvels, and

everything is all right. Adina would not be as happy in America, and

she knows it, although she loves to visit her grandparents in California.

Later, when she grows up, she can decide where she wants to live and

what to do. And maybe I will move again.

In this passage, Nora rejects the homeland for cultural traits that she

renders negative. Her basic concern was in raising a child, a situation that

made her less mobile than a childless adult. She also claims that Spain is

‘healthier’ than the US for raising a child – a comparison between a less

and a more ‘developed’ country, which more deeply indexes the Romantic

dismay with excessive civilization. Yet, Nora also notes that Ibiza is more

interesting than the rest of Spain, and emphasizes that the island is unique

in allowing her ‘to be [herself]’ and ‘to learn how to grow’:

In Ibiza you do whatever you want, and nobody will judge you. You

can wear anything you want. Unlike other parts of Spain, you can

do anything here, and just be yourself, and this is very important to

me. The island has a group of very interesting people from all over

the world. Everybody who came here has some ‘issues’ with the places

they come from, and this is why they came. In Ibiza I learn a lot

about myself, and it has really helped me to grow.

As I recurrently heard from many other expatriates, Ibiza was ascribed

a key-role in enabling them to cultivate an expressive lifestyle. They appre-

ciated Ibiza in a way that was unseen among natives. In fact, various

non-governmental organizations with cultural or environmental ends on

the island were founded by these expatriates. Nora was just one case of

cosmopolitan expatriates who dearly cared about topics of holistic well-

ness, travel and self-development. As this and next chapters will evince,

these subjects play a pivotal role in shaping the island’s ‘scenes’ of club-

bers, gays, bohemians, hippies and New Agers, all of which index tropes

of art, leisure, hedonism and spirituality.

Nora basically worked as a massage therapist and yoga teacher. During

the summer, her workday was ﬂexible yet quite intense. She would get

up around 9:00, depending on her schedule, and practice yoga for one

hour. Her breakfast was usually macrobiotic, with herbal tea, porridge

with spices, organic bread – no dairy products. She would then place a

massage table in the car, a Renault 4L (‘cuatro latas,’ a hippie pun meaning

‘four pieces of tin,’ in reference to the rustic model popular among alter-

natives – years later Nora bought a more modern car), and drive to attend

wealthy clients around the island.

50 Expressive expatriates in Ibiza

A typical summer day for Nora is described next. She had an appoint-

ment for massage therapy at 11:00 in Ibiza town. While driving, Nora

jocosely taught me about a typology of tourists, according to islanders

and alternative expatriates. German tourists are dubbed ‘cap quadrats’

(squared heads, in Ibicencan dialect), an expression denoting the allegedly

mechanic ways, narrow-mindedness and body clumsiness of mainstream

Germans. English tourists are pejoratively known as ‘lager louts,’ due to

the excessive alcohol consumption and their expansive behavior that

regularly distressed Sant Antoni inhabitants.

In Ibiza town we parked at D’Alt Villa, historical uphill sector of ancient

houses in a maze of alleys surrounded by thick fortress walls. Nora’s

client was a German businesswoman who suffered back pains. Nora

bemoaned, ‘Like many people, they don’t want to change their lifestyle.

All they want is a temporary ﬁx.’ We met an hour later, and she seemed

a bit upset about the dismissive manner by which her client handed her

the money. Nora charged Ptas 10,000 (pesetas) (about US$66) for a domi-

ciliary session.

With some free time available before the next appointment, Nora sug-

gested a quick dive in a beach nearby. Although within the urban perimeter

of Eivissa, it was a highly secluded area, down a vertical cliff. It consisted

of a small patch of sand surrounded by large rocky cliffs. There were a

few couples – all men and all naked. Nora informed me that it was a gay

area. She also stripped off, and plunged into the sea. Afterward, she

exclaimed, ‘Ah, wonderful! I feel so energized! I need it . . . ’

We headed toward the hotel on the outskirts of Sant Antoni. It was a

large resort hosting mostly Austrian families. Nora entered the massage

room located near a swimming pool, and attended two tourists in a row.

The hotel management telephoned her to arrange appointments. They paid

Ptas 4,000 (US$27) for a ﬁfty-minute massage. Despite the smaller remu-

neration, Nora considered it to be a good deal since it provided extra

income, which compensated for the scarcity of work during wintertime.

We had to rush, as another massage was scheduled at 18:00 in her

home. We arrived just in time. Nora gave some house instructions to

Adina who was playing the piano, and went for a quick shower. Nora

entered the massage room for a few moments of silence, by relaxing New

Age music, as she later explains. Adina opened the door to a foreign lady

who then waited in the kitchen. She was a Dutch expatriate who worked

in public relations. Nora charged Ptas 8,000 (US$53) for a one-hour session

at her home, but many clients tipped her an extra, totaling 10,000.

Among the island residents Nora was better known as a yoga teacher,

her ﬁrst and long-term professional activity since her arrival in Ibiza.

Taught by her mother, yoga had been part of her life since childhood.

The need to work compelled Nora to teach it. Nevertheless, she also felt

the need of an ofﬁcial certiﬁcation.

During a stay in London, she there-

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fore attended a training course at a Shivananda Center, but it only served

to conﬁrm within herself that she was already capable of teaching yoga.

In fact, the director invited Nora to teach yoga at a retreat for British

tourists in Egypt, and they have been friends since then.

Nora taught four yoga classes per week. Charging a Ptas 500 fee per

person and seven participants on average per class, Nora earned Ptas 3,500

(US$23) each time. Yoga thus corresponded to a minor share of her

income. Nonetheless, she maintained the classes as she considered them

rewarding to herself and her students on both an emotional and spiritual

level. She claimed to gain ‘energy’ and to be able to ‘focus [her] mind,’

attributes that she deemed to be necessary during the hectic summer days.

She was also pleased that her students beneﬁted from yoga. In a survey

for a radio interview, they reported that they experienced body aware-

ness, physical health and emotional balance due to their yoga practice.

In addition to yoga, Nora hosted several alternative practices at her

home, for she was avidly interested in learning other body and spiritual

techniques (such as macrobiotics, Bach ﬂower remedies, chromotherapy,

chiropractice and Biodance). She rented out the large yoga room to other

colleagues and often joined their sessions. A couple of Brazilian therapists

imparted group sessions of a body-movement practice called Biodance (to

be examined later). A Spanish expatriate

physician led an active medi-

tation practice called ‘Osho Dynamic Meditation.’ Like Stevie’s mother,

they were coincidentally followers of Osho, and attended his communes

in Pune (India) and Oregon (US). Chapter 4 focuses on the Osho move-

ment, but sufﬁce it to say at this point that Osho was a polemical spiritual

leader, renowned for his heterodox meditation and therapy techniques

coupled with a radical critique of religion and society. Known as ‘neo-

sannyasins,’ his disciples sought to live a liberating lifestyle that afﬁrms

both mundane and spiritual experiences.

In between sessions, people informally gathered at the kitchen or main

room, and desultorily shared comments about an exercise, arranged meet-

ings or social outings, and paid fees. These relations extended beyond strict

professional-monetary relations that characterize therapeutic settings in big

urban centers. Instead, they were part of webs of warm sociability that

included a larger number of acquaintances and practitioners of the alter-

native world. These relations also ramiﬁed into other social and economic

spaces, such as hippie markets, nude beaches, sunset bars, nightclubs, trance

parties, etc. To be further explored in this chapter, they prioritized ideals

of self-exploration, integrating expression, pleasure and intuitive insight

within a cosmopolitan community of like-minded individuals.

Because of the multiplicity of national backgrounds, expressive expatri-

ates developed singular linguistic abilities. Besides Spanish and English,

they could swiftly shift into a third, often a fourth language or dialect,

back and forth dexterously. German and Dutch expatriates tended to speak

52 Expressive expatriates in Ibiza

more languages, whereas British and Mediterranean ones were usually more

limited in their linguistic skills. Ibicencans spoke Spanish and Catalan ﬂu-

ently, but fared poorly in English, even in the British-dominated Sant

Antoni. In my case, I noticed that in Ibiza I employed English and Spanish

almost equally, in addition to some Portuguese and improvised pidgins of

Romanic languages. These multiple linguistic exchanges are characteristic

of a ‘contact zone’ that concentrates a diversity of natives, migrants, expa-

triates and tourists. This notion will be particularly important and resumed

in Chapter 5.

It was in this context of multicultural encounters that Nora introduced

me to Rochelle, a US expatriate whom I would recurrently meet by chance

in other alternative spaces of Ibiza, and even on a ﬂight from New York

to Barcelona. As a methodological note, Nora’s home was a holistic center

from which I established various contacts with other peoples and scenes

of Ibiza and abroad. Considering that virtually everybody in the expa-

triate community knew each other or a third who did, snowballing was

a sufﬁcient method of recruitment by which I could access the types of

people that my research required.

Rochelle divided her time across Ibiza, India and the US.

She arrived

in Ibiza by May or early June to seasonally reopen her beach boutique

with exotic artisan clothes imported from places such as Bali, Bahia,

Thailand, Nepal, etc. She then stayed on the island until November, after

the tourist season was over.

She lived in a house magniﬁcently located on a coastal plateau facing

Es Vedra,

the giant sea rock whose shape and luminosity fueled fantastic

stories about UFOs, prophecies, hermits, suicides and ‘energies.’ Through-

out the years, Rochelle transformed the rustic hut into an exquisite

bungalow integrating hippie and peasant elements. Her life in Ibiza was

featured in a book by a US diplomat who resided on the island during

the 1980s (Stratton 1994). According to Stratton:

The beauty of Ibiza’s expatriate women lay not so much in their phys-

ical attributes as in their intense feelings and the insecurity with which

they lived, which gave a wildness, an edge to everything.

(Stratton 1994: 195)

Nature, women and peasants were trivially romanticized in expressive

imaginaries, as their ‘essence’ has not been contaminated by the malaises

of civilization, incarnated in the city, men and urban dwellers. Throughout

the twentieth century, expressive expatriates ﬂed the metropole in order

to shape a simpler life near nature (Ramón-Fajarnés 2000; Scheurmann

and Scheurman 1993; Green 1986). With gusto they engaged in manual

and bucolic activities, such as gardening, carpentry, artisan farming, recycl-

ing, ‘natural’ diets and expressive therapies, while upgrading derelict houses

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Expressive expatriates in Ibiza 53

purchased from amazed peasants. Nevertheless, these expatriates did not

absorb folk elements in the void, but revamped them within modern

frames of usage and meaning. They installed electricity and sanitation,

and transformed their ﬁncas into modestly elegant residences decorated

in chic cosmopolitan fashion.

In this post-traditional scenario, Rochelle organized special parties,

inviting friends and relatives. In the dry vegetation, the area around her

house was specially decorated with exotic gypsy-like silks, cushions, torches

and tents. Fire acrobats, belly dancers, Moroccan drummers and Flamenco

guitarists were hired to deliver magic performances. Rochelle nostalgically

told me that these gatherings reminded her of her hippie years back in

the early 1970s. She actively participated in the peace movement, and

lived in hippie communes in the US and UK. In London, she bought an

old postal van which her children renamed ‘Amazing Grace,’ and they hit

the roads traveling across Europe. In 1973 she went to Morocco, and

cultivated plans to stay but could not ﬁnd a school for her children.

‘Around that time,’ she recalls, ‘everybody was talking about Ibiza.’ They

went to Ibiza in that same year, enjoyed the place, and found an inter-

national school for her kids.

The children later returned to their father

in the US, but Rochelle remained on the island, traveling regularly to

India, Nepal and Indonesia (Bali). By the mid-1980s, an American couple

left Ibiza for good, and offered their beach boutique to her, and she has

been running it ever since. With reliable suppliers in India and the advent

of internet communication, Rochelle dispensed with traveling to India, as

she reached the age of sixty.

In conclusion, Rochelle’s extensive experience with travel and multi-

cultural environments honed her skills in trading exotic products from

Asia to the West. She was thus able to develop economic strategies that

combined her desire for mobility with an alternative lifestyle centered on

aesthetic values. More widely, her trajectory demonstrates how counter-

cultural agency is forged within singular historical and transnational

contexts, notably: the hippie countercultural movement and emerging

globalization (New York Times 2004).

Barbara is another example of expressive expatriation whose identity

is also marked by mobility across spaces and interests. Originally from

Germany, Barbara moved to Ibiza in 1993. Working as a language teacher,

she lived in a countryside house shared with a Spanish ‘expatriate’ couple.

We met in the context of a body therapy session (Biodance),

and

frequently came across each other in other alternative venues regularly

frequented by expressive expatriates: sunset bars, hippie markets, alter-

native parties, nude beaches, etc.

At the preamble of a Biodance session, Barbara announced her decision

to stop attending the group. She said that, even though Biodance had

helped to improve important aspects of her personality, it was time for

a break because her inner experiences with Biodance had been gradually

54 Expressive expatriates in Ibiza

stagnating. About ten people listened to her, including the therapist and

me. The group was slightly sorry, but understanding and supportive any-

way. Validating her decision, the Brazilian therapist (and Osho sannyasin)

said that ‘in life, there were periods of growth’ (as her hands moved

outward), ‘followed by periods of introspection’ (moving her hands

inward), and that ‘both deserve equal attention.’ There was no commo-

tion about Barbara’s announcement, because everyone took for granted

that, as it usually turned out to be the case, they would keep interacting

in other alternative spaces.

In New Age circles, people share a strong interest in self-cultivation,

developed through the participation in multiple practices, systems or ped-

agogies, in sequence or often simultaneously. For example, Barbara could

teach tai chi which she learned in Barcelona, and, following her experience

with Biodance, pursued studies in Maya Astrology and became a profes-

sional apprentice in a body education system titled Grinberg Method (to

be discussed later). Barbara was also very interested in Osho and closely

interacted with sannyasins. Not only did she own over 25 books by Osho

(mostly given to her) and eventually participated in Osho meditation ses-

sions, Barbara also had plans to attend the ‘Osho Commune International’

in Pune. In fact, many expatriates thought that Barbara was a sannyasin

because of her highly ‘independent’ and ‘genuine’ personality. These rep-

resentations were recurrently employed to characterize expatriate women

(see Stratton quote on p. 53), particularly sannyasin ones, as Osho’s teach-

ings explicitly empowered women (Palmer 1994). Such representations

about the expatriate women of Ibiza, real or imagined, resonate with the

myth of nomadic women (Chapter 1) as being assertive, independent and

dexterous, and, by all means, freer than sedentary women.

Likewise, Barbara’s trajectory reproduces New Age patterns of self-

spirituality, characterized as post-traditional hybrids of therapeutic,

pedagogic and divinatory practices. As soon as the subject believes that

a speciﬁc practice no longer provides the expected returns in terms of

insight or behavioral change, this will likely be interpreted as a moment

to move on, according to one’s assessments over one’s one life circum-

stances and intuition. New Age afﬁliations are thus better understood as

being adverbially temporal: ‘Yesterday I was into . . . , today I am into

. . . , and tomorrow I may want to try . . .’ Therefore, it makes sense to

name such a cultural pattern of ﬂexible and metamorphic cultivation of

the self as nomadic spirituality.

At the material level, nomadic spirituality usually correlates with travel

practice and ﬂexible, often informal labor conditions, such as Nora’s,

Rochelle’s and Barbara’s cases illustrate. Having grown up near the

Dutch border, Barbara moved to Hamburg where she worked in movie

production, while socializing with vanguard artists, such as the band

Kraftwerk, 1970s precursors of techno music (Sicko 1999; Reynolds 1998).

Barbara spent a few months backpacking across Indonesia and Brazil, an

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Expressive expatriates in Ibiza 55

experience that motivated her to leave Germany deﬁnitely. She lived in

Barcelona for several years, where she worked in movie production.

However, she felt that urban life was increasingly stressful for her. A holiday

in Ibiza in 1992 prompted her to move to the island, where she met other

expatriates with similar trajectories and interests: individuals fed up with

conventional urban routine, with a desire for developing a more mean-

ingful way of life, near nature and with ‘time for yourself,’ as she put it.

Barbara, Marta and Miguel resided in a traditional Ibicencan house in

the southern countryside. Originally from northern Spain, Marta and

Miguel cultivated a tranquil lifestyle revolving around ecological values.

Miguel worked as a gardener, and Marta did massages and had a part-

time job in a naturalist shop in Sant Antoni. The couple traded recycled

clothes and appliances in the weekly ‘ﬂea market’ of San Jordi, and sold

organic cheese and vegetables in the weekly ‘ecologic market’ of Can Sort

farm (to be described later). Miguel got up at 6:00 and drove to tend

gardens in the region (usually at ‘second residences’ of wealthy expatri-

ates), while Marta practiced yoga and read books on Spanish literature

and spirituality. Around 10:00, she left for the organic shop or a massage

appointment. Miguel returned to cook lunch, always healthy vegetarian

dishes. They had lunch and then slept a typical siesta, getting up about

15:00 to resume work. They watched the TV news and eventually drove

into town to socialize with friends. A few years into my ﬁeldwork, they

bought an old caravan and left for a long journey around mainland Spain.

Barbara taught language classes as her main income source and occu-

pation. She taught German and Spanish at home, or drove her car (a

Renault 4L, ‘cuatro latas’) to towns nearby. She charged Ptas 2,000 per

class (later adjusted to €15). In teaching about twenty classes per week,

her monthly income was about Ptas 360,000 or €1,200 (US$1,100).

However, her income was slashed by about 40 per cent during wintertime,

because she or her students traveled or just wanted to do other things and

rest from the laborious summer. Barbara eventually did other jobs, such

as translation, gardening or tai chi classes, depending on personal desire

and income needs. In one summer, for example, she was hired by a ﬁrm

to sell jewelry around a circuit of hotels – most of her colleagues were

German women with polyglot skills.

Consumption patterns among expressive expatriates were parsimonious

and reﬂected their concerns with health and the environment. They are

critical about consumerism, assessed as ecologically pernicious and psycho-

logically symptomatic of inner malaises (neediness, unhappiness, con-

formism). Considering that public transportation in rural areas is almost

nonexistent, they own rustic vehicles. Accordingly, liabilities (home utili-

ties, insurance, school tuition, etc.) correspond to a smaller share of

expenses, when not virtually inexistent.

Conversely, certain items weighed more heavily in their budgets. First,

participation in alternative therapies and spiritual practices could cost

56 Expressive expatriates in Ibiza

monthly from Ptas 10,000 to Ptas 40,000 (US$60–240). These ﬁgures can

be multiplied tenfold in the case of a professionalizing apprenticeship.

Second, special foods and diets are an object of concern among expatri-

ates. They favor ‘organic’ groceries as well as special foods with almost

medicinal properties often imported from remote locations (Japan, Africa,

the Amazon, etc). Alternatively, younger alternatives may consume drugs,

a costly item, particularly among those who attend trance parties or enjoy

clubbing marathons. Finally, international airfares comprise a hefty

expense, as expatriates leave the island each year, annually spending from

US$500 to US$1,500 or more.

The informal and seasonal nature of labor in Ibiza creates difﬁculties to

expressive expatriates. Income drops dramatically during the tourist off-

season (winter), creating massive unemployment on the island. Hardships

in cases of accident and illness, let alone retirement, are concerns among

expatriates, particularly ageing ones. But whereas Spanish citizens are safely

protected by the welfare system, the reality is quite different for non-

European expatriates, living irregularly on the island, and hoping for a

migration amnesty that would allow them to ‘get the papers.’ Furthermore,

the acute modernization and high inﬂation in Ibiza (after the euro was

introduced in 2002) has forced expatriates to engage in tighter labor and

expense regimes. (The monthly rent of Barbara’s house, for example,

jumped from US$360 to US$640 – a 78 per cent increment.) During my

ﬁeldwork years, I noticed a change of attitude on the part of expatriates

who complained about physical tiredness due to excessive work, or about

the unprotected nature of labor. As they aged, they started to patiently ﬁle

into state apparatuses, less reluctant to face the hurdles imposed by the

Spanish bureaucracy in line with new EU standards: to extend labor, social

and civic rights to all European citizens living in Spanish territory, in addi-

tion to regularizing the situation of non-European immigrants.

Despite such structural hindrances, and considering their travel procliv-

ities, expressive expatriates preferred to stay on the island notwithstanding.

Like other migrants, they claimed that Ibiza provided good work and

wages, enabled by a prosperous tourist economy and wealthy residents.

Yet, they also added that the island allowed them to integrate rural and

urban life interestingly, living in the countryside while having easy access

to a quite dynamic social life ideal to the tastes of expressive expatriates.

As importantly, they praised the possibility of sharing their interests in

aesthetic, erotic and spiritual forms with other many similarly minded

individuals.

It is important to note that the decision of expatriatates to remain on

the island did not contradict their will to travel. Quite the contrary, the

economic and climatic seasonality of the island propelled them to be

mobile. While Ibiza hibernates during the winter, the tourist season in

South Asia and Latin America begins, thus providing the conditions of

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possibility for a global circuit by which these expatriates can economi-

cally sustain their expressive lifestyle by means of mobility practice.

Expatriate media: ‘people from Ibiza’

Expatriates are always featured in the press and TV shows about Ibiza.

Such exposure provides an analytical window into the utopian imaginary

and social questions that envelop their lives, and we will notice again the

recurrence of mobility and expressivity as marks of their way of life. Ibiza

Now is a small but renowned newspaper produced and consumed by

expatriates since 1984. In monthly editions in English and German, it

seeks to integrate foreign residents with the island’s social life, promoting

their economic, cultural and artistic ties locally and beyond. The publi-

cation also includes a summary of local news which reﬂects some of their

main interests: tourism industry, environment, urbanization, cultural life,

international integration and local politics. Also noticeable are a number

of small pieces covering Ibicencan history, folklore and dialect, suggesting

an interest of some informed expatriates to understand the intricacies of

their chosen home.

In each monthly issue throughout the 1980s and 1990s, Ibiza Now

interviewed an expatriate in a one-page session, curiously titled ‘People

from Ibiza.’ The same set of questions was applied across all issues, a

feature that facilitated some likely inferences about this community and

their relation to Ibiza. I collected thirty-one proﬁles picked at random

from issues published between 1994 and 1998. Despite primarily catering

to the British community (half of the interviews featured British citizens),

it can be assumed that Ibiza Now reﬂected interests and sentiments of

the international middle-class populace residing on the island. At the

core of these representations, Ibiza is recurrently depicted as a place that

transforms subjectivities, often dramatically.

In terms of national origin, ﬁfteen of the interviewees were British, ﬁve

Spanish (only three Ibicencans), ﬁve Germans, three Americans, one

Danish, one Australian and one New Zealander. There were sixteen women

and ﬁfteen men, with ages mostly ranging from forties to ﬁfties. In terms

of occupation, two main groups could be identiﬁed: half were hoteliers,

restaurateurs or ofﬁcial retirees. The other half was involved in expressive,

creative and alternative careers: artists, writers, New Age therapists and

leaders of alternative organizations (international school, eco-cooperative,

folklore preservation, expatriate bookstore and an artsy internet café).

The proﬁle included information about their parental background, travel

experience, motivations for coming to Ibiza and a general assessment of

the island. Several respondents recalled that their expatriate trajectories

began with a traveling father on military or diplomatic duty. Other parental

backgrounds included artists, shopkeepers, teachers, natural therapists and

liberal professionals. The three Ibicencans in the poll were hotel business-

58 Expressive expatriates in Ibiza

men, drawn from families of limited means. They represented themselves

as self-made men forged by the hardships of life, work and family values.

They seemed to show off, apparently a little forcefully, their knowledge

about tour destinations and classical music (in a way that Bourdieu would

have identiﬁed as self-defeating).

Expatriates (including two peninsular Spaniards) were concerned with

existential issues and aspirations. Some of them, such as a retired actress

and a gypsy dancer, claimed that their personalities were too ‘untamable’

and ‘passionate’ for a sedentary life. A third of respondents came to Ibiza

right after quitting a relatively successful career in the homeland. Despite

favorable material conditions, they claimed that their lives were too

boring. They opted to take the risky leap into the unknown, and moved

to Ibiza where they rapidly delved into new careers that often sprang from

former hobbies and suppressed interests. Travel and occupation were no

longer merely means for economic gain, but became intrinsic components

of an exciting lifestyle. Extended trips to Asia were seen as a way to

‘break up with a Christian upbringing.’ Just as in the cases of Nora and

Barbara, Ibiza was often discovered in the context of a tour: a fortuitous

vacation or a business opportunity on the island triggered a thirst for self-

transformation. As some hippies would put it, the ‘Ibiza bug’ had bitten

them.

About Ibiza itself, many interviewees noted that the place suits lifestyles

driven by ‘passion,’ ‘fun’ and ‘bohemianism.’ Others praised the variety of

social types that coexisted there. New Agers pointed out the ‘spiritual’ and

‘energetic’ qualities of the island, considered a center for ‘spiritual learning

and healing.’ Opinions about the general situation were prompted under

the caption ‘the best and the worst in Ibiza.’ Two typical answers referred

to the negative side. Alternative expatriates regretted that mass tourism led

to environmental degradation, consumerism, selﬁshness and undesired

work rhythms. Businesspeople, however, readily criticized the bureaucracy

as the main hindrance to the economic development of the island. Yet,

they all agreed that the worst of Ibiza lies in Sant Antoni, a town with

low-quality tourism for rowdy ‘lager louts’ hosted in cheap two-star hostels.

On the other hand, there was unanimity about the best in Ibiza: the natural

beauties and the countryside, which exerted a mesmerizing effect upon

expatriates.

They represented Ibiza as a space that enables self-development, expres-

sion and self-actualization. It is ‘a community of expression,’ according to

an American masseur; ‘a place for self-realization,’ as noted by a German

environmentalist and a German art director; a ‘relative paradise’ according

to an English sculptor; a ‘place of beauty and non-conformism’ for an

Australian dancer. Others deﬁned the island in simpler terms: a ‘nice place’

for a British bar owner; a ‘unique place’ according to a German internet

businessman; ‘the nicest place’ for a British singer; and, still, a ‘place I fell

in love with’ according to a German ecologist. The news publication did

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not register any negative comments about Ibiza, other than those about Sant

Antoni, bureaucracy and the massiﬁcation of tourism.

The ﬁnal question in ‘People from Ibiza’ required a decisive answer,

consolidating the respondent disposition toward the island, with the ques-

tion, ‘stay or go?’ From this pool of thirty-one mostly expatriate people,

only four revealed plans to leave. A cultural producer from Germany felt

stagnated after years managing an upbeat bookstore. She wished to ‘trans-

form [her] life again.’ Two English bar owners felt that their lives became

too attached to their businesses. The fourth respondent was Linda, a glob-

ally traveled hippie trader turned into a spiritual healer. Originally from

New Zealand, after residing in Ibiza for nineteen years, she decided that

it was about time to move again.

Linda used to sell self-made clothes in the ‘hippie market’ of Es Canar.

Since her arrival in 1976, she enjoyed a simple life in the countryside.

Previously, Linda was a social worker in Australia and then in England,

respectively assisting Aboriginal mothers and troubled adolescents. She

noted that the trip from Australia to England was done mostly overland.

After a few years in the UK, Linda traveled around Europe and the Middle

East, settling down in Greece for three years. She produced batik and

leather clothes. It is in this context of long-haul traveling that her wish

to leave Ibiza must be understood. Staying nineteen years in Ibiza was,

in her case, exceptional.

Her decision to move, this time, stemmed from her development as a

spiritual healer. Linda began to manifest psychic powers during therapy

workshops. People claimed that she was able to diagnose the psychological

state, past and traumas of anyone who sat in front of her. Linda has been

traveling since 1995. About every two years, she returns to Ibiza, where

she stays for a month or two, meeting friends, attending clients and recom-

posing her ‘energies.’

Linda’s case demonstrates how hypermobility may penetrate the core

of self-identity and social practice. She transposed her proclivities to aid

people from a secular level (as social worker) to a spiritual one (as psychic

healer). It may be suggested that her later spiritual development relates

to her wish to travel again. Moreover, the economic strategies that she

deploys to make a living have usually allowed her to travel, which, in

turn, has contributed to enhance her charisma and cultural capital. In

sum, her trajectory embodies Romantic predispositions, which include a

deep appreciation of the exotic Other (notably Ibicencan peasants and

Australian Aborigines), a reﬁned withdrawal from mundane engagements

and a cosmopolitan suppleness to navigate various cultural universes.

Underlying all of these features lies the ideal of self-cultivation, operating

as a main category that orients Linda’s life, interests and worldview.

Whether staying or leaving, Ibiza expatriates regularly traveled to

Europe, South Asia or South America. Those who left the island for good,

sought to return for short periods, then staying with friends. In their new

60 Expressive expatriates in Ibiza

homes elsewhere, they sought to recreate similar conditions, usually in

places with similar utopian-like qualities: sunny, semi-peripheral, inex-

pensive, relaxed, pleasurable, experimental and cosmopolitan. As Deleuze

and Guattari note, ‘nomads do not move’: they try to keep the smooth

space of desire and experimentation (Deleuze and Guattari 1980). Even

for those expatriates who did not travel as regularly, mobility remained

as a spiritual disposition – a drive for self-discovery and potential meta-

morphosis.

Expatriate education: ‘international schools’

Despite the relatively high levels of education and reading interests, expres-

sive expatriates tend to despise intellectualism. For them, ‘Reason’ crippled

the subject from its vital energy, and, instead, they emphasize forms of

knowledge centered on the body and legitimated via experience. On the

other hand, they welcome grand cosmological explanations, insofar as

they can be sustained with rational-empirical explanations in a para-

scientiﬁc fashion. Overall, embodying Romantic dispositions, they are

rather skeptical about the promises and prescriptions of modern civiliza-

tion. This session summarizes trajectories of well-educated expatriates,

and brieﬂy examines special ‘international schools’ founded by expatriate

teachers in the early 1970s.

Nora introduced me to Kirk, an anthropologist who lived across Ibiza,

Australia and Vanuatu. His former (deceased) wife and Nora shared a

small business producing and selling tofu (soy cheese) in hippie markets.

Kirk was a British-American expatriate, off the Western ‘so-called civil-

ization,’ as he often put. From 1966 to 1977 he studied at Oxford and

Cambridge (UK). He did ﬁeldwork in northern Africa and Colombia, but

devoted most of his lifetime to Vanuatu, an archipelago state in the South

Paciﬁc, where he contiguously lived from 1978 to 1990. There he founded

the National Museum, a salvage institution with organic connections with

local communities. Kirk moved to Ibiza in 1990 when he and his wife

inherited a house located in the countryside of Sant Antoni (a traditional

peasant house: large, with enormously thick walls and impressively tiny

windows, multi-layered rooms and low arch passageways). In addition to

studying Ibicencan peasant folklore, Kirk decisively contributed to the

foundation of Ibiza’s Ethnological Museum in 1994. He often criticized

the negative effects of mass tourism, and particularly the high levels of

drug abuse among young tourists. He often lectured in international

museums, but refused most academic positions offered to him until the

early 2000s, when he remarried and moved to Australia. In fact, as he

explained, Kirk was too free-spirited to care about the formalities involved

in obtaining a doctoral degree, even though he is a reputed world-class

professional in his area of expertise. His personality is indeed singular: a

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captivating storyteller, Kirk developed amicable relationships with peoples

from all walks of life, in and outside academia.

Ignasi provides another example of a countercultural anti-intellectual.

Barbara introduced us during a body-technique workshop that he imparted

at the German ‘international school.’ His wife Charlotte was a German

expatriate, teacher and principal of the school, and also participated in

the workshop. He was an instructor of the Grinberg Method, as he

described, a pedagogy of self-development based on the conscious work

upon the body. He refused to be labeled as a ‘therapist’ (due to the notions

of hierarchy and illness that it evokes). In individual or group sessions,

the method involves exercises with unusual body movements, localized

pressure, induced pain (for emotional release) and rhythmic breathing, all

of which are carried out with or without music. These exercises are geared

toward engendering a mindful awareness about the self, particularly atten-

tive to how social conventions constrain the body and, consequently, its

cognitive-affective patterns. He invited Barbara and me for a dinner at

their house, near the German school. Our conversation was in Spanish.

I mentioned my research, and asked Ignasi and Charlotte how and why

they came to the island.

Ignasi initiated by disclosing his past as a Catholic priest. In the mid-

1960s he left Barcelona to study at a Jesuit seminary in Paris. Out of the

sphere of Franco’s censorship, Ignasi could study matters of Marxism

and existentialism, which captivated his generation. The second half of

the seminary took place in Barcelona, and Ignasi became renowned for

his unique personality. Priest superiors found him ‘too mystical,’ referring

to Ignasi’s intense engagements with prayer and meditation practices (in

detriment of pastoral tasks, deemed priorities in the context of growing

opposition to Franco). His main concern during his time at the seminary,

Ignasi says, was in searching within himself. However, his situation in the

seminary deteriorated dramatically when his superiors discovered that he

was enjoying the nightlife in Barcelona. He remarked that mysticism and

bohemianism were not a contradiction in itself, and added that he wanted

to experiment with life independently of any moral shackles. Although

no parish was willing to accept Ignasi as a new priest, a bishop offered

him a small church in a remote corner of Spain – Ibiza – and Ignasi

arrived there in 1972.

However, he soon decided to abandon the priesthood. In addition to

being reprehended for secretly supporting socialist meetings in the church,

Ignasi had an affective relationship with a parishioner. The couple moved

to Barcelona where he got an ofﬁce job, but returned to Ibiza two years

later. In the meanwhile, Ignasi had become interested in countercultural

lifestyles and developed a semi-communal relationship with his partner

until they separated. In 1998 Ignasi published a book with strong exis-

tentialist undertones relating Zen and Tarot, titled Llegar a Ser (‘Come to

Be’). He became a Grinberg Method practitioner, and later met Charlotte.

62 Expressive expatriates in Ibiza

Similar to many expressive expatriates, Charlotte was dissatisﬁed with

her life in Germany. During the 1980s, she worked as a public education

ofﬁcer in a town near Düsseldorf. A friend vacationing in Ibiza told her

about a teaching position in a primary school that catered for German

families on the island. Charlotte applied and was accepted. Her initial plan

was to stay for only one year, but the experience was so enjoyable that

she extended it for another year, and then permanently. She later became

the school principal, assuming teaching and administrative activities.

Among expatriate parents, education is not only an ideal of holistic

self-development, but also a practical issue of providing a school for their

children. Since conventional schools are seen as extensions of national

ideologies, several ‘international schools’ have been founded. These are

small private institutions run by expatriate teachers who, inspired by

countercultural ideals in the 1970s, now embrace the pedagogical task of

education under globalizing conditions. In Ibiza, the largest of these schools

had 180 students and 18 teachers in the early 2000s. Yet, considering the

remoteness of the island and the smallness of its population (under 50,000

during the 1970s), their presence indicates the importance of expatriate

life on the island.

Currently, these international schools embody broader issues of educa-

tion, citizenship and globalization. One of them displays the suggestive

slogan: ‘An education in our school is the passport for your child’s future.’

Nonetheless, while providing a relative alternative to the national educa-

tion system, most of them cater for families of a single nationality (German,

English or French), although never exclusively. While most children in these

schools are born in Spain, over 80 per cent of their parents are foreign

expatriates. Half of the kids have parents of the same foreign nationality,

and the rest have parents from differing nationalities. These families are

drawn from middle and upper social strata in Europe who decided to

migrate to semi-rural Spain in search of a better quality of life.

Spanish families of equivalent income level do not seem as interested

in international schools, and favor public schools when registering their

children. One reason is ﬁnancial, as monthly tuition fees at international

schools ranged from US$300 to US$500 in the early 2000s. This topic

requires more investigation; nevertheless, since Spanish parents also pay

for tuition in national private schools, it can be suggested that they do

not value international education in the same way that expatriate parents

do. In any case, international education in Ibiza contradicts common

assumptions about globalization as a homogenizing force: whereas the

‘local’ embodies the mass standardization of national public systems, the

‘translocal’ embodies small-scale, personalized care with an eye on global

conditions.

However, in order to comply with state regulation at different levels,

international schools regularly negotiate their legal and curricular status

with ofﬁcial authorities locally and abroad. For a reason, parents worried

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Expressive expatriates in Ibiza 63

about the validity of school certiﬁcates across national borders. Even those

parents with a more alternative orientation sought to avert this problem

for their children. Thus, school principals sought to make sure that their

curricula were kept in line with Spanish and alien legislations. In the

meanwhile, insular authorities also pressed for a more locally oriented

curriculum, with a higher share of classes in Catalan disciplines and

language. This was a contended issue among expatriate parents. Many

considered that an excessive regionalization of the educational grid would

impose an unnecessary burden on their children, since Catalan was deemed

secondary in the arena of international opportunities. In sum, international

schools have to accommodate multiple pressures, interests and orientations

at the local, national and transnational levels.

Despite the relatively cosmopolitan orientation of these schools, several

parents envisaged them as a space for forging a certain national character

in alien lands. Scorning Spanish ways as lax and inefﬁcient, they expected

these schools to instill ‘proper’ German or English values in their chil-

dren. Teachers often noticed such expectations with apprehension, and

worried about their arrogant, imperialist-like attitude in Spain. Charlotte

mentioned a couple who, annoyed with local bureaucracy and manners,

moved in and out of Spain and then back again in a short period of time,

thus ‘upsetting the educational and emotional needs of their children.’

Ignasi and Barbara agreed, and such a critical view was not circumscribed

within expressive expatriates. The Spanish press warned about German

enclaves that developed apart from local life in southern Spain. Sun and

cheap prices (as well as tax evasion and money laundering) were some

of the main reasons that motivated wealthy aliens to purchase real estate

in Costa del Sol and the Balearic Islands.

Conversely, expressive expatriates are more appreciative of Spain, some-

times manifested in the form of a reversed ethnocentrism: rather than

disdaining the Other, they charge against their own homelands. Their

stories have become recurrent throughout this chapter: dissatisﬁed with

their life in the metropole, their hopes for a more fulﬁlling lifestyle brought

them to the warm periphery. In Ibiza, they seek to detach themselves from

homeland identities, while experimenting with idiosyncrasy and sensual

engagements with the present. In the long run, their self-identities unfold

through spiraling cycles of estrangement and re-identiﬁcation with bio-

graphic and cultural references of the homeland.

In the case of expatriate children born in Ibiza, the blurring of national

identities complicate the terms of allegiance. To ask, ‘where are you

from?’ triggers short-circuited answers at the logical, dialogic and semantic

levels. The questioner is inadvertently positioned in the position of a naive

outsider, as expressive expatriates are ambivalent toward national refer-

ences, while valuing exotic combinations. The difference between being

from and of somewhere reveals the ways by which these post-national

subjects can creatively articulate origin and identity. Nora was ‘from

64 Expressive expatriates in Ibiza

America’ rather than ‘American,’ as Barbara was ‘from Germany’ rather

than ‘German.’ As a generalization, two main social types can be distin-

guished in the overall population of expatriates on the island: the nation-

alistic utilitarian, and the cosmopolitan expressive, each being informed by

distinct principles of identity: ﬁxity or metamorphosis, as theorized in

Chapter 1.

Expressive lifestyles

In contrast with the rush at the Eivissa–Sant Antoni axis, the northern

area of the island was praised by expatriates for its pristine woods, magnif-

icent landscapes and bohemian villages. As an effect of their predis-

positions, time there seemed to ﬂow more slowly and pleasantly, entailing

a wholesome feeling of connection with nature and humanness. At a

material level, housing was more affordable. Squat punks from the main-

land (known as okupas) were able to discover a few abandoned huts for

temporary residence. Public transportation was virtually nonexistent, yet

hitchhiking was relatively successful, at least for the time being. The main

town of Santa Eulária boasted an elegant marina, and, while undergoing

mild gentriﬁcation, its tourism was considerably calmer and better organ-

ized than rowdy Sant Antoni.

Alternative events, such as hippie markets, spiritual retreats, drum and

trance parties, tended to concentrate in the northern region, whereas in

the south they had to confront the harsher realities of mass tourism. But

before examining these complex interrelations with the political economy

of tourism, this chapter further elaborates on the patterns and meanings

entailed in expatriate lifestyles, particularly focusing on their expressive

and cosmopolitan orientations. The cultural substrate of expressive expatri-

ate life on the island is further examined in the following sub-sections

upon examples of yoga classes, Osho disciples and bohemian encounters.

Self-techniques: yoga, Biodance, neo-sannyasins

New Age healers play music during sessions, aiming at engendering special

moods in the one being treated. Ethnomusicological studies have tried to

ascertain whether such states result from the physicality of structured

sounds, or from the cultural beliefs of participants (Takahashi 2004; Becker

1999; Fost 1999; Gerra et al. 1998; Greer and Tolbert 1998; McCraty

et al. 1998; Forsyth et al. 1997). Though such a question lies beyond the

scope of this research, I would argue that the efﬁcacy of musical sounds

upon the subject’s affective states stems from a peculiar combination of

physical and cultural factors: structured sounds stimulate certain neural

responses, which, in turn, are ampliﬁed or hindered according to the cul-

tural predispositions of the subject (in turn, a product of biographic and

socio-cultural factors). This topic will be resumed in Chapter 5. The goal

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at this point is to analyze signiﬁcant correlations of art, culture and sub-

jectivity commonly veriﬁed in countercultural sites.

The music Nora played during yoga and massage sessions was deeply

melodious, with slow rhythms and deep base lines. It is intended to relax

the subject or take them out of ordinary patterns of thought. One of

the New Age CD albums she often played was ‘Walkabout’ produced by

musician Patrick Walsh. The CD booklet describes it poetically: ‘If such

seclusion is desired, within us all there is a territory unreachable by

anything in the external world . . . sanctuary from society . . . sabbatical

from stresses . . . unmolded identity’ (omission points are original). By

exploring music from widely diverse cultural traditions, Walsh seeks to

create a cosmopolitan aesthetic of universal spirituality:

Walkabout is an album that merges instruments from several cultures

and regions of the earth. The result is a unique blending of instru-

ments and melodies spanning from the royal courts of India to the

40,000 years old culture of Aboriginal Australia. [. . .] These compo-

sitions are my attempt to create music evocative of a feeling of which

few poets write . . . music that would allow the mind to journey within

a state where other considerations of body and physical reality become

purely remote. [. . .] Seemingly boundless horizons can be created in

this realm of being through means of the international language and

harmony we call music.

Along the same lines of liminal sentiments, Nora played a one-track

CD of tamboura music during yoga classes. A string instrument from

India, the tamboura produces a highly reverberating sound, of ‘hypnotic

quality’ according to the CD cover:

The attention to its prolonged resonance absorbs the yogi into the

space of Consciousness, attaining the state of the self. Its sound

resonates with the primordial sound Om, from which all melodies

arise and into which they subside. Melodies are no longer separate

notes but blend together into an ocean of sound that quiets the mind

and soothes the heart.

With other practical purposes, this music is to be played ‘during medi-

tation, as it aids concentration by screening out distracting background

noises.’ At Nora’s apartment, constant music was necessary during yoga

classes, due to the noise of young tourists at the hotel across the street.

More broadly, music was part of her life, as she also enjoyed playing the

guitar, creating her own songs with bucolic lyrics and devotional fashion.

In her former work as a musician in tourist resorts, Nora learned

that people of different nationalities react speciﬁcally to certain musical

patterns: ‘We had different repertoires depending on the nationality of

66 Expressive expatriates in Ibiza

tourists. If they were English, our selection was more melodic, with lots

of la-la-ri la-la-ra. But if they were German, then it was tum-tum-tum,’

drawing her ﬁst in mechanic movements.

As it is predominant in conventional yoga practice, Nora’s classes

followed the hatha structure, meaning, a sharp emphasis on body disci-

pline and resilience. Most of her students were women, as I also veriﬁed

elsewhere (Strauss 1996). The ﬁrst hour was dedicated to slow yet demand-

ing physical exercises through repetitive movements that stretch and

position the body in challenging poses (asanas). Nora showed the posi-

tion, and participants followed. The ensuing thirty minutes were dedicated

to gentler positions of meditation and relaxation. Finally, Nora conducted

a complex ‘Sun salutation,’ coordinating ample body movements with the

chanting of Sanskrit verses, in richly melodic and monotonous fashion.

Nora sometimes drove to Santa Eulária (about 20 km northeast of Sant

Antoni) to deliver a massage therapy or to attend some social event. We

arranged to meet her friends, Biodance therapists Nadi and Ishwara. In

town, as we walked along the main boulevard, Nora stopped to greet a

man running a tent selling handcraft products. Originally from Barcelona,

Alfonso sold decoration items in hippie markets. He was also the main

coordinator of the Siddha Yoga chanting group which he founded in Ibiza

in 1991, and delivered satsangs (chanting meetings) at his house located

in the countryside near San Carlos, comprising a small group of expatriates

and alternative Spaniards.

As in other individual cases shown in this chapter, Alfonso’s lifestyle

interrelates an ideology of self-development with practices of mobility in

space and interest. Alfonso had been to India ﬁve times, where he stayed

from three to ﬁve months each time, for spiritual (Siddha Yoga) and

economic reasons (bringing exotic goods to the West). In Ibiza since 1987,

Alfonso nonetheless revealed a certain wish to ‘move on’ with his life: ‘I

want to learn something new, like a therapy, and practice it.’ He was

considering Barcelona for the possibilities of learning and delivering alter-

native practices. On the other hand, he regretted that such a move would

imply giving up the seductive conditions that kept him and others on the

island: autonomous ﬂexible labor, within a community of cosmopolitan,

spiritual and aesthetic interests, in a semi-natural insular landscape. A few

years later (in 2003), he completed the apprenticeship of an exquisite

healing-mystical system which he learned during several visits to Barcelona.

He then attempted to live in both places.

We left Alfonso, and while walking by the marina sidewalk, we soon

met another acquaintance. Rejane – also known as Umani – was a Brazilian

expatriate, married to Baghat, a Spanish musician. The couple sold his

paintings and exotic clothes in the hippie markets. Originally from the

Canary Islands, Baghat was very involved in his work as a percussion

teacher and played in a salsa band in beach bars. He was a regular

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Biodance practitioner, whereas Umani imparted séance sessions in an

herbalist store in Santa Eulária.

Umani and Baghat were spiritual names which they acquired in India, as

disciples of Osho. Umani grew up in Porto Alegre, main southern city in

Brazil, and was studying history at college when she met Baghat, then a

communard in an Osho center nearby. They moved to the Canary Islands

in the early 1980s, and after a year in Germany, they settled down in Ibiza.

Umani said that they were thinking about moving again, perhaps to Madrid

or Brazil. But, like in many other cases I noticed, they remained in Ibiza,

mostly for the special conditions that it provided with regard to the lifestyle

they pursued. Umani was very enthusiastic about the island, and exclaimed

in a blend of Spanish and Portuguese: ‘Ibiza is very cool! It is a lovely place

to live in. People from all over the world come to live here. All very inter-

esting people. You are going to love it!’

Nadi and Ishwara arrived in Ibiza in 1996 and were living in a terrace

apartment with a nice view of the marina of Santa Eulária. Nora excelled

in various languages, and we agreed to speak Portuguese. From a German

ethnic background, Nadi spoke with a southern Brazilian accent (like

Umani, she was also from Porto Alegre). Tall and suntanned, Ishwara

spoke with a swingy accent from Rio de Janeiro.

Nadi worked as a Biodance therapist and New Age healer. Since the

1970s, she had been interested in integrating Western psychotherapy and

Eastern spirituality in her work. In Brazil, she was a yoga teacher before

getting involved with Biodance, which she continued to organize in Brazil

during the 1980s. She then went to India, and, by the time of my ﬁeld-

work, Nadi worked on Biodance and spiritual massage. Ishwara was a

chiropractitioner, specializing in craniosacral therapy. He mostly assisted

Nadi during Biodance sessions, controlling the sound system or moni-

toring body exercises. Ishwara was explicit about the reasons why they

came to Ibiza:

Ibiza is great. It has sea, beaches, and also rich people who pay you

very well for your services. It is close to Europe, yet rent and taxes

are low; good prices for everything. Also, lots of interesting people

. . . It is very good indeed.

His bluntness reﬂected the couple’s identity as Osho sannyasins,

renowned for their spontaneous, often outspoken attitude, usually devel-

oped during confrontational therapies. To wit, Nadi and Ishwara are

spiritual names bestowed on them during initiatory rituals at the Osho

commune in Pune, India. They have taught Biodance and craniosacral

workshops at the place, which Ishwara describes:

It is a meditation center; an AIDS-free and drug-free zone; a com-

munity of ten thousand people where you can do anything, literally

68 Expressive expatriates in Ibiza

anything you want, do you understand? . . . But India, man, India is

a mess! It has completely different life concepts. It is either take it or

leave it.

Due to its centrality in the social life of expressive expatriates in Ibiza,

the Osho commune and the cultural system it embodies will be examined

in the next chapter. Yet, the nature and meaning of Biodance must be

noted at this point. Culled in the 1960s countercultural experimentalism,

Biodance is a body practice that applies concepts of medical anthropology,

and was originally developed by psychiatrist Rolando Toro in Chile. In

weekly group meetings, each Biodance session lasts about ninety minutes,

combining music, movement and expression in a supportive setting. In a

structured sequence of body exercises, the therapist explores one of the

ﬁve ‘basic dimensions of life’ according to Biodance: vitality, sexuality,

creativity, sociability and transcendence. Due to the physically intimate and

emotionally expressive nature of some Biodance exercises, I sometimes

witnessed newcomers silently leaving the room. Regular practitioners,

however, report positive beneﬁts which outlast the session: wellbeing,

vitality, relaxation, increased sociability, spontaneity and insight.

The proﬁle of Biodance practitioners in Ibiza is quite revealing of their

expressive and expatriate features. I identiﬁed 32 people over the course

of six years of participant observation at Nadi’s group. There were 16

foreigners and 16 Spanish citizens; 9 were Osho sannyasins who worked

as hippie traders and artists; 6 occupied more conventional (mainstream)

social positions, such as a taxi driver, a clerk, housewives, a teacher, a

computer technician and a ﬁreman; the remaining 17 stood somewhere

in between while clearly demonstrating an interest in alternative lifestyles;

they were a DJ, a clown, handcrafters, a dancer, a yoga teacher, organic

gardeners and a vegan cook.

The smallness of most samples presented in this chapter is highly signiﬁ-

cant, rather than dismissive of scientiﬁc merit. New Age settings are con-

stituted by means of primary (‘warm’) and reﬂexive relationships which

unfold upon the paradox of togetherness and individualism (Maffesoli

1988). Rather than large ‘molar’ aggregations, alternative settings are sus-

tained by ‘molecular interactions’ (Deleuze and Guattari 1980). The myriad

of micro-groups is integrated into ﬂuid webs of exchange and support

integrating a multiplicity of spaces, groups and symbolic references. In this

chapter, I locate yoga teachers, Biodancers and Osho sannyasins within

the social landscape of expressive expatriation which lies at the core of

alternative life in Ibiza, yet always pointing outward.

Blind spots of New Age enlightenment

As expressive expatriates mutually interact in typical spaces, their ethos is

crystallized in mental patterns that are not free of tensions, and even of

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contradictions. For example, their xenophile cosmopolitanism may collide

with implicit ethnocentric assumptions that they hold about non-Western

cultures. Particularly in Romantic imaginaries, alien cultures have been

exoticized in a dialogic relation that is constitutive of Western identities

(Airault 2000; Hutnyk 1999; Pratt 1992; Parkes 1991; Said 1978); how-

ever, such dialogism is often imbricated with forms of domination that

contradict cosmopolitan claims on the surface. This sub-section analyses

this question in reference to the reception and interpretation of media

representations by a group of expatriates.

A small group of Biodancers, sannyasins and other friends gathered at

Nadi’s apartment to watch three documentary ﬁlms about New Age spir-

itualities. The video tapes were given to Lourdes by hosts of her countryside

hostel, which catered to spiritual and therapy groups vacationing from

Europe. She managed El Jardin de Luz (‘The Garden of Light’) with her

ex-husband Tom, a Dutch expatriate and Osho sannyasin. Originally from

northern Spain, Lourdes fell in love with the island during a holiday: ‘I

felt that I could be very free here and do whatever I wanted. Besides, it

was here where I healed from a chronic illness, and that was a miracle.

Ibiza is a very special place indeed.’ Lourdes has been to Pune, but no

longer used her sannyasin name because she was also involved with other

spiritual groups. ‘I am always looking for a guru,’ she said while showing

me the brochure of a yoga retreat she planned to attend in Germany.

It was a sunny evening and about twenty people gathered in the spacious

living room. Wearing light summer clothes, they were therapists, hippie

traders, New Age businesspeople and retired housewives who practiced

yoga or Biodance, in addition to several Osho sannyasins. They were all

expatriates or alternative Spaniards from the mainland. Only one person

was born on the island (a young lady whom I would meet by chance in

Pune years later). Since several people spoke only poor English, Nora

provided simultaneous interpretation of the movies into Spanish.

The ﬁrst ﬁlm titled ‘The Temple of Humankind in Damanhur’ featured

the architecture of an underground temple located in the Italian Alps. The

ediﬁcation belonged to a spiritualist cult called Damanhur (Damanhur

Federation 2006). Richly decorated with large crystals, mirrors and white

marble, the temple in classic style was carved in a massive granite forma-

tion. Its iconography combined Renaissance and Ancient Egypt motives,

resulting in a syncretism which sought to represent the ‘ecumenism of the

twelve ancient civilizations.’ Following some principles of chromotherapy,

each room was colored and designated for speciﬁc body organs. Yet, the

temple was also devoted to healing the entire planet, since it was built

upon ‘a mine of rare minerals, 300 million years old,’ in a location that

‘interconnects the three magnetic lines of the Earth, in the geographic

link between the Euro-Asiatic and African plaques.’ With such grandiose

ideas of ‘ecumenism,’ ‘twelve races’ and ‘geological plaques,’ the temple

of Damanhur expressed a certain perception of colossal globalization.

70 Expressive expatriates in Ibiza

However, such multiculturalism was contradicted by the fact that all of

the members were white European, as was the iconography on display.

The project presented itself as a Romantic pastiche, cultivating an ‘Other’

that was entirely absent, or, at most, as a lost reference from ancient times.

Most of the people who watched the ﬁlm remained silent. While it is

not possible to assess their perceptions at a deeper level, it can be said

that expressions of critical ‘judgment’ are commonly rejected among New

Agers, at least in public or ritual spaces. However, a few of those present

made cheerful comments on the temple’s beautiful iconography. A French-

man tried to answer questions about the cult leadership and healing

practices. While an enthusiastic woman suggested that ‘we should all go

there,’ another made a remark on the considerable ﬁnancial resources that

must have been spent in the construction of such a magniﬁcent structure.

The next video, ‘The Miracle of Waters,’ focused on the alleged healing

powers of speciﬁc water springs located in India, Germany, Mexico and

Kenya. Each case featured comments by spring proprietors and believers,

who praised the supernatural effects of the wells. The Kenyan case was

peculiar for its messianic overtones. In a poor rural area, an old black

woman ran the well, angrily fending off a crowd of excited onlookers.

Suddenly, the camera turned to a tall Semitic man wearing a turban

who walks toward the well and delivered a speech (his voice was not on

audio). The narrator enigmatically noted that he claimed to be ‘Maytrea,

the Esoteric Jesus.’

Unlike professional documentaries, the ﬁlm provided no alternative

explanation for the alleged powers of springs or to the Maytrea appari-

tion. As a matter of fact, Lourdes informed us that the tape was actually

produced by a group of Maytrea believers who had recently stayed at her

resort for some spiritual retreat. The reaction at Nadi’s room was again

apparently uncritical, or relatively blasé. Two women, however, somehow

revered the spooky avatar fearsomely. I also noticed that two other women

had laughed at Kenyan peasants trancing in spasmodic ﬁts. Since laughter

indicates tension or paradox, their reaction begged the question of what

was the underlying assumption confronted by those apparently disturbing

images. These women could not explain why, but at a deeper cultural

level, their laughter was effectively symptomatic of a discrepancy between

Western idealizations of oriental civilizations as carriers of ancient wisdom,

and the African trancing peasants who introduced an element of disorder

into the frame of ordered Eurocentric spirituality.

The last video, ‘Peace and Healing Celebration of North American

Indians,’ documented a cross-national march of Native Americans riding

horses and meeting in the US mid-West. Abundant in ideals of ‘Mother

Earth’ and ‘the Creator,’ the video represented them as naturally peace-

ful and ecologic beings, in the lines of the Rousseaunian bon savage. What

passed unnoticed was the fact that ‘mother earth’ and ‘father sun’ are

notions borrowed from eighteenth-century Franciscan priests in their

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attempts to convert Native Americans to Christianity. Similarly, the audi-

ence missed issues of land repatriation that underlie the Native American

agenda as it intersects New Age misrepresentations. The ﬁlm’s noble

idealism was irresistible, as even Nora, who was usually critical about

America, sighed in enchantment, ‘Ah, I wanna be there. You know, that

is my land too.’

Following the screenings, Lourdes suggested a few silent moments in a

prayer for global peace. The group held hands in a chain and remained

with eyes closed for about ten minutes. Afterwards, it gradually broke

down in multiple conversations, as people dispersed and left. Driving the

car, Nora asked my opinion and why I did not speak about the movies.

I reminded her of the lack of receptivity for intellectual claims in New

Age gatherings, and she agreed. As Osho has jokingly said regarding the

proper attitude for attending his lectures, ‘leave your shoes and minds

outside.’ As these video screenings indicated, there were blind spots in the

dialogic process of identity formation of expressive expatriates – aesthetic

forms can fascinate the subject, making them ignore categories of exclu-

sion and consistency. New Agers remain open to new perspectives, insofar

as these do not hinder their will to self-cultivation.

Expressive at night – bohemian connections

Social leisure for expressive expatriates must be meaningful, pleasurable

and preferably carried out in locales of natural beauty. Rather than ‘killing

time’ for ‘de-stressing,’ it is seen as an opportunity to joyfully socialize

with like-minded individuals, sharing the same concerns with ecology and

expression. In a previous session, I described the exotic parties that

Rochelle organized for friends in her property by the sea. In a beautiful

setting, expatriates desultorily talked about life on the island, absent

friends, future trips and spirituality.

In one of her parties, I was introduced to Deep and his wife, Argentinean

expatriates who traded exotic clothes at hippie markets. They had been

living on the island since the early 1980s. As a hint of their spontaneous,

slightly eccentric personalities, they were, as a matter of fact, veteran

sannyasins who had engaged in multiple countercultural experiments.

Our conversation about spirituality drifted toward psychedelic experiences,

in particular about an Amazonic neo-shamanic cult named Santo Daime.

Interestingly, Deep was not only a sannyasin but also a main organizer

of the cult in Ibiza. Multiple afﬁliations were common among expressive

expatriates, exemplifying a type of post-traditional religiosity typically seen

in the New Age. The Santo Daime revolves around a sacramental drink

named ayahuasca, a hallucinogenic tea collectively ingested during an

overnight ritual, which also comprised a highly monotonous dance, the

chanting of hymns and periods of silent meditation. Participants report

to have visions of a mystical, sacred nature during the ritual. Due to the

72 Expressive expatriates in Ibiza

religious context of consumption, the legal status of ayahuasca has remained

undeﬁned in various countries, although state authorities have been typi-

cally hostile toward the cult. In the case of Spain, the socialist governments

of the 1980s and 1990s decriminalized drug consumption, while main-

taining drug trading as a criminal offense (Escohotado 1998).

Deep explained that, for a while, Daimistas were able to bring the

substance through airport checkpoints in twenty-liter containers, declaring

it an ‘energizer drink from the Amazon.’ But customs ofﬁcers demanded

them to stop the transaction, and the group began to import ayahuasca

instead from Holland, overland and by ferry. However, the cult ceased

its operations in Ibiza for other reasons. According to Deep, participants

gradually lost interest in the cult, as their attention drifted toward other

self-development practices. They sporadically conducted Daime rituals,

based on special visits or requests. But the original enthusiasm had appar-

ently faded.

This story illustrates the life cycle commonly veriﬁed in New Age forms

of religiosity. A ritual practice is sustained for as long as the participants

remain genuinely interested. Yet, because of their avid curiosity in trying

new possibilities, without an inﬂux of new members or organizational

creativity, a group often disintegrates, as former members gradually become

involved in other spiritual systems. New Age afﬁliations are thus non-

authoritative and temporary, with personal afﬁliations lasting from a few

sessions up to several or many years, until the subject feels that it is time

to move on (Maffesoli 1988). In this case, religious ‘tradition’ is not an

authoritative grid that determines personal roles and choices, but rather

a tool for the reﬂexive cultivation of the self in its axiological, corporeal,

social and cosmological dimensions (Beck et al. 1994). In sum, the New

Age expresses the shifting, contingential needs of post-traditional subjects,

who are seeking magical gain or ethical development (D’Andrea 2000;

Heelas 1996; Luckmann 1991). New Agers are therefore nomadic in their

engagements with spiritual or self-development systems, varying according

to time, opportunity and need.

Other expatriates actualize their expressive drives in secular or artistic

fashion rather than in religious spirituality. The following example illus-

trates a different type of expressive individualism. Patricio was a plastic

artist and event producer, a Chilean expatriate based in Brussels who

regularly visited Ibiza. I ﬁrst met him at a small gathering that Rochelle

organized for screening his internationally awarded short ﬁlm titled Flood,

featuring the sculpting of a sandman by Patricio near the waves of a rising

tide, which ﬁnally destroy the sandman. On that occasion, a motorcycle

manufacturer hired Patricio to co-produce an exclusive promotional party

in one of the mega-nightclubs of Ibiza.

We scheduled an informal interview in Ibiza town: Monday midnight,

a peculiarity that clubbers and bohemians largely ignored or celebrated.

Patricio and I met at the old jazz bar and joined his group at one of the

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Expressive expatriates in Ibiza 73

many open air bars at the marina located beside the medieval fortress. In

an article titled ‘The Floating Nightclub,’ the Catalan reporter notes:

The night of Ibiza has always been, and above all, a state of mind

that is born from a strange combination of hippiness, circus-like

modernity, electronic music, hedonism (sometimes light, sometimes

wild), and an ensemble of extreme peoples and sexualities.

(El Temps 2000: 19)

Patricio introduced me to his daughter and friends, all of them Belgian.

Sophie was a ﬁlm producer who lived in Ibiza. As I mentioned my research

work on ‘alternative lifestyles and spiritualities,’ she spontaneously began

to talk about her own experiences with Santo Daime. Sophie complained

that the ritual had too many disciplinary rules and that she felt very

stomach sick (an expected side-effect of ayahuasca). She paused for a

moment and reconsidered her afﬁrmation about never trying ayahuasca

again.

The conversation dispersed as the group began to speak a fast French

which I was not able to understand. As a perceptive expatriate, Patricio

remained speaking Spanish only. As previously mentioned, these polyglots

often changed over three or four languages in a single conversation topic,

usually to emphasize aspects of a narrative. Yet, as an implicit rule, veteran

expatriates sought to speak in the language that most participants could

understand.

Patricio came to Europe in 1973, right after the military coup of Pinochet

in Chile. He was neither involved in politics nor in imminent danger,

but felt very disappointed with the situation. Then, he was a cinema

student at the University of Santiago. Upon leaving, he ﬁrst considered

to ask for exile in the US, but ‘the government was denying our entrance,

because they were worried about having to host masses of Chilean

refugees.’ He added with a laugh, ‘but the situation ﬂipped over when they

began to think that we were millionaires jet-setting around the world,

and began to offer one-year visas to any of us for free!’ This comment

denoted a pragmatic perception that expatriates have about the shifting

circumstances that characterize international environments, and which they

must consider when trying to actualize their strategies of mobility. After

decades of conservative Christian rule in Chile, the rise of democratic

socialism in the late 1960s was paralleled by a culture of experimentalism

amid the urban youth in the realms of art, therapy and sexuality. Thinking

of the fact that Biodance was born in Santiago de Chile, I asked Patricio

if he had ever heard about it. He stared at me ﬂabbergasted, and said:

‘You mean, Rolando Toro?! Of course I know Biodance! I participated in

his original groups, when he was still trying with it.’ Then, Toro was a

researcher at the Center of Medical Anthropology at the Medical School

of the University of Santiago. Patricio seemed touched, as he recalled:

74 Expressive expatriates in Ibiza

Those experiments were very strong . . . Emotional expression, expres-

sion of your body . . . Touching each other with lights off, then every-

one naked with lights on. There was lots of face-to-face confrontation,

and aggressive stuff coming out, yeah. Those exercises were really

shattering . . .

He shook his head as if returning from a mild trance. Since he left Chile,

however, Patricio had not heard about Biodance again. The 1973 coup

resulted in the suppression of all forms of cultural experimentalism.

Toro ﬂed to Brazil, and then to Italy. Patricio was glad to learn that

Biodance had ﬂourished in several countries, and that there was a group

in Ibiza.

At 3:00, Patricio drove a young Belgian photographer and me to the

nightclub Privilege. On Monday night (into Tuesdays), the venue was

rented out to UK promoters of Manumission, a party that attracted 10,000

mostly British clubbers each week throughout the summer. Patricio parked

the car and walked with us to the entrance, but curiously halted and refused

to enter: ‘No, no. If I begin, nothing will stop me,’ he ominously said, and

left. His friend nonetheless insinuated that I could get him in for free.

Though sometimes I sought to attend such requests, my own entrance as a

club ethnographer was never assured. In any case, he disappeared in the

crowd, while I entered through the line queuing for the guest-list. An hour

later he found me inside. ‘I just told the guy at the door that I am a pho-

tographer, showed him my press ID, and he let me in,’ he said shrugging

his shoulders.

This apparently trivial anecdote contains some curious yet relevant

aspects of Ibiza’s nightlife, as experienced by bohemians. Patricio’s refusal

to attend Privilege indicated the familiarity of expressive expatriates with

the famous Ibicencan nightclubs, historically imagined (and sometimes

actualized) as orgiastic spaces of self-derailment. Second, free admittance

was a delicate issue for these expatriates, not only because the cover was

deemed quite expensive (about US$35 or €30, excluding drinks) while they

enjoyed moving freely across different clubs over the week and even in the

same night. Free entrance also reafﬁrmed the personal and collective status

of those who had effectively engendered the charisma of Ibiza’s nightlife:

well-connected bohemians and clubbers who, nonetheless, had to learn to

navigate the increasingly commodiﬁed environments of the leisure industry.

The complex interplay between underground and mainstream formations

in Ibiza constitutes the main topic of analysis of the next chapter.

Conclusion: the aesthetics of centered marginality

The diaspora of expressive expatriates illustrates important social and

cultural issues of globalization. The distinctiveness of this globalized forma-

tion resides less on its geographically and synchronically multi-sited nature,

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Expressive expatriates in Ibiza 75

and more on the way that it is globally constituted: their practices of

displacement and connectivity acquire special signiﬁcance in the constitu-

tion of identities that value not sameness but continual variation, not local

roots but translocal interests.

As such, the study of expressive expatriates must confront a method-

ological challenge. As an island, Ibiza would seem to materialize the

ethnographer’s dream of a remote, tightly bounded entity that separates

a pure and elucidative ‘in here’ from the contaminating inﬂuences of the

‘out there.’ However, mobile expatriates dissolve the certainties associated

with the analytical privilege of the ‘local.’ The investigation of trans-

national phenomena occurring in a place must consider the local conditions

and historicities that contribute to the development of grounded realities.

Yet, the meaning of such cosmopolitan formations can only be grasped

with reference to the translocal circuits and forces that these peoples,

practices and imaginaries constitute and refer to. The study of particular,

delimited sites is a necessary element in the study of translocal processes;

however, it is not sufﬁcient for understanding the wider processes and

historicities that affect the ‘local’ and that constitute formations not entirely

connected to or dependent on it. Although situated in localities, the ‘site’

of a research on hypermobility lies beyond the ‘local’ and requires a

methodological apparatus informed by a nomadic sensibility capable of

addressing such formations beyond local immobility.

Despite their need to make a living, expressive expatriates did not

migrate to Ibiza looking for ‘better jobs and wages,’ nor do they isolate

themselves in ethnocentric ‘expat’ communities. Many have abandoned

favorable labor conditions in the homeland, in order to search for some-

thing that they deem more meaningful. Others, in dire straits, just did

not want to go on struggling with neo-liberal pressures any more. In either

case, their material conditions – favorable or not – did not determine why

they chose to develop alternative careers, often in even more unstable

economic conditions. They have prioritized existential goals of actualizing

expressive, spiritual and/or epicurean values. They become handcrafters,

food artisans, gardeners, New Age entrepreneurs, hippie traders, musicians,

DJs, body therapists, masseuses, yoga teachers, healers, etc., as well as

jet-setting bohemians of the afﬂuent class.

Beyond welfare and neo-liberal conditions, they inhabit a cosmopolitan

culture of expressive individualism that, at a wider theoretical level, fully

instantiates Foucauldian notions of subjectivity formation. While attempt-

ing to break apart from biopower regimes of state, market and morality,

the subject is confronted with a basic question: how to conduct one’s life

under conditions of ethical freedom? These expressive expatriates have

sought to respond to this challenge with an aesthetics of existence that oper-

ates as an ethics of self-mastery (Foucault and Lotringer 1989). This is not

aestheticism, but rather the basis of a political ethics of the self that seeks

autonomy by dissociating systemic normativity from life politics (Giddens

76 Expressive expatriates in Ibiza

1992; Hacking 1986). Whereas the regime of biopower/‘sexuality’ have

forged the modern subject of interiority and control, countercultural for-

mations sustain experiments that point toward the possibility of a post-

sexuality age, deﬁned as a speciﬁc arrangement of power relations and truth

claims about the subject and sociality. This counter-hegemonic apparatus

would enable and legitimate alternative experiences of the self and identity

formation in which pleasure, reﬂexivity and metamorphosis may play a

larger role.

Ibiza itself determines the possibility of this aesthetic lifestyle. It is visible

that a variety of cultural organizations (cooperatives, schools, museums,

art galleries, etc.) dedicated to the betterment of Ibiza have been founded

or revitalized by expressive expatriates as they fall in love with the island.

And, thus, two paradoxical consequences are to be noted. While they ﬂee

the mainstream, Ibiza’s utopian imaginary, which these expatriates have

in essence created, has paradoxically placed these self-marginalized people

at the center of its creative life, a charismatic populace crafting much of

the seductive charm of the island. However, though mass tourism also

affects other Balearic islands and southern Spain, nowhere else has leisure

entertainment gained such an intensity, reputation (and notoriety), for

having expressive expatriates as a pivotal magnet of tourists and celebri-

ties. As a consequence, the gradual commodiﬁcation and surveillance of

alternative spaces, practices and imaginaries have threatened the sustain-

ability of such countercultural formations. Expressive expatriates have

to reassess their position by resisting, accommodating or assimilating larger

systems. How they relate with the captive machine of state surveillance

and leisure capitalism is the central topic of the next chapter.

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Expressive expatriates in Ibiza 77

3 The hippie and club scenes

in Ibiza’s tourism industry

‘Qué habéis hecho con mis hippies?’

‘What have you done to my hippies?’

Prince Juan Carlos to Ibiza mayor, 1973

Counterculture and commodity

Ibiza is a unique place in terms of its materiality and symbolic projection.

It displays some of the highest rates of tourist activity and income-

per-capita in Spain and the Mediterranean. The tiny island is also known

as the ‘clubbing capital of the world,’ hosting the biggest and the best night-

clubs on the planet (Dancestar 2004; Guinness 2003). Likewise, because of

the longstanding presence of bohemians, the international media have

represented Ibiza as an icon of utopia and liberation. However, the growth

of mass tourism has led to the chaotic urbanization of the island’s coast

and even its hinterland, and also resulted in pressing environmental prob-

lems. In the meanwhile, the leisure capital juggernaut of Ibiza has under-

cut the countercultural elements of nightclubs, submitting these venues to

a logic of predatory proﬁteering. The press now benchmarks Ibiza as a

saturated tourist trap or decadent paradise, even though alternative scenes

do persist in more secluded areas of the island. Considering this problem-

atic scenario, it can be asked, what are the conditions that sustain Ibiza as

a utopian space and party capital? How does the massiﬁcation of tourism

interrelate with such utopian imaginary?

The special status of Ibiza cannot be explained on the basis of its

pleasant climate and leisure amenities alone, since similar conditions prevail

across most of the Mediterranean. My main argument in this chapter is

that the charisma of Ibiza stems from the signiﬁcant presence of expres-

sive expatriates, who have been arriving on the island since the 1930s:

artists, naturalists, beatniks, hippies, gays, sannyasins, clubbers and freaks

(D’Andrea 2004; Stratton 1994; Scheurmann and Scheurman 1993; Rozen-

berg 1990; Paul 1937). As seen in the previous chapter, they have migrated

to the island to shape an alternative lifestyle that integrates labor, leisure

and spirituality within a cosmopolitan community of mobile expatriates

dedicated to practices of expressive individualism. In Ibiza they actively

promote and participate in the nightclub, the hippie and the gay scenes

with various transnational connections. In other words, supposing their

absence, Ibiza would likely remain as a tourist destination, yet without

the charismatic reach projected internationally.

In this connection, a paradoxical situation follows the presence of such

expatriate charisma. Although ﬂeeing the mainstream, these expatriates are

soon followed by growing numbers of tourists, business developers and

migrants. While tourism creates economic opportunities for expressive

expatriates, the excessive growth of mass tourism along with state sur-

veillance gradually promotes, captures and stiﬂes, in commodity and legal

form, those spaces, practices and imaginaries that were formerly circum-

scribed amid expressive expatriates. Not only does such modernization

undermine the utopian project, it also damages the social and environ-

mental landscape of the island in the context of growing competition among

Mediterranean resorts. In face of price inﬂation, pollution, overregulation,

overwork and social stress, expatriates must reassess their situation, and

decide to capitulate to modern regimes of labor and law, to move else-

where, or to develop more ambivalent strategies of accommodation without

assimilation.

In order to examine how leisure capital captures countercultural forma-

tions, this chapter focuses on the hippie and the nightclub scenes considered

in their symbiotic interaction with the political economies of tourism and

entertainment industries. The next section sets the tone of the chapter

with an example that describes the social and environmental transforma-

tion of a pristine nude beach into a tourist attraction. A large section is

then dedicated to an analysis of the hippie scene, discussing various cases

that evince how alternative markets, parties and music capitulate under

capitalist formations and the ambiguous rule of law. The third section

analyzes the structure of the mighty nightclub oligopoly, as the environ-

ment in which underground clubbers navigate. The ﬁnal chapter section

discusses the diasporic nature of alternative Ibiza: both utopian ideals and

ﬂexible capitalism propel expressive expatriates seasonally to leave the

island, particularly toward exoticized locations in South Asia and Latin

America.

As an analytical remark, rather than an approach of economic determin-

ism, I elaborate on the pivotal role that expressive expatriates have played

in triggering the outstanding popularity of the club and hippie scenes, which

then become contested sites for the play of capital and law. It is against this

backdrop that the dichotomy ‘mainstream-counterculture’ must be recon-

sidered. It provides a cognitive reference that informs the decisions of alter-

native subjects, authorities and tourists, and has important economic and

cultural consequences. Yet, political economies and counter-hegemonic for-

mations rearticulate in ways that contradict folk claims and expectations

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Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza 79

about such dichotomy. My analysis, therefore, does not seek to ﬁnd the truth

about what is ‘countercultural’ or ‘mainstream.’ Rather, it seeks to keep the

productive tension between economic and cultural logics, which may con-

tribute to understanding these marginal formations as ambivalent sites of

struggle and identiﬁcation (Grossberg 1997; McRobbie 1994a).

Utopian sites under siege: Punta Galera

Nora took me to a rocky beach formation dearly appreciated by expres-

sive expatriates. Although located just a few kilometers north of Sant

Antoni, Punta Galera was a relatively secluded space. Suiting common-

sensical images of paradise, it was an outstandingly beautiful place where

nudists and snorkel divers could enjoy spectacular Mediterranean scenery.

Environmentalists have long tried to keep it as a ‘secret beach’ among

well-connected residents only. Road signals were destroyed every time a

local authority sought to promote Punta Galera as a tourist attraction.

Though buses could not run on the steep curvy roads down to the place,

rental cars – a massive presence during the summer – and even an excess

of boats could have an impact on the area.

A few discreet paintings, of a spiritual nature, could be seen on the

rocks. First, the outline of a yogi in lotus position was carved on a rock

plateau by the sea. Nora explained that it was a mandala (sacred icon)

representing the ‘ecumenism’ of cultural and spiritual traditions in Ibiza.

It was carved in 1993 during the visit of a neo-shamanic healer from Brazil.

New Age healers were always an attraction for curious expatriates, and a

group followed him to Punta Galera to practice meditation and drink

80 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

Figure 3.1 Punta Galera, formerly a nude beach.

ayahuasca. For years to come, Nora, Rochelle and others remembered the

‘beauty’ and ‘power’ of that event.

Other marks of the New Age could be seen inside a cave hole on a

cliff. Hardly noticeable, it nonetheless had the words ‘no entre’ (do not

enter) hand painted. One had to stand on tiptoes to look into the hole.

There was enough room for one person to sit or lie down; a thin mattress,

a red candle, a matchbox, a notebook and a picture of the Hindu god

Shiva. The place was occupied by a Peruvian handcrafter who sometimes

stayed there for shamanic retreats during the off-season. During sea storms,

he would stand and face the big waves with his arms open, ‘just to feel

the power of nature,’ Nora explained. In my few interactions with Ari, I

noted that, despite living very modestly, he had traveled to the Himalayas.

I sometimes spotted him in nightclubs, which he attended for free, like

most of the island’s alternatives.

Finally, the words ‘Cala Yoga’ and the symbol ‘om’ were hand-painted

on a large standing rock. The word ‘cala’ means beach estuary in Ibicencan

dialect. Nora explained that a yoga teacher, her acquaintance, made the

painting in the early 1990s, ‘to express his feelings that Punta Galera is

a spiritual place.’ Staring at the horizon Nora sighed, ‘Yes, this place is

really very special . . . ’

Since I ﬁrst visited it in 1998, Punta Galera has undergone a dramatic

transformation. Every high season (from May to September), a growing

number of tourists rush to the site, clearly associated with increasing

volumes of litter and erosion. On weekends, new urban residents add to

the crowd, while jet-skis, tour glass-boats and yachts noisily cruise at a

swimming distance. Due to such invasion, nudism is rarely practiced. In

addition, there are rumors about business plans for ‘developing’ the area,

as has happened to many other urbanized beaches. Finally, a growing

number of summer houses have been built on the previously green hills

that surround Punta Galera, despite government attempts to curb the

seemingly unstoppable urbanization of the island.

This picture suggests the end of Punta Galera as a ‘piece of paradise

on earth,’ as expatriates once described it. It has become another attrac-

tion – and victim – of mass tourism and real-estate development, following

the harmless presence of expressive expatriates on the beach. In the mean-

time, while expatriates look for more secluded beaches, similar patterns

of tourist massiﬁcation and urbanization can be veriﬁed in other parts of

the island, such as Benirrás beach, as discussed on p. 89.

The hippie scene: autonomy and tourism

Marketing campaigns promoting Ibiza tourism depict images of smiley

‘hippies’ playing drums, juxtaposed with sunny beaches, an exciting

nightlife and ancient folklore. Although Ibicencans no longer praise the

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Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza 81

friendliness of hippies, their presence has long caught the attention of

both tourists and businessmen. An inﬂuential hotelier declared in an inter-

view for a British TV documentary:

Hippies made Ibiza known internationally. Thanks to them the island

became famous. Hippies did more for Ibiza in a few years than

ministries of tourism could do during their entire lives.

(Ibiza Uncovered, Sky TV 1998)

Nonetheless, such media overexposure came with a price. The seasonal

pounding of mass tourism affected the rhythms of social life, compelling

alternative subjects to reassess their position. The tip of the balance between

labor and leisure dramatically turned toward the former, and usually in an

undesired manner. A relatively free and autonomous lifestyle thus became

dependent on exogenous, disciplined and intensiﬁed labor practices, all of

which caused expatriates to ﬂee their homeland in the ﬁrst place.

On the other hand, the circulation of hippie images may attract a speciﬁc

segment of curious tourists, dissatisﬁed with their lives at home. As seen

in the previous chapter, it is often during a holiday in Ibiza that they

82 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

Figure 3.2 Drum party at Benirrás beach.

have a glimpse of utopia, prompting them to migrate. The transition,

nonetheless, is not always immediate. An intermediary state between tourist

and expatriate, to be examined in this chapter, is embodied in young

bohemian workers who seasonally come to the island to ‘work for party.’

This group ambivalently oscillates between nationalist ethnocentrism and

cosmopolitan experimentalism, revealing an identity that is neither seden-

tary nor nomadic.

This section, in sum, provides further evidence and analysis of how

alternative sites, practices and subjects are gradually shaped and incorp-

orated within larger regimes of leisure capital and state surveillance, with

a focus on what can be economically referred to as the ‘hippie scene.’

‘Hippie markets’: for tourists

Many expatriates (including Spaniards from the homeland) worked at one

of the three main ‘hippie markets.’ Las Dálias is a rustic farmland prop-

erty by the road to San Carles, which hosts a hippie market every Saturday

of the tourist season (from May to October). Dusty parking lots head to

the patio of a farmhouse where some 100 stalls display a variety of exotic

goods: ethnic/hippie clothes, handcrafts, paintings, gems, jewelry, incense,

tattoos, fruit juices; there is also a chai shop. Besides expatriates and

Santa Eulária residents, the market is mostly frequented by tourists. In

pleasant sunny weather, longhaired vendors sit by their booths, reading

or informally interacting with anyone willing to chat or buy. As the press

recurrently notes, the atmosphere in Las Dálias is not ‘touristy’ (commer-

cialized), but rather ‘hippie’: relaxed, lively and intimate.

Opened as a rustic roadside bar in 1954, Las Dálias improved its facil-

ities to host barbecues for organized groups of tourists. But this system

dwindled throughout the 1970s, with the growing competition posed by

Eivissa and Sant Antoni. Ironically, such demise transformed Las Dálias

into a secret hangout bar for pop stars and their entourages, including

Robert Plant, Nina Hagen, the Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Judas Priest,

Queen, UB40 and Simply Red. Daytime auctions at the garden encour-

aged an expatriate woman to organize a regular ‘hippie market’ from

1986 onward. Alternative residents could sell their artisan products to

new waves of tourists within the general upsurge of tourism in Ibiza that

began to take place in the late 1980s. Even so, perhaps due to its rela-

tive distance to main urban centers of the island, Las Dálias hippie market

was able to maintain a somehow peaceful and relaxed (‘chilled out’) atmos-

phere into the 2000s.

Differently, Es Canar ‘hippie market’ happens every Wednesday in

summer, and very clearly caters for tourists since its inception in the early

1990s. Located at Santa Eulária, it emerged from an agreement between

area hoteliers and an excess of hippie traders who were dissatisﬁed with

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Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza 83

Las Dálias. Much larger than Las Dálias, it hosts more than three times

the number of stalls and perhaps ten times the number of tourists. Many

alternatives work on both markets, although Spanish and Senegalese

traders are a visible presence in Es Canar. In addition to alternative prod-

ucts (hippie clothing, leather, jewelry, etc.), there is a large amount of

African wooden craft and cheap manufactured goods, such as toys,

watches, sunglasses, regular clothes and CDs. In any measure, Es Canar

seems less ‘hippie’ and more ‘market’ than Las Dálias.

As I kept returning to Las Dálias, some hippie traders eventually greeted

me with smiles and holas. In several instances, I had never spoken to

them. I remarked this occurrence to Nora as we wandered through the

market. She did not seem surprised:

Of course, they are recognizing your face. You know, they see you

walking with me. And they see so many people during the season,

and tourists disappear. But some faces stick around and begin to stand

out from the mass. So, yeah, you are becoming more familiar. You

are becoming part of the family!

These comments point out a sense of solidarity that identiﬁes hippie traders

internally. In fact, several of my main informants (Nora, Rochelle, Barbara)

were known as regulars in the alternative scenes of the island. During the

late 1980s Nora sold tofu in Las Dálias. Thus, whenever she greeted any

of her many acquaintances, Nora introduced them to me, or later gave

me a summary of their lives. Such communal bonds can be noticed in

relation to many alternatives that did not work at the market, yet showed

up to socialize and get updates about upcoming events. Las Dálias was,

in sum, a space of socialization for expressive expatriates (including

Spanish ‘expatriates’ from the mainland).

In contrast with a conventional sales mode (impersonal, reverential,

forceful), expressive expatriates candidly interacted with potential buyers.

They gestured spontaneously, made lively comments about any triviality

and joked (between themselves) about tourists. Many of these hippie

traders displayed ﬂamboyant personalities, wearing exuberant clothes, hair-

styles and jewelry. Donovan sold his paintings at Las Dálias. Originally

from Italy, he had lived in California (US) during the 1960s. He was a

masseur, but preferred to work as a house painter and, like Nora,

complained about tiredness. He poked fun at everything, including himself

working as a masseur in hotels, or about his daughter’s boyfriend who

lived in Japan. Nora sighed, and we kept walking.

Strolling through the farmhouse archway, we found the recently opened

chai shop. The exotic beauty of the room was outstanding, in a word,

‘orientalist.’ A scent of sandalwood incense pervaded the air. The room

was dimly lit by two candles and the natural light through a small window.

Long silk sheets crossed the ceiling. A large kasbah-like display of exotic

84 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

products covered the right wall: Moroccan mats, drapes, cushions, silver

pots, incense, a crystal ball and statues of Hindu gods, such as a magniﬁ-

cent Nataraj (dancing Shiva). On the left side, a rustic bar combined

Moroccan decoration with an Ibicencan peasant-style kitchen lined by tall

bar chairs. At the end of the room, ground-level tables were surrounded

by various sitting cushions. In contrast to the tourist frenzy outside, the

chai shop was tranquil and relatively empty. A group of youngsters smoked

in the table area; two tourists were browsing. A ﬂamboyantly dressed

couple managed the place. The chai shop reminded me of a Romantic

painting of Eastern motives, such as The Snake Charmer by Gérôme

(depicted on the book-cover of Said’s Orientalism).

As we sipped some chai (spiced tea), Nora whispered that she could

not remember the owners’ names, and left to talk to someone outside. I

initiated a conversation with the woman, Marol, who was tall, blond, ﬁt,

and wore a long ﬂowery skirt and a white top with puffy short sleeves.

She lived in Ibiza, but frequently left the island during the winter, going

to Holland, Morocco or India, from where she brought the exotic merchan-

dise on display. A Dutch expatriate in her early thirties, Marol had four

children ‘spread everywhere’ as she jocosely remarked; two lived with

relatives in Holland and Spain, and the youngest ones stayed with her. I

saw one of them running barefoot around market stalls, playing with

other children and tenderly watched over by hippie traders. Despite

working hard to promote the exotic events she co-organized, Marol seemed

to enjoy that lifestyle. Charismatic and expressive, she could step onto an

empty dance ﬂoor and loosely dance, while the crowd silently watched,

until a child grabbed her long skirt in order to say something.

As a potential buyer approached Marol, I turned to the man over the

counter. Mediterranean in appearance, he wore a simple medieval-like shirt

and red turban. As a Spanish expatriate, his adopted name was Alok, a

sign of his discipleship to Osho, like many other expatriates that I met.

Accordingly, he had also been to the Osho commune in Pune, India. (On

a different occasion, he told me that he was a real-estate broker in Barcelona

following an existential crisis. Someone suggested that he should travel to

India, where he incidentally heard about Osho. He decided to try the

commune and was radically transformed, as he put it. Upon return, he

realized that his life in the city was ‘unbearable’ and moved to Ibiza after

a vacation on the island in 1996, settling down with the help of connec-

tions he had at the hippie market.) Alok invited me to the grand opening

of their weekly party Namaste, a ‘very special night with a surprise dinner

and magic shows,’ as he described it, to be examined next.

Namaste: freak business and seduction

Over the course of a few years, Namaste grew from an uncertain experi-

ment into a key event in the hippie nightlife and a successful tourist attrac-

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tion just the same. It takes place in the garden area of Las Dálias restau-

rant every Wednesday night throughout the high season. Tourists sit in the

restaurant area watching the exotically dressed hippies and artists. In the

chill-out garden, gregarious ‘freaks’

and elder bohemians lie on cushions

around low tables, drinking chai and discreetly sharing hashish joints. A

number of exotic performances take place in a small circular patio, includ-

ing ﬂamenco guitarists, Latino poets, opera punk singers, North African

dancers, ﬁre acrobats, Indian musicians, belly dancers, and there is even a

Biodance demonstration.

A dance room with psychedelic decorations, named ‘trance room’ due

to the Techno trance music being played, was added at Namaste in 2001.

Inside the farmhouse, the trance room began to attract a horde of young

freaks arriving late at night. In contrast to such freakness, Las Dálias’s

owner, Juanito, is an Ibicencan man of more conventional tastes. Although

hippies sometimes persuade him to wear a white tunic, his main concerns

were attendance and noise levels, as police drive up and down the road,

watchful for compliance infractions. Like his relatives running the property,

Juanito is not engaged with alternative culture, and he delegated the artistic

component of the business to Chris, a Canadian–Spanish musician and

event producer.

In between the seasons of 1999 and 2003 (research period), Namaste

crowds increased from 200 to about 2,000 per party, and so did its prices.

Dinner cover increased from Ptas 1,200 to 3,000 (US$7–18), in addition

to a new entrance fee, which also increased from Ptas 1,000 to 2,500.

The new euro currency pushed these ﬁgures up. Tourists prevailed during

the evening, while alternatives arrived later, looking for a combination of

chai, hash and trance. As Namaste gradually catered for tourist demands,

the more underground crowd drifted toward the Sunday night parties

organized by Tribe of Frog, a new contender from Bristol (England).

Freaks certainly preferred free parties in the countryside, and thus insisted

on free or largely discounted entrance at Las Dálias.

During wintertime, Namaste promoters organized a few low-proﬁle

dance parties at El Divino, the most elegant nightclub in Ibiza. This venture

evinces a connection between hippie and jet-set scenes – which will be

detailed in the next section. Nevertheless, Alok and friends aborted plans

for a summer season in the nightclub, since Las Dálias reissued its own

party license; moreover, the stifﬂy competitive club industry represented

an overwhelming challenge for any club party promoter, with the risk of

ﬁnancial losses. Curiously, Alok and I chatted about El Divino as we unex-

pectedly met in a chill-out bar in Goa, India, a few years later.

Namaste has succeeded as a lively, proﬁtable event offering orientalist

exoticism for hippies, freaks and tourists. In addition to the entrepre-

neurial skills of its promoters, Namaste has relied on the extensive word-of-

mouth among hippie traders, attracting a large number of tourists. In the

Ibiza context, Namaste has also beneﬁted from the peripheral location of

86 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

Las Dálias in relation to the island’s mighty club oligopoly, in a period

when the utopian imaginary of Ibiza has become internationally mar-

keted as a tourist commodity. Despite hinging on the commercialization

of alternative formations, Namaste cannot be properly characterized as a

commodiﬁed process, because of the transparency of social relations still

found among cultural producers and alternative consumers, thus conferring

an air of ‘authenticity’ to the event.

Mediated by exotic events such as Namaste, the utopian imaginary of

Ibiza exerts a seductive inﬂuence upon segments of mainstream tourists,

particularly the existentially ambitious youth. A short vacation on the

island may trigger a latent crisis of self-identity, which may soon subside

or lead to a critical decision to move to the island more or less indeﬁn-

itely. The ‘Ibiza bug’ is an expression from the 1960s that aptly captures

the infectious character that traveling through exotic lands may have on

the victim. How such orientalist events entice tourists to risk a new lifestyle

is a question that requires further investigation. Nonetheless, it is not

uncommon to witness young tourists inquiring about alternative gigs on

the island, who later ‘drop out.’

Hippie markets: for hippies

In contrast with Es Canar and Las Dálias, other markets were predomi-

nantly attended by expressive expatriates. Located at a modest ranch in

the northern countryside, the ‘organic market’ of Can Sort took place

every Saturday morning, during most of the year. Narrow dirt roads lead

to the house with some sparse parking spots amid bushes and stone

barriers. Usually about a dozen vehicles were parked in the bucolic setting,

ranging from rusty old vans, to economic sedans, to luxurious sedans and

even an American-style SUV.

Under a modest barn, Miguel and Marta (Barbara’s housemates, see

p. 56) sold organic produce and breads. With effort, a Scottish woman

ran the ranch with the assistance of two younger women in the kitchen.

They cooked vegetarian food and served plates over the counter, directly

to the visitor who then sat on the patio outside. Most of the two dozen

people present were expatriates: a German belly dancer accompanied by

Matrix-looking companions (wearing dark leather clothes, sunglasses and

trimmed haircuts), a few American hippies, South American teenagers,

etc. Eating vegetarian food in a simple rural setting seemed to be an attrac-

tive element in bringing them to socialize at Can Sort.

But not all of them were countercultural or expatriate types. As an illu-

minating exception, José was a modest working-class man from mainland

Spain, who attended Biodance sessions for a few months. He was employed

in the construction industry, a well-paid sector because of the unstoppable

urbanization of the island. In contrast to answers typically given by expres-

sive expatriates, he bluntly said that good wages were the only reason

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that brought him to Ibiza. In our conversations, I never detected any of

the aesthetic or existentialist references that punctuate expatriate explana-

tions of Ibiza’s ‘beauty,’ ‘energies,’ ‘freedom’ or ‘cosmopolitanism.’ Like-

wise, he differed from the expressive or stressed proﬁles that attend

Biodance circles. In a sense, he was the only ‘conventional’ individual

at Can Sort, seemingly enjoying the gathering as much as expressive

expatriates did.

The ‘ﬂea market’ of San Jordi took place in the deactivated hippodrome

at the outskirts of Ibiza town, every Saturday morning throughout the

off-season (November to April). At a distance, it resembled a gigantic

kasbah, marked by a variety of banners spontaneously raised by partici-

pants, depicting prevalent themes of the alternative world: the Jamaican

ﬂag, anarchism, Tao, fractals, Hindu symbols, etc. Many old cars and

caravans were parked behind the stalls, displaying license plates from

various Western European countries. Mohican-haired freaks wore leather

clothes and boots due to the winter chill. A Babel-like mix of languages,

dialects and accents could be heard. Dispensing with permits, anyone

could set up a stall, usually second-hand objects: clothes, home antiques,

books, kitchenware, toys, electric appliances, music records, etc. Several

handcrafters sold jewelry and clothes, while senior Spaniards sold shoes

or groceries. In addition to alternative types and expatriates, there were

a smaller number of Spanish urbanites in search of some weekend amuse-

ment. With no tourists during winter, the island became quiet, and the

general atmosphere at San Jordi was relaxed and enjoyable – sunny and

chilled like the weather.

The market also resisted commodiﬁcation. Economic exchanges occurred

in an environ that enabled people to interact more personally. Most of the

crowd were regular visitors who often claimed that their purchases were

incidental. Rather than a sea of standardized and universally priced com-

modities, each object appeared to possess a unique patina, which onlookers

speculated about. It was the affective link (a ‘magic click’) between object

and buyer that prompted a transaction, which was then negotiated. In

contrast with the compulsive consumerism of impersonal shopping malls,

the social function of the ﬂea market was as, or more important, than

its economic function. The diversity of peoples and situations at San Jordi

constituted not only a market but also a space of socialization and mutual

acknowledgment where participants shared experiences, stories and plans

about previous and future seasons.

In this connection, two seasonal peaks at the ﬂea market indicated the

level of mobility among expatriates each year. The ﬁrst one occurred in

late November, when they rushed to sell stock leftovers and other

unwanted belongings, a ﬁnal opportunity to generate extra cash that would

help to fund winter unemployment or journeys overseas. The second peak

occurred in April, when expatriates again concentrated in Ibiza, preparing

88 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

for the coming season. As usual, they chatted about visits to their parents,

adventures in faraway lands and expectations for the coming months. This

mobile community of hippie traders also validates a theoretical claim

about the dialectic of mobility/moorings as a key component of complex

globalization (Urry 2003: 126): rather than wandering endlessly (as mistak-

enly assumed about nomads), expressive expatriates have to obey a period

of rest and refueling, as a condition for further displacement.

Drum and trance parties, and the logic of state surveillance

Besides hippie markets, expatriates also gathered at more intimate music

events taking place in secluded areas of the island, beyond the reach of

tourists. Drum parties typically occurred on beaches before sunset, a small

circle of drummers and their troupe improvising on shifting rhythms.

The largest of the drum parties congregated a few thousand people, scat-

tered in a myriad of candle-lit groups on the beach of Benirrás, at the

northernmost coast of the island, every last Wednesday of August. It began

in 1991, as a spiritual protest against the Gulf War I, and grew in numbers

each year.

However, the event has suffered under the political feuds and business

interests ruling the island. In 2001 the Socialist-Green government prohib-

ited it, claiming issues of public safety and environmental protection. A

group of artists then prepared a report that disputed the ofﬁcial decision

on technical grounds, but to no avail. As a French expatriate told me,

the event fell victim to rivalries between Socialists in Eivissa capital and

Conservative mayors in northern towns. Yet, after the left-wing coalition

collapsed in 2001, weekly drum gatherings were tacitly allowed in Benirrás

provided they did not attract large crowds.

Lack of coherence and organization among public authorities prevail.

As in Punta Galera, larger numbers of tourists have been arriving at

Benirás each summer anyway. Moreover, to the dismay of drummers and

environmentalists who fought for their right to promote the annual gath-

ering at Benirrás, a local mayor, seeking to promote tourism in the area,

granted a permit to a group of British party promoters, allowing them to

organize massive barbecues for clubbing tourists in summer 2003. But the

project failed due to ﬁnancial and logistical issues, as well as because the

British clubbing ‘elite’ of DJs, promoters and industry workers based in

Ibiza town (rather than Sant Antoni) disregarded such dance barbeques

as unfashionable (‘uncool’).

Finally, trance parties are a critical reference among alternative peoples

of Spanish and expatriate countercultures. Also known as ‘Goa parties,’

these events secretly thrive in highly secluded areas of the island’s coast

and countryside. Their secrecy is a marker of subcultural identity and

exclusivity, in addition to being a tactic of evasion from state and market

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regulation. Ofﬁcial authorities argued that such events violated the law

on the environment and public order. Countryside residents would call

police whenever they noticed an unusual ﬂux of vehicles by their prop-

erties or heard the digital stomping afar. On the other hand, if held in a

more accessible location, the party could grow too large, attracting

unwanted tourists, resulting in police raids mobilized by powerful club

barons. Trance freaks claim that they are persecuted because their parties

beset the economic interests of the mighty club industry. This seems

unlikely or at least grossly exaggerated, since trance freaks and main-

stream clubbers do not mingle, although ‘underground’ clubbers are often

seen with trance freaks.

Ironically, it is such criminalization of countercultural practices that

enhances the mystique surrounding trance parties, which, in turn, con-

tributes to make Ibiza such an enigmatic and charismatic place, attrac-

tive for leisure capital and consumption. As an example of how tourism

seeks to exploit these transgressive subcultures, large-scale trance parties

were only possible by means of an ofﬁcial permit granted by some remote

city hall in the north of the island, or within the patronage of the MTV

festivals held in the bedrocks of Sant Antoni throughout the late 1990s,

until political intrigue forced the corporation out of the island. A detailed

analysis of the ritual and politico-economic dimensions of the Techno

trance scene will be provided in Chapter 5.

In conclusion, the hippie scene must be considered in the context of

capitalist predation that marks the socio-economic life of the island. For

a long time, political and economic elites seem to have agreed with a

shortsighted strategy of development that maximizes immediate proﬁts

at the expense of any consideration with the environment, quality of life

and social justice. More and more tourists is usually the basic measure

of economic ‘success,’ even though an organized model for tourism devel-

opment has shown its ﬁrst signs. Under speciﬁc legislation, Ibiza has been

slowly upgrading its tourism infrastructure and facilities, hoping gradu-

ally to substitute mass tourism with a more gentriﬁed orientation.

In addition to the economic imbrications between the hippie scene

and tourism, the action of state surveillance and major moralities further

complicate their situation. As mentioned, hippies claim that their events

are prohibited because they do not contribute to the economic interests of

local oligarchies. On the other hand, the authorities and local population

complain that hippies disobey the law and offend morality – to which,

hippies respond by pointing out that the state and authorities are hypo-

critical for being complicit in allowing drug consumption in the night-

club/pub sector. However, what both sides fail to perceive is that such

mechanisms of surveillance and mutual accusation inadvertently enhance

the charisma of countercultures and, by extension, of the island, as an

effect of the imaginaries of desire that biopower/sexuality reproduce.

90 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

Commercializing spirituality: Café del Mar, El Divino and

Buddha Bar

Having examined the action of market/state systems upon the hippie scene,

this sub-section more closely considers how alternative practices, artifacts

and imaginaries are actually reprocessed within the strictly commercial

schemes of entertainment in urban Ibiza.

Within the rise of mass tourism, Café del Mar grew from a tranquil

coffee bar attended by daytime bohemians in the late 1970s into a tourist

attraction hosting hundreds of weekenders each day of the summer in

the late 1990s and early 2000s. The hippie concept is repackaged for

economic ends: by the sunset you and your friends sip drinks (purchased

at the bar) while listening to a gentle mood-altering music. The formula

was then effectively imitated by neighboring bars, all along the coast, and

even internationally.

In addition, Café del Mar CD album compilations of ‘ambient’ music

became international bestsellers, to the point that consumers in foreign

markets ignored the fact that Café del Mar was actually a café by the

sea. ‘Daytime DJs’ – such as legendary José Padilla – were hired to create

the musical ambience, with discreet loudspeakers facing the beach strip.

Their skills evolved to the point where the music was somehow matched

to the position of the sun in its ﬁnal descent. The music goes deeper and

slower, and those who get in tune become silent, feeling ethereal, almost

uterine. As the sun touches the sea, the melody climaxes and remains on

a plateau of subtle emotional undertones before fading like the sun behind

the sea line. The sky becomes a blanket of shifting colors, altering from

orange, to pink and violet. This is a bio-musical assemblage that engenders

exquisite, even if ephemeral moods, as noted in desultory conversations

and direct observation.

The more alternative crowd at the ‘chill-out’ bar Kumharas, located at

the opposite side of Sant Antoni bay, considers such sunset ritual to be

‘very spiritual,’ a ‘cosmic moment of transition.’ It allows people to get in

touch with their inner moods, which is facilitated with ambient music.

Some of them will be quietly smoking a hashish joint, while a few others

will bring their hands together in a prayer position. Conversely, the massive

crowd of British tourists at Café del Mar, Mambo and Savannah keeps

photographing, talks loudly and cheerfully applauds the sunset, culminating

with beer bottles thrown at the sea. (I snorkeled in that area, and saw

dozens of beer and breezer bottles lying at the shallow bottom.)

Even Kumharas underwent sensible gentriﬁcation since its opening in

1997. No longer a straw-made bar with rustic tables for longhaired youth,

Kumharas has upgraded its facilities, increased the number of tables, and

installed a touch-screen cashier system for its staff. The price of its drinks

has signiﬁcantly increased while catering to middle-class tourists and

various agents of the record industry from overseas. As bar owner and

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cultural promoter Miguel once told me with mixed feelings, ‘I used to

have friends here, now I have a clientele.’

One of these friends was ambient music producer and DJ Lenny Ibizarre,

a Danish-Dutch expatriate who has been living on the island since child-

hood. At a younger age, Lenny enjoyed throwing trance parties with

friends in the countryside. Committed to ambient music, Lenny developed

a personal studio in his house located in the northern countryside. His

talents in producing ambient music led him to sign a contract with Sony

Records, which acquired the rights to globally market his music label

(Ibizarre Records). In the meanwhile, UK magazine Cosmopolitan included

Lenny in a list of ‘young, rich and available men’ in the year 2000. In

contrast, Lenny seemed aloof to such allure and success. In an interview

for Pacha Magazine in 2003, club celebrities (mostly top DJs) were asked

what they wanted to be doing in ten years. While most answers revolved

around doing more and having more, Lenny, in his early thirties, replied

differently:

In ten years I would like to have the same life that I now have. I am

perfectly happy. Living in my house in the countryside, where I

compose my music during the day and take care of my garden during

the afternoon. That’s what I want to be doing in ten years. No changes.

The spiritual aesthetic of expressive expatriates has been also incorpor-

ated at high-end venues of entertainment business. El Divino, consen-

sually seen as the most elegant nightclub on the island, provides a classical

example. Located at the marina of Ibiza town, the former veranda restau-

rant enjoys a spectacular view of the medieval fortress. Yet, its history illus-

trates how expressive expatriates have paved the way for the subsequent

massiﬁcation of clubbing in Ibiza and even globally. In 1992, interior

designer and DJ Charles Challe, businessman Claude Frederich, and Felini’s

set designer Paolo Galia purchased a rustic dockworker’s bar and trans-

formed it into a classy marina restaurant. In a plush physical setting,

El Divino’s distinctive character essentially stemmed from its post-dinner

party concept, incorporating ambient music and catering to a very special

clientele.

The three partners envisaged El Divino as a special venue for wealthy

ﬂamboyant friends of the ‘golden triangle’ – a jet-setting cohort circulating

across Ibiza, Morocco and Goa. Many within the former circle were Osho

sannyasins actively involved in this expressive diaspora. It is signiﬁcant

to note that the sannyasin Alok threw hippie parties in this venue, which

he told me about when we met in Goa (India) by chance. In connection

with previous observations, it seems that sannyasins constitute a relevant

node of expatriate experiences wherein spiritual, hedonist and trans-

national features overlap organically, as will be examined in Chapter 4.

92 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

Charles Challe quit his partnership in 1993 and returned to Paris where

he subsequently opened the internationally acclaimed Buddha Bar. Like

the Ibiza sibling, Buddha Bar was devised as an upscale bar–restaurant

with an orientalist ‘lounge’ ambience, and soon became a reference among

foreign yuppies and wealthy tourists visiting the city. Similarly to Café

del Mar, Buddha Bar also released CD compilations featuring ‘lounge,’

‘world’ music, a successful enterprise that suggests the striking inequali-

ties associated with the commodiﬁcation of Third-World art: whereas

cassette tapes of Pakistani singer Nusrat Ali Khan are sold in India for

about US$1, the same songs remixed within a deluxe Buddha Bar CD

are priced in the West at about US$50.

With the exponential growth of mass tourism in Ibiza, El Divino’s dance

ﬂoor became more proﬁtable than the restaurant. As the exotic glitz

of veranda dinners gave way to the ﬂashing buzz of dance music at the

veranda, chic hippies and sannyasins disappeared against the massive wake

of Euro clubbers. As executive director Antonio, an experienced restaurant

businessman originally from Galicia, explains, ‘El Divino seeks to attract

a more sophisticated clientele of quality clubbers that stay in Ibiza town.

But of course everyone is welcome.’ By ‘everyone’ he was indirectly refer-

ring to the rowdy British working-class tourists hosted in Sant Antoni. On

the other hand, ‘real’ or ‘underground clubbers,’ typically connected with

the global club scene, favored more ‘messy’ nightclubs (see p. 101).

Converted into a nightclub, the proﬁtability of dance parties became the

exclusive criterion for managing the business, as pointed out by Antonio.

Far from driven by any underground idealism, Ibiza nightclubs constitute

a highly competitive industry with international ramiﬁcations. Nonetheless,

Middle-Eastern businessman Khaled Rodan bought El Divino in 1996, in

part for his own enjoyment (as he was regularly seen at the VIP veranda).

El Divino continued to attract celebrities, as well as upmarket manu-

facturers who eventually rented the main venue for promotional events. In

the early 2000s, El Divino had most of its weekly night slots allotted to

party promoters from the UK, Italy, Russia and the US.

Nevertheless, discreet but distinctive traces of New Age Orientalism still

characterize El Divino and Buddha Bar, and likely underlie their com-

mercial success. Staircases are lined with incenses and candles, while an

impressive Buddha statue rests at the VIP area of both venues. Buddha Bar

CD booklets quote Gautama, whereas El Divino postcards depict belly

dancers on site, and its elegant invitations for the annual ‘opening party’

also depicts Buddhist motives and the infamous club logo: halved-faces of

the sun and the moon in unity, symbolizing the meeting of night and day

– a concept aptly explored by nightclubs in their subliminal communication.

In sum, the hippie scene is a charismatic magnet for tourists, largely

subsumed under the logic of leisure capital. Advertising materials explore

images of hippies. Drum gatherings are forbidden, soon replaced by

commercial barbecue parties. Trance parties are suppressed by police,

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Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza 93

while crowded sunset bars employ the hippie taste for nature to their own

economic advantage. Alternative musicians sign millionaire contracts with

record companies, adapting their music to ‘Ibiza’ branded CDs for global

consumption. In the meanwhile, high-end venues in Ibiza and Paris embody

elements of New Age spirituality as a stylish pretense of distinctiveness.

In all of these cases, it is noticed that alternative spaces, practices and

lifestyles previously circumscribed to expressive expatriates are repackaged

for mass consumption. Within this process, modernization as commodi-

ﬁcation undermines the material and cultural conditions necessary for the

reproduction of alternative lifestyles as such.

The club scene: underground and industry

During the summer, Ibiza also becomes a hectic laboratory for hundreds

of DJs to try new records on the dance ﬂoor, and to network with

colleagues, party promoters, music producers, journalists and agents of

the record industry. Record companies have scouts inﬁltrated in the scene,

watchful for unlicensed records that electrify the island, then contracted

into commercial ‘Ibiza’ CD compilations that are annually released onto

the global market. In such an environment, ‘being underground’ is often

just a rhetorical gesture by music producers aiming at a contract with a

large record company that will catapult their careers. More widely, drifting

away from its origins among expressive expatriates, the club scene has

become a mighty sector of the entertainment industry, within the general

activity of tourism on the island. The seven mega-nightclubs and about

100 disco-pubs amassed an ofﬁcially declared amount of US$110 million

in the year 2001, about 11 per cent of the gross tourism revenue of the

94 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

Figure 3.3 Privilege, the largest nightclub in the world, with a 10,000 capacity.

island (Govern de les Illes Ballears – Conselleria de Turisme 2002), contra-

dictorily oscillating between their countercultural origin and voracious

commercialization.

This section examines how the unique charisma of Ibiza’s nightclubs

stems from the strategic position that expressive expatriates have occu-

pied within the political economies of tourism, media and entertainment.

More speciﬁcally, I assess how countercultural, capitalist and moral forma-

tions dynamically converge and clash within regimes of capital and desire

that regulate the club scene, considered as an analytical unit. As a caveat,

rather than exclusive categories, the binary ‘mainstream-counterculture’

must be seen as contingent folk references that simultaneously inform the

maneuvers of self-fashioned alternative segments, while also feeding the

symbolic logic of consumptive capital. The point is not to deﬁne the truth

about such claims, but to examine the cultural motivations and economic

implications of such dialectic.

Initially, I present the individual trajectory of a Buddhist DJ who

worked in clubbing sites marked by hedonism and illegality, thus making

explicit some of the ethical challenges that must be confronted in the

highly predatory environments of the Ibiza club scene. Second, by means

of a description of a typical night in the largest nightclub on the planet

(Privilege), I delve into a micro-ecology of social types that reﬂects and

speaks to wider social hierarchies of class and distinction. The empirical

ﬁndings tend to reafﬁrm classical claims of the Birmingham school of

cultural studies (about the correlations of social class, style and resistance),

which have been dismissed more recently by the ‘post-subcultural’ critique

(Bennett and Kahn-Harris 2004; Muggleton and Weinzierl 2003). Third,

considering these biographic and ritual cases in the context of the polit-

ical economy of the nightclub industry, I describe the economic structure,

corporate strategies and political ramiﬁcations of the seven mega-

nightclubs that determine the nature of Ibiza’s nightlife. Finally, after iden-

tifying the basic dynamic of the club industry, I illustrate the play of desire

and morality upon concrete sites of the leisure capital, with an analysis

of the ‘largest dance party in the world’ (allegedly, Manumission), focusing

on how its meteoric growth has mutually ampliﬁed a media scandal of

transnational proportions.

A Buddhist DJ in the land of hedonism

Every early June, Gary drove his car loaded with hundreds of vinyl

records, all the way from Kent in England to Ibiza island, where he stayed

until mid October. Over the years around the millennium, DJ Lucci (as

Gary is professionally known) regularly played at Manumission parties

held at the nightclub Privilege each Monday, and daily worked as a

‘daytime resident DJ’ at Bar M in Sant Antoni, besides playing at other

parties on occasions. In contrast with the multinational orientations of

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Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza 95

expressive expatriates and underground clubbers, Gary’s daily life was

predominantly encapsulated in the highly ethnocentric British club scene

in Ibiza. I ﬁrst met him at Nora’s place, as he had learned about her

massage therapy work through an article published in a club magazine

(DJ Magazine 1998).

From a working-class family background, Gary struggled to become a

professional DJ. Like many of the same generation, he lived with his

parents or shared a place with friends. At a younger age, he decided to

quit school, as it was more pleasurable to work as a delivery driver in

London. In the meanwhile, he went clubbing with ‘rough types,’ as he

puts it, elements from the youth working class or unemployed friends,

enduring the harsh social transition into the neo-liberal world of disman-

tled labor and welfare in the UK. Gary ﬁrst went to Ibiza in 1989 in his

mid-twenties. In reply to my question ‘how was Ibiza back then’, he said:

I remember that there was much less people, and deﬁnitely much less

British people. It was fantastic! Privilege was then Ku; and we danced

in the open air, under the stars, as nightclubs had no roof back then.

People was marvelous, and the atmosphere was just incredible. It was

the ﬁrst time that house music was playing, because it had just been

created. So, nobody knew its direction or how long it would last. It

was something new, and we wanted to enjoy all that as much as possible

because we did not know what was going to happen next.

Gary thus conﬂates Ibiza with clubbing, while emphasizing the extra-

ordinary nature of its nightlife. Its ‘fantastic’ atmosphere is shaped by

‘marvelous people’ who ‘dance under the stars.’

He also underlines the

newness of house music, what engendered a subliminal anxiety regarding

future uncertainties as well as their desire to enjoy the present, a nostalgia

founded on the prospective of a lack. Wonderful and uncertain, these

nightclubs propelled Gary to return to Ibiza almost on a yearly basis

throughout the 1990s. In 1998 he got the position of ‘daytime resident

DJ’ at Bar M (M for Manumission).

Considering the risk of petty crimes and scams that infested Sant Antoni

during the summer, both Gary and I were looking for reliable ﬂat-mates.

We thus rented the small ground apartment located in the same building

where Nora lived. With odd working schedules, we often talked overnight.

Unlike most biographic trajectories described thus far, Gary was not a

typical ‘expressive expatriate.’ Despite the many repeated stays on the

island, he never cared about learning Spanish. Moreover, Gary adhered to

identity references that were markedly national, male and working class.

On the other hand, he was very interested in forms of spirituality more

commonly veriﬁed among alternative expatriates. A Reiki master, Gary

also practiced Buddhist meditation every day. Not only that, he consciously

sought to live his everyday life according to his ideas of ‘inner peace,’ ‘com-

96 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

passion’ and ‘positive thinking.’ The house music he played was charac-

terized as ‘uplifting,’ with cheering lyrics and sounds that promoted a sense

of well-being. He also created a record label named Planet Love Records

under which he produced and released his own records, sometimes with

explicit spiritual themes, such as ‘Journey to Enlightenment,’ a progressive

house record with a sample of a popular Buddhist prayer. By all means,

much of what Gary did in his professional and personal life sought to

reﬂect his beliefs in Buddhism.

His interest in spirituality grew during a career transition in the late

1980s. Gary mentions the impact that an astrological reading had on him,

‘triggering off things that I knew deep inside.’ He still worked as a van

driver, when the astrologer spoke about his inclination toward commun-

ication and underlined his need to ‘express myself and motivate people

through music.’ In 1995 he joined a Mahayana Buddhist retreat, which

represented a turning point in his life:

I noticed that the meditation and the monk’s teachings were helping

me a lot. I remember that the monk said that only a few would

remain in the retreat; and I wondered about myself. I was so much

into it that I stayed until the end, whereas my brother who had asked

me to join the workshop left in the middle. I was much more focused.

I then realized that what I really wanted was my own career as a DJ,

despite problems with money and with my parents who didn’t under-

stand my decision. I gained a peace of mind that I never had before.

I gave up my job as a van driver to dedicate myself to become a

professional DJ. I was already playing for friends in small raves. It

was also around that time that I decided to stop with all the heavy

drinking, smoking, drugs, and other crazy things that me and my

friends did all the time [. . .]. It was just too much! Acupuncture also

helped me to stop smoking; I became more focused, and it gave me

much more energy. And since then, I have been trying to learn more

about meditation, Buddhism and Reiki.

What does it mean to be ‘spiritual’ while working in the predatory

environments of the Ibiza club scene? As a professional DJ and Buddhist

practitioner, Gary’s ethical values regularly clashed with typical situations

of the club scene: blunt interactions, dodgy offers, decadent temptations,

endless postponements, unfulﬁlled promises, endemic backstabbing, etc.

These vices seemed to be drastically ampliﬁed in Ibiza’s transitory settings

of hedonism. Furthermore, Gary refused to engage with predominant forms

of networking practice, which revolved around ongoing party and drug

indulgence. Instead, he envisioned himself as a ‘focused’ DJ and music

producer, evoking cases of successful producers who, according to him,

thrived on a sober and even anti-social work ethic. His kind personality

thus sharply contrasted with what was expected of a ‘Manumission DJ’

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(eccentric, excessive, blunt, etc). In sum, Gary’s attitude simultaneously

was an ethical bonus and a subcultural handicap – in any case, an anomaly

in the scene.

Nonetheless, his spirituality did not result in his rejection of the club

scene for its highly mundane nature. It rather entailed a reformed stance

in this regard. Gary’s explanation was both evasive and pragmatic:

In Buddhism, we learn to accept things with compassion, and not to

judge them. When someone is stupid at me, I feel compassionate about

their ignorance. [. . .] When I am working as a DJ, I try to send love

through the records I play. This is why I like playing soulful and

uplifting house, because I know that this music affects people’s moods,

and so many people in clubs are depressed, on drugs, with problems

and stress . . .

In conclusion, Gary seeks to overcome the derailing and anomic socia-

bility of clubbing with a more ethical form of individualism that soberly

integrates personal and professional pursuits. In order to understand the

meaning of this effort, it is necessary to consider Gary’s position as an

artistic producer against the backdrop of clubbing hedonism in Ibiza. The

next subsection provides an ethnographic description of a typical night in

the largest nightclub on the planet Privilege. By means of an organic

assessment of clubbing as a ritual practice, an ecology of subgroups that

populate the club scene can be discerned.

Ethnography of the world’s largest nightclub

With a 10,000 capacity, Privilege is ‘the largest nightclub in the world’

according to the Guinness Book of World Records (Guinness 2003). The

venue is located by the main road, near the village of Sant Rafel, at the

very center of the island. Owned by Spanish businessmen, Privilege hosts

parties organized by promoters based in England, Italy, Germany and Spain

each day of the week from June to September. Monday nights were reserved

for Manumission, arguably the biggest weekly party in the world, as its

promoters claimed. To wit, Manumission secured turnovers that often sur-

passed Privilege’s capacity limit. DJ Lucci and I agreed to meet at Bar M

to go to Manumission, where he also played. As he did not show up at

the bar, I decided to try to ﬁnd him inside Privilege.

Hundreds of taxis and cars dashed around its gigantic structure over-

hanging a smooth hill. Thousands of British kids queued at the main

entrance. Their dressing style was quite uniform: boys wore shirts buttoned

to the neck and wrists, black pants, leather shoes, and had trimmed hair-

cuts; girls wore skirts, Lycra tops and high-heels, carrying small purses,

cheap jewelry, and visibly polished nails and make-up. In a sex ratio of

80/20, they comprised the absolute majority of clubbers in Ibiza. However,

98 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

another segment of elder clubbers, apparently more eccentric, international

and experienced in fashion and attitude, would arrive later in the night,

often without paying the expensive cover. They are known as ‘smart,’

‘real’ or ‘underground’ clubbers.

Inside, Privilege is a colossal hangar-like structure in steel and glass.

Sections of the dance ﬂoor were built upon and around a swimming pool

(the premises belonged to a sports club until becoming the nightclub Ku

in 1978). The presence of security agents attempted to dissuade a few

enthusiastic kids from jumping in the water, but the lifeguard had to assist

them out of the pool, and out of the club. The DJ station was nested on

a concrete crossway, positioned at the very center of the swimming pool.

A green laser drew geometric shapes on and through a curtain of rain

falling behind the DJ. Despite multiple turrets of loudspeakers, due to the

huge room dimensions (25 meters high) and the massive compact of human

bodies, the sound quality was hampered, to the dismay of professional

DJs. Nevertheless, the crowd raved anyway, aloof to technicalities. Go-

go dancers performed on podiums. By the sidewalls, red banners featured

Che Guevara, but, as I surveyed around, nobody knew who Che was.

As the night unfolded, the gigantic room overcrowded, heated up and

felt uncomfortable. A second-ﬂoor balcony provided a more comfortable

overview for anyone willing to pay €300 for a bottle of vodka on a table.

Clubbers could breathe some fresh air in the multilayered garden or at

the dome-platform outside. In addition to the main room, there were two

minor dance rooms where other DJs played simultaneously. The human

ocean peaked around 3:30, when early comers initiated to leave. In the

meanwhile, ‘real’ clubbers, bohemians, hippies and queer characters began

to arrive. They gathered in the smaller dance rooms, called ‘Candy Bar’

and ‘the back room.’ Their assertive appearence as well as the dance music

styles played in these rooms engendered an ‘underground’ atmosphere that

curiously kept mainstream crowds away.

I found DJ Lucci playing in the bathroom, one of the many eccentric

(‘crazy’) ideas that characterized Manumission. Later in the night he would

play again in the veranda room reserved for entertainers, Bar M workers,

DJs and friends. The music in the bathroom was earsplitting. I tried to

greet him and screamed to no avail. From behind the turntables, Lucci

calmly said something. I showed my helmet, which he placed under the

turntables. He showed the palm of his hand wide open: ﬁnish at 5:00. I

span my ﬁnger in a cone and pointed at the ﬂoor: I will walk around

and come back later.

With ﬁve different dance rooms, Manumission hired about 15 DJs per

night. Each room played a speciﬁc sub-genre of dance music as a general

policy. The main dance room played commercial house music with

ephemeral labels (‘Euro-trance,’ ‘progressive,’ etc.): formulaic songs

with catchy melodies and sentimental lyrics. Groovy ﬂashback songs

of old disco and funk music were played in the bathroom and veranda.

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At the Candy Bar and the back room, DJs played underground sounds,

such as big beat, deep house, fucked house, industrial, tech-house and

new oddities, which not only provided a subcultural reference but were

also considered important in triggering psychedelic states and visceral

reactions.

This spatiality of sounds also corresponded to visible differences in

social class and taste. The majority of British working-class kids were

crammed into the main area, whereas wealthy outsiders and media agents

enjoyed the exclusive balcony area. In the meanwhile, highly intoxicated

clubbers, jocose revelers and drug dealers gathered at the oddly lit back

room. The Candy room, in turn, hosted a compact of ‘smart’ clubbers,

‘industry’ workers and bohemians, aloof to the transvestites who danced

on the top of the bar counter, while stoned hippies banged their bongo

drums to the rhythm of the groovy house music being played by a black

DJ wearing sunglasses and beret.

The consumption of drugs in the club tended to vary according to class

habitus, intermixing economic difference, network contacts and cultural

distinction. The working-class clubber drank beer or ‘vodka red-bull,’

often simultaneously with pills of ‘ecstasy.’ The wealthiest strata rejoiced

in discreet overdoses of champagne, cocaine and ecstasy. Among under-

ground clubbers, the attitude was of performed carelessness, yet they were

usually narcotic connoisseurs: stimulants, tranquilizers, hallucinogens,

erotogens and its various combinations, for the desired effect and mood.

Ecstasy was the drug of choice across all social strata. In the early 2000s,

a small beer bottle cost €8 in a club, while a pill of ecstasy could be

purchased for as low as €5, depending on the quantity of the pills and

familiarity with dealers. By comparing the economic cost for altering one’s

mood over the night, clubbers often concluded that, ‘In Ibiza ecstasy is

cheaper than beer.’ Despite the impressive levels of drug abuse in Ibiza,

death overdoses are surprisingly rare. A paramedic working at Privilege

disclosed in private:

For every ten thousand people in a party, ten cases reach the nursery

room. Seven are due to alcohol intoxication, and three to glass cuts.

Sometimes, alcohol is mixed with ecstasy. But I have been working

here for four years, and I have only seen three freak cases, which

were not related to ecstasy alone but to a mix of everything: alcohol,

cocaine, hashish, ecstasy, acid . . . una locura ...

As the night advanced, more underground clubbers arrived. Many were

arriving from bars and restaurants where they worked during the season,

bringing along friends who they sought to get in for free by persuading the

security at the door. Often from a relatively educated, middle class from

Spain and the rest of Europe, in Ibiza they favored easy jobs that allowed

them to party and socialize intensively. As will be discussed later, they were

100 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

a segment of bohemian workers whose rationale can be summed up in

the motto ‘maximum party, minimum work.’ Another segment of self-

fashioned smart clubbers sought to spend as many summer weeks as possi-

ble in Ibiza, while living in main urban centers overseas, in occupations

related to media, art, public relations and fashion. By all means, these culled

clubbers saw themselves as a special cohort that cultivates cutting-edge music

and fashion through an attitude that values cosmopolitanism and trans-

gression. They abhorred mainstream clubbers, who they deemed boring and

unsophisticated at all levels.

Unlike mainstream clubbers, the underground expressed no excitement

about going to conventional popular parties, such as Manumission. They

disregarded them as commercialized and tacky, seeing most of the DJs

who played at them as ‘crowd pleasers,’ pushing formulaic tunes as a

means of moneymaking. Underground clubbers attended a few of these

parties, granted that their entrance was free of charge and that they could

gather with peers of style. Instead, they favored messier, more exclusive

parties at Amnesia, Space and Pacha, or at smaller nightclubs that emerged

before they were shut or incorporated by the mighty nightclub oligopoly.

In addition, a share of underground clubbers cultivated close connections

with freaks (neo-hippies) and could be seen at trance parties taking place

at remote coastal cliffs.

I returned to the bathroom at 5:15. Gary was packing his headphones

and vinyl records in a metal case. The toilet sound system was off. He

did not meet me at Bar M because of a VIP dinner that had overextended.

We grabbed a drink by the garden, before his next gig at 6:00. We chatted

about the history of clubbing, and I mentioned the role played by Argentine

DJ Alfredo in the Ibiza scene back in the 1980s. Garry reminded me that

Alfredo was a resident DJ at Manumission and usually played the ﬁnal

session in the main room every Tuesday morning. Wearing a funky beret

and sleeveless shirt, and sipping some champagne while waiting for the

next record to be mixed, Alfredo was renowned for his ability to engender

an exquisite dancing atmosphere with the ‘Balearic beat’ he is reputed to

have created: a seamless sequence of records overlaying house music with

remixes of classic reggae, Euro pop and rock (e.g. Bob Marley, The

Eurythmics, Pink Floyd, U2, etc). His trajectory and personality will be

examined in the next sub-section.

It was Tuesday morning when Alfredo played the last record. The sun-

light inundated the gigantic room where a few hundred diehards persisted.

Other rooms were being shut, yet a messy crowd concentrated at the Candy

Bar. By the swimming pool, a young entertainer incited the remaining

people to attend the ‘Carry On Manumission’ party at Space, the infamous

‘daytime club’ located at Playa d’en Bossa (a beach located about 9 km

away). Privilege’s buses waited on the parking lot. Manumission/Bar M

entertainers, resident DJs and promoters would soon resume their activities

at Space until about 14:00. The ‘carry on’ was smaller but highly eccentric,

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as clubbers displayed some impressive endurance and enthusiasm, fueled

by variegated forms of substance intake.

From Monday to Monday, the island hosted about sixty nightclub

parties, some of which began in the morning, in a series repeated each

week. By taking advantage of such schedules, it was possible to indulge

in clubbing marathons virtually around the clock, insofar as the clubber

possessed the economic, social and biological resources to do so. Holiday-

makers and bohemian workers boasted about how many parties they

could attend in a row. By means of drug buildups and sleep deprivation,

‘headstrong’ clubbers pushed their limits, disrupting bio-rhythms and

cognitive references. Many nightclubs featured names that captured such

derailing experiences: Amnesia, Space, DC-10, El Divino, Eden, etc.

DJ and shamanism: charisma and bricolage

Among veteran clubbers, DJ Alfredo was a living legend. In 1984, he

revolutionized Amnesia’s dance ﬂoor with his ‘Balearic beats.’ Back then,

the club was no more than a rustic farmhouse with a sound system and

people danced on an open-air patio under a starry sky, an experience that

these clubbers deemed magic. Alfredo developed his style by playing endless

sessions to dancing crowds that were more eclectic in terms of nation-

ality and taste. According to a club journalist, ‘The way Alfredo put it

all together captured the indeﬁnable magic of the island after dark, the

hippie legacy, and the hedonistic present’ (Collin 1997: 50; see also

Reynolds 1998). As it is retrospectively romanticized about Amnesia, ‘At

night the hippies and Bhagwan sannyasins would gather and dance around

lit bonﬁres outside, and you might spot ﬂamenco guitar hero Paco de

Lucia or one of the Pink Floyd crouched around the embers’ (Collin 1997:

49). Whether or not such depictions are historically accurate, they capture

the spirit of bohemian life in Ibiza, in part enjoyment of the present, in

part nostalgia about a real or imagined past.

Like hundreds of South Americans (mostly from Argentina and

Uruguay), Alfredo arrived in Ibiza in 1976. He did not come as a polit-

ical exile, although the military dictatorship restricted his activities as a

journalist and rock concert promoter. In Ibiza, he used to organize open

parties in the countryside. DJing was just an emerging occupation, thus

granting a competitive edge to Alfredo as a talented pioneer. According

to DJ José Padilla (author of several Café del Mar compilation albums):

‘Alfredo just got the right place at the right moment and he put his balls

on the line and said: “this is how I think it should be”’ (Collin 1997:

50). Alfredo also produced various club-sponsored albums compiling

summer dance hits throughout the 1980s and early 1990s. But his popu-

larity declined after the British party promoters took over the Ibiza club

scene in the mid-1990s. Backed by the fact that over half of the clubbers

102 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

on the island were British tourists, these promoters were able to impose

their own rules, connections and tastes, largely favoring top DJs based in

the UK.

Nonetheless, by the early 2000s, DJ Alfredo was still revered by several

promoters, clubbers and Argentinean expatriates. He was a charismatic

celebrity, according to many clubbing insiders, particularly women. Every

now and then, a woman would persuade the security ofﬁcials to allow

her into the DJ decks in order to greet and kiss Alfredo. On one occa-

sion, two young acrobats tried to capture his attention by spontaneously

pole-climbing in erotic positions at Privilege. Argentinean clubbers regu-

larly cheered him from the dance ﬂoor. He eventually responded with a

quick smile, submerging again into his record collection.

However, other party promoters considered Alfredo as a potential

troublemaker. As I have witnessed, he could engage in verbal harangues

with more irreverent DJs inside the booth during the gig transition, a deli-

cate and potentially contentious moment of interaction between two DJs.

Likewise, other than brief informal interactions, Alfredo rarely agreed to

structured interviews. On a different but signiﬁcant note, like many other

expressive expatriates, Alfredo had attended the Osho commune in Pune,

an experience which he regarded tenderly, although he did not fashion

himself according to sannyasin precepts.

In an anthropological vein, it can be ascertained that his professional

techniques and personal traits, enveloped in the social belief in his charisma

to engender collective states, suggest that the work of the DJ is similar

to that veriﬁed in traditional shamanism. Under the light of classical studies

about the magician, Alfredo’s disruptive personality can be better under-

stood as constitutive of his persona as a legendary DJ, just as shamans

are characteristically anti-social and neurotic (Mauss 1904). Likewise, both

DJs and shamans employ ritualistic devices of bricolage and improvisa-

tion in order to create an impression (Lévi-Strauss 1962). Their repetitive

drumming and expressive gestures are devices for engendering states of

collective effervescence – ‘taking the crowd on a journey,’ as DJs put it

– and, in the last instance, personal wellbeing, as clubbers often report.

A discussion on the ritual and experiential features of DJing will be

resumed in Chapter 5.

Club structure and strategy – the mega seven

‘These nightclubs make more money than an African nation.’ This anec-

dotal yet signiﬁcant comment discreetly appeared in the Ibiza magazine

supplement of British DJ Magazine in summer 1999. Ibiza’s nightclub/pub

sector declared an ofﬁcial income of €110 million in 2001 (Govern de les

Illes Ballears – Conselleria de Turisme 2002), which must be considered

in the context of the larger tourism industry, which comprises 80 percent

of the gross wealth and labor force of the island. Every year 1.7 million

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tourists spend €1 billion while on the island, in addition to €0.4 billion

that remain overseas (Govern de les Illes Ballears – Conselleria de Turisme

2002; Maurel 1988; see also note 2, p. 229). As seen in Chapter 2, most

tourists are British and German (and Spaniards increasingly so), massively

concentrated in coastal areas, and during the summer months almost

entirely. Though resulting in considerable environmental and social pres-

sures, mass tourism has transformed Ibiza into one of the wealthiest places

in Spain, following the presence of expressive expatriates as a trend-setting

reference (Rozenberg 1990).

Even though nightclubs have become feverish money-making machines,

a segment of underground clubbers were still able to attend these disputed

venues without having to pay admission. It was once noted that, out of a

total of 11,000 people in a Manumission party in 1999, there were about

2,500 names on the guest-list, including not only clubbers of the local scene

but also media and record agents and their entourages, mostly from the

UK. Such a ﬁgure was unusually high, but a conservative margin of 10

percent of non-payers can be ascertained for any club event on the island

(including Manumission itself, after Privilege directors found out about the

episode). As a gross estimate, the club industry concedes free entrance

worth more than €10 million each summer, which begs the questions:

How does the club scene reproduce itself as a gigantic economic machine?

Who joins the clubbing elite that enjoys certain privileges of consumption

and status within this machine?

In order to understand the nature of Ibiza’s club industry, it is neces-

sary to identify its main structure and strategy forms. Space, Pacha,

El Divino, Amnesia, Privilege, Es Paradis and Eden are the seven main

nightclubs, which regularly rented out their premises to external party

promoters (mostly from the UK, Germany, Italy and Spain) willing to

accept rigorous contractual conditions. With capacity limits varying from

2,500 (El Divino) to 10,000 people (Privilege), these clubs appropriated

most of the ticket revenues and bar sales. Party promoters had their remun-

eration based on a one-off amount or on a share of ticket sales, depending

on the projected size, weekday of the event, expectations of success

throughout the season vis-à-vis contending parties and other contractual

agreements. Party promoters were usually well-established nightclubs head-

quartered in main European cities. As a basic reason for coming to Ibiza,

while expanding vertically into record, media and merchandise, these

foreign club corporations employed Ibiza as a special venue for show-

casing their brands at an international level.

Each of the Ibicencan mega-clubs sought to organize a portfolio of

seven weekly parties that promised to be most proﬁtable and successful

in the short and mid-term. Each of the seven nights was rented out in a

seasonal basis, comprising around ﬁfteen weekly parties over the course

of four months. The external promoter was almost entirely responsible

for promoting and executing their parties, whereas the host nightclub

provided the venue, multimedia equipment, and basic services of security

104 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

and bar. Mega clubs also promoted their own ‘homemade’ parties,

employing ‘resident DJs’ and PR (public relations) staff. With a few excep-

tions, nonetheless, homemade parties resulted in lower-than-average

turnovers. The exceptions will be discussed below.

As an example of how a party portfolio is constituted, every year

Amnesia lined up a diversiﬁed set of weekly parties, seeking to encom-

pass the main national and party audiences on the island. The club was

thus able to attract crowds varying from 1,000 to 5,000 people each night

during the 1990s and early 2000s. In 2001, Amnesia featured the following

party mix: On Mondays, it hosted Cocoon, a techno party based in

Frankfurt (Germany) led by top DJ Sven Vath who played minimalist

techno music for a mostly Germanic crowd. On Tuesdays, God’s Kitchen,

a nightclub from Birmingham (England), delivered hard house music for

a young, apparently teen British audience. On Wednesdays, the tremen-

dously successful La Troya Asesina was a homemade party strongly

supported by the gay community of the island, and it played house music

for a mixed crowd in terms of nationality, style and sexual orientation.

In the meanwhile, a foam dance party named Espuma took place in the

internal room, attended by young tourists. On Thursdays, Cream, a leading

nightclub from Liverpool (England), played commercial trance house

music for a massive yet slightly diversiﬁed crowd of British clubbers. On

Fridays, Dance Valley, a rave festival in Amsterdam, provided variations

of house and techno music for continental, mostly Dutch, German and

Scandinavian crowds. On Saturdays, Zenith was an event organized by

an Italian–Spanish team, playing percussive (Latin) house for a Mediter-

ranean crowd, which also indulged in the second Espuma foam party of

the week. Finally, on Sundays, Kamasutra was a minor homemade party

in partnership with a local strip-club, playing house music almost as a

background pretense for voyeuristic crowds of young males and Spanish

tourists on a low budget. This weekly schedule was relentlessly repeated

over the course of four months, just like all of the other mega-nightclubs.

According to club journalist Ronnie Randall, ‘with this portfolio, Amnesia

is the best and the closest of what a real club should be, catering to a

wide range of national tastes.’

The spatial location of a nightclub in the urban and tourist landscapes

of the island largely determined its party mix, and agreements with party

promoters were accordingly made in order to optimize given opportun-

ities. In Sant Antoni, Es Paradis and Eden hosted less expensive parties

for the British working-class youth. By the marina of Ibiza town, Pacha

and El Divino struck deals with high-end promoters that catered for club-

bers from the middle-to-upper strata of various countries. Within the

German resorts of Playa d’en Bossa, Space hosted several techno parties

and was the only venue with a daytime license, thus attracting highly

eccentric clubbers on their way to the beach or directly from an overnight

party. Equidistant from Ibiza town, Sant Antoni and Playa d’en Bossa,

Privilege and Amnesia diversiﬁed their portfolios in order to increase the

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overall number of clubbers, all coming by rental cars, scooters, taxis or

‘disco buses.’

Beyond the clubbing business, these mega nightclubs also developed

complex partnerships with the record, entertainment and tourism indus-

tries locally and abroad. Space utilized its brand and resident DJs in

promotional tours across German and American venues, in addition to

opening a branch in Miami (US). In its turn, Pacha constituted an inter-

national franchise, lending its cherry logo and expertise to a number

of sister venues in Barcelona, Marrakesh, London, Munich, Hamburg,

Budapest, Vilnius, Buenos Aires, etc. The club also explored its close

connections with the world of fashion, and commercialized a line of Pacha-

branded clothes and wear accessories on its website and across small

merchandise stores. As a step further, in 2003 Pacha opened a boutique

hotel just across the street from the main nightclub, hosting top DJs,

celebrities and pampered wannabes. In their turn, Sant Antoni nightclubs

developed joint ventures with tour operators, employing a variety of sales

techniques in local hotels and travel agencies in England. In Ibiza hotels,

tour guides skillfully ostracized teenagers who declined to purchase the

‘ticket pack’ for clubs and ‘pub crawls,’ as predeﬁned in an obscure

economy of commissions and kickbacks (Butts 1997).

This nightclub-tourism association engendered a type of highly fabricated

party that epitomizes the commodiﬁcation of clubbing in Ibiza. Consider

the following example. Each week, a tour/club association would bring

groups of 2,500 British young people to the island, then take them on

coaches from hotels to pre-assigned parties, back to hotels and to the airport

a week later. This cycle was relentlessly repeated throughout the summer,

amassing hefty proﬁts in pre-sold tickets, commissions and other expenses.

Despite the fun elements (music, drinks and ‘mates’), these teenagers sensed

that they had been sheepishly taken into ‘fake parties,’ as some insiders

put it. This was a product of dubious quality, for it lacked the aura of

spontaneous authenticity that animates nightclubs as spaces of communion

and expression.

Party promoters faced daunting challenges when managing their party

series against the highly competitive arena of Ibiza clubbing. Financial

results were a source of anxiety, and executive managers were glad to

break even at the end of the season. Nonetheless, during the golden years

of corporate clubbing (during the 1990s), foreign clubs have afforded, and

even foresaw, ﬁnancial losses from the operations in Ibiza. Despite heavy

expenses from booking top DJs, the main corporate goal was to have its

brand name associated with the tremendous media exposure generally given

to Ibiza during the summer at an international scale. As a result, the ‘Ibiza

factor’ supposedly contributed to increase the overall revenues at the home-

land and globally: club attendance at the headquarters, advertising spon-

sorship, discounted purchases, sales of CD compilations, merchandise,

magazines, etc.

106 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

In terms of operational activities, the party promoter placed an execu-

tive manager who had to strike a deal with rapacious club directors,

while getting acquainted with the intricacies of local life. Throughout the

season, their main task was to manage locally a series of about 15 parties,

seeking to increase sales revenues and containing operational expenses.

In addition to some autonomy to hire minor DJs, they had to ensure

effective street promotion. Usually, they concentrated their efforts on neigh-

borhoods where tourists were most likely persuaded to attend the party.

As previously noted, the spatiality of nationalities is a critical aspect in

the allocation of promotion teams and resources, because, as a rule, main-

stream clubbers attended events of their own nationality, regardless of

other interesting attractions.

Comprising about half of total tourists and club parties on the island,

the nationalism of young British clubbers is a phenomenon that requires

some attention. During my ﬁeldwork, I noted dozens of Union Jack ﬂags

being intentionally displayed on hotel balconies of Sant Antoni. T-shirts,

towels, caps, bikinis and other media evoked the colors and shapes of

English, Scottish and Welsh, as well as of Irish national symbols. These

tourists try cheap paella only once, and for the remainder of their stay,

they feed on ‘English breakfasts’ and ‘ﬁsh and chips’ in British-styled pubs

frequented by British youngsters. They will not miss football matches on

British cable TV at pubs and hotels. They will only go to British-promoted

nightclubs and hang out with ‘mates’ who, as they ﬁnd out, live in nearby

towns back in the UK. Many hesitated in identifying Ibiza as a part of

Spain. They tended to fear, albeit excitingly so, the island as a lawless zone

that entices indulgent behavior. For most tourists, as well as mainstream

expatriates residing on the island, Spain is little more than home-plus-sun

or home-plus-cheap-prices. Upper strata foreigners seemed more consid-

erate of cultural differences (whether or not they were actually interested

in them). Based on these pieces of evidence and ﬁeldwork among residents

and tourists in Sant Antoni and the rest of Ibiza, it can be suggested that

these assertive expressions of nationalism stemmed from the gregarious

nature of leisure amid these young British tourists coupled with low levels

of education (deduced from personal accounts, in addition to crass mis-

takes in basic geography, history and contemporary issues, as well as rel-

atively poor English writing skills and vocabulary).

Exceptional parties were able to break through the nationalism that

underlies mainstream clubbing in Ibiza and became exciting references in

the global club scene. Without tapping into the segment of tourist club-

bers, their attendance comprised an apparently eclectic mix of styles, types

and nationalities, evoking queerness and cosmopolitanism. Around year

2000, the main successful examples on the island were La Troya Asesina

(at Amnesia on Wednesdays) and We Love Sundays (at Space on Sundays).

According to international clubbers, these were the best parties on the

island. In fact, these events attracted self-fashioned clubbers arriving

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Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza 107

directly from the airport, as well as freaks (neo-hippies) who regularly

disdained nightclubs. More will be said about these two parties in the

ﬁnal section of this chapter.

Underground clubbers, particularly those ‘residing’ on the island, refused

to pay entrance at nightclubs. Price tickets were deemed expensive, varying

from €30 to €60 in the early 2000s, and particularly so for those many

who clubbed several times a week. Free admission was thus imperative

and demanded good networking skills. It was actualized by having the

name on the guest-list, by possessing a season pass, by befriending the door

staff, or by taking advantage of a trick or serendipity. Pop or scene celebri-

ties and their entourages could regularly enjoy this perk, as did physically

attractive women who cast their charms on door ‘bouncers.’ On the other

hand, club directors sought to restrict these possibilities by putting pres-

sure on managers and door staff. Guest-lists and season passes were tem-

porarily cancelled during peak months (July and August), when clubs

overcrowded with thousands of young tourists.

At a symbolic level, free entrance marks the special status of the clubber

– and of the nightclub – in the scene. It indicates the prestige that is

accrued by adhering to a distinguishable style of mobile bohemianism (to

be further discussed at the end of this chapter). On the other side, by

allowing desirable ‘underground’ types in, the club also gains in charisma,

thus propelling the belief that the venue is indeed a place to attend, to

see and to be seen, or ‘miss out’ and be ostracized. In sum, this play of

seduction and privilege is an indicator of countercultural activity on the

island. As exchange tokens in an economy of favors, inﬂuence and pres-

tige, free entrance exposes the basic contradiction that underpins the club

scene: between its countercultural origin as a ‘community’ and its capitalist

orientation as an ‘industry’ (Buckland 2002; Stalnaker 2002; Reynolds

1998; Thornton 1995).

Freedom from slavery – the Manumission scandal

By the turn of the millennium, while Amnesia and Space hosted the ‘best’

parties on the island (respectively, La Troya and We Love Sundays),

Privilege arguably hosted the largest one, Manumission, with an average

turnover of 9,000 people each Monday of the season. Among the causes

of its outstanding success, British promoters have noted that, during the

1990s, parties did not succeed on Saturdays and Wednesdays, ‘changeover

nights’ for British tourists arriving or leaving the island. The fact that

Manumission was one of the ﬁrst foreign promoters to arrive in Ibiza, back

in 1994, represented a strategic advantage over other parties. Furthermore,

Manumission promoters sought to cultivate a special relationship with the

press: ‘We wanted to use the media to our advantage and it was quite easy

because we were in Manchester and they were all in London. So we could

create a mystique out of nothing’ (Mixmag 1999).

108 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

The popularity of Manumission stemmed, in part, from its ‘party

concept.’ As envisaged by brothers Mike and Andy and ﬁancées Claire

and Dawn, Manumission is a Latin metaphor that designates freedom

from slavery. With catchphrases such as ‘the craziest party that you have

ever been to,’ the press portrayed Manumission as a ‘yearly bacchanal’

where you could ‘liberate yourself.’ By the late 1990s, its fame was such

that North American clubbers actually believed that Manumission was a

physical nightclub in Ibiza. Sons of a military ofﬁcer and a therapist, Andy

studied engineering in Manchester, while Mike worked as a model in New

York. Dawn was an architecture student when she met Andy in 1993.

Together they promoted exquisite parties at the gay nightclub Equinox

located in Manchester. Instead of DJs, they placed sex dolls in the DJ

booth, playing dance music on cassette, while volunteer entertainers wore

provocative costumes on the dance ﬂoor. As Mike explained:

We knew nothing about club land so we made it up as we went

along. My inspiration was cabaret and performance rather than music.

[. . .] We were doing more blatant, explicit gay-themed ﬂy posting

than any of the gay bars or clubs could do. I think that helped us to

get the support of the gay community.

(Ibid.: 52)

They decided to cancel their gigs at Equinox after suffering a violent

criminal assault. But a visit to Ibiza in 1994 enticed them to change their

minds about party promotion. As expatriates who trivially enthuse about

Ibiza, Mike romanticizes it as a space of pluralism and tolerance:

Ibiza is paradise on earth. A tiny island in the Mediterranean with

more nationalities living there than anywhere else in the world, the

best parties, no racism or homophobia or ageism . . . You don’t even

get judged on your clothes. You’re judged on you. And if you are a

nice person then you’ll be welcome.

(Ibid.: 52)

They approached Privilege, still recovering from the 1991 roof collapse

that led to its bankruptcy, and agreed to promote a weekly party known

as Mad Mondays. In a collaborative effort with other minor promoters

and friends, they were able to attract large crowds of British youngsters,

arriving on the rebound of tourism in the mid-1990s. The event was

renamed Manumission. In addition to cultivating good press relations,

they hired an inexpensive team of young amateurish dancers, mostly

dressed as kitsch entertainers. Claire was leaﬂeting in the streets of Sant

Antoni when she met Mike. Due to their outgoing personalities, Mike

and Claire represented the public side of Manumission, whereas Andy and

Dawn looked after ﬁnance and logistics.

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Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza 109

Attendance grew from 500 to 6,000 over the course of a few months.

Aggressive discounts were then canceled without hindering attendance. As

a club magazine observed, ‘Manumission’s anything-goes approach had

clicked with the island’s tradition of hedonism and the newer habits of

traveling European youth who had been weaned on the acid house lifestyle’

(Ibid.: 54). But what accounted for such an explosive growth?

It has never been about the music so much as the feeling of the night.

We have to keep pushing it, doing something new . . . to surprise

people. All we ever wanted was to put on the sort of parties that we

wanted to go to ourselves, so it couldn’t just be a room with a DJ.

The name Manumission means ‘freedom from slavery,’ and the idea

has always been that you could do whatever you wanted.

(Ibid.: 50)

The explosive edge came from sex shows performed on the dance ﬂoor,

commenced in the second season (1995). Recently returned from New

York, Mike and Claire not only proposed the idea, but decided to be the

main sex performers, thus shocking the crowd with an air of authenticity.

In addition to lesbian and heterosexual orgies, they also hired a male

stripper who practiced self-fellatio on a tall podium, leaving thousands of

mouths wide open with well-articulated ‘Oh-my-god . . . ’

In Britain, Manumission became a scandal overseas. The tabloid press

(The Sun and Daily Mail) published embarrassing pieces about the sex

shows alongside interviews with intoxicated teens bragging about their

sexual encounters at Sant Antoni’s ‘West End’ pub district. Yet, the situ-

ation gained a dramatic overtone when Sky TV broadcast the documen-

tary series Ibiza Uncovered (1997, with a second edition in 2000). While

focusing on the ordinary life of British clubbers visiting or residing on

the island, it brought to the fore in ﬁlmic form what the tabloid press

had been doing on printed paper. While Manumission’s explicit hedonism

resonated with the erotic fantasies of the mostly male working-class

youth in sunny lands, the UK cultural attaché for Ibiza resigned, claiming

to be ashamed about the behavior of this vacationing youth. A conserv-

ative politician requested that measures should be taken to prevent British

tour operators from promoting sex tourism overseas (British Parliament

1999). In Ibiza, the main local newspaper Diário de Ibiza reacted, by

publishing innumerable editorials and outraged letters criticizing the TV

documentary for months to come. And the British-oriented publication

Ibiza Now (see Chapter 2, p. 58) also questioned the TV series in the

editorial titled ‘What has “Ibiza Uncovered” to do with Ibiza?’ from

September 1997:

Thus far the series has revolved around a rather depressing parade

of youths getting drunk and bragging about how often they have had

110 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

sex. Apart from one or two sequences shot in the countryside and in

some of the more recognizable parts of Ibiza town, it could have been

ﬁlmed almost anywhere on this planet. [. . .] It says absolutely nothing

about Ibiza. It does say a lot about the English media, England, and

the English. [. . .] If the series had provided any sort of evidence to

those of us living here it is to remind us of why we choose to live

here, and not in England!

(Ibiza Now 1997)

Pornography was, in sum, a quite efﬁcient way to boost attendance and

publicity for Manumission. It also launched Mike and Claire as outra-

geous celebrities of the club scene, cheered by a highly eccentric entourage,

including a dwarf doorman, porno actresses and self-fashioned junkie DJs.

But the sex-for-the-masses formula was also being questioned inside

Manumission. In Ibiza Uncovered 2 (Sky TV 2000), whereas Mike and

Claire praised sex shows (‘It is incredible what the show does. The sexual

energy lifts the party!’), his brother Andy complained, ‘It is difﬁcult to

relate as brothers and as business; we don’t know what the other does.

But we [Andy and Dawn] don’t value that sex helps Manumission.’ In a

magazine interview, Andy stated that, ‘Our main concern is to give people

the best experience we can. [. . .] People don’t think of us as very moral

but actually there is a very moral element to most of what we do’ (Mixmag

1999: 55, italics added).

In fact, sex shows were no longer staged from 1999 onwards, but they

were never declared over as such, thus keeping rumors that sustain certain

expectations among the male young crowd. To wit, two years later, as I

walked through Privilege’s parking lot, four Swedish male teens excitedly

commented that they had come to see the sex shows. I told them about

well-behaved strippers but suggested to them to be skeptical about the

rest. Their smiles faded, and one disappointedly noted, ‘But the guy who

sold us the tickets promised us that there would be sex show . . . ’

Several factors contributed to the end of pornography in Manumission.

Mike and Claire had a baby, and settled down in a ﬁnca house in the

countryside. In later interviews, they praised the marvels of bucolic life,

and actively downplayed their previous eccentric persona. Moreover,

economic pressures provided the ﬁnal blow to the sex shows. In a casual

encounter with the self-fellatio performer on a bus, I asked him why he

had stopped sucking his penis in public. ‘Well, it was Orange who asked

us to stop it, you know . . .’ The telecommunications corporation was the

exclusive sponsor for Manumission from 2000 to 2002, and did not want

to run extra risks by outraging parents and politicians in the UK. The

male dancer still performed low-key stripteases, but could no longer expose

his acrobatic genitalia.

While keeping some soft lesbian shows at the margins of the party,

Manumission no longer hired the expensive erotic performers that it

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Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza 111

brought from New York and hosted in the soon-defunct Manumission

Motel located just outside Ibiza town. Instead, it offered modest gigs to

strippers who worked at a local strip-club, working for much lower rates.

Their discreet, and only suggestive performances agreed with Claire’s

perception that, ‘It is softer if it is girls, it is not so offensive’ (Mixmag

1999: 54). In fact, it seemed that, in contrast with sexual penetration, soft

lesbian erotica better connecteded with the MDMA (ecstasy) experience,

as clubbers reported highly pleasurable sensations pervading the entire skin

surface, rather than a concentrated focus on genital stimulation.

The bottom line was that average attendance at Manumission parties

was already overheated, frequently exceeding Privilege’s limit capacity.

Some de-marketing was thus necessary, as local authorities expressed

concern over safety issues. Once more, ticket prices increased, with a

minimal impact on attendance. Dressed in white, Mike and Claire would

wander through the hangar room upholding a standard banner with the

Manumission logo, and later socialize with friends in more exclusive

areas of the club. Party proﬁtability was, after all, the basic criterion in

the club industry, even among outrageous promoters.

Manumission sought to maintain its charisma by re-emphasizing enter-

tainment. In addition to naughty entertainers, it hired ﬁre and trapeze

acrobats who staged short spectacles in the club’s main room. The acro-

bats were freaks (post-punk neo-hippies) who sought to revitalize a culture

of itinerant art, and were regularly seen in hippie markets, trance parties

and rundown bohemian bars. In their turn, wearing nurse and cavemen

customs, the kitsch entertainers wandered about teasing male clubbers as

a way of creating a fun atmosphere. As will be examined in the next

section, these youth were bohemian workers whose main purpose on

coming to the island was to party in the extreme.

Finally, Manumission developed special musical shows performed

during the dance event. On a large stage, dozens of amateur dancers,

goofy villains, and Mike and Claire as the main heroes performed car-

toonish versions of Broadway-like spectacles, with a vintage-style narra-

tive that visually and musically reread pop icon stories, such as ‘Popeye

Manumission’ (2001) and ‘Sherlock Holmes Singing in the Rain’ (2003).

These shows were performed in multiple short acts interspersed from 3:00

to about 4:30, with a special music in the background. It was frustrating

for main room DJs to have to interrupt their gigs in order to run the play-

back and wait.

However, at a deeper level, Manumission was actually departing from

club and rave cultures which had inaugurated a postmodernist art

genre of blurring the lines between performer and consumer (Reynolds

1998). In them, the dancing crowd became the spectacle, to be seen and

engaged with interactively, with the DJ merely facilitating the collective

assemblage, taking ‘the crowd on a journey.’ However, by promoting

conventional shows (either as pornography or musicals) and hiring pop

112 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

DJs, Manumission interrupted such machinic experience, reintroducing the

modernist separation: disenfranchised from their expressive productivity,

the clubber – markedly, the British working-class male youth – was posi-

tioned, again, as a passive consumer (observer) of pop art.

Bohemian working class

Located on the sidewalk of Sant Antoni by the bay, Bar M was one of

the main ‘pre-party’ bars on the island in terms of activity, publicity and

symbolic importance. The ‘pre-party’ concept refers to a meeting point

where revelers socialize and drink before leaving for another more hectic

leisure destination, usually a nightclub. Resident DJs (like Lucci) played

‘warm-up’ music (gentle house music played at mid volume), contributing

to a lively ambience that anticipated an exciting night.

A brief description of Bar M illustrates the situation of the bar scene

as ancillary to the club industry. It physically encompassed a small patio

lined by bars and a DJ booth, in addition to a veranda bar with jacuzzi.

Catering to a majority of young British clubbers on vacation, it operated

daily from 10:00 to 4:00 (18 hours) over the tourist months. Most

of the bartenders were young women, ‘to keep the blokes drinking,’ as

manager Yolanda explained. On Mondays, Bar M hosted the pre-party

for Manumission, selling drinks and tickets to a lively crowd attracted by

DJ stars that came for quick demonstrations. Geared toward proﬁt maxi-

mization, Bar M also delivered the pre-party for other nightclub parties

during the rest of the week, and sold tickets to all of the parties of the

island (including Monday competitors of Manumission). The bar was

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Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza 113

Figure 3.4 British bar workers at the pub district of Sant Antoni.

Source: Courtesy of Ronnie Randall.

co-owned by Andy (Manumission) and Willie, a Spanish businessman who

grew up in California and Mallorca. Willie was assisted by Yolanda, a

Spanish–Australian who traveled from Sydney each season to manage the

bar. She was particularly open to my research, for a reason: she had a

degree in anthropology. The bar employed about 40 workers overall:

British DJs and bartenders, Spanish busmen, Filipino cooks, and many

other workers from Eastern Europe, Latin America and Australia, working

as street promoters (‘proppers’), ‘watchers’ (on police, for noise control),

manual helpers or party entertainers.

Before detailing the social life and motivations of these young workers,

it is necessary to outline this phenomenon more widely. A few thousand

youth come to Ibiza each year looking for jobs in bars, restaurants, party

promotion and nightclubs. In 2001 DJ Magazine estimated that 6,000

people fell under this situation, an apparently realistic ﬁgure, considering

the number of bars in Sant Antoni (about 130) and an average non-

Ibicencan staff (of about 10), in a town that corresponds to a third of

the tourist activity on the island (Govern de les Illes Ballears – Conselleria

de Turisme 2006: 100). In addition, there were ‘300 DJs and 400 reps

[tour agents]’ (Ibiza Uncovered 2), and about 200 street promoters for

the sixty weekly nightclub parties, besides the staff hired by nightclubs.

The ﬁgure thus totals about 5,000 people, but does not include a high

turnover, which, if realistically estimated at about a third throughout the

season, would take this estimate up to the order of 6,500 people.

Quite anomalously, their main goal while working for the bar/club scene

is not to obtain the best possible wages, but rather to secure free access

to nightclub parties. They can tolerate being economically exploited by

greedy bar owners, as long as their hedonist drives can be somehow

fulﬁlled. The term ‘bohemian working class’ coined by club journalist

Matthew Collin seems very appropriate to designate this youth segment:

In the eighties, as unemployment grew in Britain, a new breed of

tourist reached the island. These weren’t backpackers or two-week

booze cruisers, but bright, inquisitive youths for whom the prospect

of slaving low pay or subsisting on the dole held little appeal; better

to get out there, see the world and catch some sun and fun than stay

in rainy, depressing Britain. They traveled to Tenerife in the winter,

Ibiza in the summer, with perhaps a stopover in Amsterdam [. . .].

They would survive by doing odd jobs, serving behind bars, giving

out promotional tickets for clubs, or running credit card scams, doing

petty robberies and selling hash. This bohemian working-class update

of the hippie trail was hardly a luxurious existence, but better than

stagnating at home.

(Collin 1997: 48)

114 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

As historical accounts in rave/club studies afﬁrm, back at home these

youth sought to recreate the ‘Ibiza vibe’ in ‘acid house’ parties held in

pubs, gyms and warehouses (Reynolds 1998; Collin 1997; Kempster 1996).

Though constituting an exclusive clique, their upbeat, expansive attitude

was a sparkle for the explosion of rave parties throughout the UK.

However, rave was criminalized, and virtually disappeared from Britain

after 1994. Still, several of those Ibiza fans developed ascending careers

in the record and entertainment industries.

DJ and music producer Paul Oakenfold provides the classical trajectory,

as the story has been overly repeated in the club press to the point of

acquiring mythic overtones. Originally from a middle-class background,

Oakenfold was a young party promoter in London around the mid 1980s.

As the story goes, while on holiday in Ibiza in 1987, he underwent a

narcotic-induced epiphany upon ﬁrst trying MDMA in Amnesia (a less

glamorous version asserts that it was in the Sant Antoni pub district).

Because of the liberating intensity of the experience, he decided to devote

his career to disseminate house music throughout the world, as a self-

appointed apostle of the electronic dance gospel. Former ‘warm-up DJ’ for

U2 tour concerts, Oakenfold became a highly perceptive music producer,

cleverly adapting underground genres – such as the Balearic beats from

Ibiza and Goa trance – to more conventional tastes of the commercial

mainstream. Not only that, anticipating the decline of corporate clubbing

in the UK by the early 2000s, Oakenfold moved to Los Angeles (California)

where he has been booked to compose sound tracks for movies (Matrix

Reloaded) and video games (EA Soccer Manager). By late 2002, CNN

World featured Paul Oakenfold as ‘the most successful DJ in the world.’

Despite the insightfulness of the term ‘bohemian workingclass,’ Collin

did not develop it conceptually, nor did he explore the productive tensions

that it embeds. While referring to issues of social class in the context of

labor decline, the expression ‘bohemian worker’ appears as an oxymoron

in a classical Marxist analysis. Marx depicts the proletarian as an ascetic

or brutalized being, subjected to the discipline of labor under inhuman

conditions. Their income barely covers the level of material subsistence,

let alone the pleasures of an unregulated lifestyle. Moreover, though a

bohemian himself, Marx assessed ethylic and sexual laxity as an index of

decadence among the lumpen proletariat, this dark nebula of marginal

types deemed unsuitable for disciplined work. By all means, the working

class lacks the material conditions that could enable existential categories

associated with the notion of ‘lifestyle.’

The notion of ‘bohemian’ is, therefore, negatively assessed in Marxist

theory. Alternatively, it refers to the Romantic bourgeois or parasite

nobility who have renounced or missed their position in the system of pro-

ductive forces. Although these subjects claim individual freedom, according

to Marx, nonetheless, identity is deﬁned by labor as the mediation between

social class and life conditions. The ‘self’ is thus deﬁned by its position in

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Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza 115

the class structure, and, as such, bohemians can only occupy a marginal

position in relation to the productive base, in a form of idle aristocracy,

which is one of its historical sources. Within a Marxist perspective, there-

fore, the bohemian identity can be only deﬁned as a residual extension of

bourgeois individualism.

Under the communist ideal of a social utopia, leisure is envisaged by

Marx in prosaic, not to say, puritanical terms. After an enjoyable multi-

task workday, the worker goes ﬁshing, reads poetry and contemplates

nature. Pleasure is thus largely over-coded by labor, deriving its meaning

from creative work, whose value is measured not only by its capacity to

foster a rounded development of the self, but also, and perhaps mainly,

for the aggrandizement of the human species. In no instance, pleasure is

considered as a force that potentially transforms self-identity, let alone

the life conditions that sustain it. Nor is pleasure accepted as a way of

problematizing dominant normativities, since these are considered as crys-

tallizations of conﬂicts at the level of relations of production. In sum,

there is no politics of pleasure in Marx.

However, it is important to consider that, rather than rejecting labor

(as in the bourgeois case) or being unable to ﬁnd it (as in the proletarian

case), the bohemian is rejecting the very conditions of labor. The move,

therefore, is not for a revolutionary assault on the status quo, but rather

a tactical withdrawal from the sphere of industrial labor. By refusing both

bourgeois individualism and proletarian puritanism, the bohemian seeks

to engender a work ethic that is based on non-commodiﬁed, autonomous

and expressive forms.

Ironically, the bohemian ethic, either in its subcultural or popular vari-

ations, has been largely favored by higher levels of economic productivity

that characterize the afﬂuent societies of the postwar era. The welfare

model of labor protection (reduction of working hours, paid vacations

and unemployment insurance) has allowed wider segments of the popu-

lation to spend more time in other spheres of life and enabled the emergence

of mass tourism in the late 1950s. However, higher levels of education

have amalgamated the frustration of the youth middle-class segments with

the unfulﬁlled promises of modernization, thus contributing to the counter-

cultural upheaval of the 1960s (Roszak 1995; Wallerstein 1989). Likewise,

the rave movement of the 1980s emerged as a reaction to neo-liberal

agendas implemented in advanced societies, particularly the UK and US.

Contradictorily, the decline of labor and welfare has also fostered an

underground ethos that often reﬂects a new combative individualism

proposed by neo-liberalism, differing, for example, from the collectivist

traits of hippie communalism. ‘In the 1960s the young dropped out, in

the 1980s they are dropped out’ (McKay 1996: 52; see also Reynolds

1998).

Toward an empirical analysis, it is necessary to consider how segments

of the working-class youth in Ibiza seek to conciliate labor with their

116 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

bohemian drives. The study of bar workers at Manumission and Bar M

provide a privileged window into the world of bohemian workers. In

tandem with its reputation as the ‘craziest’ party on the island, Manu-

mission hired the most eccentric individuals looking for a job position in

the scene. To wit, these workers often arrived at work directly from a

party, sleep deprived and still recovering from drug intake. Along with

excessive working hours (about 48 per week), poor diets and the warm

weather, these youngsters developed mood swings and chronic tiredess

which escalated throughout the season, culminating in the ‘August blues’

syndrome. Yet, those who survived could then enjoy the highly expected

‘closing parties’ of late September.

Bob and Rob

were very close friends who illustrate typical trajectories

of British bohemian workers in Ibiza. College students with part-time jobs

in England, they used to come to the island every summer to work at

Bar M. While employed as bar staff, they eventually played as substitute

DJs. Their connections in the party scene enabled them to play as warm-

up DJs at Amnesia’s terrace, still at a very young age. They were usually

involved in adventurous situations involving girls, drugs, room-mates,

records, scams, etc. Although often late for work, they were usually more

responsible than the rest of the staff. But after ﬁve seasons, they decided

to take different paths. One of them gave up the clubbing lifestyle entirely,

while the other became a DJ in his neighborhood in England, sporadically

visiting Ibiza in the condition of a well-connected clubber.

Victor illustrates another type of bohemian worker. A globetrotter from

Mexico, he worked for Bar M and Manumission during two seasons. He

had been traveling extensively across the US, Europe and the Middle East

for over three years, and worked at bars, hotels and restaurants in order

to add funds to his travel endeavor. From a middle-class background,

Victor was a student of economy (in leave of absence) at a top university

in Mexico. He extended his global traveling for an extra year, because he

wanted to return to Ibiza and experience more ‘crazy parties’ and ‘crazy

girls,’ as he put it. In Ibiza, Victor and workmates decided to spend the

following winter in India, before he returned to Mexico for good. As a

matter of fact, a year later I met him in Goa (India), where he also met

his future wife, with whom he later went to live in Australia.

Bohemian workers were subjected to exploitative labor conditions,

earning wages as low as Ptas 700 per hour (US$4.00) and working as

many as 48 hours per week. In addition to wage delays, nothing upset

them more than the sudden cancellation of their weekly day off. Yet, besides

the seasonal nature of these jobs, they accepted such hardships for two

main reasons. First, main bars, pubs and restaurants provided free night-

club tickets and even season passes for reliable workers. These tickets were

circulated as ‘gifts’ or promotional items among nightclub directors, party

promoters and bar owners, and then passed on to their favorite employees.

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Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza 117

Second, bohemian workers felt themselves as special members of an

exuberant club scene, a party elite amid masses of tourists. They were

very much aware of their privileged condition, whereas their tourist coun-

terparts, often vacationing friends, were conﬁned to trivial life and labor

routines back at home. As an envied cohort, bohemian workers forged

bonds of solidarity, sharing homes, drugs, experiences, affections and

dilemmas at a young age. These bonds sometimes survived into winter-

time, consolidating a web of contacts that extended back at home or into

interesting places, notably Thailand, India, Dubai or Hong Kong.

Despite their familiarity with traveling practices, they remained within

the same ‘expat’ community, which reinforced their ethnocentric assump-

tions, tastes and references. In fact, their experience of Ibiza was very

much restricted to clubbing and Englishness (or Germanness) transposed

to a sunny setting. For example, once I suggested a bocadillo (sandwich)

to Bar M worker Bob (already on his third season on the island), and

he did not know what the word meant. A staggering number of mistakes

about local culture, and even about the most basic elements of history,

geography and international topics, Ibiza, Spain and Europe, suggest a

worrisome level of ethnocentric alienation. With a few exceptions, bohem-

ian workers cultivated no interest in Spanish life, let alone culture and

history (or unless a signiﬁcant other turned out to be a local). The only

locals they interacted with were bosses, landlords and taxi drivers – all of

which had to speak English. Moreover, they were unable to think mone-

tarily in any currency other than their own. The Spanish word they most

joked about was mañana (tomorrow), which was what they often heard

when carrying out their errands with local shopkeepers. They represented

Spanish people as being ‘warm’ and ‘fun’ as well as ‘nervous,’ ‘greedy’ and

‘rude.’ They did not openly criticize Ibicencans, but treated them with

strong reservations. Like their tourist counterparts, Ibiza was tacitly con-

sidered a lawless zone, prone to adventures, easy access to cheap alcohol

and hedonistic indulgence (in addition to the fact that Spain’s legislation

on drugs was comparatively liberal).

While bohemian workers integrated labor and mobility in order to

primarily actualize hedonistic interests, their self-identity as citizen and

subject could be transformed at different degrees. More schematically,

three typical arrangements of mobility, labor and identity can be noticed

in the universe of bohemian workers. This model is not linear, mechanic

or evolutionist, for its variants may overlap or recede into one other,

depending on the individual case. Yet, such arrangements can be graded

in terms of deterritorialization, periodicity and cosmopolitanism, and are

better seen as ideal-types: analytical ﬁlters that enable meaningful infer-

ences upon the empirical realm.

The ﬁrst arrangement is typically seen among the youngest bohemian

workers, usually from Britain, but also Spain, France, Italy and Germany.

Their mobility is circumscribed by the pattern move–work–home. They

118 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

travel from their hometown to Ibiza, work on the island during the

summer, and then return home. (Some will instead go to work in Andorra

or Dubai, driven by the same bohemian interests.) Back at home, they

often resume a conventional lifestyle in terms of class, education, taste,

personal aspiration and national belonging. An eventual winter trip to

Asia can undermine their personal references, but, more often than not,

the transformative potential of travel experiences is diluted in their ethno-

centric dispositions, reinforced by the inﬂuence of traveling compatriots.

This pattern of homeland-centered mobility can be sustained for several

years, usually terminating when the subject enters adulthood, confronting

the realities of family and labor regimes which they had previously scorned:

the university or ofﬁce for the middle class, the factory or chronic sub-

employment for the working class. The development of alternative lifestyles

seems to be easier among those from higher social and better educational

backgrounds – but this is not an iron rule. In these cases, bohemian

workers may enter the fast lane of deterritorialization and cosmopoli-

tanism, as schematized in the two following types.

The second arrangement is seen among long-haul travelers, such as

Australian and Latin American youth of the middle class who usually

arrive in Ibiza by chance or hearsay. They follow a move–work–move

pattern, differing from the previous type in terms of more complex trajec-

tories in space and time. Propelled by sheer curiosity, they meander from

country to country over the course of several years, stopping for local

reconnaissance and some menial work. Like migrants in general and British

bohemian workers in particular, they are still tied to conventional notions

about the homeland and personhood, which can be inferred from their

statements and intention to return home, to actualize aspirations of family,

labor and citizenship.

Finally, the third arrangement is seen among the expressive expatriates

of Ibiza (detailed in Chapter 2). Although combining features of the

arrangements above, it actually results in a quite different arrangement,

outlining a move–live–move pattern. Propelled by a blend of actual dissatis-

faction and utopian hopes, they leave their homeland, aiming at establishing

a new home elsewhere. They migrate to inexpensive and sunny locations,

where they can interestingly socialize with like-minded expatriates and

romanticized natives. This strategy is reinforced by life-transformative

trips to South Asia (Chapters 4 and 5). In order to materially sustain

such expressive lifestyles, they set an economic function to spiritually moti-

vated trips (Chapter 2). In terms of identity, their practices of spatial

mobility usually coincide with post-national orientations and experiments

of subjectivity formation (meditation, therapy, spirituality, psychedelia).

In the limit, they feel at home wherever they are – the epitome of the

universal cosmopolitan. In practice, however, after having resided in three

or more countries, they settle down in one, at most two, homes in alien

countries.

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Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza 119

Ibiza imaginary: transgression, nostalgia and diaspora

As the end of the season approaches, the social life of hippies and clubbers

– expressive expatriates in general – gains a nostalgic undertone, particu-

larly noticeable during ritualized gatherings, such as the mega-club ‘closing

parties,’ the hippie market ﬁnal days, and more intimate sessions like

Biodance. While interacting in such settings, they evince a more reﬂexive

mood, pondering over summer experiences and anticipating their next

‘moves,’ both of a traveling and learning kind.

More widely, the island’s socio-economic life declines sharply in October.

Tourism will be virtually nonexistent for the next six months. The airport

silences and hundreds of rental cars are relocated to mainland Spain.

Hotels, bars and restaurants close en masse. The Spanish population will

then rest with the support of unemployment allowances provided by the

state.

In tandem, the 6,000 or so bohemian workers pack and leave, promising

never again to return – just as they said in the previous season . . . The

majority ﬂies back home, to follow the conformist schemes outlined above.

But a few others will be soon traveling to Asia, maybe as an expression

of a new and engaged interest in alternative occupations and more

cosmopolitan exchanges. After all, at a subjective level, cosmopolitanism

indexes the heightened interest in searching about one’s own self, its

origins and conditions of being (see Chapter 1). They may be thus emulat-

ing the ﬁrst steps of a trajectory more typically found among expressive

expatriates.

This ﬁnal section examines how the spatiality of Ibiza is appropriated

into a utopian imaginary, attracting various peoples to the island. When

the island hibernates, its insularity and seasonality reinforce the centrifugal

drives of mobile expatriates. Feelings of ‘isolation’ and the need for ‘reju-

venation’ propel them to periodically leave the island, taking them to

exotic countries and original homelands in a geographic triangulation.

The following sub-sections summarize how self-fashioned gays, New Agers

and clubbers envisage Ibiza’s utopian and centrifugal features that affect

stylistic socialities and ﬂexible subjectivities alike.

Gay Ibiza: ‘You are repressed!’

Many ‘real’ clubbers considered La Troya Asesina to be the ‘best,’ ‘hottest’

and ‘wildest’ party on the island. Every Wednesday, crowds thronged

Amnesia’s entrance throughout the night and, for hours after sunrise, a

continuous inﬂux of cars still arrived at already overcrowded parking lots.

The party was regularly well alive beyond 11:00 on Thursday morning,

neglecting ofﬁcial warnings and compliance ﬁnes. La Troya’s tremendous

success hinge on how the gay community captures the imaginary of Ibiza

as a space of transgression and liberation from moral codes. In this case,

120 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

nightclubs and Ibiza reinforced each other’s symbolic power to address

utopia in a synergic manner.

La Troya moved from Privilege to Amnesia in 1999, and then to Space

in 2006. Its successful formula as well as main promoters, DJs, characters

and fan base have, nonetheless, remained essentially the same. Indifferent

to road billboards and magazine ads, the popularity of La Troya stemmed

from word-of-mouth across venues of the gay scene: trendy bars, boutiques,

beaches, saunas and art galleries of Ibiza town. However, it would be a

mistake to label it a ‘gay party,’ because, ironically, it was its ‘sexy’ and

‘transgressive’ overtones that attracted a larger variety of clubbing types:

underground clubbers, model wannabes, bohemians, hippies and jet-setters,

in addition to less eccentric segments of mainstream clubbers. The general

absence of British kids was positively seen by regulars, and this post-gay

queer party thrived without needing to tap into mass tourism. Para-

doxically, La Troya succeeded commercially because, rather than a

structured business enterprise, it fashioned itself as a messy, orgiastic event

organically integrated to the counterculture.

In contrast with other weekly parties at Amnesia, musical styles at

La Troya were essentially the same in both main room and terrace: house

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Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza 121

Figure 3.5 Postcard of Ibiza.

Source: Courtesy of Ekki Gurlitt.

music with sexy vocals and percussion, leaning toward an underground

blend of big beats and Euro pop remixes during morning hours. However,

despite this musical uniformity, the distribution of peoples over the two

areas was differentiated in terms of style and sexual orientation. The

majority of apparently ‘straight’ clubbers danced in the darker main room,

located inside, where a huge foam party took place around 5:00. In the

meanwhile, gay men, model-like women and eccentric clubbers preferred

the glass-roofed terrace, sipping drinks, socializing and sizing up exposed

bodies (the ‘talent on offer,’ as some would put it) by the Coco Loco bar.

It is important to identify the social types that locally reproduce such

imaginary of transgression. Coco Loco was the most revered and pivotal

bar in Amnesia. Its gay staff served a potent drink made of vodka, coconut

milk and a ‘secret substance’ conﬁdentially mixed by bartenders loyal

to club manager Brasilio, who created the drink as a variation of the

caipirinha from his native Brazil. As a residue of club solidarity, coco

loco drinks were given free of charge to ‘bar friends,’ while strangers and

tourists were asked to pay Ptas 1,000–2,000 per drink (US$6–12). ‘It

depends on their face and the way they talk to me,’ explained Italian

transvestite Tirry, an artist who has run the bar for many years. Tall,

thin and blond, Tirry usually wore a sex android outﬁt in leather, high

stiletto heels and a black stripe painted across her eyes. During the night

she eventually took a break to literally ﬂy over the massive crowd by

means of suspended parachute chords, swinging to and from a giant smoke

machine.

Having arrived from Brazil in the late 1970s, Brasilio (his real name)

opened the original Coco Loco bar in the narrow streets of Ibiza town

port area, serving just this one mysterious drink, offered for free, although

patrons were invited to make contributions. The bar, staff and drink were

transposed to Privilege (known as Ku) in the early 1980s, and then to

Amnesia in 1999. While socializing with outrageous celebrities such as

Freddie Mercury and Grace Jones, Brasilio brought an invaluable know-

how of carnival production, derived from personal connections with TV

stars and media barons in Brazil. He has long arranged an annual July

parade through the streets of Ibiza town as a promotional call to his one-

off Brazil themed party in Amnesia. The parade featured a musical ﬂoat,

accompanied by some 100 ﬁgurants, percussionists, capoeira ﬁghters and

transvestites, all camply dressed in light feathered costumes. They were

mostly Italian and Spanish gay men, and Brazilian samba musicians who

lived in Madrid or Barcelona. Though it is a mistake to compare carnival

with clubbing, Brasilio’s background, enthusiastically backed by the gay

community, was a key element in making Ibiza’s nightclubs into major

references on the global club landscape.

Inspired by Ancient Greco-Roman imaginary, La Troya’s decorative

theme evoked the idea of orgiastic bacchanalias. Muscled-up gladiators

122 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

and sexy slaves danced on podiums, amid the imperial scenario which

included a king-size bed where clubbers could rest. The original party title

was La Vaca Asesina (‘the murderous cow’), an argot among Brazilian

transvestites referring to the insatiable sex drives of a hyperactive queer.

But since a local businessman copyrighted party names aiming at money

making, the promoters then renamed it La Troya, granting a penetrative

and ambush overtone to its already bestial references.

By 5:00 in the morning, the party was still growing strong, as under-

ground clubbers and other bohemians were just joining the crowd already

high on music and stimulants. Hundreds of shirtless males rubbed on the

dance ﬂoor, while ‘cool’ punters and androgynous types hung out by Coco

Loco. An unusual musical shift – a hot techno of the type favored by

drag divas – heralded the arrival of a fat drag queen walking on stilts.

All in black and breasts hanging out, she mesmerized the audience with

a provocative style of tongues and faces. Through a wireless microphone,

she stood overhanging the dancing crowd and sang in Spanish:

You are oppressed. You are repressed.

But I am your solution.

To make all of your fantasies come true.

Your desires. Your perversions.

Come with me. Come with me.

I am Ibiza. Ibiza . . . Ibiza!

Yet, Ibiza not only liberates, it also derails. By the Coco Loco bar, I

listened to a regular punter complaining about having the blues about

minor disappointments. The bartender, a Brazilian transgendered per-

former, exclaimed, ‘Hey, babe, this is Ibiza! It is exactly like that. One

day you feel like you are on the top, the next day you are at the bottom.

Ibiza messes up with your mind. I know it, babe, that’s Ibiza.’ That was

not an isolated remark. Expressive expatriates regularly evoked Ibiza, the

island itself, as the main cause of certain moods and ordinary events

taking place in their private lives. La Troya thus illustrates one way by

which musical and ritual texts are weaved into the social life of alterna-

tive subjects. Besides self-fashioned gays, New Agers also represented Ibiza

as a space of transformation, and gave their own view about the myste-

rious ‘vibration’ of the island.

New Age Ibiza: the Scorpio island and its sun mercenaries

Late at night, on my way out of a hippie party at Las Dálias farm, I

came across Aurora, an alternative ‘expatriate’ (originally from northern

Spain) who worked at the hippie markets. She was involved with New

Age forms of Mexican shamanism and Maya astrology, and organized

study groups and ritual dances about them. However, melancholic about

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Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza 123

her recent separation, she spoke about future traveling plans. I asked why

she chose to live in Ibiza after all. She corrected me:

No, no. It is not you who choose Ibiza. It is Ibiza that chooses you.

Yes. It is the energy of the place, you know. It attracts all these types

of people that have to be here. Ibiza is like a magnet, and this is

really very curious.

Many expatriates, particularly those of a more mystical proclivity,

described their presence on the island as a blessed mystery. Those into

astrology claimed that Ibiza is ruled by Scorpio, a zodiacal sign that repre-

sents intense sensuality (and materialism), mysticism (and selﬁshness) and

radical change (and betrayal). In the same vein, the sea rock of Es Vedra

has been an object of fantastic stories due to its peculiar standing shape

and luminosity, its ‘powerful energies.’ And, while some residents jocosely

commented on alleged predictions by Nostradamus that Ibiza would

survive a nuclear war, others recalled rumors about geo-magnetic streams

that could account for the ‘special nature’ of the island.

Likewise, they have fueled fantastic beliefs as a result of archaeological

ﬁndings of Phoenician colonies. Their gods were worshiped on the island

around 700

(Kauffman 1995; Planells 1994). Bes is a dwarf deity

borrowed from Ancient Egypt associated with sleep protection and sex,

and likely explains the word ‘Ibiza,’ since the Phoenicians called the place

I Bes. Tanit is the goddess of the Moon, fertility and war, sometimes

evoked to account for the charismatic nature of ‘Ibiza women,’ to say,

expatriates whose personalities were deemed specially independent and

assertive.

Above all, Ibiza is believed to be a place that directly inﬂuences personal

dispositions as well as relationships. Couple separations are often inter-

preted with reference to Ibiza as an intervenient cause. Nora claimed that

all the expatriate couples that come to the island together break up sooner

or later, although she also remarked that long-lasting couples were possible

as long as they were formed on the island. During a body workshop, we

learned about the separation of a couple of sannyasin therapists after ten

years. The therapist spoke about the ‘rhythms of life’ that bring people

together and apart. Later in the car, Nora observed, ‘They were one of

the last couples still together. But now, you see, that is the “curse” again.’

Both in secular and magical versions, the basic assumption is that Ibiza

accelerates the inﬂux of life, deeply affecting people’s values, interests and

desires. Expatriates’ impetus for self-transformation certainly derives from

a previous disposition to ﬂee their homeland. Upon arrival, a new occu-

pation, along with the possibility of a signiﬁcantly different lifestyle, in a

refreshing environment populated by interesting subjects, inspires the hopes

and possibilities for self-actualization in an unprecedented manner. Initially

sensed as a ‘thirst for living,’ the subject feels compelled to experience inde-

124 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

pendently a variety of physical, social, cultural and spiritual possibilities,

all of which are deemed fully legitimate in alternative Ibiza. In the case of

couples, both partners tend to link their relationship with homeland mem-

ories which they are trying to disentangle from. Their relationship is then

seen as a hindrance to their personal development and separation follows.

In future, both individuals may reassess what has been gained and lost since

separation, and they may even resume their relationship, but as reformed

selves. In any circumstance, expressive expatriates sustain the highly indi-

vidualistic idea that one ﬁrst needs to come to terms with oneself, in order

to become able to develop a legitimately fulﬁlling relationship. Such a

perspective calls for an art of happiness in aloneness, whose capacity is con-

tinuously reassessed by means of reﬂexive self-examination. In sum, Ibiza

stages an apparent paradox: through recurrent dramas of self-discovery,

tragedy and transformation, the island victimizes its expressive residents by

stimulating their belief in autonomous responsibility.

Likewise, the more somber aspects of Scorpio also affected the island,

particularly during the summer tourist peak. Intense labor rhythms and

hedonist practices predisposed expressive expatriates to manifest a more

conspicuously selﬁsh and materialistic behavior. As they often noted (see

section on ‘expatriate media’ in Chapter 2), the intense modernization of

Ibiza has led its residents to neglect nature, community and Being, the

very elements that have brought expressive expatriates to the island in

the ﬁrst place. Rochelle once gloomily commented:

This is Ibiza and the people who live here. If you are rich, healthy

and strong, everybody likes you and comes to you. If you are down,

with problems, overwhelmed, then everybody is gone. It is not a place

for aging. It is a place for the strongest.

Her observation points to the potentially exclusionary nature of utopia.

Neo-hippies (freaks) and clubbers often develop an assertive ethos of

economic predation, aesthetic elitism and hedonist indulgence, which may

verge on proto-fascism. Some of them were involved in risky or illegal

activities, such as smuggling and drug dealing. In her book Goa Freaks:

My Hippie Years in India, Cleo Odzer describes how a few days spent

on organizing drug scams in South Asia could sustain an entire year of

idleness and hedonist indulgence among a clique of ﬂamboyant hippies

living across the Goa–Bali–Ibiza circuit of the early 1970s (Odzer 1995).

Rochelle’s comments resonate with a testimony by Tanit, not the

Phoenician goddess but a notorious club bohemian. An African–French

expatriate, he rented a trendy pre-party bar near El Divino. During the

1980s, Tanit (despite the name, actually a man) was a daring nightclub pro-

moter (Ku-Privilege) who, among other things, could stand naked before

the dance ﬂoor holding a lighter in circles. In a documentary about the

club scene in Ibiza (Kinesis Films 1990), Tanit was asked why the island

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Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza 125

attracts hippies. He categorically replied in a mix of languages: ‘Hippies are

mercenaries. Pi-ra-tas! Ibiza es una isla de mercenários’ (Pirates – Ibiza is

an island of mercenaries). He added, ‘people come to Ibiza because they

look for energy. They look for sun, the energy of the sun.’

His references to mercenaries and sun seekers provide a powerful insight

into a segment of expressive expatriates more directly engaged with the

sensual, mystical and derailing aspects of Ibiza (the ‘Scorpio inﬂuences’).

Even though a subculture of agonistic gatherings persisted in the Ibiza of

2000s, those entrepreneurial scams Odzer refers to have long been replaced

by complex narco-trafﬁc networks. Hippie traders and bohemian workers

could still be mercenaries surviving the predatory conditions of neo-liberal

capitalism; nevertheless, they were more parsimonious in their expenses

and exposure. In any case, Tanit’s comments suggest a likely case of New

Age reﬂexivity. Ibiza historically was a hideout and prey for various classes

of pirates over the centuries.

An intrinsic contradiction lies at the core of utopian imaginaries. From

Homer and the Bible, to Romantic countercultures and Hollywood, par-

adises are depicted as remote spaces of awesome natural beauty, endless joy

and eternal youth (Delumeau 1992). However, these representations stand

as an impossible myth, for decay, poverty and ageing remain as brute real-

ities of human life. From a cosmological perspective (Geertz 1973), these

conditions impose a logical challenge to religious ideologies that afﬁrm the

goodness of god and to secular variations of optimistic individualism, which

in the New Age takes the form of a cosmic pantheism (‘I am god, all is god,

all is beautiful and just’). Nevertheless, a more balanced understanding

of utopia could recognize such predicaments of life cycles, by translating

them into meaningful lessons of modesty, temperance and wisdom. After

experienceing a variety of life difﬁculties, to wit, mature expatriates may

gradually develop a more stoic purview.

Closing party in the ‘best club in the world’

Late September is the best time for clubbing in Ibiza, according to insiders.

The weather is more pleasant and the number of mainstream clubbers

declines noticeably. In addition, ‘smart’ clubbers ﬂock from global cities

to attend the highly anticipated ‘closing parties,’ particularly at Amnesia,

Pacha and Space. Requests for guest-lists skyrocket, but only the well-

connected clubbers will be able to dodge the money machine that

nightclubs have turned into.

Amnesia’s ‘closing party’ was an orgiastic pot similar to La Troya

events, also producing massive trafﬁc jams on the highway, as intoxicated

crowds raved until 17:00 the next day. In the meanwhile, Pacha’s sequence

of closing parties (thrown by different party promoters) was also over-

crowded, albeit striving to keep its elegance. With multiple staircases

conveying a catwalk atmosphere, ‘to see and to be seen,’ Pacha is renowned

126 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

for hosting media celebrities and magnates accommodated in a VIP area

absurdly larger than the common dance ﬂoor.

Space’s ‘closing party’ epitomized the clubbing experience in the club-

bing capital of the world. Ranked high in any international list of best

nightclubs around the millennium, the venue enjoyed an outstanding situ-

ation in terms of location, structure, logistics, DJs and clubbers. Located

between the beach and airport, it comprised a semi-open terrace and a

dark inside room, both with impeccable sound and light systems. More

importantly, the club was able to attract the ‘best’ DJs (according to club

experts) which in turn reﬂected in a highly international crowd of ‘smart’

clubbers from Europe and beyond. The combination of all of these elements

engendered a highly electrifying ambience, hardly matched anywhere else.

In fact, Space was often chosen as the best nightclub in the world in those

years (Dancestar 2004).

Among the mega clubs, Space customarily delivered the last ‘closing

party’ of the season (around October 1), although smaller clubs have

subsequently attempted to push the calendar a bit further with their own

‘carry on’ and ‘closing parties.’ Space’s ﬁnale was a unique occasion, able

to attract party promoters, managers and DJs from competing clubs and

bars locally and abroad. Clubbers often arrived directly from the airport.

Jets roared over the club’s dance terrace, enticing the crowd to cheer back.

Others talked on cell phones, teasing their friends back in global cities,

such as Barcelona, London, Frankfurt, Milan or Paris, on their way to

bed or to work (depending on whether it was morning or night).

For those bohemian workers, clubbers and expatriates who have been

on the island during the entire season, closing parties acquired a more

speciﬁc meaning. Such events nostalgically marked the end of the hedo-

nist dream, particularly for those returning to their homelands. Attending

these parties – particularly by means of a free pass – crowned their senti-

ments of belonging to a privileged aesthetic community envied by the

mainstream (or, at least, represented as such by the international media).

They were, as the title of a Space CD compilation (1998) suggests, Ibiza’s

Happiest People in the Morning. As dawn arises, they bid farewell to

buddies on the terrace, for most people would soon be leaving the island.

By the DJ decks inside, Space owner Pepe signaled that it was time for

the very last record. Around 7:00, the DJ played a signiﬁcant record, not

uncommon in house remixes of the late 1990s: a smooth dance track

topped with Martin Luther King’s voice, delivering the speech ‘I Have a

Dream.’

Freak diaspora: the centrifugal island and orientalism

Countercultural formations engage with politico-economic structures of

Ibiza in complex and contradictory ways, also depending on the level

of analysis. Though criticizing the hegemonic power of the state, market

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Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza 127

and morality, expressive expatriates have adopted a more pragmatic

approach. Seeking to take advantage of economic opportunities, they do

not oppose the encroachment of leisure capital in hippie and club scenes,

as long as they can actualize expressive and hedonist values, at least in

other more exclusive spaces. Thus, while working and enjoying bars, mega-

clubs and hippie markets of mainstream Ibiza, they also attend highly

secretive raves and trance parties, as well as body therapies and New Age

workshops, which are self-fashioned as removed and autonomous prac-

tices not contaminated by biopower/sexuality regimes. The main problem

is, de facto, the intensity and scale of systemic colonization, which trans-

forms Ibiza’s socio-environmental landscape to such an extent that rising

inﬂation, overwork, overregulation and pollution levels undermine the

material conditions of expressive lifestyles as such.

Such commercialization indicates the compensatory function that club

and hippie venues play in consumerist societies. Leisure industries amplify

the global circulation of media representations about Ibiza, by means of

tourism advertising, club magazines, autobiographies, CD compilations,

BBC on-site radio specials, celebrity news, movies and TV shows – all of

which index ‘Ibiza’ as a brand of fun and youth, or as a space of utopian

liberation. Furthermore, as a paradoxical example, the rise of corporate

clubbing in Ibiza by the mid 1990s was propelled by the repression of

rave parties in the UK. British promoters played a key role in reanimating

the party scenes of Ibiza, Goa and US metropolises in the wake of elec-

tronic dance music (Ingham et al. 1999; Reynolds 1998; Collin 1997;

McKay 1996). As such, facilitated by European integration, Ibiza became

the rave suburbia of Britain and Germany.

More closely, nightclubs provide a space where countercultural, capi-

talist and mainstream moral forces dynamically clash and converge

upon issues of sexuality. As seen, Manumission’s sex shows imploded

under the pressure of politicians, media and corporate sponsors. Con-

versely, La Troya’s play on erotic outrage has thrived, largely because it

remained circumscribed to non-heteronormative segments. In the mean-

while, at the apex of global clubbing, Space has attracted a multinational

crowd of clubbers that cultivate more androgynous forms. In sum, night-

clubs and hippie gatherings allure tourists (mostly young but not always

so) to transgress the routines of daily life, although usually not extending

beyond the weekend binge, thus reinforcing social conformism. In this

case:

Paradoxically [. . .], the more fully certain texts capture the feeling of

modern alienation and anomie, the better they serve consumptive

capital. [. . .] They become mutant messengers of hope and open a

potential passageway [. . .] – even as they become part of the circuit

of capital.

(Povinelli 2000: 521)

128 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

However, it is often during a holiday or a temp job on the island that

sedentary subjects are enticed to engage in an alternative lifestyle oriented

by expressive, aesthetic and nomadic values. In addition to the logic of

consumptive capital, countercultural projects must be assessed for their

cultural resonance with the spatiality of Ibiza. Though suffering the dele-

terious impact of mass tourism, Ibiza still survives as an icon of pleasure

and liberation. As seen, as the season fades, expressive expatriates rejoice

about the possibility of rest, while nostalgically longing for utopia, whose

inevitable ﬁnitude renders it an impossible dream (and an object of

ephemeral consumerism).

On a subconscious level, expressive expatriates have chosen Ibiza (or

‘were chosen by it’) because of its very condition as an island. Its insu-

larity engenders special moods modulated by feelings of isolation and

community, tropes of the utopian myth that inspires their life aspirations.

Indexing ‘u-topos’ as a ‘no-place,’ out of time and space, utopias are

located on hanging gardens, mountainous valleys and remote islands

(Delumeau 1992; Rozenberg 1990). Perhaps this explains (besides their

low levels of education) why some tourists vacillate to identify Ibiza as

being a part of Spain, while expatriates emphasize its uniqueness by

afﬁrming that, ‘Ibiza is not Spain, but a world into itself.’

As another effect of such insularity, they also report periodic feelings

of enclosure and suffocation, countered with a need to move and expand.

The island thus propitiates a psychological cycle that compels them to

move in nomadic patterns. While their will to move conditionally over-

laps with the economic and climatic periodicities of the island (summer

tourism/winter unemployment), expressive expatriates remit such insular

moods to Romantic temporalities, something not at all veriﬁed among

sedentary natives or mainstream ‘expats.’

As work rhythms decelerate by autumn, expressive expatriates more

desultorily attend the hippie markets. My informants stop by the stalls

to greet and converse about the season’s outcomes and impending plans.

Hippie traders tell me that they will be soon departing for periods of several

months: to visit relatives in mainland Spain, Western Europe or Argentina;

or to pursue commercial and spiritual interests in Brazil, Mexico or

Morocco. As a main ﬁnding, about half of the ﬁfty hippie traders, bohemian

workers and expressive expatriates I spoke to in a speciﬁc autumn revealed

plans to go to India in the coming or next winter. And all of them knew

about someone who was already on their way to South Asia.

In India they seek to integrate economic, leisure and spiritual interests.

First, the country is an interesting market for purchasing exotic goods

(clothes, fabrics, handicraft, jewelry, decoration items, incense and illicit

drugs) to be traded in the West. Inexpensive accommodation facilitates

their economic strategies, compensating airfare expenses insofar as they

stay for many months. Second, they also attend ashrams and medita-

tion centers as part of their interest in self-spiritualities, such as Osho

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Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza 129

sannyasins and yoga teachers reveal. Finally, they also indulge in leisure

activities, visiting unknown regions, attending traditional festivals, and

directly participating in trance parties (which rather hybridize leisure and

religion, to be examined in Chapter 5). Likewise, their familiarity and prag-

matism in relation to Spanish and Indian native cultures suggest that they

should not be conﬂated with tourists, a hypothesis that draws on Hannerz’s

notes on expatriate cosmopolitanism (Chapter 1, pp. 15–17).

The pervasiveness of Asian artifacts, practices, symbols and representa-

tions – displayed in orientalist fashion – in Ibiza is closely entwined with

the economic reproduction of alternative formations. However, beyond

commercial needs, such orientalism is also constitutive of these expatri-

ates’ identity forms. Ibiza has been sometimes dubbed as ‘the India of the

West’ or ‘the island of sannyasins’ (Rozenberg 1990). In the conﬂuence

of economy and culture, their exoticism performs an economic function,

by granting charisma to expressive subjects, who, in turn, attract tourists

and celebrities to the leisure circuit of the island, as this chapter noted in

regard to the attractiveness of hippie markets, sunset bars, trance parties,

exotic boutiques and New Age retreats.

Yet, the centrifugal drives of alternative Ibiza imposes a methodological

challenge, leading me to reconsider the ‘site’ of my research. Considering

the hypermobile and orientalist components of countercultural lifestyles,

it became clear that to delimit my ﬁeldwork to the perimeter of Ibiza

would be empirically crippling. Transnational countercultures located in

Ibiza are conditioned by social, economic and political contexts of

Mediterranean Spain, but transcend the particularity of the island, since

these formations are also shaped by the engagements and contexts of other

localities (such as London and Goa). In methodological terms, although

studying delimited sites remains a necessary stage in the investigation of

translocality, it does not sufﬁce for a proper understanding of the nature

of hypermobile ﬂuidic formations. It is thus imperative to address the

global circuits that such formations refer to. In other words, although

situated in localities, the ‘site’ of this research lies beyond the ‘local’ (see

methodology section in Chapter 1). Therefore, at a pragmatic level, I was

compelled to follow expressive expatriates during their winter journeys

(or remain seasonally unemployed as an ethnographer, just like Ibiza

tourist workers). Following these expatriates to India was a necessary

condition for addressing globalized countercultures in their romantic

mirroring of the Orient. After all, after telling me their stories about how

traveling decisively transformed their lives (Chapter 2), expressive expa-

triates always asked me: ‘Have you been to India?’

130 Hippie and club scenes in Ibiza

4 Osho International

Meditation Resort

Subjectivity, counterculture and

spiritual tourism in Pune

Osho movement: counterculture and commodiﬁcation

Ibiza island, late fall 2000: with the end of the summer/tourist season,

expatriates left the island. My housemate Gary (DJ Lucci) returned to

England, and Barbara’s housemates Miguel and Marta departed on a

caravan journey across Spain. We thus agreed that I would move into the

spacious house where she lived, and, for another curious reason, we also

found out that we shared plans to travel to India that winter. In this

sense, both ethnographer and native were going to the ﬁeld side by side.

As seen in Chapters 2 and 3, India is a pervasive reference in the lives

of expressive expatriates, who often talk about spiritual practices, exotic

commodities, cuisine, art and traveling related to that country.

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Figure 4.1 Main gates of the Osho resort in the early 2000s.

In the days before our ﬂight to Mumbai, we stayed with Barbara’s friends

in Barcelona. In the movie section of a newspaper, I spotted a German

ﬁlm titled Enlightenment Guaranteed (Erleuchtung Garantiert in the orig-

inal, or Sabiduría Garantizada in Spanish). I read the blurb to Barbara,

‘Two brothers decide to travel to a Zen monastery in Japan in their quest

for inner peace. But they get lost in Tokyo with no money or passports,

and their daily life turns into chaos. Directed by Doris Dorrie.’ Surprisingly,

Barbara noted that she had worked with Doris years ago, a director

renowned for creating insightful pieces on existential conundrums of

modern life.

Enlightenment Guaranteed plays on dilemmas and hopes that lead

Westerners to search for spirituality in Asia. In cinema verité style, ﬁctional

characters (two brothers) intertwine with real situations (monks in a Zen

monastery) in plots that blend ﬁction and documentary. Gustav is a feng-

shui consultant, who practices meditation and is boringly married. Uwe

is a kitchen salesman, aloof to any religiosity, in a highly stressful marriage

– until his wife unexpectedly departs. Desperate, he suddenly joins Gustav

in his long-planned spiritual vacation in Japan. From hi-tech Tokyo to

traditional Zen, the ﬁlm humorously explores the diverging responses of

the two brothers in alien environments. Surprisingly, Gustav becomes

distressed with the discipline of monastic life, whereas Uwe ﬁnds great

enjoyment in austerity and meditation. In the subway heading home, Uwe

is clearly grateful for such a transformative experience, while Gustav notes

that one should be authentic to oneself, and confesses that he must assume

his veiled homosexuality. In anticipation of what I would soon ﬁnd in

India, this ﬁlm accurately represents some of the unexpected feelings and

outcomes that Western travelers experience when confronting their own

inner realities in exotic lands.

As the plane descends toward Mumbai, the pilot announced a moon

eclipse. Such astronomical events are highly valued by New Agers and

Techno freaks. Coincidentally, the moon is one of the mystical symbols

of Osho Rajneesh, whose commune in Pune was my ﬁrst destination.

Carrying Deleuze and Guattari’s A Thousand Plateaus to inspire me during

ﬁeldwork breaks, I playfully speculated on functional meanings that an

eclipse could unleash in setting the mood of thousands of travelers in

India, in a sort of collective mind assemblage – virtual and translocal; or

still, that functions may engender their own intrinsic meanings. In the

meanwhile, jet lagging in warm thick air, we waited for the next taxi van

toward Pune at 4:00.

This chapter examines the Osho International Meditation Resort

(OIMR), a site dedicated to practices of subjectivity formation, typically

veriﬁed among expressive expatriates and the New Age more generally.

As seen in the previous chapters, many Ibiza expatriates are acquainted

with Osho, and often participate in therapy and meditation sessions

led by ‘sannyasins’ (‘Osho disciples’) who inhabit the island. A highly

132 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

signiﬁcant proportion of Ibiza expatriates have become sannyasins and

visited the main Osho communes of Pune and Oregon (US, 1981–5). To

wit, in her classical study about utopian lifestyles in Ibiza, sociologist

Danielle Rozenberg has characterized Ibiza as ‘the island of sannyasins’

(1990: 82).

This chapter is based on ethnographic ﬁeldwork of the ‘meditation

resort’ located in Koregaon Park, a wealthy neighborhood of Pune, totaling

six months during 2001 and 2002. Among the methods of data collec-

tion, I employed participant observation, reading materials (books and

newspapers), unstructured interviews, daily interactions and email corre-

spondence with sannyasins and Pune residents – prior to, during and after

the ﬁeldwork phase. While open to any relevant intervening issues, my

focus primarily was on the globalized and individualist dimensions of the

diasporic formation of expressive expatriates, as they personally engage,

reﬂect and diverge with Osho institutional-ideological apparatus.

The chapter initially outlines the apparatus that sustains Osho’s spiri-

tual philosophy, as it is projected during the 2000s. To that end, after

examining the gentriﬁcation of the resort (i.e. the replacement of former

countercultural sannyasins by wealthier yet more culturally conventional

visitors), I identify the central philosophical and religious tenets that

underlie Osho’s thought. The second section describes the main ritual

practices and biographic trajectories, both of which resonate with a cultural

project that seeks to criticize and transcend modern personhood, while

legitimating ‘authentic’ self-determination, formalized, for example, in the

conversion ritual for ‘taking Sannyas.’

The third section provides a deeper investigation that detects and

analyzes disruptive incidents that upset the order in the resort, thus

exposing its problematic nature: the organization contradictorily stimulates

and controls idiosyncratic behavior, and, in addition, it sustains a thera-

peutic apartheid tacitly imposed on Indians who frequent the resort. In

analyzing these contradictions, I seek to reveal grids of power and ideol-

ogy that not only reproduce the OIMR as a hybrid of ‘total institution’

and leisure resort, but also evince the Western speciﬁcity that marks the

sannyasin ideology of subjectivity formation: a narrative of how selves are

constituted, reproduced (‘controlled’) and transformed (‘liberated’).

The ﬁnal section describes the main social networks that cut across the

resort locally and transnationally. It examines how interests and motiva-

tions as well as historical circumstances enable the formation, scale, range

and continuity of ﬂows of sannyasins, travelers and expatriates who contin-

uously interconnect Pune with other regions of India (particularly Goa

and Mumbai), globally, and even, speciﬁcally, to Ibiza.

At a wider theoretical level, the anthropological analysis of sannyasin

ritual and therapy settings provides empirical grounds for rethinking

Western conceptions about the subject. The Western self is a crystallization

of longstanding processes of social, religious and scientiﬁc institutions and

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‘Osho International Meditation Resort’ 133

knowledge forms, which can be grasped through the notion of ‘biopower/

sexuality’ (Foucault 1976 – see the section on ‘post-sexuality’ in Chapter

1). This regime has overemphasized the notions of ‘desire,’ ‘repression’

and ‘confession,’ which have become internalized by the modern subject

by means of multiple disciplinary mechanisms: family, school, church,

work, army and the nation. Biopower thus constructs and delimits a

certain experience of the self (centered on ‘desire,’ ‘repression’ and ‘confes-

sion’) in ways that are quite speciﬁc to the modern West. As Michel

Foucault remarks (1976), repression does exist but its status must be

reassessed in the context of power relations, for anti-repression discourses

of liberation have played a paradoxical role in sustaining the very biopower

modes of self-formation that they seek to overcome. In other words, utter-

ances against repression may actually reinforce its force. In tandem, a

different arrangement of practices, relations and claims about the self

could possibly entail singular experiences of the self and sociality no longer

regulated by those tropes of modern sexuality. In this light, this chapter

inquires to what extent sannyasin formations reﬂect or depart from the

modern regime of biopower/sexuality.

Institutional and ideological contexts – the world’s largest

meditation center

Located 160 km southeast of Mumbai, Pune is the wealthiest non-capital

city of India, renowned for its gentriﬁed neighborhoods, higher education

institutions and software industry (Times of India 2004a, 2004b). In trav-

elogues, Westerners have depicted the overland journey from Mumbai to

Pune as a dramatic transition from chaos to order. Their descriptions of

harsh climate and social misery upon arrival in India enmesh with visceral

emotions of utter disappointment (‘what am I doing here?!’). However,

as the traveler approaches Pune’s uptown Koregaon Park, their narratives

change, as if recovering from the initial shock. Yet, as one perceives reality

according to inner categories of understanding, the traveler may well be

expressing an unconscious drive to move from psychological dystopia to

utopia. As they settle around the Osho resort, their focus will rapidly

shift from the objective misery of Indians to the subjective misery of

Westerners.

The Osho International Meditation Resort is self-fashioned as ‘the largest

center in the world for meditation and personal growth. [. . .] this lush

contemporary 40-acre campus is a tropical oasis where nature and the

21st Century blend seamlessly, both within and without’ (Osho Inter-

national Foundation 2005). Amid lush bamboo gardens and pyramidal

buildings, maroon-robed visitors can enjoy leisure amenities, and partici-

pate in intensive therapy and meditation programs inspired by the work

of Osho. Previously known as Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, Osho was a

polemical spiritual teacher who died in 1990. His books sold 2.5 million

134 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

copies in 40 languages in the year 2003 alone (personal correspondence

with Osho International Foundation, July 2005).

Recent scholarship on the ‘Rajneesh movement’ nonetheless remains

centered on the period of the 1970s and 1980s (Goldman 2005; Basnet

2002; Fox 2002; Aveling 1999; Urban 1996). These studies provide further

nuance about established issues, such as the historical conditions that

prompted highly educated individuals to join a charismatic cult; the

communitarian and psychological dimensions of the master–disciple rela-

tionship; the ﬂexible business model adopted to amass property (that

included a Rolls-Royce ﬂeet, as a ‘joke on consumerism’); and, ﬁnally,

how its short-lived community in Oregon (1981–85) clashed with the US

establishment, leading to the extradition of Rajneesh and the reopening

of the Pune commune in 1987. More contemporarily, Marion Goldman

has brieﬂy outlined the post-Osho diaspora of sannyasins, along with the

decentralization of Osho-related organizations internationally (Goldman

1999). However, the lack of studies about the current movement suggests

that, inﬂuenced by the media blitz of the 1980s, researchers have mis-

takenly ‘assumed that the most interesting phase of the movement is over’

(Palmer and Sharma 1993: 162; Van Driel and Van Belzen 1990).

From ashram to resort: meditating in the marketplace

At the gates, the visitor is directed to the ‘Welcome Center,’ an elegant

marbled ofﬁce sided by a bamboo pond with a Buddha statue. Over a

desk, a maroon-robed volunteer checks passport visas into a computer

and leads the visitor to the on-the-spot HIV-AIDS test. These procedures

are mandatory for entering the resort. At the cashier’s desk, the visitor

purchases one-day stickers, pasted on the ‘meditation pass’ (photo ID

card). During the early 2000s, daily entrance sharply increased from

Rs. 100 to Rs. 330 (US$2–7.50 – Indian nationals pay 30 per cent of

that value due to economic disparities). It includes free participation in

hourly meditation sessions conducted at the main hall. Maroon and white

robes, used in meditation and therapy, can be purchased in the resort’s

‘boutique’ or with street vendors. Only a minority of visitors is accom-

modated in the resort, either as guests at the 60-room pyramidal hotel

opened in 2002, or as workers in a small team of resident volunteers.

Most people can ﬁnd accommodation in apartments and hotels of the

neighborhood, with prices in the range of $3–20 per day.

Despite ofﬁcial announcements, different people used the terms ‘ashram,’

‘commune’ or ‘resort’ when referring to the organization. This semantic

plurality is certainly prone to misunderstandings. The term ‘ashram’ con-

fers a religious undertone to the place as a ‘sacred dwelling for the guru

and disciples’ (Merriam-Webster). In its turn, ‘commune’ embodies

the countercultural drives of a group that strives for self-sufﬁciency amid

hegemonic adversities. Finally, ‘resort’ refers to the secularized notion of

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‘Osho International Meditation Resort’ 135

a space for recreation, more in tune with tourism and capitalism. As such,

while marking different historical moments of the OIMR, these notions

overlapped in a palimpsest of religious, countercultural and commercial

connotations that express divergent forces, meanings and dispositions

converging on this place. Such organizational mist is only enhanced by

the highly reserved stance of the direction: my requests for a formal inter-

view were ignored, and during the writing of this book, I was denied

permission to use Osho postcards and screensaver slides to illustrate the

chapter. It was under these circumstances that I had to dig information

from the ground up, building the panoramic perspective along the way.

The OIMR has been marked by rapid transformations since its opening

in 1974. From ‘ashram’ to ‘commune’ to ‘resort,’ as it was ﬁnally renamed

in 2000, it has intensiﬁed a strategy of modernization, professionalism,

and gentriﬁcation outlined by Osho during the late 1980s. The strategy

is epitomized by the inauguration of the Mahakashyapa complex in 2002

(a large pyramid for meditation, comprising a hotel and sided by a busi-

ness center). The directive board (known as ‘inner circle’) manages the

resort within administrative parameters and has no religious authority.

Though based on voluntary work, the organization seeks to follow more

strictly management criteria toward proﬁtability, marketability and sustain-

ability (Urban 1996). It has been increasingly catering to wealthier visitors

rather than alternative expatriates, by means of sharply higher prices and

upgraded amenities. While downplaying its cultic past, the main available

end-activities (therapy, meditation, leisure, art and cultic practices) have

been further compartmentalized, in order to please a wide variety of

tastes in a free-choice system. In parallel, the editorial division based in

New York City has outsourced the publication rights of Osho’s books

to a variety of large publishers internationally. As a result, over the period

between 1990 and 2005, the number of visitors steadily declined from

3,000 to about 500 daily, whereas book sales have skyrocketed from 170

thousand to over 2.5 million annually (personal communication with staff

of OIMR).

It can be estimated that about 12,000 people attended the OIMR each

year during the early 2000s.

They ranged from ashramite workers who

stayed up to six months (when visas expired), to backpackers passing by

Pune for a few days, to the majority of visitors who stayed two to six

weeks in Pune. About 50 percent of all attendees were white Westerners,

30 percent were Indians (mostly men), and some 20 percent were Eastern

Asians (mostly women). During the monsoon season (from June to

September), foreign attendance drastically dropped, resulting in a higher

share of Indians beyond 60 percent. Black individuals wearing maroon

robes were extremely rare (only two cases in six months). In an approx-

imately equal sex ratio, ages varied widely but averaged in the mid-thirties.

The main nationalities present in the place were, in decreasing quantitative

order, Indians, Israelis, Italians, Germans and Taiwanese/Chinese; then

136 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

British, Japanese, Russians, Scandinavians, Latin Americans, Australians,

North Americans and French, in addition to dozens of other nationalities

(Osho International Foundation 2005).

Osho’s Nietzschean Buddhism

Maroon-robed bodies wandered by black pyramids in jungle gardens in

a bubble-like environment that provided a radical contrast with ordinary

urban life outside. As some visitors have noted, they felt as if they were

in a surreal scenario of science ﬁction – a spaceship landed in Pune. This

experience of ‘protective isolation’ (Amitabh 1982: 40) allowed them to

fully immerse in existential dilemmas. Moreover, sporadic rumors about

cultic rapture, personal renunciation and sexual promiscuity still con-

tributed to an air of mystery that pervaded the site, even if merely echoing

a past of countercultural effervescence. As an example of such rumors,

once, by the main gate, an Indian mother begged me in tears to take care

of her American adult son, afraid that she would ‘lose him to the ashram.’

A veteran sannyasin (a German sannyasin who lived in Ibiza) aptly noted

that, ‘couples often break up when they come to the commune,’ enig-

matically explaining, ‘it is the energy of this place.’ Consequently, despite

remarketing efforts to promote an image of a pleasant and conventional

resort, a certain belief still lingered, although decreasingly so, that one

had to be ‘brave’ (or ‘crazy’) to attend the OIMR.

The location owes its fame to Osho. Originally from a secular minority

(Jain) background, he was a polemical spiritual leader who stunned main-

stream audiences with his heterodox views on religion, sexuality and

spirituality, coupled with therapy and meditation experiments in tune with

1960s counterculture. In Mumbai 1967, before the West discovered him,

Rajneesh shocked a select Indian audience with a series of lectures in

which he proposed that sexuality must be acknowledged as a step toward

spiritual enlightenment (Osho 1967). Along with the embarrassment amid

the religious elite, the national press readily labeled him ‘the sex guru’

(Mehta 1990). He retired by a close circle of inﬂuential admirers, but

only temporarily so. In 1971, during a spiritual retreat (‘meditation camp’)

in the Himalayan foothills, Rajneesh adopted the sacred title of ‘Bhagwan’

(‘The Blessed One’). While justifying it as a way to formalize a ritual of

initiation of his followers, the gesture certainly upset religious pundits.

He responded that ‘Bhagwan’ must be understood, not as institutional

religion, but as ‘pervasive godliness’ (Osho and Neiman 2000: 140).

Westerners ﬁnally discovered Rajneesh in the early 1970s, and in 1974 a

thin streak of visitors had become a ﬂood of foreigners arriving in Pune

in much larger numbers. Rajneesh began to speak more English and less

Hindi, as the majority of sannyasins became whiter, younger and more

countercultural.

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‘Osho International Meditation Resort’ 137

There are innumerable biographic accounts about Osho written by

sannyasins, journalists and scholars, usually tending to hagiolatry, sensa-

tionalism or summaries. A detailed and deﬁnitive biography is yet to be

written, despite his own opposition to any systematic effort to register his

life in a professional document. However, in light of the current organ-

izational trends, two points must be made based on the biographic materials

available.

First, Osho’s way of reasoning must be considered in relation to his

academic career, which extended from 1953 to 1966, ﬁrst as a post-

graduate student and then as an assistant professor of philosophy, likely

his only formal occupation throughout his life. This period remains incred-

ibly obscure, but it is possible to ascertain that Osho is fundamentally

inspired by the philosophies of Friedrich Nietzsche and William James,

as he indirectly admits. Thus Spoke Zarathustra tops his list of most

important books (Osho 1985), and is the topic of a two-volume book

based on Osho’s lectures titled Zarathustra: A God that Can Dance and

Zarathustra: A Prophet that Can Laugh (Osho 1987). The name ‘Osho,’

which Rajneesh chose in 1989, derives from William James’s notion of

oceanic experience, as Osho explains. Thus, rather than being mistakenly

dubbed ‘Tantra Hinduism,’ Osho’s spiritual philosophy – centered on a

critique of civilization, the afﬁrmation of the mundane drives as a step

toward enlightenment, and the inscrutably experiential nature of religiosity

– can be better understood in light of these Western inﬂuences on his

thinking.

Second, underlying his deconstructive readings of mystical traditions,

Osho insistently argued that meditation is the only valid path for spiri-

tual development. As such, he reassessed the value of Zen Buddhism,

afﬁrming it as the most essential form of spirituality. ‘Zen’ is a transla-

tion of the Sanskrit word dhyan which means ‘meditation.’

I call Zen the only living religion because it is not a religion but only

a religiousness. It has no dogma [. . .]. It is the strangest thing that

has happened in the whole history of mankind [. . .] because it enjoys

in emptiness [. . .]. For Zen, all that is, is sacred.’

(Osho and Neiman 2000: 275)

In fact, the word ‘Osho’ also derives from a Japanese honoriﬁc title of a

Zen master. By the time he chose the name, Osho was lecturing about

Zen, before his death in 1990. His last book is titled The Zen Manifesto:

Freedom from Oneself. Under this light, meditation is not a self-contained

and ascetic body practice, but rather a total ethical stance in life – what

Osho referred to as ‘pure witnessing.’

In conclusion, sannyasin therapies embody this productive tension

between Nietzsche and Buddha

. Since the early 1970s, countercultural

therapists have assisted Osho in integrating cathartic (Dionysian) therapies

138 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

with a mystical approach to meditation (Zen), although developed within

an ideology that problematically celebrates the self ‘beyond society.’ In

line with countercultural sentiments, Osho claimed that modern civiliza-

tion imposes a repressive burden on the subject, obstructing its ability to

meditate properly. The modern subject must ﬁrst overcome a consider-

able degree of social conditioning and emotional suppression, in order to

be able to develop the ‘inner Buddhahood’ to full capacity (Palmer and

Bird 1999; Heelas 1996; Amrito 1984). In this connection, contemporary

social life is marked by increasing levels of reﬂexivity, as moralities seem

to lose their compulsory force to regulate the subject (Beck et al. 1994;

Giddens 1989, 1992; Taylor 1991), which begs the question of how the

subject constitutes itself under conditions of relative ethical freedom (Lash

1994; Foucault 1984c).

Osho International Meditation Resort: practices, trajectories

and rituals

Considering that 50 percent of visitors in the resort at any moment are new-

comers (Osho International Foundation, n.d.), the organization created an

optional one-day ‘start-up session’ (upon a Rs. 500 fee, about US$10). My

group with about 20 people gathered in a matted room. We wore maroon

robes, just like the Italian man and Danish woman who led the event. They

invited us for a round of self-introductions. All attendees were Westerners,

mostly younger than the mid-thirties average. Many had read Osho’s books,

but the level of knowledge about him, the resort and its practices was clearly

very superﬁcial. A few admitted that they had never heard about Osho, and

had showed up at the resort out of curiosity and by chance while traveling

across the country. Likewise, only two newcomers claimed that they had

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‘Osho International Meditation Resort’ 139

Figure 4.2 Sannyasins socializing outside the ashram.

come to India exclusively for attending the OIMR. This suggests that most

visitors attend the resort within a larger itinerary that encompasses other

places and interests in tourism, leisure and spirituality.

Our hosts explained some basic notions that inform daily life in the resort.

They made very few, tangential references to Osho, unless a participant

asked directly about him. Their presentation was informal and improvised,

as they sat on cushioned mats just like the group. By a ﬂipchart with photos

of people from various ages and ethnicities, the male host elaborated on a

‘human cycle of growth’ through which the individual is gradually molded

by dominant institutions: parents, religion, school, friends, society and

nation. In line with Osho’s social philosophy, the Italian man explained:

We become obedient and responsible citizens. We are taught to follow

basic rules, and to behave in certain ways: we become Italians, who

are expected to be expressive, like me [laughter], Japanese (obedient),

British (polite), etc. We become Christians, Jews; a man, a woman,

a mother, a father, a worker – everyone is shaped by conditionings

that society imposes on us and expects us to fulﬁll. And if we don’t

do that, we are criticized, ostracized, and even punished. The child –

this individual – becomes an “I”, a social persona imposed on us

when we were just a defenseless child. As time passes by, this person

grows up, becomes more and more stressed, more and more unhappy.

And you feel bad because you are disconnected from the natural force

of life, which is the life energy to be yourself. The result of this contin-

uous repression – of not being allowed to be yourself – is aggression,

violence, madness, unhappiness . . .

So, it is against this situation that this commune – now we call it

“resort” – has come about. Meditation is a very good way to become

more aware of these conditionings and repressions. Here in the

commune, we are all working for the creation, as we like to say, of

a new human being, a person who tries to break free from these

conditionings as much as possible. Our goal here is to deprogram

you, to allow you to develop a new path, which is your own. This

is why we work on practicing meditation and also on doing different

types of workshops that include therapy.

The couple then demonstrated the main body techniques practiced in the

resort, generically known as ‘active meditations.’ They comprised the ‘Osho

Dynamic,’ ‘Osho Kundalini’ and, in a sense, the ‘White Robe Brotherhood,’

among others. A typical session begins with an emphasis on the body –

hyperventilation, gibberish or spontaneous dance – evolving into gentler

stages – slow movements, silent stillness and relaxation. The hosts empha-

sized that their demonstrations were just superﬁcial illustrations, and that

each person should follow and ‘connect with’ their own ‘inner feelings’ in

order to ‘express’ them genuinely during a practice. At an anthropological

140 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

level, nonetheless, their performance contributed to homogenize behavior,

as social imitation is a basic learning mechanism, and an aspect that marks

the culture of the resort, as will be later discussed. In any case, the Italian

host added, ‘This place is a big laboratory for human interaction. Try to

talk to a stranger, experiment with new situations, express yourself.’

Osho dynamic meditation

Most visitors (whether sannyasin or not) planned to practice Dynamic

Meditation at 6:00, but found it challenging to get up so early and then

carry on with multiple activities until 22:00 or 23:00: ‘This is also my

vacation,’ they said in excuse. My Australian room-mates (a college student

and a nurse) asked me to wake them up for the early meditation, because

they wanted to ‘shape some discipline,’ but turned out to be more successful

with socializing at the bars and restaurants of Koregaon Park. Every hour,

a few hundred people gathered at the Buddha Hall to practice Osho’s

various ‘active meditations.’ It comprised a spacious marbled patio covered

with a huge canvas in a circus-like formation, surrounded by see-through

mosquito nets, and four large loudspeaker sets strategically located. As

people entered, they sat silently or lay down on the marble, facing the

empty pagoda altar from where Osho used to speak.

A man wearing a black robe reached for the microphone and, speaking

English with a German accent, brieﬂy explained the ﬁve phases of the one-

hour Dynamic Meditation. He started the music CD. A chaotic percussion

set in, and the crowd began to violently breathe while ﬂapping their arms

for ten minutes. With a gong, the music shifted and the participants burst

into a cathartic performance. By digital beats, the leader enthused, ‘follow

your body! Give your body total freedom . . . EXPLODE! Go totally mad.’

For those standing outside, the view could be excitingly scary: the crowd

burst into screaming, laughing, crying, gesticulating, jerking, groaning and

roaring, with no interpersonal interaction – a mental asylum gone wild.

After ten minutes, the music shifted into a stable martial-like rhythm.

People now quick-jumped on the spot, with raised arms, uttering ‘HU-HU-

HU . . .’ as feet hammered the ground. (This movement, sannyasins say,

awakens ‘basic instinctive energies’.) The rhythm accelerated, demanding

extra effort, but it abruptly ceased with a ‘STOP!’ command. The crowd

froze silently for ﬁfteen minutes. With eyes closed, one sensed the body:

the pounding heartbeat, the rolling sweat, the fast breathing, the inner

heat, ‘energy’ sensations and ﬂashbacks. Finally, by a melodic ﬂute, the

crowd gently danced, celebrating the coming day. The black-robe person

watched the group at all times.

Upon this behavioral description, practitioners provided quite different

explanations. For most, Dynamic Meditation was a physically strenuous

practice. Many claimed to feel ‘lighter’ emotionally and ‘energetically.’

Some newcomers claimed that it was a transformative experience, because,

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‘Osho International Meditation Resort’ 141

for the ﬁrst time in their lives, they were allowed to embody visceral

emotions, acting them out noisily in a collective setting. Others referred

to Tantra-like body ‘energies’ that enhanced their spiritual power,

improving their meditation practice toward enlightenment. While some

provided intricate details about their experiences, others claimed that it

was impossible to elaborate on the matter. In a word, people seemed to

largely ignore or to freely interpret Osho’s technical prescriptions regarding

body practices (Osho 1988). In fact, many sannyasins bluntly rejected

conceptual instructions, claiming that it was all a matter of ‘personal

experience.’ However, if interpretations varied widely, behavior tended to

be surprisingly uniform in the resort.

Therapy workshops – encounter groups

Administered by a department named ‘Multiversity,’ therapy workshops

are the main revenue source for the OIMR. Though meditation stands

as the prime goal in Osho’s spiritual philosophy, therapy is nonetheless

an important component, usually a precondition, in shaping the ‘new

human being.’ In the form of group workshops, these events center on

practices informed by Reichian and humanistic psychologies, emphasizing

the development of personal potentialities by means of intensive bodily

work, emotional purging and recollection. Peak experiences and transper-

sonal insights are often sought and reported during this type of event

(Palmer and Bird 1999; Krishnananda 1996, 1999; Bird and Pandya 1993;

Amrito 1984).

A board at the plaza announced about 20 new workshops each

week. These events reﬂected the universe of psychospiritual, humanistic

and transpersonal psychologies which sannyasins embrace: body therapies

integrating Reich and Tantra; massage therapies; various ‘encounter groups’

for self-discovery; workshops on painting, dance and creative writing;

Gurdjieff sacred dance; ‘advanced’ meditations on Zen and Suﬁ; and

therapy apprenticeship. Most events were basic workshops lasting three or

four days, at a cost of around US$300. There were always a few dozen

therapists, instructors and assistants at the resort. Originally from Western-

ized countries (Germany, UK, the Netherlands, Italy, the US, Brazil, Israel,

etc.), they visited Pune periodically, and constituted the core of a diasporic

community of sannyasins. Within a communal system, they never charged

for their services, and just collaborated, networked, learned and socialized

with colleague therapists and other sannyasins.

As many workshop participants did not speak ﬂuent English (the resort’s

lingua-franca), the registration desk placed requests for voluntary trans-

lation on a board. I saw one for Spanish in a three-day workshop titled

‘Opening to Self-Love.’ I volunteered, as it was representative of a type

of expressive therapy prevalent at the resort, with several points in common

with psychodramatic techniques such as Biodance (described in the chapters

142 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

on Ibiza). The therapist in charge of the event brieﬂy interviewed me. She

was American, in her late-forties, from a Jewish background.

In a mutual interview, therapists screened those who were interested in

attending a workshop. They eventually denied access to someone deemed

immature (a point to be examined further). In addition to answering ques-

tions about its goals and procedures, they asked the applicants the basic

questions: ‘Why do you want to join this group?’ and ‘Have you ever

done workshops like this before?’. They also urged candidates to attend

Dynamic, Kundalini and White Robe meditation sessions during the event

(time schedules never overlapped), as a way to intensify psychological

momentum. Studies have noted that Osho’s images, references and ideas

facilitate processes of disidentiﬁcation and transference generally veriﬁed

during therapeutic work (Palmer and Bird 1999; Bird and Pandya 1993).

‘Opening to Self-Love’ comprised intensive sessions during three morn-

ings, three afternoons and one evening, in addition to three active

meditation sessions each day. The group of about 20 people gathered at

the plaza, and I was introduced to the man who requested translation.

He was a wealthy veterinarian from Argentina, in his late forties and

recently divorced. All participants were from Western/ized countries, with

a sex ratio 60 percent female (as in most workshops). Five assistants

supported the ‘leader.’ We were taken to one of the pyramidal buildings.

The room was air-conditioned and comfortable, with bright windows

viewing rich jungle gardens. There was no furniture other than a special

sound system, and the ﬂoor was covered with thickly cushioned mattresses,

pillows and piles of folded sheets all around.

The black-robed therapist said that we were beginning ‘a deep work of

self-discovery and awareness, with the intention of learning how to better

love ourselves.’ She urged everyone to come to those basic meditation

sessions: ‘They will allow you to keep an inner space while you work

within, with awareness and peace.’ She also recommended that partici-

pants should stay together during breaks and evening, ‘to hold the energy

together.’ In a round of self-introductions, people spoke about their moti-

vations and expectations. They mentioned a will to discover more about

themselves and to become a better person. Many wanted to get rid of

traits that they disliked, such as lack of self-esteem, shyness or anxiety.

She then played speech fragments by Osho claiming that ‘in society,

you are taken to love others but not yourself.’ During two days, the group

performed multiple exercises, such as spontaneous dance, pelvic move-

ments, deep breathing, touching, trauma recall, cathartic expression and

verbal recollection (sharing). These exercises varied in interactivity, as

some were practiced individually, others in random or chosen couples,

and others in smaller or larger groups. Physical contact (full-bodied hugs,

caressing, massage) was very common, regardless of gender, but despite

the emotional charge and intimate involvement, they were, at the end,

very impersonal exercises. The therapist reminded participants that they

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‘Osho International Meditation Resort’ 143

ought to become aware of emotional nodes, related to traumas and condi-

tionings, usually originating in childhood. She also emphasized that each

person should ‘connect with’ these emotions, particularly those related to

forgotten memories. The basic premise – as in all cathartic workshops –

is that the modern subject is forged through the internalization of author-

itarian utterances, primarily carried out by parents, and the end result is

perceived as repressive or traumatic.

The group was encouraged to enter cathartic states, ‘expressing hidden

emotions.’ These emotions were predominantly negative and painful. (Some

newcomers questioned, ‘Does it have to be always negative? . . . ’.) Even

though emotional confrontation was common, physical violence was never

employed in any of the workshops I attended or asked about. Catharsis

was mostly induced by a combination of body movements, artiﬁcially

induced breathing patterns, monotonous music (New Age or Techno),

and, more importantly, the therapist’s own commands, leading the group

into spirals of tension and release.

The importance of confession must be underlined. After each practice,

the group sat in a circle and individual experiences were shared. In this

confessional moment, they claimed to have become more aware about

emotional nodes that constrained their personalities and that they felt

empowered by being able to exteriorize them. Confession is thus as

important as the experience itself, because it reassures desired results and

constructs a certain type of understanding that persuades the self that it

has been satisfactorily transformed.

After two days of emotionally painful exercises, the workshop entered

a more enjoyable stage, centering on exercises that cultivate the ability to

feel pleasure and affection towards oneself, to be personally assertive and

socially expressive. These exercises comprised activities such as writing love

letters to oneself, meditating about one’s heart, making eye contact to

project and receive love in random couples, auto-erotic dancing, dramatic

declarations of inner power, collective dancing, and, again, recollection by

sharing.

Drawing from a developmental perspective, it can be said that the group

was led to regress emotionally, prior to engaging in more afﬁrmative traits.

As a general narrative, it evolved from the purging of destructive emotions,

toward the cultivation of an ‘inner space.’ Also known as the ‘inner child,’

this notion refers to an ‘untouched, warm and essential part of the subject’

that lies beyond social masks, and is developed through catharsis and

awareness (Krishnanada 1996, 1999).

This regressive-progressive journey required a protective environment

where participants could feel safe. Despite the encouragement for expres-

sing traumatic or violent emotions, it was a principle that abuse was not

allowed, and the therapist made sure that participants listened to each

other respectfully. In fact, during the confessional moment, aggressive

comments about someone else’s experience reports were dealt with on the

144 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

spot. By means of direct questions, the therapist skillfully led the person

to undermine their own position, as emotional ﬂaws emerged from under-

neath spurious rationalizations. Sharing was thus the predominant genre,

but freedom of expression was carefully monitored according to the ther-

apist’s goals.

One incident illustrates the sentimental and ethnocentric nature of san-

nyasin therapies. Participants were required to mimic childhood situations

in which their parents abused them emotionally (or were interpreted as

such). The group then exploded into screaming in multiple languages simul-

taneously, as if each person was reprimanding and even offending an invis-

ible child. As a translator, I sat against the wall and watched the impressive

scene of familial inferno. Afterward, during the sharing period, a German

woman enthused about ‘how incredible it [was] to see the global experi-

ence of anger in all different languages.’ The therapist asked if anyone

wished to comment, and I raised my hand and tried to make a point that

such experience was not global, but quite Western, as I asked, ‘Where are

the Indians, Africans and all the rest?’. The therapist cut me short and

blushingly said, ‘This is not the moment for this type of comment. We are

now sharing experiences. Anyone else?’ My comment was inappropriate.

That was not a space for rational debate, but rather for emotional empathy.

However, for research purposes, I had inadvertently hit into a vexing issue

that haunted the OIMR: the limits of Western ideologies of self-formation

being transposed to individuals of other cultural backgrounds, particularly

Indians – a topic that will be resumed later.

A few notes about the efﬁcacy of expressive therapies on participants

are pertinent. Most people reported some form of psychological gain at

the end of the workshops I attended or asked about: they claimed to feel

more relaxed, conﬁdent and sociable (Basnet 2002; Palmer and Bird 1999;

Bird and Pandya 1993). Yet, in private, other participants were more

skeptical. They claimed that workshops were generally positive, but that

some individuals, particularly newcomers, exaggerated their performances,

expectations and perceived beneﬁts. Psychological beneﬁts also derived

from the often-ignored social function that such gatherings enable, creating

opportunities for social interaction. In fact, those who did not attend these

groups tended to remain isolated in the vastness of the resort. In any case,

although many workshop participants did not follow Osho in any measure,

everyone agreed that therapy was an accessory to meditation, the ulti-

mate practice for spiritual development.

Finally, not every expressive workshop was emotionally dramatic. Some

focused on the physicality of the body rather than on its emotional compo-

nents. ‘The Art of Touch’ was an introduction to massage techniques, in

which I also participated as a translator. As usual, the maroon-robed

group was taken to a comfortable room located behind the boutique. The

‘group leader’ was a young Italian man, massage therapist and chiro-

practor. In contrast with cathartic groups, the atmosphere was quite

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‘Osho International Meditation Resort’ 145

relaxed. The course was entirely practical, involving a series of exercises

informed by basic explanations. In chiropractic systems, the body is ther-

apeutically read in a singular manner: its surface (skin or eye-iris) contains

discreet signals that reveal the health of the internal organs. Likewise, by

manipulating certain parts of the body (feet, hands or abdomen), a healing

effect is expected in apparently unrelated organs and systems. Another

notion professes that the body is a depository of unconscious memories

about the self, which can be triggered by means of touch and speciﬁc

breathing rhythms, potentially enabling immediate insights that may alter

behavioral patterns. Likewise, skin sensitivity can be enhanced to a point

in which a blindfolded person can identify the hands of an exercise partner

mixed within the group.

Sannyasin trajectories: transformation and mobility

Sannyasins ﬂy global distances to sort out their angst or relax at the

resort. This section brieﬂy examines typical biographies, with a focus on

their motivations and representations about their own self, the resort and

society. Shaﬁk illustrates the situation of a signiﬁcant proportion of visi-

tors in the early 2000s. In his late-forties, he was a well-established

veterinarian in Argentina, divorced, and apparently in a ‘mid-life crisis.’

He had been attending an Osho center near his hometown for about two

years before coming to Pune, which was his ﬁrst international travel (other

than a summer vacation in neighboring Brazil). He was spending all his

three weeks in Pune.

I came to Pune to think about my life, to consider new perspectives,

to open new horizons. I reached a critical moment in my life, with a

recent divorce and a business termination. I looked back and realized

that my life has been quite boring and shallow. So I came here to

regain a new freedom, and see how things in my life can unfold when

I return home.

During a workshop break, he indicated a group of participants which

he thought were South American. With a large smile, the tallest man

replied in impeccable Spanish, ‘No, I am from Austria, but I do enjoy the

company of Latinos. Hi, I am Dimitri.’ The other man and a teenager

chuckled. Sudipo was translating to Livia, and both were from Brazil. In

contrast with many participants of cathartic therapies, they remained

amicable and seemingly relaxed after the sessions. From a middle-class

background, Livia planned to study journalism at college. She lived with

her father in uptown Rio de Janeiro. Her mother was a psychologist who

had moved to Pune two years before and rented an apartment near the

ashram. Livia was staying for a month and claimed that she wanted to

attend the ashram as much as possible. Her style was light and friendly,

146 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

playing the guitar around the resort in the company of her new sannyasin

friends.

Sudipo had been living in Pune for almost two years when we ﬁrst met.

In his mid-forties, he was recently divorced, and, like Shaﬁk, he was re-

evaluating his life which stood in a ‘transition phase,’ in his own terms.

But Sudipo had been more radical than Shaﬁk, for he quit his career as

a corporate accountant in Rio de Janeiro and moved to Pune where he

was studying alternative therapies, developing himself as a spiritual healer.

Job compensations and personal savings allowed him to live relatively

well in Pune, and his fashionable Bullet Enﬁeld motorcycle was an indi-

cation. He explained:

I came to India for a break in my life. I decided to ﬁnish everything

in my previous life, which was just a big mess. Only my daughter

whom I love very much remains from that time. I came to Pune to

stop, to meditate, to learn new things, and to open new perspectives

in my life, for my future. So I am now focusing on my spiritual side.

I want to develop it, and see what happens next.

Like many expatriates residing in Pune, Sudipo frequented other more

traditional centers of alternative healing and spirituality, usually involving

yoga and vedic diets. Pune expatriate residents did not attend the OIMR

on a daily basis, because it turned out to be expensive, and, Sudipo

added with a jocose punch line: ‘you know what, it is a pain in the neck

to be in this ashram every day.’ Nonetheless, he developed contacts with

sannyasin therapists and was able to join workshops as an assistant.

Sudipo was thus able to learn a good deal, in addition to saving the

money on workshop fees and the ashram entrance.

In comparison with all the Westerners I came across in India, Dimitri

stood out for his peculiar lifestyle, occupation and biography. In his

late thirties, he was a freelance tour guide leading groups anywhere in

the world. He was not a sannyasin but had been regularly visiting the

OIMR since 2000. He basically came to Pune in order to attend work-

shops, to practice Osho’s active meditations and to interact with ‘Asian

girlfriends,’ as he put it. Despite his active interest in workshops, Dimitri

was not a ‘groupie’ (a serial practitioner obsessed with therapies). He was

relatively experienced in therapies and cultivated a pragmatic approach

to self-development. According to him, therapy groups had a limit in their

possibility to foster one’s own self. During pre-screening interviews, he

openly admitted to therapists that he was looking for ‘powerful work-

shops’ (rather than ‘soft exercises,’ ‘such as, writing love letters to myself

over a pink pillow . . . ’). Dimitri also let them know that he could ‘make

an effort’ to attend Dynamic Meditation at 6:00, but that he would not

attend the evening White Robe Brotherhood, which he despised as a

strange cultic practice. ‘I’d rather be in my nice apartment having a drink

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‘Osho International Meditation Resort’ 147

with a friend,’ he would bluntly say. Sannyasin therapists admired such

explicit frankness.

In order to enjoy a lifestyle which he appreciated, Dimitri spent about

US$50 (about Rs. 2,500) per day in Pune, a small fortune in the Indian con-

text. Most travelers sought to spend something in the range of US$5–20 per

day. His average daily budget allowed for about US$30 being spent on

OIMR workshops and private therapy sessions, US$10 on his apartment

rent, and another US$10 on food, transportation, gym, etc. In comparison

to other rooms temporarily or permanently inhabited by Western san-

nyasins, his place was exceptionally modern and decorated, containing

brand new furniture and decor, cable TV, telephone, air-conditioner and a

bar. He explained:

I am not rich really. But I am always traveling because of my work,

and I am already 37. I decided to have a better quality of life regard-

less of where I am. So, I am trying to have something here that may

be equivalent to the West. This is why I am spending this amount of

money, which is not that much really.

He provided a clear example of how expressive expatriates integrate

labor, mobility and personal (spiritual) interests. Dimitri often traveled to

India and Eastern Asia during breaks in his work. An agency in Austria

and the US contacted him to guide groups anywhere in the world he could

possibly be assigned to. Due to the nature of the job, Dimitri was highly

skilled in managing his trips, while being able to take long ‘vacations’ of

four to six months each year, which, in turn, allowed him to hone the

multicultural abilities that were necessary in his work as a global tour

guide.

With the decline of labor in the neo-liberal age, Dimitri found an

occupational niche that suited (or shaped) his personal interests in travel

and self-development, thus turning such macro-instabilities that affect

millions of workers in his favor.

In this connection, Dimitri displayed singular interpersonal skills. Despite

his reservations about certain ethnic dispositions which verged on stereo-

typical assumptions, he was nonetheless able to interact with peoples from

all walks of life. In addition, he spoke multiple European languages ﬂuently.

Although relatively tall, his phenotypic traces (half-Serbian, half-Germanic)

enabled him to blend in variegated situations. (Once, I witnessed him con-

vincing an Italian woman that he was Cuban.) At a younger age, he used

to travel through the Mediterranean, South America and Asia, socializing

with marginal types, such as gypsies and prostitutes. In fact, he was the

only person I met during ﬁeldwork who was sexually active with traditional

Indian women and Eastern Asian sannyasins. As he found white women to

be mostly uninteresting, his sexual interests seemed to reﬂect an orientalist

imaginary that eroticizes non-Western women as objects of the Western

male desire. (The white female desire will be discussed in Chapter 5.)

148 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

On the other hand, hypermobility also limited his ability to develop

stable relationships. Although sannyasin therapies validate emotional inti-

macy, Dimitri admitted that he had not been able or willing to develop

his ‘affairs’ beyond a certain point, and usually he ‘lose[s] interest.’ He

claimed to be open to ‘settling down’ and did not consider that his work

was a limitation. Nonetheless, it can be suggested that excessive mobility

has reshaped his modes of affective attachment in a way that disabled

stability and attachment as conventionally expected from romantic rela-

tionships in the Western mainstream.

Prem

is a young Italian sannyasin, representative of newer generations

of disciples that have been initiated after Osho’s death in 1990. We ﬁrst

met at the ‘Art of Touch’ workshop. In her mid-twenties, Sonia (her ‘legal

name,’ as sannyasins put it) was an experienced travel agent in northern

Italy, where she lived either with ﬂatmates in a big urban center, or with

her parents in a small tourist village. Her father was a well-connected

public servant who often facilitated job opportunities for her. Sonia was

capable of starting up travel agencies, and seasonally worked as a recep-

tionist at top hotels in tourist hotspots in the Mediterranean, Central

America or the Middle East. Due to the nature of her job, Prem was able

to get the best information on travel, airfares and other arrangements.

More than that, being a mobile travel agent was part of a lifestyle which

Sonia truly enjoyed.

It seems that occupations based on hypermobility may predispose the

subject to a more experimental form of spirituality, such as Sonia’s, which

is typically veriﬁed in the New Age: eclectic yet centered on self-cultivation.

While criticizing institutionalized religion for manipulating people, Prem

was very interested in magic–spiritual practices, such as Santeria (which she

learned in the southern US) and Reiki, a ‘lighter and more subtle form of

energy healing,’ as she explained. In the meanwhile, she attended sannyasin

workshops in Italy, read Osho’s books and listened to his audio tapes as a

form of meditation because sometimes they were in Hindi, a language Sonia

ignored: ‘this way I can listen with my heart, not with my mind.’ Rather

than material gratiﬁcation, she practiced magic for spiritual fulﬁllment – in

other words, for self-cultivation ends: wellbeing, inner peace and harmony.

Cosmologically, her view on life was mystical, as she recurrently afﬁrmed

that providence grants us with what is necessary according to its own

unfathomable logic, which is to be accepted with surrender and gratitude.

However, she linked her spiritual development to a troubled past. In an

auto-analysis, Prem mentioned a difﬁcult childhood with a distant father

and an abusive mother, followed by teenage years marked by drug abuse

and unhappy homosexuality: ‘That was a very confused stage in my life.

I had a girlfriend, but we had not found our identity. We were lost, just

experimenting in fear.’ She also clubbed hard in Ibiza. Her narrative culmin-

ated with the story of an emotionally and sexually abusive boyfriend with

whom she had lived. At a turning point, she returned to her parents and

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developed a more harmonic lifestyle, cultivating her spirituality as a

‘healing’ process, as she put it. From such traumatic experiences, Sonia

had learned that she ought to control the destructive potential of meta-

morphic experimentation.

Sannyasin therapists

Sannyasin therapists also emulate patterns of mobility and self-marginal-

ization like those veriﬁed in Ibiza. Dissatisﬁed with predominant moral

codes, they engage with alternative practices of self-development centered

on expressive and meditational ideas. This sub-section presents two veteran

sannyasins whose biographies reﬂect those of many other sannyasins and

expressive expatriates. The social networks that allow them to work and

travel will be examined toward the end of the chapter.

During their permanence in Pune, therapists contribute to the Multi-

versity department in charge of the therapy workshops. Considering that

work in the resort is voluntary, other factors must account for the expatri-

ates’ periodical return to Pune. At a personal level, they feel that the OIMR

is a unique place for practicing meditation, to socialize with friends and

to relive old bonds of solidarity that amalgamated them around Osho. At

a professional level, they beneﬁt from attending the resort in two ways. It

allowed them to interact and learn with colleagues about therapy innova-

tions; moreover, it contributed to their own professional promotion in the

West, as their brochures and websites may refer to the OIMR in a sug-

gestive manner (‘years of professional experience in Pune (India),’ ‘lived in

an ashram under an enlightened master,’ ‘member of the therapy division

of the OIMR,’ ‘advanced training at the OIMR-Pune,’ etc). In sum,

while direct experiences with Osho become blurred memories, sannyasin

therapists take advantage of the professional reputation of the OIMR in

the world of alternative therapies, which ramiﬁes into semi-mainstream

markets and corporate business.

Krishnananda is a German, Harvard-trained psychiatrist who became

a sannyasin therapist in the early 1970s. Born into a Jewish family, Tom

Trobe (his ‘legal name’) grew up in Germany, England and France, and

joined medical school in the late 1960s. He described his experience at

Harvard as frustrating. He anticipated the type of successful yet unsatis-

fying career as a conventional doctor for wealthy clients. Therefore, while

practicing various forms of Asian spirituality, he dropped medical school

and went to California, and then to India where he met Osho. In Pune,

Trobe gained the sannyasin name Krishnananda (in a ritual to be described

later). Yet, he returned to the US to complete his medical residency, before

settling down in Pune in the mid-1970s. His life trajectory up to the life-

transformative encounter with Osho can be summarized in his own words

as follows:

150 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

Through high school and college, I never questioned the direction that

was proscribed for me by my conditioning. I just followed along trying

to perform as well as I could. But then things came to an abrupt halt.

I was enrolled in medical school, just having graduated from Harvard

and about to begin a career as a doctor. Inside, I knew that I could

not go on. I quit and drove to California. I stepped off the automatic

train of my conditioning. In the years that followed, I lived in com-

munes, took psychedelic drugs, studied yoga and meditation. I departed

quite dramatically from the life I had been leading until then. I began

to recognize that how I had envisioned life was extremely limited. My

emphasis gradually shifted from ﬁnding success to ﬁnding truth, from

exploring fear instead of avoiding fear. I eventually went back to

medical school and then on to a residency in psychiatry, but my moti-

vation and the work I have done since has always come from the inner

search and longing to share with others what I have found. [. . .] At

a certain point in all my exploring with Western therapy, I began to

recognize its limitations. I was hungering for something that could give

me greater spiritual insights and I naturally turned my focus to Eastern

spirituality and to the paths of meditation. I spent some time going to

Buddhist Vipassana retreats in America but still something was missing.

I had read the teachings of a spiritual master in India and heard stories

of his ashram. They interested me enough to leave a budding therapy

practice in Laguna Beach, California, and go to India without any plan

of when I would return. After some travels, I ended up at this ashram.

[. . .] What I found when I met this man was a depth of stillness, grace,

and wisdom that was totally different from anything I had ever experi-

enced before. [. . .] It is very difﬁcult to describe in words the rela-

tionship and the feeling that a disciple has for his master. Perhaps it

is enough just to say that the gratitude and love that I have for him

is vaster than any feeling I have ever had for anyone or anything.

Sitting before my master I have always felt that I was looking into the

eyes of a man who seems to have no fear. Even more unusual is the

feeling I have, looking into his eyes, that there is simply no one there.

Perhaps when our fear ﬁnally disappears, we melt into existence and

that is what is termed enlightenment.

(Krishnananda 1996: 4–7)

Since Osho’s death in 1990, Krishnananda has been based in Sedona

(Arizona, US), although he has delivered an incredible number of therapy

workshops around the world. His thirty years of therapy experience have

been summarized in his books (Krishnananda 2006, 1999, 1996).

Samvado was a meditation teacher at the OIMR during my ﬁeldwork.

Despite revealing some exceptional characteristics, his biography also dis-

plays the typical transition from a conventional lifestyle into the alternative

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‘Osho International Meditation Resort’ 151

world. Lively and well humored, Sam was a large tall man in his mid-

seventies when I ﬁrst met him. Wearing black robes, he imparted a

Suﬁ-based meditation practice

in the Buddha Hall and also taught Zen

philosophy in tennis lessons at the ﬁtness center (humorously called

‘Zennis’ – meditation through tennis).

Sam grew up in Chicago, more speciﬁcally in Hyde Park, a cosmopolitan

neighborhood that hosts the university. In the 1950s, he quit a military

career to become a well-connected businessman in San Francisco. As he

made public, Sam was a CIA ofﬁcer working as a spy behind the Iron

Curtain. In the early 1970s, however, with a critical heart condition, physi-

cians predicted one year of life, throwing Sam in a deep existential crisis.

He moved to Hawaii, ‘to wait for his death,’ as he put it. In the mean-

while, he joined a group of enthusiastic naturalists, adepts of physical

exercise, vitamins and natural diets. After several months, Sam felt very

healthy.

Sam survived throughout the decades, enjoying each day as his last.

Sam also mentioned a dream that changed his life. In the dream, he saw

a blue bird ﬂying over a Zen monastery in Japan. Being a wealthy globe

trekker, Sam went to Japan, but all he found was an old farmhouse that,

nonetheless, did occasionally host Zen seminars. Though the manager

refused his stay, Sam spotted an ashtray with the blue bird he dreamed

of carved on it. He returned to the US satisﬁed, committed to learning

Zen meditation.

Around the mid-1970s, Sam ﬁrst came across disciples of Osho by

chance in California. ‘They were doing some crazy meditation and we

watched a video of Osho. I found him extremely boring . . .’ Around that

time, a travel pal suggested a trip to the Himalayas. In India, Sam visited

Pune and met Osho. He enjoyed the commune to such an extent that he

decided to move in: ‘there were lots of happy people, lots of spirituality;

beautiful women, gardens, sun – it was absolutely fantastic!’. He arrived

in 1978. Three years later, Sam followed Osho to Oregon, US. But since

he could not physically collaborate in the construction of the commune

due to his heart condition, Sam returned to the emptied commune in Pune

being kept by a few Indian workers, until Osho returned in 1986.

Sam noted the ongoing transformations at the OIMR. He regretted that

the place had lost some of its warmth. Despite his seniority, Sam was

never assigned to be a member of the inner circle (directive board). ‘I am

too independent to accept certain things.’ He represented himself as

belonging to an elder generation of sannyasins who were not in favor of

many changes in the ashram, but accepted their role as adapting to the

new realities while doing their best to make it a better and pleasant place

to be at. Sam was determined to enjoy life as joyfully as possible. When

not golﬁng in Europe or the US, he lives in one of the few private resi-

dences inside the OIMR.

152 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

Having detailed two typical trajectories of sannyasin therapists, what

is noteworthy is their gradual disappointment with conventional life (physi-

cian, businessman), made worse by a crisis (health or university issues),

along with a growing engagement with oriental spiritualities in Asia (Zen

in Japan, meditation) and a conversion into the sannyasin world; ﬁnally,

there is a strong component of mobility integrated with a global diaspora

of sannyasins. The next sub-section examines deeper categories that iden-

tify and orient these mobile subjects with Osho’s sannyasin ideology of

subjectivity formation. Since his death in 1990, the devotional efferves-

cence has given way to a more sober stance, in line with the Nietzschean

Buddhism outlined above. Such orientation is formally evinced in a daily

ceremonial event called ‘White Robe Brotherhood,’ as presented next.

White Robe Brotherhood: a video-cult for enlightenment

Resort activities halt completely at 18:00 in a silent call for the White

Robe Brotherhood. A crowd in white concentrates outside the Buddha

Hall, holding tiny chairs and dropping thousands of sandals on long

shelves. The entrance is tightly kept by a team of ashramites, who make

sure that everyone is wearing exclusively white and is perfume free.

Such

controls inadvertently function like a rite of passage by which participants

feel that they are entering a liminal dimension.

The ambience is indeed quite solemn. Very quietly, people enter the

canvassed dome, dribbling lying bodies, extending mats and sitting down.

Everyone faces the pagoda-style altar, in various meditative stances. A

small area around the pulpit is supervised by an ashramite holding a list.

The space is reserved for members of the inner circle and special guests.

On the right side of the hall, musicians wait on a stage congested with

sound equipment and musical instruments.

A melody starts at 19:00, and in a few moments it turns into lively

band music. One by one the crowd gets up and begins to dance on the

spot. A few individuals here and there remain on the ﬂoor, with closed

eyes, or discreetly looking around. Women dance in a gentle, slightly

spaced-out fashion. Some Indian men dance in overblown moves, explicitly

staring at nearby women. Yet, nobody interacts: there is no eye contact

or exchange whatsoever. The collective event is quite solitaire. It is thus

curious that, despite the emphasis on authentic self-expression, behavior

in the Buddha Hall is extremely homogenous, obeying patterns collectively

followed.

The music grows faster and louder, culminating in a chaotic climax

and a drum bang. The excited crowd then freezes while shouting ‘OSHO!’.

After a few moments in absolute silence, the music restarts and escalates

again. This cycle is repeated three times, but the fourth drumbeat is

harsher. This time the crowd shouts thrice: ‘OSHO! OSHO! OSHO!’. The

lights go off. Everybody sits down on the cooling marble. A few minutes

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‘Osho International Meditation Resort’ 153

are spent in silence, with gentle sitar and tamboura music being played

at the background.

Suddenly, a loud drumbeat strikes, as the Zen slap for ‘awakening.’

The video screen slides down, and the discourse title is announced through

loudspeakers. The digital signal appears on screen, and some people join

hands or bow heads. Sneezing and coughing are prohibited (yet, a self-

defeating rule). Nobody is allowed to enter or leave the Buddha Hall

during the event. Nonetheless, in two occasions I noticed people leaving

the hall, but no one tried to stop them, perhaps suggesting a laxity in

certain procedures.

The videos feature Osho speeches originally recorded in the Buddha

Hall or Oregon. Some introductory images reveal a highly ecstatic crowd,

rhythmically clapping hands, as Osho gently and quite slowly enters the

hall. The camera scans the ﬁrst row and eventually focuses on enraptured

white women. As I detected in conversations, those images triggered highly

reﬂexive thoughts in those who were watching the video. Some present

sannyasins appear in the video but ten to twenty years younger. The event

also revealed a striking difference between the past and the present. Osho

had a dramatic impact in the crowd behavior (as shown in videos), whereas

video watchers observed in silence.

Osho’s oratory skills deﬁed conventional rules. He talked quite slowly,

with long breaks between words. His face and body were motionless, and

a few hand gestures were meticulously performed. His English had a sharp

Indian accent, which newcomers found quite difﬁcult to understand.

Nevertheless, or because of these characteristics, followers considered

him to be a mesmerizing speaker. In a speech titled The Way I Speak is

a Little Strange, Osho stated that, ‘It is in the silences between my

words that you meditate.’ In order to sustain an argument, he employed

metaphors, anecdotes and referred to classic intellectuals and historic char-

acters, building his prose in non-linear fashion. Certain topics were more

appealing: his critique of Christianity seemed outdated to the audience,

but his comments on relationships and gender captured their attention.

However, despite his intellectual formation, Osho often argued upon

clearly personal preferences. But that did not seem to upset sannyasins,

because Osho emphasized the self-contradictory nature of his speeches,

as a license for freedom and originality. Despite the consistency of his

Nietzschean Buddhism, his multiple speeches stimulated lively debates

among sannyasins, propelling them, according to Osho, to think and

experience life independently.

The screen is turned off about ninety minutes into his speech. The

Buddha Hall becomes completely dark and silent. The sound system

then plays Osho telling jokes, about Pope John Paul II and President

Reagan, and many sexist and racist ones. But sannyasins considered Osho

to be a loving leader. The point is to laugh as a thoughtless spiritual prac-

tice. As Osho explains, ‘I have to tell jokes because, I am afraid, you are

154 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

all religious people, and you tend to be serious . . . And seriousness is a

cancerous growth . . . Laughter brings some energy from your inner source

to the surface’ (Osho and Neiman 2000: 152).

A drumbeat then sets the crowd into chaotic gibberish. From their seats,

people absurdly shout, cry, gesticulate, sing, groan and make other strange

noises. The loudspeakers are also playing the sound of an explosive crowd,

adding to the pandemonium. This situation persists for about a minute.

Another drumbeat, and the crowd falls into silence. People now look

peaceful in a meditative stance. Osho then, slowly and softly, recites in

hypnotic fashion:

Be silent. Close your eyes. Feel your body to be completely frozen.

Now look inward, gathering all your consciousness – almost like an

arrow, forcing toward the center. At the center you are the buddha.

That is your essential nature. Go deeper and deeper . . . The deeper

you go, the more will be your experience of your eternal reality.

[. . .] [T]he whole existence will rejoice in your silence. Just be a

witness – from the center – and you will have arrived at home.

(Personal recollection; see also

Osho and Neiman 2000: 275)

It is believed that gibberish releases emotional tension, cleansing the

mind for proper meditation. Osho then says, ‘to make it clear,’ followed

by another drumbeat. The audience then faints ﬂat on the ﬂoor.

Lying

down, with closed eyes, the crowd listens to his mystical speech:

Relax. You are now part of an ocean of buddhas. The entire hall is

now an ocean of pure consciousness. At this moment you are the most

blessed people on earth. Just remember that you are only a witness.

The body is not you, the mind is not you. You are just a mirror.

Everything becomes divine. This evening was beautiful on its own.

This very moment you are a buddha . . . When you come back, bring

the buddha with you. You have to live out the buddha in your day-

to-day life. Collect as much fragrance and ﬂowers as you can.

(Personal recollection; ibid.: 275)

A ﬁnal drumbeat is loud and dry, the ﬁnal Zen slap. The audience slowly

returns from the light trance, and sits. Osho then concludes, emphasizing

each of his words:

Come back, but come back as a buddha . . . peacefully, gracefully.

Sit for a few moments just to recollect your experience of the space

that you have visited, and the splendor that you have experienced.

The last word of Buddha was sammasati. ‘Remember.’ Remember

that you are a buddha.

(Personal recollection; ibid.: 280)

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‘Osho International Meditation Resort’ 155

Lights are gently lit. People slowly get up and leave the Buddha Hall.

Curiously, a few Eastern Asian women are always the ﬁrst to rush out.

In the meanwhile, many sannyasins remain in reverential positions, and

a few couples are hugging on the ﬂoor. Sannyasins envisage the White

Robe Brotherhood as a moment for rejoicing in sacred aloneness; never-

theless, attending it in the company of a dear one was also deemed a

special experience. After supper, the Buddha Hall will host a ﬁnal night

event, usually a meditation demo or a music concert (dispensing with the

use of robes). For the time being though, as sannyasins leave the hall with

Osho’s spiritual message reverberating in their hearts, all is felt as serene

blissfulness.

Sannyas ritual: freedom from yourself

Serendipity was a common occurrence in the ashram. Shaﬁk told me about

a psychic reader who correctly guessed that he ‘worked with animals’ (he

is a veterinarian). My ritual of initiation (Sannyas) was by chance sched-

uled to take place in ‘the most powerful day of the year’: January 19,

the anniversary of Osho’s ‘leaving the body’ (death, or mahasamadhi).

Because of its centrality in the sannyasin ideology of subjectivity forma-

tion, the neo-Sannyas as a notion and ritual practice must be considered.

In 1971, Osho began to initiate his followers in an improvised ritual,

largely inspired by the Hindu tradition of renunciation (sannyas). While

referring to a spiritual seeker who gives up all mundane connections, Osho

redeﬁned it as ‘neo-Sannyas’:

The ancient meaning of sannyas is renouncing the world. I am against

it. [. . .] I can see another meaning far more signiﬁcant [. . .]. I mean

renouncing all the conditions that the world has given to you – your

religion, your caste, [. . .] your God, your holy book. To me, sannyas

means a commitment that ‘I am going to clean myself of all those

things that have been imposed on me, and I will start living on my

own – fresh, young, pure, unpolluted.’ Sannyas is an initiation into

your innocence.

(Osho and Neiman 2000: 228)

Osho regularly gathered with small groups of followers in evening meet-

ings (darshans). Newcomers sat on the ﬁrst row. He would stare at the

person, write down a name, touch their forehead and provide a brief

explanation about the name – a combination of two Sanskrit words. Then,

as now, sannyasins believe that the new name is connected to the uncon-

scious of the person, which Osho was supposedly able to grasp intuitively.

It expressed, developed or challenged inner potentials. During the 1970s,

followers wore orange clothes and wore a bead chain (mala) with his

picture. In the West, these youth embarrassed relatives and strangers with

156 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

their sannyasin names, clothes and ideas of enlightenment in a communal

life. Ironically, the obsession with such symbols resulted in a new shackle,

which meditators conventionally seek to avoid. Group pressure was a

strong characteristic during the cultic stage of the movement. After the

disastrous experience of Oregon, Osho urged everyone to stop wearing

orange and the mala. In 1986, he declared:

The emphasis was only on meditation. But I found that people can

change their clothes very easily, but they cannot change their minds.

[. . .] Sannyas is not so cheap. It is time and you are mature enough,

that beginning phase is over. If you like the orange color, perfectly

good. [. . .] But it has nothing to do with religion. So now I reduce

religion to its absolute essentiality. And that is meditation.

(Osho and Neiman 2000: 230)

In the early 2000s, the Sannyas ritual took place in the Buddha Hall

each week. The naming ceremony was in the charge of the ‘Sannyas

Department’ coordinated by ‘mediums’ chosen by Osho in the early 1980s.

They glanced at a paper form with photograph and ‘connected’ with the

applicant’s ‘energy,’ resulting in a suitable name, although a new option

in which the person could choose their own sannyasin name was intro-

duced in the year 2000. All candidates went through a quick interview,

having to answer the questions, ‘Why do you want to take Sannyas?’ and

‘Are you familiar with Osho’s ideas and practices?’. I have never heard

about any applicant being rejected in this procedure. Quite the contrary,

I have come across many converts who barely knew Osho and his ideas.

‘Taking Sannyas’ was a delicate issue among newcomers, including those

who decided not to participate. Many claimed not to be ‘ready’ spiritually

for such a ‘commitment,’ while others added that they preferred to develop

their own ‘spiritual path’ ‘independently.’ An Israeli youngster snapped,

‘Because I want to be the master of myself!’. Other visitors rejected Sannyas

as a sectarian practice that could enslave the individual to the ashram.

Finally, some newcomers were misinformed, believing that it mandated a

legal change of names in documents, or naively believed that a computer

chose their names at random, as a mischievous hoax circulated.

Those who took Sannyas wished to ‘better connect with [their] inner spir-

ituality.’ They also believed that a new name would facilitate their

meditation practices. At a psychological level, it served as a tool for gaining

distance from one’s own self-identity, allowing a more reﬂexive perspective.

In social situations, the sannyasin name could be employed playfully to tease,

confuse or dissuade interlocutors. Sannyasins thus exposed the conﬂation

between ‘legal name’ as ‘real name’ which conceals the exogenous nature of

identity formation through nominalism (‘you are x’). Nonetheless, in con-

trast with veteran sannyasins, newer generations refrained from disclosing

their spiritual names publicly, thus keeping a separation between the public

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‘Osho International Meditation Resort’ 157

and the private, a barrier that countercultural movements have historically

sought to undermine.

On a warm morning, an unusually large group of 74 people gathered

at the center of the Buddha Hall. We sat on cushions lined in rows, along-

side the ceremony staff, a photographer and a music band. Hundreds of

people in maroon robes surrounded the group. Osho’s mahasamadhi

(death) anniversary was the busiest day in the ashram. Many Indians and

Westerners arrived on that day. In my cohort, there were an African-

Swiss nurse, a German circus acrobat, an American dancer, Australian

college students and an Italian psychiatrist called Mario Crazy Horse (due

to his spiritual interests in US Native Americans).

The Sannyas ritual dramatizes the sacred nature of individuality, thus

resonating with Western ideologies of an autonomous self. In spirals of

intensity, people danced and sang happily as the music grew faster, climax-

ing in the chaotic drumming and the collective scream OSHO. Some joined

hands by their heart, as everybody listened to Osho’s speech fragments:

I initiate you into nothing but into freedom. Freedom from yourself.

And this is the meaning of Sannyas and nothing else. Sannyas is a

commitment with meditation. It is a commitment with existence.

It is a romance with existence. As such, you will not take Sannyas,

it is Sannyas that will take you!

(Personal recollection)

The participants are called by their ‘legal’ names at intervals of a minute

or so. They were supposed to perform some spontaneous dance before

picking the ‘Sannyas certiﬁcate’ placed on a pillow. Most people timidly

danced around the pillow, picked the paper, and returned to their spots.

Others, however, danced and laughed effusively, while a few others went

down on their knees, sobbed, and threw themselves dramatically on the

matted ﬂoor. Often, one of the ceremonial assistants had to walk in

and gently indicate that their time was up. After all the participants had

been called and received their diplomas, velvet chords were released, and

the audience rushed in to the central area to celebrate effusively. Some

brought ﬂowers, hugging acquaintances and asking about their new name.

Despite the effusive nature of sannyasin rituals as well as the draconian

style of resort administration (to be discussed on pp. 161–4), the ‘cultic

hypothesis,’ raised by antagonistic journalists and Christian activists, does

not hold at a subjective level. For a reason, the group upholds highly indi-

vidualistic values. As sannyasins claim, a charismatic community is justi-

ﬁed in its support for the spiritual endeavors of the individual. Spiritual

development essentially is a matter of personal responsibility, to be ulti-

mately actualized through the practice of meditation. Within this frame-

work, collective celebrations praised the relationship between meditator

and existence. In fact, sannyasins discreetly diverged upon the authority of

158 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

Osho for intermediating such a relationship. While many believed that he

was an enlightened master, others saw him rather as a thought-provoking

teacher. In any case, in line with Buddhism, all sannyasins agreed that

enlightenment is a universal possibility, to be cultivated nonetheless and

achieved individually.

Culture of expression: psychic deterritorialization and

institutional control

January 26, 2001. After the morning meditation, I sat by the lagoon

behind the pyramids used for therapy. Alone, I watched the bathing birds,

while perusing within. I was about to complete 21 days of meditation, a

period which sannyasins considered to be a minor, but still considerable

achievement. All of a sudden, a strange vibration in the air tampered with

my ears. The birds silenced, and the lake formed some slowly sliding

rings, but it all faded in a few seconds. Sannyasins then began to receive

emails from worried relatives around the world. A massive earthquake

had hit Gujarat, 660 km northwest of Pune, killing 20,000 people. Were

it not for the internet, the catastrophe might have passed completely unno-

ticed. The OIMR remained operating as usual. Several sannyasins retired

to pray for the victims, but the majority was too immersed in therapy

and meditation. They traveled afar, confronting earthquakes within.

In informal conversations, sannyasins circulated rumors about visitors,

usually ﬁrst-timers, who developed some emotional disorder during a

workshop or who were sanctioned by a director.

The subtle impression

was that this paradise was not as harmonious as the magazine Osho

Times intended to convey. Visitors were pounded with the idea that they

ought to express their feelings and opinions, as a proof of inner authen-

ticity. However, expression was conditioned by a system of expectations,

rewards and sanctions that delimited the scope of permitted behavior,

with very little margin for dissent. As previously seen, even within the

therapeutic setting, self-expression was monitored and even shaped accord-

ing to the therapist’s intentions.

In other words, a basic contradiction marked daily life in the OIMR,

between the ideological pressure for self-expression and the institutional

control of centrifugal behavior. In the following sub-sections, I discuss

incidents that unravel such contradiction. As a remark, I chose more expli-

citly extreme cases as a methodological recourse for exposing invisible

notions and mechanisms of control in the resort.

Some of these incidents can be related to psychological processes, which

I deﬁne as ‘psychic deterritorialization.’ Integrating the clinical philosophy

of Deleuze and Guattari (Deleuze and Guattari 1980; see also Braidotti

1994; Kaplan 1987) with incipient studies of consular psychiatry (Hays

2001; Airault 2000; Wrigley and Revill 2000; Hacking 1998; Quirot 1993;

Verdoux et al. 1993), this notion provides an insight into the processes of

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‘Osho International Meditation Resort’ 159

derealization and depersonalization that affect Western travelers cruising

exotic lands. As a hypothesis raised by a consular psychiatrist, without

the protection of homeland symbolism (which holds the self together), the

subject becomes exposed to unconscious pressures that may be more acutely

manifested during special ritual sites, such as therapy workshops, Romantic

traveling and psychedelic parties, especially when carried out in remote

lands. These effects have been referred to as ‘the India syndrome’ (Airault

2000: 19).

Dance party

The entertainment team organized weekly dance parties at the resort’s

plaza. As sannyasins are fun lovers, the resort direction determined a time

limit at 23:30. After days in maroon robes, about 200 people joined the

party, wearing their own conventional clothes, exposing tastes and person-

alities in multiple colors. DJs were often coincidently sannyasin therapists,

playing a mix of soft house and world music. Because visitors were under-

going cathartic therapies during the day, DJs were instructed not to play

Techno trance, a potent style of electronic dance music deemed to be

mentally disturbing (nonetheless prevalent in underground parties pro-

moted by rebellious sannyasins in the outskirts of Pune and in Goa

[D’Andrea 2006]). The cappuccino bar exceptionally sold spirited drinks

and there were designated spaces in the garden for smoking, but almost

nobody drank or smoked.

Yet, most people danced with enthusiasm and very expressively, in con-

trast to what could have been expected from a modern crowd of substance-

free individuals. Younger visitors concentrated on the dance ﬂoor, while

more veteran sannyasins chatted by the cappuccino bar. A few individuals

danced in an apparently exaggerated manner, as if in a pastiche of trance

– they were usually Far Eastern women or Indian men. Most sannyasins

were good dancers by any basic criteria. Two Indian DJs admitted a bit

disdainfully, ‘It is much easier to play for sannyasins. You can play any-

thing, and they will go wild . . .’ As a regular visitor who attended the

resort each year, Dimitri observed:

Many of these people come from a small town, say, in Germany or

Taiwan where everybody controls them; they cannot do much with

their lives. Their boring lives in small ofﬁces and homes doing always

the same thing, always the same routine. Ah, that is sad. But then,

they come to Pune, and see all this beauty, all this freedom. Oh man,

of course they will go nuts!

Sannyasins seek to overcome patterns of a civilization predicated on

the control of nature, both environmental and psychic. Particularly in the

Western(ized) world, affection is sequestered to comply with systemic

requirements of efﬁciency and production, and becomes delimited to the

160 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

private sphere or to self-effacing spaces of collective entertainment, sports

and pop art, which, in turn, enhance social control and consumptive

capital. In the case of sannyasins, expressive expatriates and New Agers

more generally, rather than charging against the status quo, they have

chosen to engage with hedonistic, aesthetic and spiritual practices in order

to reform their selves, to legitimate an independent lifestyle, and conse-

quently to inﬂuence their proximate environments. In this context, it must

be asked what role the OIMR plays in their lives: is it just an institu-

tional escape-valve that contributes to sustain the civilizatory modes that

it claims to question, or does it promote truly emancipatory experiments

that foster alternative ways of living and self?

Promoting and controlling self-expression

As a consequence of Osho’s critique of civilization as repressive, the notion

of ‘expression’ gained a central role among sannyasins, often more emphat-

ically so than the notion of ‘witnessing,’ the core category of his spiritual

philosophy. More than a therapeutic procedure, being expressive was

highly valued and pervasively expected. Therapists urged and sometimes

coerced participants to be assertive (or leave the group). As a source of

jokes and anxieties, visitors often reported the awkward situation in which

they ‘did not have anything to express’ during a cathartic exercise and

wondered, ‘Do I have a problem?’. Spontaneity, ﬂamboyance and even

some bluntness were seen as desirable traits. In tandem, formal politeness

was seen suspiciously as a symptom of repressed personality. ‘Politeness

is a repression from your parents,’ I once heard during an argument. On

a different occasion, Git Prem (a German expatriate from Ibiza) intro-

duced me to an acquaintance in Pune who plainly refused to shake my

extended hand. Finally, a temporary ﬂatmate, whom I had never spoken

to, angrily demanded that I kept the toilet seat up (rather than down).

As such, ‘being in touch with oneself’ could trigger episodes of senti-

mentalism or hostility, which were, at least in theory, accepted by

sannyasins. Their interactions tended to be candid yet intempestive, either

affectionate or aggressive, resulting in that minor confrontations over

minor issues marked much of their ordinary life in Pune.

As a consequence of such ideological pressure, exerted in a bubble-like

environment in a remote country, most visitors reported some form of

emotional hardship during their stay. This was particularly noticeable

during midweek afternoons, when cathartic workshops were peaking.

Observing the number of distressed faces wandering in the resort, Dimitri,

who regularly attended the workshops, noted:

You see all these people in the ashram. They look unhappy and miser-

able. It didn’t have to be like that, but that is what they need to go

through for a while. And all these ﬁghts . . . They behave like assholes

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‘Osho International Meditation Resort’ 161

here because they cannot be like that at home. So, this is a relatively

safe environment to behave like that, without suffering serious conse-

quences.

In this sense, in order to be peaceful at home, one ought to be aggres-

sive in Pune. Because of this intense emotional work, visitors developed

unusual forms of behavior, reasoning and sociability. This could be inferred

from answers given to trivial statements. For example, I invited someone

for a coffee and got a response in gravitas: ‘No, today I am connecting

with myself.’ Or, I told a volunteer at a registration desk that I was not

interested in attending workshops, and heard, ‘What are you escaping

from? . . .’. Also, visitors often developed acute self-distrust, intensely ques-

tioning themselves, ‘Are these thoughts mine or my parents’?’.

In various degrees, such unusual statements usually came from partici-

pants of high-impact workshops, but excessive meditation in the Buddha

Hall triggered similar effects. Some individuals claimed to have developed

paranormal abilities, and even implied that they had achieved some form

of spiritual awakening. In concordance with this analysis of psychic deter-

ritorialization, a study notes that, ‘too much meditation may interfere

with logical thought process, because the whole technique is geared to

take one beyond reason and thinking’ (Basnet 2002: 59).

As an example of such transformations, a young woman from Los

Angeles (US) was visiting the ashram for the ﬁrst time. Apparently sociable

and sensible, she was a dance student in college, spending her vacation

in India. She gave up traveling across the country as planned in order to

spend all her time at the resort. While attending a sequence of therapy

workshops, her behavior altered in strange ways. Wearing the ‘silence’

badge, she moved slowly, with eyes looking somehow mesmerized. She

took Sannyas, broke up with her boyfriend over the internet and extended

her stay in Pune for an extra month, to attend more therapy groups.

Eccentric behavior was accepted insofar as it did not challenge order

and authority in the resort. Those running the organization tended to over-

react against any form of unaligned or recalcitrant behavior. For example,

a disagreement over a garment (robe) detail could lead to the expulsion of

a resistant visitor. Yet, more worrisome is the treatment that the resort

dispenses to mentally derailed visitors. A young Spanish man told a work-

shop-mate during a break that he had been brought to Pune by a ‘cosmic

conspiracy’ orchestrated by resort directors – a very unlikely claim. A day

later, while staring at a noticeboard, he froze in a catatonic state. The

gatemen took him to a psychiatrist downtown and left him there alone.

During the appointment, he recovered his mental faculties, as if returning

from a trance state. The physician said that there was nothing to worry

about, prescribed light tranquilizers, and charged Rs. 400 (US$9) for the

consultation. The young man refused to pay and angrily returned to the

162 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

resort, but was not allowed in. His meditation pass had been taken. Next

morning, he met with two supervisors – an Indian and a German man.

According to him, they demanded that he should pay the medical fee

and rudely reprimanded him: ‘Your disobedience will not be tolerated.

You have to follow the rules here.’ Regular ashramites could justify such

measures as necessary for keeping the organization in order. Yet, Indian

writer Gita Mehta also noted, in the early 1970s, that mentally derailed

sannyasins were excluded from the place, either hospitalized or sent back

to their native homeland. She asked a senior Indian woman, ‘a matriarch

of the ashram,’ how the organization proceeded with such cases:

Some of our devotees get these mad ideas. Then, we have to do some-

thing. [. . .] We put them in the hospital, give them pills. Sometimes

they get better and come back to us. That is very beautiful. [. . .]

Those who don’t get better, we sedate them, put them on a plane

and send them back to their countries.

(Mehta 1990 [1979]: 38–9)

Consular psychiatrists have suggested that long-term travel through

mythic lands (India, Israel, Greece, Paris, etc.) may trigger mild or acute

episodes of personal derailment, which usually effaces as soon as the

subject returns home (Airault 2000; Hacking 1998). During my ﬁeldwork

in Pune and Goa, I witnessed cases of emotionally troubled sannyasins,

travelers and expatriates which corroborate those studies. Western subjects

staying in India for extended periods – particularly if it is their ﬁrst visit

– can undergo psychic deterritorialization. As consular psychiatrists

suggest, the absence of cultural references in alien lands can cause cogni-

tive disorientation, loosening of subjective boundaries and certainties

(Airault 2000). The syndrome varies in form, intensity and duration,

depending on the person’s biographic background and travel experience,

as well as on the nature of the place being visited. The visited space must

have a radical mythological signiﬁcance in order to have an impact upon

the traveler. This topic will be resumed in Chapter 5. Yet, it is important

to note that, in the Pune case, the resort is a speciﬁc yet quite powerful

instance that may actualize and amplify the potential for psychic deterri-

torialization in the context of a Romantic ‘spiritual quest’ in India.

In conclusion, despite its remarketing as a trendy meditation resort, the

organization still employed control mechanisms typically found in total

institutions (Carter 1990; Gordon 1987). The meditation resort paradox-

ically promoted and controlled idiosyncrasy. It incited individuals to

express their inner selves, sometimes resulting in the temporary derailment

of structured personalities (psychic deterritorialization). Yet, when these

episodes spun out of control of the therapeutic setting, the organization

imposed harsh discipline. With no room for ‘civilized’ dialogue (toward

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‘Osho International Meditation Resort’ 163

compromise and service improvement), the resolution involved admon-

ishing, pathologizing or expelling the recalcitrant, who could choose to

acquiesce or leave the resort.

Orientalism and therapeutic apartheid

When AIDS emerged in the early 1980s, Osho requested that all sannyasins

should be tested in the commune, which then was located in Oregon (US).

Although forms of transmission and protection have been identiﬁed, testing

has remained since then, and it is a condition for entering the resort or

any other Osho center around the world. More recently, a few inﬂuen-

tial sannyasins have suggested its discontinuation, but therapists remarked

that visitors feel more at ease in workshop settings when physical contact

with strangers is common. Moreover, AIDS emerged as a public issue in

India by the mid-2000s, and two HIV-positive cases were detected monthly

at the Welcome Center. Therefore, for the time being, the inner circle

maintained the procedure.

The idea of an ‘AIDS-free zone’ had contradictory effects. It symboli-

cally reinforced a space of liminality in which sannyasins felt detached

from the mundane world outside. Yet, HIV testing also fed rumors

about sexual promiscuity among sannyasins. It is true that many visitors

welcomed the possibility of sexual encounters; nonetheless, in relation to

its countercultural past, the community was considerably conservative in

terms of sexual conduct. As a result, lingering rumors and misrepresenta-

tions created some embarrassing situations, the analysis of which exposes

the nature and limits of countercultural ideologies and practices of self-

formation.

Indians comprised the largest national group of sannyasins at the OIMR

during the 2000s. However, they were largely absent from therapy work-

shops. It was commonplace in the resort that Indians are socialized in a

culture with very different conditionings. Sannyasin therapists claimed that

cathartic workshops did not work well with Indians and could even trau-

matize them. It was pointed out that they did not react like Westerners,

that they stood blasé during cathartic practices and even laughed at eroto-

genic ones. Osho himself reinforced the orientalist stereotype: ‘Westerners

have problems on how to relate, whereas Easterners have problems on

how to be silent – except Japanese or those who grew up in the West’

(Osho and Neiman 2000: 238).

Nonetheless, rather than accept these statements at face value, it is

necessary to examine the political and ideological foundations that sustain

such therapeutic apartheid. Orientalism refers to cultural ideas that not

only describe but also control subjects of other cultures (Said 1978). The

point, then, is to unpack the problematic nature of Western practices of

self-development in sites that are densely multicultural.

164 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

To wit, sannyasin therapists worried when Indian men applied to partici-

pate in workshops. At screening interviews, they required Indians to attend,

ﬁrst, other more basic workshops which emphasized spiritual and mental

attributes over physical ones. It is true that therapists eventually excluded

applicants regardless of nationality; however, Indian men were apparently

the only group that was proﬁled in terms of nationality and gender.

Furthermore, the policy of reduced prices for Indian residents was delim-

ited to three workshops (‘Meditative Therapy,’ ‘Vipassana’ and ‘Opening

to the Heart’), thus also obstructing the participation of most Indians, at

the economic level, from the outset.

Another factor underlying the therapeutic apartheid stemmed from recur-

rent complaints made by women, both Western and Indian, that Indian

men stalked them persistently. Many Indian men represented Western

women, particularly sannyasin ones, as being more sexually available

than their Indian counterparts. Therapists thus inspected their motivations

for wanting to join workshops centered on issues of the body, sensuality

and sexuality, such as Tantra and Reichian therapies. It was not that

Western men were disinterested in sex, but that the difference lay in which

courtship strategies were deemed appropriate and which were not. To wit,

some Indian men were fully integrated in the multinational populace of

the resort. Yet, they had to adapt to Western tastes and dispositions,

reframing these in hybrid ways. They displayed Hellenic-shaped bodies,

fashionable haircuts and clothing, embodied some Eurocentric dispositions

(more reserved, blasé, individualistic), and courted women in a manner

rendered acceptable (romantic, discreet, gradual, respectful, etc.). Under

these post-colonial conditions, their Indianness became an attractive asset.

Indian women rarely participated in therapy workshops, but were more

easily admitted once the therapist veriﬁed that they understood standard

procedures, such as touching, sensual movements, confrontation, emotional

sharing, etc. Daughters or wives of sannyasins, they were mainly from an

educated middle-class background (Basnet 2002) and did not seem as inter-

ested in therapy workshops as Indian men were. They tended to experience

the ‘ashram’ as a space of ‘freedom’ and ‘love’ in an apparently platonic

fashion. Elderly Indian women, for example, stood aloof to Osho’s counter-

cultural tirades and joyfully revered him as a holy saint. For younger

women, the OIMR provided a space where they could break away from

rigorous gender and familial expectations (Goldman 1999; Palmer 1994).

By isolating gender as a variable of analysis, it becomes clear that the

issue at stake is not sex, but rather subjectivity: the constitution of the self,

its desire and interiority. As mentioned above, sannyasins claim that Indians

also suffer repression; however, they also ascertain that sannyasin therapies

are ineffective to Indian nationals. It could be speculated that, as India mod-

ernizes, cathartic therapies will become efﬁcacious for the stressed city

dwellers of that nation. But the answer is not that simple. Personal dispo-

sitions are complex sedimentations of long-standing historical, religious and

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‘Osho International Meditation Resort’ 165

cultural processes of socialization and conditioning, which do not mechan-

ically adapt to rapid economic and technological changes. In any case, the

fact remained that, unlike Westerners in general, Indians rarely lashed out

against their parents or social institutions. Furthermore, they tended not to

interpret their stay at the resort by means of psycho-countercultural cate-

gories, such as ‘repression,’ ‘expression’ and ‘healing.’ For the time being,

rather than a human laboratory (as suggested at the start-up session),

Indians experienced the resort as a playful garden.

Charisma and rationalization: sex, counterculture

and tourism

Having images and tales of the 1970s as subliminal references, newcomers

often expected to ﬁnd a sort of ‘ﬂower power’ community amalgamated by

bonds of solidarity, eroticism and self-transcendence. Communal work, free

love, radical therapy and permissive spirituality were features of a politics

of self-liberation that sannyasins once fully embraced. However, at the turn

of the millennium, the OIMR was anything but a hippie community. The

death of Osho, the AIDS epidemic and the rise of global capitalism – along

with the submergence of countercultural movements – provide the general

backdrop against which the resort culture and organization are transformed.

Nonetheless, matters of relationship remained as the central concern for

sannyasins, against which they constantly measured their self-identity, reﬂex-

ively vacillating between mundane engagement and mystical detachment.

In other words, and resounding strikingly with Foucault’s philosophy of

the subject, ‘sexuality’ and ‘spirituality’ are the two main poles by which

sannyasins seek to reshape their self interiorities, identities and dispositions.

This ﬁnal ethnographic section reassesses those wider transformations, by

focusing on their entwinements at the level of subjectivity formation.

Sex before and after counterculture, AIDS and tourism

The press relations department regularly afﬁxed news articles on a mural

by the buffet restaurant, covering typical issues, such as the resort on-

going modernization, visiting celebrities, or artistic events promoted by

sannyasins in Pune. One of these articles claimed that the resort was

‘becoming more mainstream’ and that visitors were having ‘less sex,’

meaning, a decreasing number of sexual experiences, partners and even

involuntary abstinence. In a site once renowned for being erotically

charged, many younger sannyasins noted, with a certain regret, that mating

possibilities were not as abundant as they had initially supposed. The

differences can be inferred by means of videos, books and interviews. A

veteran Italian in her late forties spoke about the ‘commune’ when Osho

was still alive:

166 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

It was lovely. Everyone was so happy. Some people would stand by

the gates handing out ﬂowers to everyone that passed by. Everyone

knew and hugged everybody . . . And everybody was also having lots

of relationships, and sex of course!

This was a typical statement by veteran sannyasins. In their recollec-

tions, it is the ‘ﬂower power’ or ‘free love’ scenarios that prevail, in

consonance with videos and diaries from the 1970s and 1980s (Shunyo

1999; Maneesha 1987; Devaraj 1986). The past of the ‘commune’ is

represented as a time of intense joy, spirituality and effervescence. Seeking

to grow as human and spiritual beings, sannyasins gathered in a community

of affection established around a beloved master. In this context,

sensual pleasures were welcomed as a way of auto-discovery and personal

liberation (Palmer 1994). However, a few other sannyasins also noted

the coercive pressure that the movement exerted upon communards.

According to a German painter who has been to both Pune and Oregon

in the 1980s:

In those times, you were either in or out. You had no choice. People

would come to your room, wake you up at ﬁve because it was time

to work, or because we wanted to try a new therapy or do medita-

tion. Nowadays, you can stay here and do nothing. You can stay all

day in the swimming pool, and nobody will bother you. But in Oregon,

you had to participate and contribute, or you were out.

In this context, it is important to identify what corporeal and affective

engagements index mechanisms of subjectivity formation operating vis-à-

vis biopower/sexuality regimes. I then inquired about the role of sexual

and romantic relationships during that period. He did not seem uncom-

fortable with my question, but replied after some thoughtful consideration.

Again, he referred to the unique intersection of cultic, hedonist and reﬂexive

elements that constituted the collective experiment:

There was much more sex in those times; but often as abuse. We had

so much sex that many times you would have it even if you didn’t

feel like doing it. It was a sort of pressure of the whole group. And

also, you know, when you are young, all you want is girls and sex.

Look around. There are so many beautiful women in the ashram.

But, then, after having all ‘that,’ in excess, you begin to discover other

things in life ‘Ah! There is spirituality too, cool!’ . . . So, it is all more

mainstream now . . . But you can still ﬁnd some spots of nice alter-

native people here and there, within the masses.

His claims about erotic fulﬁllment reproduce Osho’s argument that

authentic spirituality is unlikely by repressing one’s mundane appetites.

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‘Osho International Meditation Resort’ 167

Yet, without recourse to the binomial ‘counterculture-mainstream,’ Indians

also detected the modernization in place. I asked an astrologer from

Mumbai, who has been attending the resort since 1988, to identify the main

differences across time. His answer seemed dismissive of the current stage:

It is less spiritual now, and everything is more pleasant. In those times,

everybody was against the ashram, not only internationally but Pune

people as well. They did rallies outside, protesting against the ashram

because couples were holding hands in the street and that was offen-

sive. Internationally, you would not get a visa if you said that you

were coming to Pune. Only brave people came here. But, nowadays,

everything is easy.

In order to further explore his argument, I questioned by noting an

apparent paradox: if the resort is more pleasant now, then how come

sannyasins were happier back then (under Osho). He scratched his chin,

and explained:

Yes, there were lots of parties, celebration and relationships – there

was much more of all that. But it was also more spiritual. Everything

was more spiritual, including sex. Osho was alive, and he had powerful

energies. But his energies are gone. This place is empty. Now every-

thing is ﬂat, and people are just pretending. They are having artiﬁcial

experiences of enlightenment.

Sannyasins recurrently refer to ‘energy’ when talking about the cul-

tural atmosphere of the resort, either toward excitement or routinization.

The notion conveys how they intuitively measure and compare the live-

liness of the environment. In general, veteran sannyasins claimed that the

organization was ‘cooling,’ as a consequence of its growing professional-

ization along with more impersonal interactions. Others regretted that

Osho’s pictures have been discreetly removed from main public spaces.

In sum, the more the resort gentriﬁes, the more its ‘energies’ fade.

Translocal connections: Ibiza and Goa

The notion of ‘energy’ was also employed in relation to the nationalities

present at the resort. In general, Indians and Americans (both North and

Latin) were seen as having ‘more energy,’ due to their alleged effusiveness,

optimism and sensuality, respectively ascribed. Conversely, Western Euro-

peans displayed a ‘cooler energy,’ for their dispositions were supposedly

blasé and self-contained. Germans, in particular, were deemed respon-

sible for keeping the organization ‘in line,’ both in its positive and nega-

tive connotations. An American therapist commented, ‘Germans occupy

168 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

key-positions in the ashram. They are very focused on what they do, and

once they get into the system, they just climb it very quickly.’ In their turn,

Israelis were simultaneously seen as lively and troublesome, notably younger

travelers recently dismissed from the military. A signiﬁcant proportion of

sannyasin therapists are from a Jewish background, yet, in this therapy

culture, Judaism is often seen as one of the hardest conditionings to break

through, since it amalgamates religious, national and ethnic bonds. Young

Israelis made ambivalent statements about their relation to a collective

identity (either Jewish or Israeli), attempting to conciliate it with more indi-

vidualistic drives. Finally, Eastern Asians suffered the positive stereotype of

bringing a ‘harmonious energy’ to the resort, although more privately they

could state that such serenity is a façade concealing inner chaos.

Sannyasins thus displayed an ambivalent attitude toward nationality, at

times denying it, at others embodying it. In more personal interactions,

stereotypes both positive and negative abounded: ‘She is a tough German

therapist,’ ‘I am becoming less Latino,’ ‘Russians are weird,’ ‘Israelis are

troglodytes,’ to name a few. Perhaps the most frequently heard ques-

tion in the resort is, ‘Where are you/they from?,’ as if the myth of origin,

which sannyasins so hardly criticized, were at the end accepted as deter-

minative of who the subject is – including fully socialized veterans. It was

as though, despite all the rhetoric about de-conditioning and cosmopoli-

tanism, such stereotypes became self-fulﬁlling prophecies. To wit, even

therapists adopted nationality as a criterion for assessing workshop parti-

cipants and candidates, not to mention the therapeutic apartheid tacitly

imposed on Indian men. All of these examples indicate that categorizations

in ethnic-national lines correlate with subliminal mechanisms of group

inclusion and exclusion.

These multiple interactions when extended over space and time con-

stituted social networks whose nature, duration and extension varied

enormously. While some can be traced back to the 1970s, others faded

as soon as travelers returned home. Likewise, some networks were

restricted to Indian regions populated by countercultural travelers, notably

across the ‘alternative triangle of India’ which comprises Goa, Pune and

Manali. A variety of other smaller networks of friends and/or therapists

extended internationally. Below are summarized some of the main social

webs interrelating sannyasins across Pune at the local, regional and trans-

national levels.

Many Indians attended the resort not only attracted by Osho’s trans-

gressive philosophy, but also by their interests in Western culture, par-

ticularly in terms of economic and erotic possibilities. Those who lived in

town developed proﬁtable businesses delivering a range of ancillary ser-

vices for foreigners: accommodation, transportation, internet, trading,

sightseeing, etc. Through the years, some of them counted various experi-

ences with foreign women, and a few even got married. Dhyan, a bike

mechanic and native of Pune, has been attending the ashram for over ten

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‘Osho International Meditation Resort’ 169

years. Many of his ‘best clients’ were foreign sannyasins. ‘I learned a lot

with them, especially with the Germans because they are very demanding

and professional on everything.’ He married a German sannyasin. Though

sannyasins scorned marriage as a social institution, they could formalize a

union for some legal advantage, such as residential visas. More generally,

it was relatively very common to see couples of sannyasins from different

national and ethnic backgrounds, even though Indian women were rarely

seen with foreign men.

Taking on the biographies of therapists outlined above, this group of

sannyasins also engendered their own informal networks of personal and

professional interest. In the past, they had followed Osho and assumed

Pune as their main residence. Yet, after his death, they became more mobile

and dispersed globally (Goldman 1999). Though usually based in one

country (their native or a partner’s), they often deliver therapy workshops

within a cluster of nations, and more prestigious professionals even engage

in annual global tours. In their case, international work is a necessity since

local markets, even in mega cities, are seldom large enough. In this connec-

tion, better transportation and communication technologies has enor-

mously facilitated their displacement, while practices of self-development

have entered the mainstream under variegated labels, formats and pur-

poses, enabling these therapists to make a living. In tandem, Osho centers

have multiplied around the world, becoming nodes of support and diffusion

of Osho’s work at a grassroots level.

Standing about 500 km apart, Pune and Goa are interlinked by ongoing

ﬂows of sannyasins, trance freaks, backpackers and tourists, traveling on

buses, vans, trains, airplanes and superbikes. A large segment of these

travelers are young Israelis, estimated at about 20,000 per year (Jerusalem

Post 2004). In Goa, well-off sannyasins stay in the gentriﬁed area of

Calangute beach, whereas younger backpackers and New Agers head

toward the more prosaic beaches of Arambol and Palolem. In the mean-

while, trance freaks and rebellious sannyasins gather in northern Goa,

around Anjuna beach. As Chapter 5 will examine, Goa is a tourist coastal

state that also hosts, at its margins, the main nodal formation of techno-

trance music in the world.

At a transnational level, Ibiza and Pune are interconnected in a unique

manner. Not only did I meet a signiﬁcant number of sannyasins in Ibiza,

but I also came across Ibiza expatriates in both Pune and Goa. The ﬁrst

of these encounters occurred beside the Buddha Hall, with Dan, a French

hippie trader of exotic clothes at Las Dálias. I also came across Git Prem,

a German sannyasin therapist who was moving to Taiwan to assist in the

construction of a new Osho center. I also met Victor (Bar M worker)

walking on the streets of Koregaon Park. He had just taken Sannyas, but

seemed to be more interested in travel and romance. By the resort’s cappuc-

cino bar, a Brazilian sannyasin overheard me and claimed to be a friend

of Nadi, the Biodance instructor in Ibiza. And, by the resort gates, I came

170 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

across Cristina, the Ibicencan teenager who practiced Biodance. In a ‘trance

party’ in Pune, a young Indian man noticed my t-shirt with the logo of

a famous nightclub in Ibiza (Space), and claimed that he had lived on the

island. Despite being drunk, he provided very precise information about

persons and locations. In Goa, a longhaired hippie saw me wearing the

same t-shirt, and claimed to ‘love Sundays at Space,’ a pun on the infam-

ous party. He was a Spanish hippie trader in Las Dálias, whom I would

later spot at trance parties in Ibiza. Also in Goa, I came across the sannyasin

Alok (Namaste party promoter) and again with Victor, all by chance.

Moreover, as I parked my bike in Anjuna beach (northern Goa), I struck

up a conversation with two young Spanish men, who claimed to live in

Ibiza. Months later, I indeed came across one of them by the dance veranda

of Space. This list does not include many expatriates and clubbers whom

I met in Ibiza who claimed to have lived in Goa, nor the many British

backpackers in India who claimed to have lived in Sant Antoni (Ibiza).

Finally, back to the Mediterranean island, Barbara introduced me to her

new room-mate, a Spanish hairdresser she met in Pune. Barbara added

that, in Pune, she came across Lourdes (Jardin de Luz owner) and other

acquaintances from San Jordi ﬂea market, all of them at the Osho resort.

She exclaimed, ‘Incredible. All Ibiza was in Pune!’

Considering the remoteness and smallness of Ibiza and Pune, it is striking

that both places have been sharing the same subjects coalescing into a

single globalized countercultural diaspora. It is also important to note

such transnational ﬂows in their historical and cultural contexts. Expressive

expatriates have been ﬂeeing to Ibiza in various waves since the 1930s.

There they experience the island as a utopian paradise and node of an

international circuit of Romantic traveling. While in India, many of these

Ibiza-based expatriates have become sannyasins, following Osho to Oregon

and then back to Pune. As sociologist Danielle Rozenberg states, Ibiza is

an ‘island of sannyasins’ (Rozenberg 1990: 82).

During the 1980s, while participating in Ibiza’s nightlife, they have

imported various New Age techniques from the US, including the use of

MDMA for therapeutic, meditational and recreational uses. In their inter-

actions with British and German clubbers on the island, sannyasins have

inadvertently contributed to the emergence of the rave movement, a culture

centered on electronic dance music and digital art. Techno then rapidly

ﬂowed into the mainstream explosion of rave parties and corporate night-

clubs in Western Europe, thus delineating one countercultural genealogy

that runs from Pune, to Oregon, to Ibiza, to London, and to cosmopolitan

segments of the global youth.

Conclusions: enlightenment guaranteed

The Osho ashram–commune–resort has suffered various transformations

since its inception in the early 1970s. Nonetheless, after the death of Osho

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‘Osho International Meditation Resort’ 171

in 1990, it took a very speciﬁc direction toward gentriﬁed modernization,

and a new demographic proﬁle is noticed: a smaller number of visitors,

mostly wealthier mainstream urbanites, who have largely replaced veteran

sannyasins of a countercultural bent as they also age. This process hinges

on a classic question: ‘What happens to a charismatic community when

its spiritual leader disappears?’ The scholarship on sects and cults has

noted that a general decline in membership and legitimacy is likely to

follow; however, the OIMR has survived Osho, despite the fading of its

former rebellious effervescence. As Max Weber aptly suggests, although

explosions of charisma remain possible, routine and tradition are likely

to prevail as primary organizational forces. In fact, this has been the ‘price

to pay,’ as some sannyasins say, in order to keep the work of Osho going.

But the resort director, an English physician, reinterprets the past within

an evolutionist purview:

Those times are gone. We need to see the commune as an evolving

place. It is like a school. Back then we were in the kindergarten; now

we are in high-school; and we hope someday we will move on to a

more advanced stage.

Without Osho’s charisma to hold things together against internal and

external challenges, the resort had to adapt quickly to the legal and cultural

structures of Pune, India and the West. Any practice that could be seen

as offensive to conventional tastes was ostensively banned (such as nudity,

sexual promiscuity, drugs, rave parties, etc.). More widely, though inter-

national travel and communication have dramatically improved, neo-liberal

capitalism has imposed a new order of difﬁculties. With the decline of

labor, wages and state protection, it is not as easy for Western sannyasins

to stay in India for extended periods, as enjoyed by former generations.

In the meanwhile, the rise of a new Indian middle class has propelled the

growth of the proportion of these nationals at the OIMR. Yet, they bring

a different set of expectations, preferences and dilemmas that will have

to be addressed adequately by resort therapists and managers. The loos-

ening of the therapeutic apartheid is likely to be noticed in the near future.

This chapter has thus examined main trends, practices and represen-

tations by which sannyasins seek to problematize and transform the

modern self. As noted in therapy settings, daily interactions and reading

materials, the topic of relationship is their main source of concern and

anxiety, about which they unsuccessfully seek to be disentangled from

and about which Osho was required to address ad nauseam. In their view,

social order obstructs personal actualization by means of institutional

repression, primarily carried out through the family. Against that,

sannyasin therapies seek to displace power-knowledge forms which have

been internalized as ‘conditionings.’ The therapist then employs devices

of symbolic manipulation (claims), visceral provocation (catharsis) and

172 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

semiotic reinterpretation (sharing) in order to entail the desired transfor-

mation of the self. By combining therapy and meditation, sannyasins claim

that it is possible to neutralize such power-knowledge forms, thus recon-

ﬁguring the self, at least to a certain extent.

Nonetheless, in addition to identifying how sannyasin practices resonate

with the expressive and spiritual needs and dispositions of Ibiza expatri-

ates, this study has exposed some of the cultural limits of these practices

of self-formation, by noting two conundrums that invisibly haunt the

resort. While claiming that power is repressive, the overemphasis on topics

of repression, expression and confession misses the point that power also

produces certain experiences and understandings about the self (Foucault

1976). In this regard, catharsis is not only a ‘release’ of ‘repressed’ mater-

ials, but also a productive device, skillfully employed by the therapist, for

restructuring self-identities, according to speciﬁc goals.

The absence of Indians from cathartic therapies suggests that categories

of ‘repression/expression’ are speciﬁc to Western modes of subjectivity,

if not the very nodal cause of the existential dilemma that they seek to

overcome. The Western self is a product of a singular religious, political

and scientiﬁc conﬁguration, which historically crystallized in notions that

determine the nature of the modern subject: ‘guilt,’ ‘interiority,’ ‘repres-

sion,’ ‘confession’ and ‘self-mastery,’ all of which have coalesced to forge

the Western self as a hyper-individualized entity, under the authoritarian

orientation of Judeo-Christian monotheism (Weber 1992 [1905]). Quite

differently, the Indian self has been shaped under the polytheistic and

ritualized orientations of a colorful and hierarchic civilization (Dumont

1980), thus differently responding to unsuitable practices and categories

imposed by Westerners. In other words, as different selves are constituted

within different sets of institutions and ideologies, the efﬁcacy of a therapy,

healing system or self-technique depends on its ability to address deeper

categories of subjectivity formation that are sustained or problematized

in a given society.

As a step further, after ‘repression’ has been exorcized through therapy

and meditation, the subject is then seen in a reﬂexive space of relative free-

dom in which she is forced to construct herself responsibly (Giddens 1992,

Foucault 1984f). In other words, after repression is ‘lifted,’ the subject is

confronted with the ethical question of how to live properly (Foucault

1984c). In social terms, with the decline of morality in high modern civil-

ization, one response has been the development of an aesthetics of the self,

by which the subject seeks to balance divergent life-values (religion, econ-

omy, politics, science, war, eroticism, etc.), while continually reassessing the

risks and consequences of her acts and thoughts upon herself, others and

future generations (Lash 1994; Taylor 1991; Foucault 1984c).

However, although relatively freer to cultivate their ‘inner Buddhahood,’

sannyasins, expressive expatriates and New Agers – modern Westerners

in general – will remain entrapped in the institutional-ideological regime

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‘Osho International Meditation Resort’ 173

that they seek to transcend insofar as they overemphasize the ideas of

‘repression,’ ‘expression’ and ‘self’ indeﬁnitely. Like the German ﬁlm

described on p. 132, what more and more sannyasins want is ‘enlight-

enment guaranteed.’ Others, however, will dissent from the resort’s

rampant post-charismatic commercialization, and carry on with experi-

ments of subjectivity (de)formation in Goa – the topic of Chapter 5.

Whereas sannyasins dangerously celebrate solipsistic individualism, a post-

modern self requires a kind of reﬂexive sensibility that considers the self

in relation to a substantive care with the other, polis and ecology (Hadot

and Davidson 1995).

174 ‘Osho International Meditation Resort’

5 Techno trance tribalism

in Goa

The elementary forms of

nomadic spirituality

‘This noisy barbarous amusement we do condemn and prohibit.’

Catholic Diocesan Decree against

Hindu festivals in Goa, 1777

Introduction: the psychedelic contact zone

In Romantic imaginaries, the journey to the East is a mythic ritual in which

the traveler transforms herself in the process of discovering the Other, more

fundamentally expressing the wish to overcome the spiritual malaises of

modern civilization. The further and the longer a trip is, the more charisma

it grants to the traveler. Along with the status to be enjoyed back at home,

the traveler invigorates herself, even at the price of an existential exile,

since such a prolonged absence fosters utter individuation. In other words,

rather than a mere spatial displacement for entertainment, traveling is

framed as a veritable practice of self-formation.

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Figure 5.1 ‘Three renouncers’ – a Techno trance DJ and two Hindu sadhus.

In the late 1960s, a handful of beatniks and hippies meandering across

Central Asia entered India and almost incidentally reached Goa, a former

Portuguese enclave on the west coast of India. By the Arabian Sea, they

gathered on the secluded beaches of Anjuna and Vagator villages.

Precarious roads led to the place, linking the state capital Panaji to Mapusa

(a town in the northern district), and then to Anjuna. As more Westerners

traveled through Southern Asia on ‘magic buses,’ the New Year’s Eve in

Goa worked as the meeting-point for the countercultural diaspora (Sharma

2004; Odzer 1995). Ironically, while ﬂeeing the West, they have beneﬁted

from Goans’ Christian–Portuguese legacy, somehow imaged as accepting of

their individualist dispositions (Axelrod and Fuerch 1998).

After a dormant 1980s, the ‘Goa scene’ re-emerged in the early 1990s

when post-hippie, post-punk ‘freaks’ developed a potent variation of elec-

tronic dance music, blasting overnight in ‘full-moon parties.’ The music

genre was named ‘Goa trance’ – also known as ‘Techno trance’ or ‘psy

trance’, due to its allegedly mind-altering effects, particularly when com-

bined with the intake of psychedelic drugs. Since then, a few thousand

Westerners have gathered in northern Goa each year, to attend the ‘party

season,’ a series of spontaneous, usually illegal dance events known as

‘trance parties.’

Conventional patterns of leisure behavior, such as collective effusive-

ness and laxity, are not seen in trance parties – quite the contrary. The

prevalent mood among trance freaks tends to be introspective and almost

ceremonial, as if indexing something of a sacred nature (St John 2004).

Veteran trance DJ Goa Gil once declared: ‘A Goa party is not a disco

under a coconut tree: it is spiritual initiation’ (Goa Gil n.a.). As it will

be examined, Techno trance combines leisure and religiosity in a ritual

assemblage that recodes the modern self in its cognitive, affective and

identity modes. In addition to the bellicose stance as a response to neo-

liberal pressures, the seriousness of freaks at trance parties dramatizes

the dangerous effects of psychedelic experience upon the self, therefore

justifying the sacred sphere of protectiveness.

Trance music historically derives from a wider cultural movement of

electronic dance music that emerged in the late 1980s, at the conﬂuence

of new digital technologies, globalized exchanges and neo-liberal exploita-

tion. The resulting nebula of digitalized genres and party scenes – which

I refer under the umbrella term ‘Techno’ – is ritually sustained by varie-

gated forms of ‘rave,’ a multimedia dance event of an effervescent nature

that reshapes self-identities in consonance with destabilizing effects of

globalization upon tradition, identities and subjectivities (St John 2004;

Collin 1997; Jameson 1991). Scholarship has discussed the political, reli-

gious and erotic implications of Techno, whose intrinsically polysemous

and hybrid nature precludes any simple generalizations (St John 2003;

Borneman and Senders 2000; Ingham et al. 1999; McKay 1996). Easily

mistaken as a recreational practice, rave works as a ‘super-sensory

176 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

experience which, in concatenation of meaning, offers insights on the possi-

bility of postmodern religion and/or alternative spirituality’ (St John 2004:

40; see also Reynolds 1998: 5). While disseminating in a multiplicity of

subcultural and commercial forms, Techno has historically emerged from

the counter-hegemonic matrixes of gays, clubbers and hippies, simultan-

eously resisting and embodying the predatory effects of neo-liberal

capitalism (Reynolds 1998; McKay 1996). In its more politically conscious

variants, Techno constitutes the ﬁrst counterculture that intersects with

the digitalized, hypermobile and reﬂexive features of globalization.

By the turn of the millennium, while Goa persisted as the global mecca

of Techno trance, ‘Goa parties’ have proliferated throughout the world:

notably, in Western Europe, Israel, Russia, Japan, the US and Brazil.

Nonetheless, the genre has never directly surfaced on the pop media, even

though some of its musical elements have been cannibalized into docile

forms of dance music, as well as into advertising and post-modernist

action movies. As such, Techno trance has largely remained circumscribed

within countercultural segments of clubbers, freaks and ravers. Lest its

potentially transgressive meaning may get lost, they oppose any attempt

at commercializing this music, and also dislike the presence of outsiders

– particularly tourists – at trance parties.

As an important caveat, freaks are not tourists. Whereas the latter

consume travel and exotic places for short periods and within tightly

structured labor/leisure lifecycles, alternative subjects assume remote places

as ‘homes’ for extended periods and within an ethos that seeks to inte-

grate mobility and spirituality into ﬂexible labor/leisure strategies. More-

over, while scorning the ‘commodiﬁcation of experience’ veriﬁed in the

dispositions of conventional tourists (MacCanell 1989), freaks present a

pragmatic engagement with native cultures, and more closely emulate the

skeptical, romantic and elitist gaze of the ‘post-tourist’ (Urry 2002). For

all their material and cultural particularities, it is wrong to conﬂate them

with tourists. In Deleuzian terms, tourists belong to the striatic space of

dwellers, while freaks live by the lines of ﬂight of nomads.

However, the growth of tourism has challenged the viability of the trance

scene in northern Goa. While trading exotic commodities in ‘hippie

markets’ (for tourists) and bazaars, global nomads have to cope with the

unintended consequences of rapid modernization. Along with the rest of

Goa, the villages of Anjuna and Vagator upgrade hostels and restaurants

in order to attend to a growing number of visitors. Price inﬂation, littering,

state surveillance and impersonal relations seem to undermine the material

and symbolic conditions that enable the experimental edge of the trance

scene. Thus, whereas Indian businessmen run nightclubs and ‘hippie parties’

for masses of Indian and European tourists, Techno freaks must search for

more secluded locations deemed suitable for their psychedelic rituals. At

the onset of the twenty-ﬁrst century, it was evident that the praised, bucolic

aura of Goa was fading against the ongoing modernization of the region.

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 177

By investigating the social organization and rituals of the Goa trance

scene, I seek to understand the identity and subjectivity formation of

Techno freaks as well as of the world of expressive expatriation overall.

Trance parties dramatize the impact of globalization upon expatriate

subjectivities, which shatter and reshape self-identities through practices

of hypermobility, marginality and metamorphosis (Chapter 1). In other

words, the Techno trance scene exposes the elementary forms of a ‘nomadic

spirituality’ which propels and sustains this world, as an instance of the

postidentitarian predicament of globalization. Furthermore, such analysis

must consider the trance scene as a social formation that engages with

local and translocal forces, conﬁguring a ‘contact zone.’

The global coun-

terculture has to negotiate its conditions of territorialization with agents,

forces and institutions located in semi-peripheral locations.

In this chapter, I ﬁrst introduce the Goa trance scene in relation to its

connections to Pune, as it claims to oppose the spiritual tourism embodied

in the commodiﬁcation of the Osho resort; and also in relation to contexts

of Goan economy and society which nest the global trance scene locally.

Second, the chapter analyzes the social organization of the ‘party scene’

in northern Goa, with a focus on the economic conditions of event produc-

tion and promotion. In addition, I identify the basic criteria of belonging

in a code that delimits various degrees of proximity to the scene. Third,

the chapter discusses the cultural dimension of Techno trance by means

of an analysis of ritual and symbolism. I identify a Durkheimian-like

binary temporality that sustains the trance scene in tribal fashion, along

with Deleuzian notions that circumvent the excess that marks the experi-

ence of ‘raving’ in order to address it, even if indirectly so, at the level

of subjective and collective interiorities. Finally, toward a more general

discussion, the chapter considers the impact of traveling upon the self, as

my ﬁeldwork confronts incipient studies on the psychiatry of travel (Hays

2001; Airault 2000; Wrigley and Revill 2000; Hacking 1998; Quirot 1993;

Verdoux et al. 1993). While positively engaging with this scholarship, I

also expose the power-knowledge implications of consular psychiatry

which, at the intersection of state and science, reproduces the normative

criteria of modern subjectivity in a global age of high volatility.

More widely, I propose that expressive expatriates constitute a cultural

site of experiences and meanings that anticipate some of the predicaments

of cultural globalization. As instances of neo-nomadism, they have been

experimenting with rootlessness, mobility and cosmopolitanism long before

these tropes became celebrated by academia and the press as cultural

conditions of contemporary life. As such, I suggest that behavioral patterns,

social tropes and cultural effects presently identiﬁed among these global

nomads will be more socially diffused in the wake of cultural globaliza-

tion, even if in milder, less visible forms.

178 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

The Pune-Goa connection: rebel sannyasins

Still in Pune, an Indian sannyasin told me about a ‘trance party’ to take

place in the city outskirts. As usual, the event was announced through

restricted word-of-mouth. It was located on the foothill of a plush veranda

restaurant overseeing a greenish river coiling through misty pitfalls (see

Figure 5.2). Along with psychedelic music and kaleidoscopic decoration,

the picture acquired surreal overtones. The DJ table stood between two

loudspeaker sets facing the dance ﬂoor, framed by ﬂuorescent drapes which

reﬂected UV lights with a phantasmagoric glow. The crowd comprised a

mix of sannyasins, Techno freaks, backpackers and young Indian men.

I spotted the main organizer, Parva (his sannyasin name). Apparently

in his mid-thirties, he was self-fashioned as a rough biker, unshaven and

wearing a leather vest and silver earring. Originally from England, Parva

had been living in India since 1990, spending winters in Goa and summers

in Pune. He made his living as a bike mechanic and paraglide instructor.

Foreign tourists would pay him Rs. 1,200 for a thirty-minute paraglide

jump (or US$25, the monthly salary of many Indian workers).

He has been attending Techno parties since they began in the early

1990s.

He promoted two parties, ‘accidentally’, as he says. ‘People just

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 179

Figure 5.2 End of a trance party in Pune, winter 2000.

asked me where my party was, while I had nothing in sight, really.’ As

joint-ventures between expatriates and natives, these secret events were

usually illegal, due to their highly improvisational and ephemeral nature.

Nonetheless, people from the upper strata were regularly seen attending,

as Parva’s comment illustrates: ‘The daughter of this businessman came

in a Rolls-Royce with golden radiator, can you believe it?!’

As an Osho sannyasin, Parva scorned the direction of the ‘meditation

resort’ in Pune. After the death of Osho, the new direction assumed a model

of institutional adaptation and gentriﬁcation that upset a segment of san-

nyasins that cultivated a more countercultural orientation. Divergences

escalated to a point when in 1994 the resort direction called police to arrest

sannyasins under charges of drug consumption (Indian Express 2004).

Reﬂecting the critique of many, Parva’s comments about the resort were

acidic:

They say that we drain their energies with our trance parties. But we

are much more sannyasins than they are! I have more sannyas on the

tip of my ﬁnger than all of them together. I am an Osho sannyasin,

they are just ‘ashram sannyasins.’

He was, in fact, just one in a diaspora of sannyasins who departed

from the OIMR to various degrees. Living across Pune and Goa, they

frequented hangout bars, but rarely went to the resort, while looking

down on ‘ashram sannyasins.’ The resort direction repudiated those who

demonstrated any interest in psychedelic parties, shamanic experiments or

bohemian activity. In their turn, rebel sannyasins repudiated the organ-

ization for its upmarketing orientation (as outlined in Chapter 4). They

imagined Osho as an open-minded leader who welcomed novel experi-

ments – such as Techno parties – and tolerated deviant behavior even

when he disagreed with it.

While ashramites admonished any cheerful references to Goa (I was

once jocosely reprimanded not to wear my Goa soccer jersey inside the

resort), both Techno freaks and sannyasins developed a symbiotic rela-

tion in interconnecting Pune and Goa. At any moment there was a ﬂow

of Westerners traveling by bus, train, taxi, motorcycles and airplane

between both places. My ﬁrst trip to Goa coincided with the arrival of

Rick

in Pune. An American engineer with Indian parents, I ﬁrst met him

in the Chicago club scene a few years before. He came to attend a family

wedding in Mumbai, but said he was more interested in knowing the Goa

trance scene. He was a fan of rave music – ‘despite being from the main-

stream,’ as he often repeated in ambivalent regret. We met in Pune and

took the overnight bus, on which we interacted with two other American

backpackers who evinced a clear discomfort with local climate and hygiene

conditions.

180 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

Goa, tourism and ‘hippies’

Goa is a unique state of India. Located on the western coast, about

600 km south of Mumbai, it is India’s smallest state with a coastline of

105 km, stretching 55 km inland, totaling an area of 5,702 sq km. Formerly

a Portuguese colony, since its annexation by India in 1961 Goa has been

suffering intense modernization. With a 1.34 million population, the state

has the highest national per-capita income, and also ranks very high in

measures for infrastructure, urbanization, health, literacy and civil rights

(The Economist 2004; Goa Directorate of Planning Statistics and

Evaluation 2000).

Geographically, Goa is made up of low river basins along 80 km of

palm-fringed beaches. Plateaus of 30 to 100 m high extend into the hilly

area by the eastern border. Average temperatures range from 24°C to

32°C, typical of tropical monsoon climate. A dry warm season lasts from

November to March, and the hot months of April and May are followed

by a cooling yet highly humid rainy season which lasts from June to

October. With rich vegetation and fauna, the Goan landscape is popu-

lated with coconut trees, palms and banyans, as well as monkeys, reptiles

and various bird species. In urban peripheries, a considerable number of

stray dogs can be noticed.

Tourism is one of Goa’s main industries in terms of revenues, labor

employment and ampliﬁer effect (to be discussed below). In addition, the

state also counts on agriculture (rice, coconut, cashew nut and sugarcane),

ﬁshing, mining (iron ore and bauxite exported to Japan, China and

Germany), some manufacture (chemicals and consumer products), and a

considerable level of external remittances from émigrés working in Persian

Gulf countries. Throughout the 1990s, the rise of a new middle class has

increased levels of consumption, though state-led industrialization has been

hampered by its limited infrastructure. In the meanwhile, a growing

number of international charter ﬂights has sparked debates over a project

for a new airport in the state (Financial Express 2003).

Demographically, Goa features a 1.34 million population (about 40

percent non-Goan), enjoying above-average rates for life quality in the

Indian context (The Economist 2004; Goa Directorate of Planning Statistics

and Evaluation 2000, 2002). Despite fashioning itself as a distinctively

Christian-inﬂuenced Indian state, only 27 percent of the population pro-

fesses the religion (mostly Catholics). The remainder is 68 percent Hindu

and 5% Muslim. The Hindu majority predominates in the larger hinter-

land (known as the ‘New Conquest’), whereas the Christian minority pre-

vails in the main urban centers of the coastal area known as ‘Old Conquest.’

The Christian minority is overrepresented in bureaucracy, press and

university, as well as in its inﬂuential transnational diaspora (to wit, the

ﬁrst ‘non-resident Indian’ passport was granted to a foreigner of Goan

ancestry).

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 181

Politico-administratively, Goa state comprises two districts subdivided

into eleven sub-districts (talukas). In addition to the capital Panaji, the

state population is highly dispersed over 44 towns (Margao, Vasco and

Mapusa as the main urban centers) and about 360 villages. These commun-

ities elect a number of local counselors who designate 40 members who

will constitute the Legislative Assembly, which, in turn, appoints the Chief

Minister of the state. Employing about 49,000 civil servants, the state

bureaucracy is an inﬂuential actor. Party politics tends to reﬂect wider

national arrangements, with the secular Congress Party setting the tone

of political negotiations locally, with dissidents congregating at the Hindu

nationalist BJP or the regionalist MGP (deSouza 2000). After independ-

ence in 1961, Goa became Union Territory under direct control from New

Delhi. However, amid popular unrest and nationalist maneuvers, Goa was

declared a State in 1987. Konkani is the national language, functioning

as a crucial marker of Goan identity, though in the past dismissed by

some as a ‘dialect of Marathi.’ English nonetheless predominates in the

press, business, university and tourism.

It is not for nothing that Goa is often referred to as ‘the Ibiza of Asia’

and ‘the Cannes of Asia.’ In the mid 2000s, the state was deﬁned as one

of the world’s top ﬁve ‘hotspots’ of tourism, according to European tour

operators. In addition, Goa became the permanent site for the International

Film Festival of India, until then an annual itinerant event, thus promising

to attract even more vacationing politicians and Bollywood celebrities.

Tourism is the leading industry and largest employer of Goa, gener-

ating annual revenues in the order of Rs. 15 billion (US$320 million, or

8.8 percent of total tourism revenues of India) (Navhind Times 2004;

Times of India 2004d). With over 2 million tourists visiting Goa each

year during the early 2000s, about 320,000 were foreigners, mostly from

UK, Russia, Germany, Scandinavia, Gulf States and Southeast Asia. Due

to climatic conditions, the tourist season overlaps with the trance party

scene, during the warm dry period from November to April, before the

monsoon season.

Goans skillfully explore a distinct image, simultaneously Indian and

Western. In addition to a visible Portuguese legacy, Goa self-fashions itself

by comparison with the Mediterranean. In their interactions with tourists,

Goans emphasize their Portuguese–Christian heritage, noted in colonial

architecture, religion, gastronomy, carnival, vintage clothing (over sari),

civil law (praised by Neru as the most advanced of India), as well as in

people’s ﬁrst and family names. Perhaps as a consequence, since colonial

times, Western visitors have been reporting that the Goan ethos is quite

familiar to them.

The prolonged presence of ‘hippies’ and ‘rave parties’ (terms commonly

used in the local press) have reinforced a belief that Goa is a liberal place,

as Indian visitors repeat. This is a topic of heated debate among Goans.

While state authorities prioritize investments in upscale resorts (Times of

182 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

India 2004c), a strident anti-tourism lobby, summoning elements from

the Church, urban NGOs and the press, has defended a rather conserv-

ative approach to the sector. Both state and lobby publicly blame ‘hippies’

for the problems of prostitution, pederasty and school absenteeism that

affect Goa (Afonso 1989). However, several studies provide a different

picture, agreeing with my own observations in the ﬁeld. Due to their isola-

tion and resource concentration, high-end resorts have proven to be socially

conﬂictive and environmentally detrimental. On the other hand, low-budget

tourism provides a more direct and deconcentrated injection of income

into local communities that would otherwise be excluded from the

economy (Stabler 1997; Wilson 1997a, 1997b; Hausler 1995). Northern

villagers are aware of the risks involved with tourism of a leisure type.

But rather than resenting hippies, northern villagers cultivated organic,

often amicable relations with them. These foreigners may have inadver-

tently triggered a type of modernization which fostered (or made visible)

social problems. However, despite high levels of drug consumption, freaks

were never involved in crimes against Goans. In fact, northern villagers

worried about the political decisions seasonally made at the capital, Panaji,

curbing, according to varying circumstances, the seasonal party scene,

which is the main income source in many northern villages.

A mosaic of diverse peoples interacted closely in that region: villagers,

trance freaks, backpackers, Israeli ex-soldiers, Japanese hippies, Osho

sannyasins, Nepalese workers, Goa businessmen, beach vendors from

Karnataka, Kashmiri traders, European charter tourists, drug dealers,

junkies, sadhus, etc. Though populated by petty criminals and many other

marginal types, the socio-economic order in northern Goa was rather

determined by shady deals struck among businessmen, bureaucrats and

politicians. Local communities then secondarily enjoyed the relatively stable

and proﬁtable environment. As freaks pointed out, even though the ‘scene’

is potentially dangerous (due to drugs, strangers, corruption and lawless-

ness), the situation in the region was exceptionally peaceful. This picture

evokes the notion of ‘contact zone,’ deﬁned as a space of exchanges and

inequalities comprising a highly heteroclite mix of peoples that interact

in a precarious equilibrium. In fact, economic inequality, labor exploitation

and cultural stereotypes marked the interactions among Goans, Westerners

and immigrants, almost always favoring local businessmen with the

connivance of state authorities.

I focus, nonetheless, on those interactions whose analysis can reveal

why and how India operates as a charismatic magnet for Western subjects

of the counterculture. Low cost of living is an indispensable condition, as

many point out at a ﬁrst glance, but it does not explain why India has

been favored over other countries which would better suit this economic

rationale. I thus examine local arrangements of power insofar as they shed

light on understanding forms of coercion in the West which lead these

renegades to ﬂee to Asia. As I seek to explore, India matters because it

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 183

is conducive to a dialogic process whereby the Western self attempts

to reshape itself critically and experimentally. By traveling to places of

symbolic power, trance freaks try to eschew and recode the institutional

and ideological effects of the nation-state (the regulatory regime of the

administration of collective and subjective bodies). In this picture, by

deploying mobility as a tactic of repositioning through space and identity

(while resonating with emerging conditions of globalization, as seen in

Chapter 1), the self and its body become a site of struggles wherein

countercultural formations seek to engender alternative experiences of

the self.

A note about the terms ‘hippie’ and ‘freak’ is pertinent. Although sharing

a countercultural horizon, they embody distinct subcultural dispositions

that refer to different historical circumstances. Whereas the 1960s hippie

exodus amalgamated the cultural rebellion against afﬂuent technocratic

societies (Roszak 1995), the 1990s rave diaspora stemmed from the

economic harshness of neo-liberalism along with the embracing of new

digital technologies applied to art (Reynolds 1998; McKay 1996). ‘In

the 1960s the young dropped out, in the 1980s they are dropped out’

(McKay 1996: 52). Though transportation and communication have im-

proved dramatically since the 1960s, the decline of labor and welfare in

the current capitalist period has hampered traveling opportunities among

the youth.

More closely, hippies and freaks also differ signiﬁcantly in terms of

practices, values and representations. Unlike hippies, freaks do not prac-

tice nudism or free sex, nor see these as components of a liberation politics.

While AIDS likely had a cooling effect in experiments of inter-corporeal

hedonism, Techno trance embodies certain militaristic proclivities that

contribute to an ascetic body politics seen among freaks. In contrast with

hippies’ Luddite orientation, freaks are more pragmatic in adopting new

technologies (sound systems, internet, biking), praised for their power to

derail the self. Both generations have indulged in drugs, but the mean-

ings have differed signiﬁcantly. Hippies saw psychedelics as an uplifting

way to socialize and to explore alternative perceptions of reality. Contem-

porary freaks consume drugs more privately, as a challenge to their tough

structured ego, unleashing a silent battle within. Inﬂuenced by the punks

of the late 1970s, they have assumed a penchant for shock, despair and

nihilism, and, even though many freaks are ecologically minded, the overall

orientation is skeptical about positive social transformations. In contrast

with hippies’ ‘ﬂower power,’ they disdain expressions of affection and

abhor devotional forms of religiosity. With little interest in oriental spir-

itualities, freaks favor fragmented hybridizations of East and West, away

from the New Age cult of self-development. In conclusion, whereas hippies

once heralded utopia, freaks now impersonate the somber possibilities

of neo-liberal globalization. As it will be of importance in this chapter,

184 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

in contrast with hippies who favored daytime and night-time activities

alike, freaks prefer the nightlife thrill, cultivating its Gothic undertones

as the new spirit of the underground. Roughly put, freaks are a contem-

porary hybrid of hippie and punk.

Day Life: the social organization of the trance scene

in northern Goa

Early morning, the overnight bus from Pune dropped us in Mapusa, the

main town in northern Goa. Rick, the two backpackers and I took a taxi

toward Anjuna village. On the road, the driver told me that his name is

Anthony and he is Christian. For mutual bemusement, I introduced myself

as Nataraj (my Osho sannyasin name, a Hindu dancing deity). He smiled.

Familiar with Western displays of eccentricity, Goans also seek to differ-

entiate themselves from the rest of India.

Still in the taxi, one of the young women became suddenly distressed,

demanding that we be taken to the guesthouse which, after all, we had

all agreed to go to, no matter how much we reassured her. Upon arrival

at Manali Guest House, she seemed relieved. Embarrassed, she apologized

and told me that she did not know why she behaved that way. This

episode could have been ignored, if such anomalous behavior were not

recurrently manifested by Western travelers. It was a caveat for situations

to come, which I assess as a process of psychic deterritorialization, to be

discussed later in the chapter.

After checking in, Rick and I sought to check the ‘party scene’ on the

beach. Those expecting an Ibiza-like daytime frenzy would be disappointed.

A few tourists lay on the sand, with surrounding cows eager for the fruits

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 185

Figure 5.3 The foreign core of the Anjuna hippie market.

that vendors insistently pushed on them. By the sea, two white men played

racquetball wearing tiny thongs. The rustic landscape comprised the beach,

with green vegetation up the hills and a few straw restaurant shacks. The

weather was hot, and the dark sea unattractive. A shack owner complained

that ‘the party season was weak’ because of hash police repression in the

previous year. Whether or not these were accurate remarks, the beach

was indeed quiet and empty, in contrast with the massive hippie crowds

featured in photos from the early 1970s. Rick relied on me for any minor

decision, basically behaving like a pampered tourist. Via email, he arranged

to meet a couple of friends at the German Bakery, a hangout for expatri-

ates and wealthier freaks.

The village of Anjuna hosted about twenty hostelry facilities, mostly

family-run guesthouses built in the premises across their own houses.

There were a few upgraded hostels with modern amenities, such as swim-

ming pool, sauna, cable TV, etc. Many villagers rented rooms inside their

residences. Accommodations were usually clean, although hygiene in public

spaces (streets and restaurants) could be an issue for unaccustomed visi-

tors. In a stark example of the effects of unplanned urbanization, while

internet centers were seen at every corner, many restaurants lacked running

water and open ‘pig toilets’ could still be seen around the millennium.

I ﬁrst stayed at Manali Guest House, a well-equipped establishment

located at the center of the village. It is a family-run business, which also

included an internet room, bar, a second-hand book store, currency

exchange, travel ofﬁce, rental motorbikes and a taxi van. The Manali fam-

ily lived in the house beside the six-room guesthouse, in addition to thin

tinfoil rooms built on top of their house. They were one of the wealthiest

families in the village, but apparently few people liked them. According to

a traveler guidebook, Manali was ‘a good-value [. . .] but not the friendliest

in town.’ Due to its relative high prices (over Rs. 200 per room, about

US$4), its clientele was not regular freaks, but backpackers peripheral to

the party scene.

Hardcore freaks and other veteran expatriates stayed in cheaper areas,

such as the inland areas of Chapora and Assagao where houses were rented

for the season or the year. A modest two-room house could be rented for

Rs. 50,000 (US$1,100) per year. Larger colonial houses were shared by

large groups of younger freaks, resulting in rents as low as US$20 per month

per person. Such collective arrangements, however, were frequently dis-

turbed by harangues over privacy, noise, romance and drugs, whose chronic

abuse resulted in more quarrels.

Of historical relevance, Joe Banana’s restaurant was the ﬁrst hippie

hangout in the early 1970s. It is a central reference in Cleo Odzer’s biog-

raphy (Odzer 1995), and some of the expatriates that I met in Ibiza, such

as Rochelle, were familiar with the place and former eccentric punters.

Located in south Anjuna, Joe Banana’s was owned by Joe’s son Tony

Almeida. Joe opened the restaurant in the late 1960s, after returning from

186 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

Kenya where he had worked as a factory mechanic. Their establishment

became very popular among hippies because they were one of the few

families to speak ﬂuent English. Hippies had chai and pancakes while

socializing, or came to ask for accommodation, or other errands and

favors. As Tony recalled, ‘There were no guesthouses back then, just some

houses and huts. The nearest police station was in Mapusa, and they

never cared about what was going on here.’ He also enthused about the

‘unbelievable’ amount of drugs being transacted and consumed in the

region – basically, hashish, marijuana, heroin, cocaine, etc. His comments

were not isolated:

People were much crazier, more druggie, with more junkies. But they

also had more presence. They had more personality. They were more

alive, much more than today. Young people today do drugs too, but

they are more quiet.

Like Manali, Tony has economically prospered. With the growth of

tourism, the core of the freak scene moved north, and his restaurant was

no longer a main reference. Nonetheless, Tony built ﬁve houses, which

he rents to German and English expatriates who pay him US$1,000 (Rs.

45,000) per year per house. After six months (the maximum visa period),

they lend their houses to friends or relatives. Tony closes the restaurant

in late April, ordering maintenance before the rainy season arrives in June.

Noisy refrigerators are turned off until October, allowing his family ‘to

rest peacefully,’ as he notes.

Biographic silence and transnational (dis)connections

Through curvy palm-lined roads, we reached the German Bakery, a patio

bar and restaurant, renowned for its ‘organic’ pastries. Hindi music, rock

or trip-hop made the musical background. The place was regularly attended

by young backpackers, wealthier freaks and other expatriate regulars of

Goa. In a laid-back atmosphere, they walked around on barefoot, lay

down on cushions and shared hashish smoke. The bakery was owned by

a German sannyasin who had managed Pune’s homonymous coffee shop

in the 1980s. The concept was very similar to the alternative bars in Ibiza,

such as Las Dálias and Khumaras (Chapters 2 and 3). In fact, I some-

times came across Ibiza’s Las Dálias hippie traders at Goa’s German

Bakery totally by chance.

Rick introduced me to Meena and Surya, whom he had met in the

Chicago nightclub scene (names altered, see Note 3). They were diasporic

Indians from upper middle-class families with branches in northern India,

New York City and Malaysia. The couple met at a medical school in

Bangalore and developed close connections with trance freaks in Goa and

New York. Although countercultural in spirit, Meena and Surya were

about to take up medical residences in the US, where she grew up:

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 187

America sucks your soul in, and you become a slave of the system.

All we want is to have our medical residency there, make some money,

and then move somewhere else, to live with real freedom, enjoy life,

and maybe set up some NGO to help local people in India or Malaysia.

Expressive expatriates criticize Western civilization in general, but

America epitomizes the worst of materialism, control and impersonal rela-

tions. Meena and Surya accepted their medical residences in the US as a

challenge to be confronted within their cosmopolitan diasporic disposi-

tions, as a temporary situation to be tolerated in the world of opportunities.

The couple was very curious about Ibiza, but did not ask me any

personal questions. In the meanwhile, they smoked hashish-tobacco ciga-

rettes, which Rick tried for the ﬁrst time. We ate and arranged to meet

at a trance bar in Vagator later that night. As we left the German Bakery,

I noticed that Rick was still very intoxicated and he accepted my sugges-

tion to take a ride on my motorcycle.

On the road, he questioned me in an unusually aggressive manner. ‘You

did not tell them that you are spying. You are betraying my friends. I

know that I am from the mainstream but your work will destroy the

scene!’ I quickly realized that Rick had become very impressed with the

remarks I made in Chicago and Pune about ﬁeldwork difﬁculties faced

by researchers and journalists in the trance scene in Goa. Those impres-

sions were now greatly ampliﬁed in a state of drug-induced paranoia. In

addition to the golden rule of never arguing with people on drugs, I reas-

sured him that I would introduce my work to his friends that night.

At Nine Bar, Meena and Surya were glad to know that I was researching

the trance scene, to such an extent that I had to ask Meena to be more

discreet when introducing me to her acquaintances, some of whom were

indeed hostile to newcomers. Other freaks began to identify me as a

‘Techno magazine writer,’ or as a ‘student of tourism,’ usually accepting

my presence with some performed disinterest. It was thus ironical that

the only explicit manifestation of hostility toward my research came from

someone who repeatedly declared to be an ‘outsider.’

More generally, despite the audio-visual richness of Techno culture,

verbal communication among freaks was quite limited. There were

instances of lively discussion in bars and restaurants, but overall, the few-

words habitus prevailed. Outgoingness, curiosity and talkativeness – often

found among backpackers – were sanctioned by freaks with looks of

disapproval, evasive answers or blunt silence. In fact, direct questions

about one’s past or occupation were very rarely asked. Conversations

revolved more desultorily around issues of travel, party and drugs. Freaks

almost never spoke about their past, and they despised elaborated ratio-

nalizations: ‘It is better to live without opinions,’ an Israeli trance freak

(and geriatric nurse in Germany) once told me. The contact zone was

thus populated by selves that were eccentric yet opaque.

188 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

On a surface level, such biographic silence stems from an environment

marked by marginality and dissatisfaction. Everybody suspected, knew

about, or was involved with some sort of illegal activity, particularly drug

dealing and consumption. Others were involved with the smuggling of

exotic goods, often involving a series of minor bribes. Many travelers

were also ﬂeeing from petty crimes or existential dramas in the West:

separation, abuse, boredom, despair, as well as smugglers, prostitutes and

other outlaws on vacation. Another segment of trance freaks did not want

to contradict their countercultural bearing by disclosing their privileged

social position, sustained by family or welfare allowances from rich coun-

tries. Finally, drug abuse, intense spiritual practices and the traveling mood

itself contributed to undermine a logocentric – reasoned and articulated

– narrative about oneself as a coherent individual.

A more basic condition underlies these variegated motivations and

stances. A countercultural disposition to break up with modern regimes

of subjectivity formation opposes history as the product of the sovereign

state in its drive to control its domains and subjects (Deleuze and Guattari

1980). Therefore, the acceptance of linear history corresponds to the

subjection to dominant apparatuses which countercultural agency seeks

to overcome. In this sense, the more countercultural the subject, the less

biographic it becomes, asymptotically disappearing from historical record

(Manning 1998; Green 1986). In other words, these expatriates do not

want to be recognized by their pasts, constructed under social conditions

imposed on them, but rather in relation to a drive for autonomy by which

they feel free to fashion their own self-identity, as puriﬁed New Agers or

transgressive trance freaks.

At a methodological level, the politicized silence of freaks constituted

a challenge to conventional methods of data collection. Compiling their

biographies likely contradicts the modes of self-representation that they

seek to adopt. I was thus caught in an aporia between a subculture

that opposed logocentric reason, and academic protocols regulating system-

atic representation. It became clear that, as a solution, I should disregard

the ethnocentric assumptions underlying the axiological ‘I,’ while keeping

the ‘individual’ as a unit of analysis (Dumont 1983). Biographic silence

could be circumvented at least partially, by engaging the natives in their

own modes of representation and positioning. Rather than try to make

my interlocutor produce statements about a past they sought to ignore,

I rather addressed their current relation to the trance scene. Occupational

and chronological data would then emerge, and be culturally meaningful,

if considered in relation to the actual engagements that the subject assumed

while reshaping itself.

Jean was a DJ who has been living in Goa since the mid 1990s. Originally

from a middle-class family in France, he ﬁrst came in the 1980s in his

early twenties. He rented a house in the countryside of Bardez (with a

monthly rent of Rs. 1,000 (US$22)). It had a spacious living room with

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 189

beach mats, pillows and a hammock, placed around his DJ equipment (a

sound system with mixer, portable CD/mini-disc player, ampliﬁer and two

powerful loudspeaker sets). Among the minimalist furniture in the living

room (a few chairs, cushions, beach-mats and a hammock), the only high-

tech luxury seemed to be a cable TV broadcasting French programs. In

his bedroom, there were a small bed, a table and a small closet. The kitchen

was virtually empty, with a few bananas, cookies and a gallon of drink-

able water, besides a mini-refrigerator. The bathroom was a pig toilet in

the backyard. Despite such simplicity, Jean was content with his home.

His only complaint was the permanent risk of thieves who had already

broken into his house three times, stealing his sound mixers while he was

away. Jean explained that local gangs target foreign DJs because of their

good sound equipment and updated music collections.

He did not apply for a residence visa because, although staying in India

for extended periods, he regularly traveled to France and other typical sites

of the global trance scene. During the party season, he played in trance

bars and parties. Jean often spent the rainy season in Goa, staying most

of the time indoors, reading science ﬁction, watching TV, socializing with

expatriates and Goans, and playing trance music. Drawing on his lifestyle,

the following examples serve to illustrate how spatial and spiritual mobility

becomes constitutive of trance communities and subjectivities.

I attended a trance party that Jean and friends organized at the hilltop

of Spaghetti beach.

It was the early hours of April 12, 2001. In an unusual

music shift, Jean played an odd track, slower and funkier than the trance

typically played. A few days later we met by chance at a restaurant. He

spoke English with a sharp French accent, peppered with expressions of

the contact zone: ‘I am wired, very wired. I haven’t slept in three days. I

can stay with no sleep, no problem, but I have to eat.’ After ordering his

meal, I asked about that singular track, ‘Ah,’ he smiled, ‘that song was in

honor of Yuri Gagarin, because April 12 was the day he landed on Earth.’

He then explained: ‘I read astronomy and science ﬁction for hours and

hours,’ and remarked, ‘but only in the rainy season . . .’ References to

astronomy and ufology abounded in the trance scene as well as in rave

culture more generally, and trance DJs expressed such fantastic imaginaries

more fully. To wit, the walls of Jean’s living room featured drawings of

extraterrestrial creatures in psychedelic landscapes containing the ‘om’

symbol, behind a blue ceramic statue of Shiva.

The spatial and symbolic volatility of trance freaks was also reﬂected on

the level of affective relationships. With the end of the party season in May,

Jean departed to Paris where he would stay with friends and family until

September, then leave for Madagascar in order to visit his girlfriend, and then

return to Goa in November. A year later, I asked him about his partner. He

seemed confused, ‘What girlfriend? Ah, now she in Reunion Islands, but I

don’t know about her,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘She was supposed

to come but didn’t say anything, so I don’t care. I thought you were talking

190 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

about the Singaporean girl.’ Years later Jean migrated to Thailand, where he

seemed to have settled down with a girlfriend and two children. Nonetheless,

he still participated in the local trance scene, while also traveling to Goa

and France regularly. Due to their continuous engagements with mobility

(both spatial and personal), affective relationships among freaks, sannyasins

and backpackers tended to be unstable and volatile, often represented

and sustained through notions of absolute trust, stoic individualism and aban-

don. The resulting personality often was simultaneously melancholic and

indifferent.

How freaks are able to sustain economically this transnationally mobile

and relatively labor-free lifestyle is an obvious question. Their strategy

involved keeping living costs very low, particularly in South Asian coun-

tries (such as rents varying from Rs. 1,000 to 5,000 per month, or about

US$20 to 100). In addition, their income combined variegated sources

activated in contingent ways, and several possibilities will be described

here. In the case of a trance DJ, Jean, for example, could count on the

eventual support of his parents who lived in France. He also earned money

by playing at rave festivals in Western Europe and sporadically traded

second-hand sound equipment. Last, he occasionally traded drugs, with

hefty proﬁts. But, because this was not his main activity or concern, it

would be misleading to dub him a ‘drug dealer,’ besides the fact that the

trance scene did not recognize him as such.

Drug dealing was a highly proﬁtable if risky endeavor. It was seen

as the easiest way to gain freedom from work, insofar as the individual

was able to forge relations of trust in the scene. For example, Jean was

approached by an acquaintance who asked if he could arrange 300 pills

of MDMA for a group of Japanese tourists. Quite easily, Jean quickly

obtained the substance, and was paid Rs. 600 for each pill that cost him

Rs. 400, thus amassing a one-transaction proﬁt of Rs. 60,000 (US$1,300)

– had Jean had more time his proﬁt would have been higher. Similarly,

freaks could smuggle ketamine (a liquid hallucinogen) in deodorant bottles

that were hidden in their luggage in ﬂights back to Europe or Israel. One

liter of the substance was purchased in Goa for US$400 and sold in the

West for US$6,000. In comparison with other drugs, the transportation of

ketamine (a veterinary anesthetic) was considered low risk, because its legal

status in several countries is undeﬁned. In India, its possession is not a

crime, merely requiring a veterinarian’s prescription. In sum, with a few

days dedicated to a creative scam, a freak could live well – accordingly to

their needs, values and standards – for about a year or even two. Nonethe-

less, this type of adventurous trading seemed to have become more discreet

and modest over time, particularly when compared with the daring

endeavors of transnational hippies in the early 1970s, as noted by some

veterans and biographical accounts (Odzer 1995).

The integration of labor into a counter-hegemonic lifestyle varied signiﬁ-

cantly among freaks. Many worked in bars, hotels, farms and travel

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 191

agencies in Western countries over half of the year, saving as much money

as possible. A few owned workshops in Bali, Nepal or Thailand, manu-

facturing and exporting exotic goods such as clothing, gems and woodcraft,

to be sold at highly inﬂated prices in tourist and decoration outlets in the

West (New York Times 2004). Other expatriates developed alternative

careers as handcrafters, hippie traders, DJs and therapists, enabling them

to be more fully integrated with global countercultural formations in India

and elsewhere. They can purchase exotic goods in Mumbai, New Delhi

or Rajastan, sending their commodities to Western countries but in separate

parcels. Several others worked at the weekly Anjuna ﬂea market during

the tourist season in Goa.

The ‘Anjuna hippie market’ took place on a large terrain beside the

beach, each Wednesday of the tourist months, from late October to early

April. The huge Kasbah comprised hundreds of tents, mostly run by Indians

from various regions, surrounding a much smaller number of Western

hippie traders concentrated at the core of the market. In the meanwhile,

throngs of taxis brought tourists in and out. A variety of products were

on offer, such as handcrafts, gems, clothes (hippie, ethnic and conven-

tional), party wear, pirate CDs of trance music, spices, incense, drapes,

mats, etc. There was also a bar compound, which included rows of tables

aligned under large canvases. The hippie traders socialized in the ‘foreign

area,’ which displayed their artisan products, while some also offered

massage and divinatory arts (tarot, numerology and Maya astrology). All

traders paid a small fee to the landowner in order to set up their booth.

The event began in the early 1970s, as a small gathering of hippies who

tried to sell unwanted belongings, either to travel more lightly or to get

cash for purchasing drugs. Throughout the 1990s, the market grew man-

ifold, attracting an ever growing number of domestic and foreign tourists

along with Indian vendors who now ran over 95 percent of the stalls of

the ‘hippie market.’

In contrast with freaks who worked in service jobs in the West, these hip-

pie traders have been able to integrate mobility as a component of their

economic strategies and alternative lifestyles, as the following examples

illustrate. Originally from Western Europe (names and locations concealed),

Joanne sold party clothes at the market. She ﬁrst came to Goa as a back-

packer in the mid-1990s and came across the trance scene by chance. There

she met her partner Pietro, another expatriate who redistributed Himalayan

hashish in the local scene. They rented a large yet rustic house in the region

and traveled to their European homelands during the monsoon. Their only

child spoke four languages, including Konkani. Some Goans estimate that

about 30 white children spoke the Goan language ﬂuently.

Renate sold bikinis which she imported from Bali or Brazil. Her pheno-

type blended Germanic and Rastafarian elements, as she was in fact half

Dutch and half Caribbean. Her four-year-old child stood beside her,

playing with a backgammon board. The father was an Israeli musician.

192 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

Renate had plans to go to Brazil, a growingly attractive ‘hotspot’ in the

global trance scene. Otherwise, as recurrently seen among international

couples, their traveling patterns encompassed a triangulation involving

Goa (or other paradoxical paradise such as Ibiza or Bali) and the part-

ners’ homelands, visited on an almost yearly basis.

Bojan was a handcrafter and trance DJ. He produced leather items

(bags, belts and sandals) which he sold at the Anjuna market, while also

offering readings of Maya astrology, a complex divinatory system that

has become popular among New Agers throughout the 2000s (see Barbara

in Chapter 2, p. 55). Originally from Slovenia, Bojan ﬁrst visited India

in 1976. Back then, he worked as a computer technician in a bank in

now-defunct Yugoslavia:

One day I was looking [at] the terminal screen, and got a ﬂash that

if I stayed in that work, I would soon become green like the screen.

So, in one week I was on the road back to India, all by land and on

my bike, with a plastic bag as my luggage.

The war in Yugoslavia catalyzed his decision to migrate to India in 1991.

Also a sannyasin, he ﬁrst stayed in Pune, ‘but I decided to come to Goa,

after seeing all the hypocrisy in the ashram,’ referring to the draconian

purges promoted by the resort management following Osho’s death (see

Chapter 4, and section above on Pune).

These expatriates have abandoned the homeland marked either by struc-

tured conditions of ordinary life and work, or by no less stressful pressures

of neo-liberal instability. They migrated to semi-peripheral locations in

order to shape an alternative lifestyle by which values of autonomy, pleas-

ure and expression can be at least partially actualized. In addition, mobility

is integrated into their life strategies, in an attempt to evade modern

regimes of labor, citizenship and morality. As such, the following quote

by Bojan discloses how alternative expatriates rationalize their decision

to come to India:

Goa is a melting point for East and West, and already India is the

only country in the world that is female, round, and the karma yoga

is instantaneous. Most of the West is macho robotics, man-made world

where feelings are secondary. It makes them candidates for ulcer,

cancer and other consuming illnesses. India is still a country where

people smile at you in the street. They look in your eyes, which

is like catching a glimpse of the soul, and everything is possible. It is

the total opposite of the Western squareness.

Similarly to responses heard in Ibiza, expressive expatriates in Goa

also assessed modern life negatively, while praising alien lands and their

natives in Romantic fashion. As a generalization veriﬁed within New Age

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 193

spiritualities, gender notions also reﬂect their re-evaluation of the ideal

life. The exoticized Other embodies positive attributes that are deemed

feminine: they are ‘affective,’ ‘holistic,’ ‘nurturing,’ ‘intuitive,’ etc., pro-

viding a nemesis of Westerners who, over the course (and ‘curse’) of

civilization, have lost their humanness, wholesomeness and mystery. Such

valuations are crystallizations of a dialogic process that constitutes self-

identities. With reference to such perceptions of absence in the modern

spirit, Renate suggested that: ‘People come to India because it is a mirror

of yourself. You realize things about yourself that you wouldn’t at home.’

These native formulations are veritable instances of longstanding historic-

ities of orientalist Romanticism (Pratt 1992; Said 1978; Bruford 1975).

However, while idealizing pristine qualities attributed to the native,

Westerners often ignored material and motivational differences. Though

questioning the imperialism of tourists, trance freaks seemed to overlook

their own economic superiority in relation to most of the Indian population

they interacted with, no matter how frugally freaks may live while in India.

Such discrepancy placed expressive expatriates in an ambiguous position

of exploration and exploitation, afﬁrming a type of cosmopolitanism

which ironically sought to remain aloof to both East and West. In this

connection, they often missed the fact that natives also had their own ulte-

rior motivations and aspirations, sometimes signiﬁcantly unchanged by

their interactions with aliens. In their narcissistic appreciation of the Other,

Westerners remained blind to the economic, sexual and symbolic interests

of natives who, as a matter of fact, rarely complained about such romantic

misrepresentations; quite the contrary, some skillfully sought to take advan-

tage of them (Mehta 1990).

The economy of trance parties: drugs and agonism

Bojan was regularly invited to play as a guest DJ at underground bars and

trance parties. Unlike most trance freaks, he did not travel as much, usually

spending the monsoon seasons in Goa, or only going to Europe when

offered a seasonal gig as a DJ in beach bars on the eastern Mediterranean.

He played at larger rave parties in Bangalore, which provided him enough

money to cover his yearly rent in Assagao (a sub-district near Anjuna). He

owned a classic super-bike Bullet Enﬁeld, but, as often happens in the

scene, he suffered a bike accident and almost had his leg amputated in

2003. With no health insurance, the trance community quickly raised funds

for his surgery and treatment, while the hospital crew reduced their fees

when they realized that Bojan was not a tourist but a long-term resident.

This accident thus reveals forms of solidarity and acknowledgment that

underlie the scene in Goa.

In our conversations, his answers were strongly critical about the modern

West, although tempered with a mystical outlook on life in general. Once,

we talked about a trance festival to occur in Kenya (Africa) around a

194 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

moon eclipse. While likely attracting a few thousands freaks internation-

ally, I noted that a trip like that requires a certain amount of money that

would prevent many freaks from attending the event. He pondered:

Yes, it is a bit exclusivist, but the energy keeps ﬂowing. You may not

go to one of these gatherings, but you go to the next one. There must

always be a group of people to keep it going. Anyway, no matter

how limited you are in money, if you tune in with the energy, you

will ﬁnd a way to be there. [After brief silence, he added:] Money is

the energy of the heart. It ﬂows and circulates. The system controls

or tries to control it, but you have to know how to deal with it, and

move within it.

In fact, the party scene was enmeshed in a web of local interests and

international circumstances that deﬁnes the season accordingly. The

number of ‘large’ parties (from 100 to 1,000 people) could vary (from 10

to 30) from year to year. While seeking to avoid the strict commercial-

ization of trance parties, freaks had to negotiate with villagers, businessmen

and police, in order to secure some party activity. Trance parties occur

without an ofﬁcial permit. Since the licensing procedure is extremely

morose, freaks turned to stealth techniques along with the bribing of police

ofﬁcers. Due to the abundance of drugs, trance parties were an easy target

for police, whose action was prompted by a mix of ofﬁcial and ulterior

motivations. On the other hand, local communities generally favored the

party scene, hoping to see a large number of freaks, backpackers and other

young tourists. On a larger scale, international war and terrorism often

had a negative impact on mainstream tourism, but freaks claim that such

problems do not interfere with their travel decisions. In this situation,

northern Goans become more dependent on the hardcore community of

trance freaks, who could then enjoy even lower prices and weaker police

raids. In sum, depending on the arrangement of local forces and inter-

national circumstances, the ‘party season’ could be deemed ‘good’ (in folk

parlance), meaning multiple parties with an excess of foreign travelers,

or ‘bad,’ meaning marked by tough state intervention and hindrances

to travel.

Freaks and Goans had quite different interests in trance parties. The

former were amateurs who excitingly revered such events as almost sacred

rituals, and professed to be against their commercialization. However,

they had to accommodate the economic interests of Goans and other

mighty Indians in the scene. Initially, there were large bar-restaurant entre-

preneurs who wanted to increase proﬁt margins by means of special

permits, which restricted competition from other bars. With the assist-

ance of expatriate artists, they upgraded ‘trance bars’ in Gothic style.

In addition to being spaces of socialization among freaks, these venues

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 195

provided some relief when trance parties became scarcer. During the New

Year’s Eve, main tourist resorts organized ‘raves’ that attracted thousands

of Indian males. They had to wait in long lines, and pay a hefty entrance

fee (Rs. 500 (US$10)), whereas foreign ‘hippies’ were immediately allowed

in for free. This was an attempt to render such events more ‘authentic’;

after all, ‘hippies’ are a tourist attraction for Indian tourists. However,

unlike uninformed backpackers, the larger freak populace avoided such

gatherings until morning time, arriving only after the tourist mass had left.

A large segment of the village population made their living on the party

scene. Local youth teams proﬁted from providing sound systems and bar

service at trance parties. In addition, they were brokers in informally nego-

tiating the possibility of parties with police ofﬁcers, usually involving the

recourse to bribery using funds provided by Western promoters. Without

their intermediation, trance parties were virtually impossible. Furthermore,

a ‘chai economy’ developed around the party venue. Sari ladies spread

beach-mats on which they sold candies, cigarettes and chai (tea) brewed

on the spot. Due to the exoticism they added to the psychedelic scenario,

freaks enjoyed their presence. Finally, other villagers provided indispens-

able ancillary services, such as rental bikes, internet connection and

drugs, in addition to bars and restaurants, as well as hostels, grocery

stores, bike mechanics, etc. In sum, even though the party scene was popu-

lated by mostly low-budget travelers, it actually generated a considerable

amount of revenues that were directly appropriated by the local popula-

tion (Stabler 1997; Wilson 1997a, 1997b; Hausler 1995).

In contrast, Western party promoters did not seek economic gain; quite

the contrary, they often lost money in the activity. Against common belief,

they did not promote parties for selling drugs. Certainly, drug consump-

tion was very high and promoters saw it as a way of creating a ‘nice

atmosphere.’ In their quotidian life, some of them eventually transacted

drugs as a one-off easy deal, but this was not a consistent practice employed

for promoting or funding parties. Though British and Russian gangs sought

to control drug trade in charter tourism areas, they never interfered with

the party scene itself, lest they upset Goans’ direct interests. As a result,

drug dealing was carried out by a variety of individuals who discreetly

but freely pushed hashish, acid, ecstasy, heroin and ketamine at trance

parties.

An average trance party required a budget of about Rs. 35,000 (US$750).

Western party promoters raised the money, which was equally spent on

renting the sound system and on bribing (baksheesh) police ofﬁcers. They

sought to collect donations from friends and acquaintances of the scene,

in addition to their own money. Often, a small fee of Rs. 50 (US$1) was

charged as an entrance fee, and extra donations were requested during

the event: in the morning hours, a box would be passed around, as the

DJ interrupted the music, inciting the crowd to contribute. By all means,

196 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

promoters were glad to break even; if not, they paid any difference with

their own resources. They were aﬁcionados who organized parties because

they wanted to play and to be acknowledged as scene DJs. A team of

party promoters involved a small group of friends. Veteran freaks oper-

ated in more multinational networks, whereas younger promoters grouped

themselves by nationality (usually Israelis). Each team sought to promote

one, seldom two parties each season, or face the risk of party saturation.

DJs who contributed with more money or were more popular in the scene

were allowed to play longer gigs and received more invitations. According

to DJs, playing trance music is a quasi-addictive activity that produces

mind-altering effects. They do seem transformed as they play for hours

in a row, hardly speaking to anyone, other than smoking hashish.

In conclusion, though embedded in the political economy of northern

Goa, the trance party scene must be understood as propelled by a logic

of agonistic competition and charisma among DJs and their followers.

They sought to charge the scene, by throwing larger, longer and ‘wilder’

parties, outdoing previous events, and gaining prestige as outstanding

promoters and DJs. Their aliases and track titles indexed scientiﬁc and

religious jargon, which expressed and fed an imaginary of magic, tech-

nology and tribalism denoting the general orientation of the scene (a topic

to be resumed later in this chapter).

Codes of belonging in the trance scene: problematizing the

Western self

Westerners related to the trance scene at various levels of involvement.

Furthest of all were charter tourists, unaware of any countercultural forma-

tions in India. Mostly from the UK, Germany and Russia, they stayed on

Baga and Calangute beaches, about 5 km south of Anjuna, or towards

the south of the state, in the more isolated, all-inclusive resorts of Salcete.

In relatively cheap two-week vacations, they conﬁned themselves to the

hotel swimming pool, hopping to nearby bars and restaurants, besides

some conventional sightseeing, and a visit to the ‘hippie market.’ A taxi

driver eventually persuaded young couples to attend a ‘hippie party’ at a

trance bar in Vagator, but seemed uncomfortable with the monotonous

trance music in such proto-barbarian environments. Inebriated friends

nonetheless would quickly hit the dance ﬂoor.

Another type stems from the inﬂux of backpackers traveling across

India, arriving in Goa to check the party scene. Mostly from Western

Europe and Israel, they soon took one of the following trajectories.

Those from an apparently structured or middle-class background tended

to favor daytime activities (beach, restaurant and sightseeing). They found

techno music aggressive or tedious, and complained about the unfriend-

liness of freaks. Dissatisﬁed, they departed after a few days, heading south

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 197

or north (after or before the monsoon, respectively). In contrast, another

segment fully embraced the party scene. They rearranged their traveling

schedules to ﬁt the party scene and a conversion process quickly ensued.

Drawn from a working-class background or from troubled families –

or often both – many were familiar with marginal subcultures of punks,

bikers, squatters, ravers and clubbers, including experiences with drugs and

other law infractions. Above all, they revealed utter dissatisfaction with

their lives back in the homeland. In contrast with pampered ﬁrst-timers,

they never complained about India’s precariousness; quite the contrary,

they seemed to rejoice in self-imposed hardships. Rather than choose clean

accommodation, they preferred to pay a few cents less to sleep on dirty

mats in derelict huts, water wells surrounded by sick animals, among other

precarious conditions. These preferences, however, were not determined

by economic calculation, but must be seen as fodder for identity challenges

and heroic tales that they would tell back at home (Newman 2001b;

Kaur 1999).

In terms of social class, behavior and mentality, these travelers looked

very much like the bohemian workers who seasonally stay in Ibiza (see

Chapter 3), except that the former do not work in India. They also indulged

in hedonist experiences, centered on parties, drugs and (to a lesser extent)

sex. The low cost of living gave them an unusual purchasing power,

although a penny-saving disposition soon prevailed in relation to any rupee

overcharged by natives. Also similarly to their Ibiza counterparts, they held

nationalistic preferences, reinforced by their gregariousness. But the con-

tinuous exposure to transcultural situations, involving an incredible variety

of social types, could gradually loosen their ethnocentric certainties. In the

opposite direction, they could begin to favor interactions with alien peoples,

and even reject their compatriots for a while. As a result, a few of the

travelers emulated centrifugal trajectories characteristically seen among

expressive expatriates.

Finally, the core of the trance scene comprised a multinational popu-

lace of freaks, DJs, party promoters, Goan insiders and other expatriates,

as exposed throughout this chapter. The local scene operated as a node

interconnecting a multitude of mobile freaks in India and even globally.

They shared information about travel experiences and typical itineraries,

as well as about trance scenes in other parts of the world and incoming

parties locally. In Goa, they often rode potent motorcycles, as the clas-

sical means of transportation across a regional circuit of trance parties

which overﬂows Goa.

However, there were many expressive expatriates who, although closely

related to trance freaks, favored a calmer (‘shanti’) and more bucolic

lifestyle, away from the hedonistic excess. Many were involved with yoga,

alternative therapies and New Age spiritualities, and did not want to beset

notions of ‘inner balance’ and ‘purity.’ Others just enjoyed a simpler life

centered on reading and thinking about one’s life by a peaceful beach.

198 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

Elderly hippies eventually attended trance parties, enthusing about how

the countercultural ‘spirit’ has remained or changed.

The trance scene broke down in a myriad of subgroups, whose logic of

organization resembled clan formations. Afﬁnities developed or faded upon

differences in taste and exchanges of music and drugs, as well as sex and

affection. Nationality has been the most basic criterion of organization,

associated with stereotypical expectations, along with linguistic barriers,

since English was spoken at various degrees of ﬂuency. Israelis comprised

the largest national group, followed by Japanese, British, Italians, Germans,

Scandinavians, and a rapidly growing number of Russians. Stereotypical

generalizations over national origin frequently derived from ordinary yet

superﬁcial interactions which constitute the contact zone, such as: ‘Israelis

are stubborn, troublemakers,’ ‘Indians behave like children,’ ‘German

freaks are chaotic,’ etc.

On the other hand, veteran freaks could interact in a more cosmopolitan

fashion. In order to navigate the contact zone, they put aside or manip-

ulated such stereotypical representations to their advantage, and established

more genuine relationships with both natives and expatriates. It must be

noted that national preferences, as some freaks aptly noted, were justiﬁed

in pragmatic rather than ethnocentric terms:

It is a question of language. When you get tired of speaking English,

you join people of your country, with whom you have other things

in common. But then you get tired of that too, and want to hang out

with other people.

As a tentative generalization, it can be suggested that more adult expatri-

ates with extensive traveling and countercultural experiences tended to

be, at least pragmatically, more cosmopolitan than younger ﬁrst-timers

who traveled in compact groups.

Gender patterns were also imprinted on the trance scene. The most

common group type comprised four to six people, apparently led by a male

who makes decisions, exhibits scene knowledge, and dexterously prepares

drugs for his companions. Alternatively, there were a smaller number of

female groups, around four young women, who motorcycled to parties,

socialized and protected each other against male intruders. Some of them

had boyfriends who, nonetheless, stayed at hotel rooms due to chronic

fatigue induced by drug abuse (heroin and hashish).

In terms of mating patterns, interethnic or international couples were

common, though Indian women were rarely seen with foreign men.

Strikingly resonating with Nora’s observations about the ‘curse’ that Ibiza

casts in separating stable couples upon arrival, the same phenomenon was

apparent among foreign couples traveling in India. It was usually the

woman who took the initiative for separation. She either joined a party

‘sisterhood,’ or sought a more individualized path, traveling alone or in

the company of an erotic partner and guide, often a native man. In contrast

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 199

with feminist studies claiming that women are passive objects of travel

culture, the cases of female sannyasins, Techno freaks and backpackers

in India indicate that women are playing a more active role in deﬁning

their own self and agency (Craik 1997). They instantiate the notion of

feminotopia, understood as ‘idealized worlds of female authority, empow-

erment, and pleasure,’ as ‘women travelers sought ﬁrst and foremost to

collect and possess themselves’ (Pratt 1992: 160, 167).

Their decisions originate from situations of discomfort and inequality.

They report dissatisfaction with their boyfriends, jobs and moralities in

the homeland, as negative motivations that propel them to go to India.

Yet, romance in the post-colonial setting is often marked by cultural,

ethnic and economic differences, which, nonetheless, charge the erotogenic

nature of the relationship. However, the situation of traveling expatriates

in India corroborates studies of colonial travel and gender:

Whether love turns out to be requited or not, whether the colonized

lover is female or male, outcomes seem to be roughly the same: the

lovers are separated, the European is reabsorbed by Europe, and the

non-European dies an early death.

(Pratt 1992: 97)

Similarly, a review on tourism and gender studies has noted that: ‘Once

back home, most women abandoned the tourist’s desire to escape the

usual disciplines and norms of everyday life by indulging in hedonism,

fantasy and unrestrained sexual encounters during the course of a holiday’

(Craik 1997: 132).

What the scholarship intersecting tourism and gender has missed,

nonetheless, is that a residue of women and men will refuse to return to

the same life conditions that await them in the metropole. As noted

throughout this book, they reassess modern urban life negatively, as char-

acterized by disciplinary and predictable routines that seem meaningless,

and even more unappealing under the derailing effects of neo-liberal

capitalism. As previous chapters indicate, after ‘paradise’ is experienced,

an existential challenge must be confronted: either a return to the routines

of conventional life, or a radical decision for trying the hopes of expres-

sive cosmopolitanism. In this case, they will have to overcome the difﬁ-

culties of a new life, until they are able to integrate their personal interests

into alternative labor strategies. Whether or not resuming former life rou-

tines in a post-traditional world of uneasy conditions, ‘we have no choice

but to make choices’ (Giddens 1994: 187).

Although participation in the trance scene was ﬂuid and uncontrolled,

a code of belonging clearly deﬁned who was an insider and who was not.

Through empirical observations, it is possible to identify the underlying

premises that deﬁne belonging, as exposed next. In innumerous situations,

I noticed freaks leaving the dance ﬂoor, somehow annoyed with the arrival

200 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

of effusive teenagers and tourists, usually Indian males. It has been

suggested that freaks are elitist and even racist (Saldanha 2004); nonethe-

less, such accusation misses the point. Although freaks often adhered to

ethno-nationalist references, racism is not intrinsic to any ideological

component of trance culture.

In fact, Indians occupy various positions in the scene, some of which

are materially and symbolically privileged, varying from inside members,

to material brokers, to romanticized icons, to annoying tourists and other

outsiders. First, there are the local gangs of Goan youth who provide and

control the party infrastructure. Some of them also enjoy trance music,

and become active DJs. Second, the scene is also inhabited by diasporic

Indians as trance insiders, locally and globally. As a good example, in addi-

tion to being regulars in the New York trance scene, Meena and Surya

introduced me to some of their friends who were key DJs and promoters

in the Goa scene. Curiously, they complained about university colleagues

who came from Bangalore, but whom they identiﬁed as annoying out-

siders. Third, besides sari ladies who provided the chai economy, Hindu

renouncers (sadhus) rather pertained to a symbolic register that is consti-

tutive of the countercultural opposition to civilization. With an exotic com-

plexion, they introduced the chillum (cylindrical pipe) for hashish smoking

and the hallucinogenic datura tea to hippies back in the 1960s. Despite

the incommensurable gap between Western dropouts and Hindu sadhus,

both nonetheless share an otherworldly orientation, cultivated not through

intellectual speculation, but rather through the cultivation of ecstatic

experiences involving drugs and meditation.

Finally, a note on the unique insertion of some socially marginalized

subjects is elucidative. Jojo was regularly seen at trance bars and parties,

dancing and also interacting in English and Hindi. Fit and young, he wore

glasses, ragged clothes and torn ﬂip-ﬂops. Originally from northern India,

he worked in menial jobs for food, some money and a sleeping place. He

lived like a vagabond, with all his belongings in a blue bag. Free and

dispossessed, his lifestyle seemed to fascinate young foreigners, including

female teens, who interacted with him quite amicably. In the West, Jojo

would most likely have been ostracized by the same travelers who other-

wise admired him. In the trance scene, his apparently free and carefree

condition was an interesting addition to the wildness of types inhabiting

the psychedelic contact zone.

In conclusion, belonging in the trance scene is deﬁned by the sharing

of a countercultural problematic (or a relatively convincing performance

of it). The usages and meanings that freaks confer to the practices of

travel, dance and drugs differ signiﬁcantly from those veriﬁed in conven-

tional leisure sites associated with entertainment and tourism industries.

To them, a trance party is not a merely recreational activity but rather

entails a transgressive spirituality of the self. Countercultural belong-

ing refers to a cultural space for the cultivation of forms of subjectivity

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 201

and sociality that eschew the discipline of state, utility and reason. The

hedonistic and effervescent nature of a trance party will be analyzed

later in this chapter. Though it is important to note that national, ethnic

and class references play a role in their ordinary interactions, they are

not the deﬁning features of such counter-hegemonic apparatus of subjec-

tivity formation. The problematization of the self and sociality explains

why freaks scorn tourists and authorities, regardless of nationality and

race: outsiders ignore the nature of such countercultural experiments and

meanings.

New Age in Goa: the ‘circle of light’

Bojan told me about the ‘circle of light,’ a spiritual practice involving

crystals and group meditation. These sessions took place at Pipi’s house

every Friday afternoon. When I arrived, several motorcycles were parked

by her house, a spacious colonial house located a few kilometers from

Anjuna village. About 30 people socialized at the backyard, all foreigners,

with a slight majority of females, ages varying from twenties to ﬁfties.

Dozens of gems were symmetrically displayed around a large pink quartz,

beside metal bowls and lit incenses.

Pipi and Luigi led the weekly event. She was an English–Australian

expatriate residing in Goa, but periodically traveled to Australia, the UK

or Brazil, in order to visit relatives or to trade gems, which she negoti-

ated for decorative or healing purposes. Pipi was a veteran of the alternative

world, jocosely known as ‘Pipi of Woodstock,’ due to the rock festival

she attended in New York in 1969. In the early 2000s, she rarely attended

trance parties. In her house there was a showroom displaying hundreds

of gems and crystals, which she sold to wealthy tourists in the area of

202 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

Figure 5.4 Crystal healing practice in Goa.

Calangute beach. Yet she offered private crystal healing sessions free of

charge to friends and acquaintances. While some senior expatriates in

India lived on pensions and funds issued from their respective homeland,

it was unclear if Pipi had other income sources.

Luigi was a young Italian expatriate on the global trance scene. In Bali

he owned a workshop that produced party wear, which he exported to

Goa, Israel, Italy and Brazil. He periodically visited these places, attending

their respective trance scenes and staying at friends’ houses, exemplifying

how global nomads establish social networks that allow them to holisti-

cally integrate economic, leisure and personal interests.

His spiritual interests derived from a derailing experience with hallu-

cinogenic drugs. In a radical episode under the effects of LSD, Luigi mys-

tically said, ‘My ego disappeared in the cosmos, and I met god. It was so

strong that it took me ﬁve years to reconnect with reality.’ I asked if it

was a ‘bad trip.’ ‘No, it was not a bad trip, but it changed my life com-

pletely.’ He learned about the ‘circle of light’ a little after the episode,

during a stay in Australia. He explained, ‘The circle of light is a healing

meditation created by trance people, by hippies: people outside the system

who will bring about the New Age.’ According to him and Pipi, there were

several communities around the world that practiced the circle of light.

He admitted nonetheless that few people in the trance scene cultivated

such ideals of love, peace and harmony. ‘This is why we are doing this

work, to bring more consciousness to more and more people.’ Similarly

to Jean and Bojan, Luigi indulged in fantastic explanations of the spiri-

tual dimension to trance parties as an otherworldly phenomenon.

When a trance party happens, it creates a vortex of energy that spirals

up into the sky, attracting our alien brothers from the Pleiades, and

they come to watch us. The better the party, the more energy it

concentrates. When everybody is on acid, the vibration has a higher

frequency, and this brings transformation!

It is worth noting that more than half of the participants who regu-

larly attended Pipi’s circle of light were also directly involved in the trance

scene, spotted at parties and bars on an almost daily basis. Before the

crystal healing began, some prepared hashish pipes, which were smoked

and passed around always anti-clockwise (toward the right). Others just

passed them along without smoking. For freaks, smoking is not merely a

form of intoxication or socialization. As they explained, it could also be

like a religious rite that allows the smoker to ‘slow down the mind’ and

enable them to better connect with the spiritual work individually and as

a group.

Luigi and Pipi began the session. In order ‘to balance the ﬂow of energy,’

women and men sat interspersed outlining a large circle, centered on the

quartz crystal formation. They often referred to the group as ‘brothers

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 203

and sisters,’ and characterized the circle of light as ‘a work of love, some-

thing that comes from the heart.’ As interestingly, in all of the sessions I

attended, they emphasized the multi-locale, globalized aspect of the healing

practice, which not only was carried out by other various groups around

the world, but also served to heal the planet. As such, the circle of light

aimed at collective as well as personal healing. The pink crystal located

at the center collected our love energies, retransmitting them toward the

core of planet, from where it was redistributed to heal wherever it was

most necessary.

With closed eyes and holding hands, the practice began with the group

chanting the sound om for about ﬁve minutes. Everybody then lay down,

pointing their heads toward the crystal display at the center. Pipi and a

few assistants walked around, placing tiny stones over each person’s body

– notably, the forefront, the chest, and the lower abdomen – ‘centers of

energy.’ Some people asked for extra stones on the lungs, since air pollu-

tion and chronic hashish smoking took a toll on their respiratory systems.

Next, Luigi played the Tibetan bronze bowls, gently sliding a rubber stick

on their borders. As people later recalled, the long reverberating sound

had a deep relaxing effect. In the meanwhile, Pipi rose from the lotus

position and slowly wandered around the group.

She would then stand

in front of each person, making wide arm movements and stroking her

hands, as if sending an invisible energy or ﬂuid. After about 20 minutes,

Pipi calmly instructed the group to ‘slowly return to our bodies . . .’ Her

dogs were mostly silently messing around the group during the ritual. She

brought tea and cookies, as the group resumed chatting, while placing

used stones in wooden boxes, to be washed for ‘puriﬁcation.’ New Age

healers claim that such crystals absorb people’s ‘negative energies.’

Participants marveled at how the crystals placed on their bodies became

slightly darker after the session. The group then gradually left Pipi’s back-

yard, as the sun descended.

Those who were involved in the trance scene would soon attend Nine

Bar, a sunset trance bar, located at the hilltop of Vagator beach. As an

open-air hangout, each day it hosted different trance DJs who played until

22:00 (the time was deﬁned by a legal permit). Nine Bar evolved from a

dark wooden shack into a hectic venue with elaborate Gothic-like deco-

ration and a potent sound system. The crowd of some 250 people peaked

at about 21:00. When Nine Bar closed, they dispersed for dinner and to

arrange their drugs, later resuming their nocturnal pilgrimage. They would

go to other trance bars or to a free party. The cultural logic that animates

the trance scene is examined next.

Night Life: nomadic spirituality in psychedelic rituals

Daytime for freaks drags slowly in India. ‘The so-called “hippies” do not

lead an active life. [. . .] Life is slow. Some would call it dull’ (Newman

204 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

2001b: 215). They get up late and spend their time indulgently: chatting,

emailing, reading, smoking hashish and listening to trance music. Others

calmly prepare their merchandise (handcraft, CDs, drugs, etc) that will

be sold in hippie markets and parties, or posted to their bases in the

West. In the afternoon, they may ride their motorcycles to watch the

sunset at the beach: yet, ‘to comment on the beauty is to be gauche, trite,

and most deﬁnitely a newcomer. It is a near sacred moment’ (ibid.). They

will later gather in restaurants and trance bars, and it is at night that

action actually begins.

What must be noted is that daytime dullness is a structuring counter-

part of a lifestyle that is centered on night-time excitement. Both in its

ordinary life and ritual dimensions, the Techno trance scene curiously

instantiates a binary model that Durkheim formulated with regard to

social life in primitive societies (Durkheim [1912]). According to him,

individuals experience society at two complementary stages: the ‘economic,’

characterized as ordinary, mundane and tedious, and the ‘religious,’ char-

acterized as extraordinary, sacred and effervescent. States of collective

effervescence are more intense at night, as the individual’s perceptions and

reason more easily give way to ecstatic experiences (pp. 244–5). The

following passage by Durkheim is revealing:

Sometimes the population is broken up into little groups who wander

about independently of one another, in their various occupations;

[. . .]. The dispersed condition in which the society ﬁnds itself results

in making its life uniform, languishing and dull. But when a corrob-

bori

takes place, everything changes. [. . .] Once they come together,

a sort of electricity is formed by their gathering, which quickly trans-

ports them to an extraordinary degree of exaltation. [. . .] The initial

impulse thus proceeds, growing as it goes, as an avalanche grows in

advance. [. . .] If we add to all this that the ceremonies generally take

place at night in a darkness pierced here and there by the light of

ﬁres, we can easily imagine what effect such scenes ought to produce

on the minds of those who participate. [. . .] Feeling himself domi-

nated and carried away by some sort of an external power which

makes him think and act differently than in normal times, he natu-

rally has the impression of being himself no longer. [. . .] Everything

is just as though he really were transported into a special world,

entirely different from the one where he ordinarily lives, and into an

environment ﬁlled with exceptionally intense forces that take hold of

him and metamorphose him. How could such experiences as these,

especially when they are repeated every day for weeks, fail to leave

in him the conviction that there really exist two heterogeneous and

mutually incomparable worlds? One is that where his daily life drags

wearily along; but he cannot penetrate into the other without at once

entering into relations with extraordinary powers that excite him to

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 205

the point of frenzy. The ﬁrst is the profane world, the second, that

of sacred things. So it is in the midst of these effervescent social

environments and out of this effervescence itself that the religious idea

seems to be born.

(Durkheim [1912]: 245–7)

This passage could well describe the social and ritual life in the Goa

trance scene.

Also interesting is the fact that, as Durkheim focused on

primitive societies, freaks evoke notions of ‘tribe’ and ‘shamanism’ to refer

to their collective events. As a trance DJ once noted, ‘It is like a tribal

gathering with ten thousand drummers banging all night long – it is

maddening.’ More generally, primitive religion has been translated into

Techno and New Age pastiche forms, by which freaks and neo-pagans

intend to ‘revive the tribal’ through ‘shamanic rituals,’ as a way of

redeeming the ‘lost essence’ of being human, originally integrated with

community life, nature and mystery. However, the search for an original

moment before interdiction is ontologically impossible, for the subject and

her desire are a product of the very civilizational regimes that she seeks

to overcome. The primal interdiction instituted the logocentric reason that

irreversibly fabricates the atomized subject and her desire for reunion.

In order to understand the nature of countercultural categories, this

section examines ritualized practices of the trance scene – notably, style

as performance, and parties as rituals – observed in Goa, yet crosschecked

with Ibiza and elsewhere. More speciﬁcally, it seeks to evince how the

duality ‘profane-sacred’ plays itself at the level of subjectivity, as reported

in experiential reports that derive from the subjects’ engagements with

such digital rituals. This binary deﬁnes the daily cycle through which the

self is shattered during the night and reconstituted during the day. The

trance party is therefore analyzed as a ritual assemblage that dramatizes

tensions and categories that constitute global countercultures in relation

to wider contexts. In substantive terms, this ritual expresses dilemmas of

mobility and marginality that mark the position of trance freaks and

expressive expatriates in highly globalized environments. In this analysis

of style and ritual, I identify a ‘nomadic spirituality’ that operates as a

powerful category – both existential and analytical – that informs and

dramatizes the impact of globalization upon the self, as theorized in

Chapter 1.

Mobility and expression

They ride potent motorcycles down the narrow roads of the Goan country-

side. These are one-lane roads closely framed by palm trees, and danger-

ously shared by reckless trucks, buses and stray animals. The rustic Bullet

Enﬁeld is the favorite machine in the scene, with its ominous bar protecting

206 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

the biker’s legs. Easily available for rent, many regulars prefer to buy it

(from Rs. 20,000 to Rs. 150,000 or about US$500 to US$3,000) and

keep it in some mechanic’s yard when they travel overseas. According to

freaks, to drive an Enﬁeld on Indian roads is a liberating experience, as

the sensorial stimulation of open mobility disrupts ordinary notions of

time and space. The smooth swinging, the monotonous droning, the slap-

ping breeze, the blurred environs of green, the coiling side lanes, are all

stimuli that trace a deterritorializing escape-line, corresponding to mild

states of mind alteration, particularly during the after-effects of a narcotic

episode, enhancing the hypnotic effects of open mobility, silent euphoria

and transcendence. The Enﬁeld, in sum, embodies the power of technology

to erase the ego, not as much as in the case of a fatal accident, but rather

in rejecting ‘subjection’ to criteria of discipline, utility and control.

Mobile technologies contain the potential for new gender forms, as

female freaks dexterously ride such superbikes. Their facial expressions are

serious, aggravated by dark sunglasses and the semi-military fashion, con-

ﬁguring a veritable Techno Amazon. Studies have noted that women tend

to embody more explicitly the identity traits of a subcultural style (Pini

2001; McRobbie 1994b). To wit, their clothing is functional yet

intimidating: tank tops, boots and GI trousers under multi-pocket skirts.

Dreadlocks, Mohawks and cornrow hairstyles symbolize the spirit of

resistance against the white men’s civilization. In long and intense – ‘wild’

– parties, some freaks paint warrior-like traces on their skin, fashioning

themselves as psychedelic guerillas. Bodies, too, portray subcultural mean-

ing. While ﬁt, young and fashion-conscious, freak women often expose a

dissonant abdominal fat. Even though their work and dance activities may

account for body asymmetries, in reality this fat rather opposes the aesthetic

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 207

Figure 5.5 Techno bike Amazon.

valuation of the apollonian body which is epitomized in the hypertrophied

muscle, strong yet subordinate to the will of reason.

Trance parties occur in secluded open-air areas: against a cliff or a

hilltop facing the ocean, or in the woods. Music starts after midnight,

most people arriving around 2:00, with more hardcore freaks gradually

arriving by sunrise. It extends into daytime and often carries on for a few

days uninterruptedly. The end is unknown even for promoters, as the

machinic event unravels contingent to multiple factors, such as the possi-

bility of police raids, the endurance of the crowd and equipment, as well

as on-site negotiations among promoters, suppliers and brokers. The event

is announced by word-of-mouth a few days before, but the exact loca-

tion is only disclosed when the venue is ﬁnally ready, at the last minute.

This measure seeks to evade outsiders, while building up excitement in

the party crowd. Nonetheless, some backpackers and tourists will invari-

ably show up, particularly at the beginning. More generally, secrecy is

only tacitly performed, since villagers and even police authorities know

of its location, as the scene knows that informal agreements involving

ﬁduciary advantage are inevitable in Goa.

Looking for the venue, the digital stomping is the ﬁrst signal of proxi-

mity. Next, a sea of motorcycles can be seen parked on irregular terrain.

At a closer look, a compact crowd bounces within an audio-visual appa-

ratus that includes a thundering sound system, dark lights, psychedelic

drapes and banners. The party crowd subdivides in a myriad of groups

and types: mostly freaks, but also backpackers, chai ladies, taxi-bikers,

village children and a few tourists. A sadhu may eventually show up,

begging for money or smoking hashish with veteran freaks. The general

picture is orientalist, hi-tech and tribal.

Many smoke a blend of hashish and tobacco, either in hand-rolled ciga-

rettes or from a cylindrical ceramic pipe (chillum). In small groups, the

smoker crouches, holds the chillum upward and inhales the smoke, while

someone stands in front with a lighter on. Curiously, while such duo posi-

tion visually connotes oral sex, sadhus refer to the chillum as the Shiva

lingam – the phallus of god. By sucking god’s penis, the dizzying and

mind-splitting effects of hashish indicate that the smoker has ‘got in touch

with Shankar Shiva.’ While passing the pipe around, the smoker utters

(gagging, or holding the breath as much as possible): ‘bom Shiva,’ ‘bom

Shankar,’ or ‘bom!’ – a hail to Shankar, the ‘stoned Shiva.’ As sadhus

have taught, the pipe is always passed anti-clockwise. The person grabs

it with the right hand or otherwise raises the object to the forehead as a

puriﬁcation rite. The smoker exhales an impressively thick white cloud

and silently gets up. No comments about faintness are allowed, as the

smoker has to be strong: in times of global neo-liberal predation, the

Techno freak must be tough like a nomadic warrior.

In this spirit, public demonstrations of affection are virtually absent.

There is no touching, hugging, holding hands or kissing in the scene.

208 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

Visual forms of communication (eye contact, ﬂirtation or smile) are limited,

although bursts of laughter eventually mark an animated conversation. In

the private sphere, the ascetic ethos is slightly relaxed, but as a young expa-

triate observed, ‘I go to their houses and ask myself if they are really

couples . . .’ Insiders dismiss these notes, claiming that there are ﬂirtatious

and erotic exchanges amid freaks, albeit very discreetly – ‘like in the army,’

Surya noted. Even so, despite the abundant display of ﬂesh, the prevailing

attitude is never ﬂirtatious or provocative, but rather quite asexual. As we

will see, dance is never interactive or seductive. In fact, some freaks noted

that drug abuse and poor diets hampered their libidinal drives, particu-

larly in the hot weather. And AIDS has certainly played a restrictive role,

more generally. However, other Techno subcultures, such as club and rave,

have displayed a quite different, if not opposite, affective-sexual ethos

(D’Andrea 2005, see Chapter 3; Collin 1997). These differences suggest

that slight but consistent differences in musical genre and drug abuse, along

with local conditions of state surveillance and spatiality, translate into

sharper differences in terms of subcultural ideology and disposition (see

differences among freaks, hippies, bohemian workers and underground

clubbers described in this book).

However, such toughness and asexuality do not mean that a body politics

is absent from the trance scene. Temporarily removed from the tight sur-

veillance controls that dominate in metropolitan societies, these traveling

subjects can gather in a community of hedonistic spirituality. The trance

party is a ritual practice in which power and reason are confronted through

the limit-experience of ‘trancing’ (‘raving’). Rather than merely perform-

ing resistance against the system (as subcultural studies have proposed

and been criticized for), the effects of digital rituals upon the self must

be properly scrutinized for its implications in the analysis of cultural

globalization.

The Techno trance assemblage: aesthetics of power and

limit-experience

Because the forging of the self is actualized at the experiential level, the

analysis of subjectivity formation must consider experiences which are

enacted in sacralizing rituals. As a dramatic instance, a limit-experience

evinces the possible ways by which the body, power and identity intersect

at the realm of traumatic or sublime. It transgresses the boundaries of

coherent subjectivity, ‘tearing the subject from itself’ at the limit of living,

intensity and impossibility (Jay 1993; Foucault 1978). Yet, in a second

stage, recollection is necessary in a space outside: ‘an experience is, of

course, something one has alone; but it cannot have its full impact unless

the individual manages to escape from pure subjectivity in a way that

others can at least cross paths with or retrace it’ (Foucault 1978: 40).

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 209

The sharing of such events creates bonds of solidarity among individuals

and allows them to make sense of their lives in the encompassing world.

Limit-experiences are often induced by means of altering devices, under-

stood in Weberian terms as ‘intoxicating elements of orgiastic sensuality’:

music, dance, drugs and touch, among other techniques (Weber 1913).

Non-ordinary ways of perceiving reality thus entailed can be disruptive

of identities at multiple levels. At a political level, the phenomenological

retooling may result in a situation in which the dominant authority loses

its legitimacy to control subjective and collective bodies. However, as it

is impossible to eradicate such transgressive practices absolutely, they

become marginalized in a process that reinforces exclusionary moralities.

The ritual exploration of limit-experiences is then conﬁned to secret

societies, as the trance scene illustrates.

Trance parties have been designed to engender a magic aura that remits

participants into a cosmic temporality. Some events are scheduled to

happen at auspicious moments connected to astronomical events, such as

a full moon, an eclipse or a seasonal equinox. The audio-visual para-

phernalia is spatially displayed with the aim of disorienting sensorial

perceptions – dark and loud, with unusual lighting and smoke (Corsten

1998a). UV lights produce a phantasmagoric glow on white clothes, eyes

and teeth, and intensify the effects of kaleidoscopic drapes featuring

oriental and extraterrestrial landscapes. Blasting at high volume, the music

is complex yet repetitive. Its bass waves reverberate upon the skin and

through the body mass, giving the impression of molecular dissolution.

People dance in the crowd but individually, facing the DJ deck located

between loudspeaker turrets. The DJ silently (‘telepathically’) interacts

with the crowd by means of musical buildups and plateaus of intensity.

210 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

Figure 5.6 A trance party near Anjuna beach. Overnight events extend into

morning time and are often uninterrupted for a few days.

On the table, typical belongings of a trance DJ can be seen: lit incense,

oriental statuettes, cases of CDs and DAT tapes, and music catalogues

(listing track titles, beats-per-minute (BPM) speed and idiosyncratic marks).

The crowd spontaneously alternates between dancing and watching (or

smoking). Hundreds of bodies bounce in synchrony with relentless digital

beats. Body movements are structured on a monotonous two-step march

on the spot, matching the music at its strongest rhythm, whereas arms

hang loose. This footstep performs and reﬂects physical tiredness and

mind alteration, as a result of the long hours of dance and drug abuse.

With the morning light, uncanny eye movements are noticed: zigzagging

according to the music beats, with breaks matching the body (at about

twice per second). The eye-stare is regressive, primitive, almost animal.

New Agers too report metamorphic experiences of becoming a bird or

reptile, particularly in neo-shamanic sites involving the ceremonial inges-

tion of a hallucinogenic sacrament. Rave and New Age shamanism are

radical instances of the conceptualization of a postidentitarian self known

as ‘becoming animal’ (Deleuze and Guattari 1980).

The trance party unravels as a dynamic machine that gradually absorbs

the dancers, by making them feel as members of a pulsating organism. The

dance event is ‘not a mere context, but the text itself, the primary unit

of observation and analysis’ (Ronstrom 1999: 136). Such assemblages of

bodies–technologies–ideology then fully unleash the ecstatic experience

of ‘trancing’ (also known as ‘raving’). Marked by an excess that is ungras-

pable in logocentric reason, raving correlates with a collective state of

transpersonalism, which dramatizes the impact of hypermobility and dig-

italization upon the subject (Jameson 1991).

Technology and multimedia art are thus hybridized in a proto-religion

(Corsten 1998a; Reynolds 1998), in which the DJ plays the role of a

digital shaman, responsible for creating and maintaining a collective state

of ecstatic communion. Rather unconsciously, the DJ emulates traditional

shamanic techniques, improvising on a sequence of music tracks which

follow a seamless beat-matching pattern. The queuing of chosen tracks is

decided on the spot, as the DJ tries to intuit and inﬂuence the reactions

of both dancing and standing crowds. By ‘taking the crowd in a journey,’

the DJ seeks to engender an atmosphere in which ordinary notions of

time, space and self are dissolved. The crowd thus indulges in abandon

and togetherness, and the event becomes a seemingly timeless experience,

a ‘temporary autonomous zone’ (Bey 1991) magically disconnected from

mundane reality. The DJ functions, in sum, as a witch doctor, managing

magic in order to heal spirits and control events (Mauss 1904). Ravers

report experiences of self-transcendence and redemption triggered in such

orgiastic gatherings. In other words, and paraphrasing Foucault’s account

on knowledge regimes of the body (1976), the DJ operates like a master

of ars erotica, prolonging pleasures within a crowd that understands itself

as a fellowship of initiates.

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 211

To that end, Techno trance music is spiral or rather fractal. Its compo-

sition is complexly multi-rhythmic, featuring the introduction and removal

of variations of sound, with loops and breakdowns, establishing itself in

a chromatic process of continuous variation (Deleuze and Guattari 1980).

The genre often displays epic refrains, including samples of orchestral

music (Romantic, Baroque) or ethnic instruments (didgeridoo, sitars), as

well as speech fragments of religious and scientiﬁc ﬁgures (Timothy Leary,

Martin Luther King, sadhus, neuroscientists, etc). Onomatopoeic sounds

are identiﬁed as ‘spiritual,’ ‘plastic’ or ‘supernatural.’ While ‘lacking in

sensuality,’ trance has been described as ‘New Age music with metro-

nomic pulse-beat’ (Reynolds 1998: 176).

Trance music literally embodies the ethnomusicological notion of ‘struc-

tured sounds.’ By persistently listening to the endless pounding, listeners

report no longer to hear music, but a meta-music of absurd sounds. Chai

ladies, taxi drivers and other outsiders refer to Techno trance as ‘crazy

music’ that only ‘crazy people’ can appreciate. In fact, music producers

of Techno, ambient or New Age genres seek to engineer tracks that not

only mimic but also trigger altered mental states, thus conﬁguring a ‘science

of psychedelic sounds’ (Reynolds 1998) whose effects seem to be greatly

ampliﬁed when combined with drugs or body techniques, such as massage

and meditation. As such, outsiders claim that electronic dance music can

only be appreciated under the inﬂuence of drugs. Based on a comparison

of multiple reports, it seems that, even though trance freaks can enjoy

the music with no recourse to drugs, someone unfamiliar with hallu-

cinogens not only takes longer to appreciate Techno trance, but is usually

unable to perceive certain nuances of sound tapestry. Upon trying drugs,

the newcomer reports that they are able to notice minor variations of

sound, more richly and creatively.

Raving is inﬂected not only by subcultural inclinations and musico-

logical effects, but also by the type of consumed drug, which impinges a

speciﬁc pharmacological mark on the experience. The hallucinogenic

experience (with LSD or ketamine) takes the form of a psychedelic asceti-

cism, characterized by mental states of hyper imagination and mystical

transcendence. Differently, the entactogenic ‘ecstasy’ (MDMA) engenders

an oceanic eroticism, sensed as orgasmic sensations and overﬂowing imma-

nence. In both cases, there is an overwhelming sensation that the individual

is merging into the crowd, in a process of de-subjectiﬁcation (deterritori-

alizing asigniﬁcation), involving potential rewards and dangers – sacred

madness. Whether or not drugs are necessary, participants tend to agree

that the basic intoxicant is the music, which overtakes the subject and

makes it dance.

A good track is described as ‘very powerful’ as it ‘takes you on a journey,’

usually referring to compositions that feature a more violent, fast and

complex rhythmic structure topped by a visceral refrain. Similarly, a mem-

orable party is often depicted as ‘full power’ and it ‘blows your mind.’

212 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

The raving experience is similarly described as a ‘deep trip’ in which you

‘lose your mind.’ Not by coincidence, DJs deﬁne their task as being ‘to

take the crowd on a journey.’ In consonance with the mobility motive, a

‘nice trip’ is wished to someone ingesting a hallucinogen. ‘Spaceships’ and

‘intergalactic voyages’ are trivial metaphors of the psychedelic ‘journey’

into transpersonal dimensions, whereas the word hallucinogen is rooted in

the Ancient Greek alyein, which means, ‘to wander,’ referring to the dis-

tracted gaze of trancing shamans. All of these examples are symptomatic

of non-ordinary experiences of the self, integrating power and mobility

into musical representations of affective, visceral effect.

Techno therefore relates to power, both as an intrinsic quality of the

music, and as a device that shatters the self. Because of its aesthetic,

cultural and psychological connections with the force of power, Techno

instantiates Deleuze’s conceptualization of contemporary art, as ‘not a

question of reproducing or inventing forms, but of harnessing forces’

(Deleuze, in Bogue 1996: 257). Accordingly, electronic music sets forth a

‘physics of affection’ that unravels upon nature and force, favoring a logic

of sensation over perception. As such, rather than linear, narrative and

verbally demarcated, Techno art is rather recursive, immanent and deter-

ritorializing.

The rave assemblage thus both expresses and entails the struggle between

power and form that tears the raving subject apart. By decoding the subject,

the rave assemblage transforms the dance ﬂoor into a ﬁeld of psychic

zones. The dancer then senses the struggle: chaotic forces that seek to break

loose through the spiraling refrain, while the shifting structure of rhythms

hold the system together. This symphony of systolic-diastolic forces thus

traces a line of ﬂight that remits the self in variable directions. As inten-

sity sets in, iterable sounds transform Techno into a meta-music that

derails one’s perception and understanding of oneself, its body, time and

reality. Sensoriality is the ﬁrst region of the self to be affected: vision alters,

hearing enhances, skin sensitizes. Ordinary reason is then distorted with

the relativization of one’s mental and affective references, in a surge of

insights and memories that saturate and implode ordinary reason. The

bounded ego collapses. Sounds and lights acquire tangible textures, engulf-

ing the dancer in the protective space of a cosmic womb, entailing self-

transcendence, ecstatic epiphany and pleasurable death. Raving is an

experience in which the dancer becomes the dance. It is orgiastic and ascetic,

private and collective, inside and outside – it is a dismantling organism, a

Body without Organs.

Within such economies of excess, a trance party never climaxes but

remains looping and spiraling in plateaus of intensity (Deleuze and Guattari

1980). The iterability (repetition-cum-difference) of Techno also expresses

the neurotic short circuit that clashes boredom and excitement, reconﬁg-

ured in chromatic aesthetic forms. A good DJ operates on intensity and

retention, building up orgasmic tension and seldom releasing it. A rave

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 213

party must remain at the edge of experimentation: the Body without

Organs of Techno, unfolding as a nomadic desiring-machine, setting the

lines of ﬂight that move towards and through the realm of personal tran-

scendence at the extraordinary.

The impact of this limit-experience on ordinary life and self-identity

cannot be underestimated. It is not that raving triggers an affection that

vanishes itself, but rather that an overwhelming emotion shatters personal

references, challenging coherent being not only during but also after the

experience. As participants often report, this is a limit-experience that can

unravel either as a spiritual epiphany or mental illness (Airault 2000;

Foucault 1978). This is why trance parties are enveloped in an aura of

sacredness, referring to tacit rules of behavior and reverence that seek to

protect the subject from the destructive potential of raving. This in part

explains why freaks are protective of their events against outsiders.

By examining trance ritual and style, I detected a ‘nomadic spirituality’

as a core category that intersects global and countercultural processes both

empirically and analytically. On one level, it refers to the cultivation of

alternative experiences of the self, as a crucial element in the formation of

a counter-hegemonic apparatus that eschews the market, state, science and

morality. At another level, it refers to the cultural predicament of global-

ization which transforms self-identities reﬂexively (Giddens 1991). As such,

Techno tribalism should not be seen as revivals of pre-modern life, since

social complexity and atomic individuality render the retrieval of an

original self as naive and farcical. Quite differently, Techno tribalism pro-

vides ritual grounds for a meaningful narrative that accounts for the rise

of hypermobile lifestyles, as instantiated by trance freaks. The collective

effervescence that characterizes these global countercultural rituals must

be considered within these parameters: through the group – as a necessary

condition – but because of the subject (Heelas 1996; Maffesoli 1988).

Psychic deterritorialization: madness in India

Trance parties are just one instance, even if a highly dramatic one, of

‘nomadic spirituality.’ In circumstances with no relation to drug experi-

ences, other Western travelers develop unusual idiosyncratic traits. Intense

meditation and therapy practices in spiritual centers also contribute to

shake their cognitive and affective structures (Chapter 4). Conversely,

charter tourists remain immune, not only because of the shortness and

artiﬁciality of their stay in India, but also because of their leisure inter-

ests, not at all aimed at challenging their self-identities beyond the ethylic

binge by the sun. In considering the case of distressed travelers in India,

the point is to address how travel experiences, under speciﬁc meaning

orientations, undermine ethno-nationalist premises, existential certainties

and even the mental capabilities of Western subjects moving across exotic

lands, particularly India.

214 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

This phenomenon, which I term ‘psychic deterritorialization,’ has ﬂuctu-

ated through history. Ian Hacking refers to speciﬁc arrangements of cultural

expectations, medical taxonomies and institutional controls as ‘cultural

niches’ that precipitate the emergence and disappearance of speciﬁc forms

of mental illness (Hacking 1998). As such, in modern history, the ﬁrst

appearance of ‘travel madness’ in the eyes of public authorities occurred in

late nineteenth-century France, where it was diagnosed as a psychiatric

condition named ‘dromomania’: an irresistible compulsion to move long

distances, triggered by migraine seizures, amnesia and kleptomania. Quite

curiously, Hacking notes that most dromomaniacs were lower middle-class

men, citizens under structured conditions who were neither too poor to

wander freely like tramps, nor resourceful enough to afford a grand tour

like the bourgeois. Roughly put, in order to travel they had to disrupt social

and psychic structures. More widely, Hacking considers its emergence in

genealogical terms, as an unintended consequence of a context characterized

by state surveillance, the glamorization of tourism, medical theory debates,

and the advent of the bicycle as a fascinating artifact of privatized mobility.

Hacking notes that, due to changes in scientiﬁc models (resulting from

medical feuds rather than from epistemological gains), dromomania virtu-

ally disappeared as a medical category and, mysteriously, as an empirical

phenomenon.

However, such disappearance refers to invisibility and inattention, and

not to inexistence. Quite to the contrary, I maintain that mobility remains

as a force that potentially derails self-identities. Studies on counterculture

and consular medicine corroborate my ﬁeldwork: psychic deterritorial-

ization can occur through practices of hypermobility, and, I argue,

increasingly so in the rise of globalization processes. The last and most

visible wave of self-derailing travel in recent history refers to the hippie

invasion of India in the early 1970s:

The diplomat had calculated that of the quarter of million French

people on the Indian subcontinent, a good eighty percent were in

pursuit of mind expansion or obscure salvation. [. . .] Considering the

difﬁculties of remaining intact in Asia, most embassies have [. . .]

allotted doctors or psychiatrists, often both, whose only function is

to deal with the casualities of the great pilgrimage.

(Mehta 1990 [1979]: 21)

While countercultures have explicitly engaged with travel experimenta-

tion, it must be now considered under the impact of globalization as an

aggravating factor, since the acceleration of ﬂows of peoples and images

has taken an unprecedented scale. As a general hypothesis, under growing

conditions of globalization marked by processes of hypermobility, digital-

ization and multiculturalism, the phenomenon of psychic deterritorializa-

tion will become more socially pervasive, variously affecting other segments

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 215

that become exposed to such global pressures. In this light, the study of

Western travelers in India provides an interesting case upon which to

examine the interrelations between mobility and subjectivity, particularly

as it occurs within the larger streams of globalization.

Upon arrival in India, a few travelers may keep their passports at

consulates. While being a measure of precaution, metaphorically it denotes

that they are leaving their ‘identities’ behind (Airault 2000). As a psychi-

atrist based in the consulate of France in Mumbai during the early 1990s,

Regis Airault cared about the mental health of consular workers, and in

more urgent cases would rescue and even repatriate long-haul travelers

who became mentally ill in the country. The surprising number of cases

he treated led him to document such phenomenon in the book Fous de

l’Inde: Delires d’Occidentaux et Sentiment Oceanique (Airault 2000). It

is worth noting that most of the cases he refers to took place in Goa and

Pune. According to him, India acts as an ampliﬁer of minor idiosyncratic

symptoms (p. 53), which may escalate to mentally dysfunctional levels.

A colleague even asks: ‘L’Inde rend-elles fou, ou les fous vont-ils en Inde?’

(‘Is it India that makes them crazy, or is it that crazy people come to

India?’ p. 13).

Before critically examining his interpretive model, it is important to

identify the relations of causality between travel and mental illness. Airault

afﬁrms that the orientalist trip can be either ‘pathological’ or ‘pathogenic.’

A trip is pathological when traveling is motivated by a ‘delusional idea’

that occurs at home, an emotional stress that stems from life hardships

(often a separation or chronic sub/unemployment). In a few cases, there

is some previous connection to drug abuse or psychiatric proclivities (such

as paranoia or manic depression). In any of these cases, it is a discom-

fort with external or psychological situations that motivates the subject

to travel. In contrast, the ‘pathogenic trip’ results from the very impact

of mobility upon the self, particularly in exotic lands:

The trip itself is the cause of an acute psychic unbalance in people

thus far ‘normal’ (with a relative psychic balance): their perturbation

emerges during their displacements across India. In this case, trav-

eling triggers a crisis that is marked by the general failure of the

mental regulation of the traveler.

(Airault 2000: 25)

My empirical research corroborates his claim that only a few travelers

derail completely; most of them go through ‘a minor vacillation of iden-

tity,’ which only temporarily weakens their personal certainties (Airault

2000: 52). Over the course of weeks following the initial shock (as summa-

rized in Chapter 4), the traveler gradually develops some unusual

behavioral traits, which tend to be either euphoric or anxious and melan-

cholic. They may report insightful experiences during meditation, while

216 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

others even suggest that they have found some sort of ‘spiritual enlight-

enment.’ A few travelers may refuse Westerners and ‘go native,’ usually

ignorant of local languages, cultural codes and power relations (Mehta

1990). Rather than a relaxing vacation, others manifest persistent anxiety,

which may escalate to panic attacks. In more dramatic cases, it may

involve a mild nervous breakdown or a mental collapse. Such difﬁculties

are more pronounced in ﬁrst-time travelers from a highly structured,

middle-class background.

Veteran travelers, nevertheless, seem to have become immune to such

crises, though they also recall embarrassing episodes from former trips.

They gradually gain a familiarity with native peoples and local expatriates

with whom they develop stable relationships, often associated with eco-

nomic agreements or spiritual learning. At least, they have been able to

adapt their own ‘dysfunctional’ idiosyncrasies as a lifestyle that is accepted

by other expatriates and amused natives. In this connection, these veteran

travelers say that going to India feels like ‘returning home’ (Begrich and

Muehlebach 1998) or ‘returning to the mother’s womb’ (Airault 2000: 57):

The Indian experience invites for an exploration of origins. It triggers

the most archaic dimension of our thought, which is the source of

the process of symbolization. It activates our buried relation with our

parents, resonating a sense of harmony as well as of ancient anxiety:

phantasms of corrosion, separation and annihilation. In India you

become nothing, or almost that.

(Airault 2000: 57)

However, it is not any trip that entails a crisis of subjectivity. Airault

somehow agrees with a colleague who claimed that ‘India can make you

crazy’ (p. 25); nevertheless, he remarks that this phenomenon similarly

occurs in other places and to other peoples (such as Japanese youth in

Paris, or Christian tourists in Israel). Expatriates recently arrived in Ibiza

may develop such incoherent traits, likely due to an imaginary of freedom

that connects the person to the island in a carefree fashion. It thus seems

that speciﬁc places hold a ‘mythic power’ that unleashes certain emotional-

semiotic reactions which can overwhelm the self. In other words, the

‘pathogenic travel’ does not happen at random:

These unbalances do not simply derive from climate, mystical environ

and drugs, but to the fact that our reality depends on the symbolic

universe that determines us and on the phantasms

that animates us.

If we are exposed to a different universe for a long time, our reality

is undone and is replaced by the country that occupies a mythic posi-

tion in relation to the homeland.

(Airault 2000: 101)

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 217

Although insightful and empirically grounded, the analytical model set

forth by Airault stumbles on three critical issues: orientalism, globaliza-

tion and biopower. First, while describing how exotic myths transform

the traveler’s psyche, Airault projects and reiﬁes Western representations

that romanticize India as ‘timeless,’ ‘adolescent,’ ‘motherly’ and ‘death-

wise.’ The author thus feeds an imaginary whose self-derailing effects he

seeks to dispel as a consular doctor. Second, the study does not consider

how processes of globalization may be directly affecting identity and

subjectivity forms (Povinelli and Chauncey 1999; Giddens 1991). Finally,

Airault ignores the deeper imbrications of his position as a consular psychi-

atrist in relation to Techno and New Age formations in India. While

countercultures question the institutional foundations of mental illness in

advanced societies, Airault dismisses these counter-hegemonic experiments

as ‘delusional’ and ‘immature,’ stuck in the enjoyment of an eternal present.

As such, from a critical perspective, by medicalizing the modern subject,

the doctor ends up reinforcing the institutional-ideological regimes that

engender ‘mental disease.’ The consular psychiatrist is a sui generis incar-

nation of the biopower of state and science which produces the centrifugal

traveler that Airault will paradoxically rescue and ‘bring back to reality.’

Having explicated the exclusionary modes of consular psychiatry, the

fact remains that Western travelers in their quest for authenticity in exotic

lands will vacillate, derail and collapse – in a word, deterritorialize. In

the previous section, I employed the Deleuzian view on modern aes-

thetics in order to address the subjective effects of the rave assemblage in

patterns that I have termed ‘nomadic spirituality.’ We must now consider

psychiatric categorizations as a way of evincing the nature of psychic

deterritorialization.

As the journey extends, the subject may start to question the veracity

of perceived aspects of reality, its ‘suchness,’ and whether or not it is

being properly interpreted by the self. Known as ‘derealization,’ this mental

process is typically expressed in thoughts such as, ‘That is surreal. It seems

that what I am seeing is not quite real. Is that really happening or is it

just my imagination?’ The intensity of unstructured interactions in exotic

environments, as well as the prolonged exposure to psychedelic parties,

cathartic therapies or meditation marathons may combine in ways that

engender sensations of strangeness as an experience of detachment from

the external world. Yet, derealization is a mild aspect of the neurotic, if

compared with the more sinister possibility of the paranoid:

As the journey extends for various weeks, the traveler may be caught

up in an insidious feeling of depersonalization. A part of oneself

has become strange, and seems to have been absorbed by ‘Mother

India.’ It is no longer a shock, but a progressive subsiding of our

mental skills. Very different from ours, the symbolic universe where

we immerse in India undermines the foundations of our identity and

218 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

completely disrupts our references. Slowly, we sink in the pitfalls of

a profound existential doubt over our role in this world and our views

of life and death.

(Airault 2000: 77)

Beyond derealization, the traveler now suffers its own depersonalization.

The self is no longer an entity unconsciously taken for granted, and even

the body is oddly perceived, immersed in a state of hyperreality. Natural

lights seem to shine differently and the appearance of things acquires a

dreamy overtone. Within oneself, unusual questions arise, such as ‘Am I

here because I want, or did something (or someone) conspire to bring me

here?’; ‘I don’t recognize my thoughts as mine. It feels like I am not really

myself’; or ‘My body feels strange. I am losing touch with myself.’ Un-

trammeled reﬂexivity thus undermines one’s sense of identity and time

linearity, necessarily affecting the ability to monitor ordinary agency in daily

life. This loss of ‘ontological security’ is coupled with a rise in existential

anxiety (Giddens 1991). The resulting behavior has been noted throughout

this book: the subject develops mystical or paranoid dispositions; they may

become excessively expansive, talkative or reckless. In tandem, basic rou-

tines such as sleeping, eating and hygiene can be severely disturbed. Quite

curiously, if India ampliﬁes symptoms of derailment, it also tolerates the

eccentricity of foreign travelers as somehow amusing (Mehta 1990).

But deterritorialization cannot persist for too long, or the free lines of

ﬂight may turn into the destructive lines of death (Deleuze and Guattari

1980: 423). The derailed traveler thus tends to regain their contact with

the external world known as ‘reality.’ In most cases, psychic deterritori-

alization is mild or episodic, and the subject regains the ordinary faculties

while still in India. A few others, however, will plunge into deeper chaos,

requiring the intervention of friends and natives, and in the last instance,

of a consular agent. In the worst circumstance, the traveler is ﬂown back

to their homeland. Curiously, as they lose their ‘identities,’ passports also

disappear in about half of the cases (Airault 2000: 186).

Repatriation is more than a consular procedure; it is also a healing process.

As an institutional and symbolic incarnation of the state, the consular agent

‘accompanies the traveler in their inner journey [. . .] reintroducing refer-

ences within a perspective of return and temporality’ (Airault 2000: 184–5).

At home, the patient dramatically improves as if returning from a ‘malaria

of the soul’ – hospitalization becomes unnecessary. Mental faculties are

regained, emotional pain subsides and ordinary life is normally resumed.

The traveler recalls this experience of self-derailment as a positive memory

rather than a personal failure. Nonetheless, Airault notes that about a

fourth of these repatriated subjects will ‘relapse.’ As he puts it, ‘India is a

toxicogenic that operates like a veritable drug, creating psychic and physical

dependence’ (p. 190).

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 219

However, Airault does not consider those travelers who developed

psychological distress after the trip. In this case, rather than an effect of

unstructured freedom, psychic deterritorialization stems from a refusal to

continue one’s life coping with conventional life schemes: boredom, mean-

inglessness, predictability and stress. Many will force themselves to adapt

to prior life conditions, often recurring to compensatory mechanisms,

such as addiction, self-medication, consumerism, biographic efforts, etc.

Others fail reintegration not only due to psychic conditions but to biopower

imperatives: without education, documents, references or discipline, they

are unable to ﬁnd an economic insertion or institutional tutelage. A few

others, however, will seek to develop a lifestyle that more closely relates

to such experiences of liberation, pleasure and expressivity. In some cases,

they may move to a semi-peripheral region or country, and start a new

career, usually more ‘alternative,’ based on more expressive and auton-

omous values. They will become either bohemian workers or expressive

expatriates. In response to Airault’s metaphors about the toxicology of

India and the immaturity of countercultures, global nomads would say

that India is not the drug but rather the medicine for the soul.

Conclusion: nomadic spirituality and smooth spaces

The trance scene quickly fades in April, in face of the impending monsoon

season. Most freaks return to Israel, Japan or Europe (including Ibiza).

Others move on to the Himalayan foothills, Nepal, Thailand and Indonesia

(Bali). In the West, they either resume conventional jobs in farms, facto-

ries, hotels, pubs and travel agencies, or carry on as hippie traders,

handcrafters, artists, yoga teachers, therapists or drug dealers. They may

renew their six-month passport visas in order to return to India in the

following season. In the Indian Himalayas, the villages of the Parvati

valley accommodate the Techno trance scene in the mountains. It is mostly

attended by Israeli youth, many of whom have been recently dismissed

from the military service. A few dozen freaks remain in northern Goa,

relaxing in more intimate parties. Within these spatiotemporal gates and

routes, ‘the nomad does not move’ (Deleuze and Guattari, 1980: 381):

they are permanently trying to keep the smooth space of creativity and

experimentation.

As seen, the trance scene is an object of diverging interests and mean-

ings. For villagers and corrupt authorities, it is a basic source of income.

In their turn, foreign tourists consume trance parties as innocuous leisure,

while domestic Indian tourists see it as an amazing way to have a taste of

the West in their own country. For backpackers, trance parties constitute

an exciting way of forgetting existential dilemmas from the homeland. And

at last, for freaks, a trance party is a quasi-sacred ritual enmeshing spiri-

tuality, technology and political claims against and beyond modernity. In

220 Techno trance tribalism in Goa

this sense, Techno trance simultaneously resists and expresses tensions and

the possibilities of global capitalism at the turn of the millennium.

These countercultural formations – practices and cosmology of Techno

and New Age – are regulated by patterns that I designate as ‘nomadic spir-

ituality.’ At one level, trance rituals dramatize the impact of hypermobility

and digitalization upon subjectivities, processes that saturate the cognitive

ability to make sense of a colossal global order (Jameson 1991). At another

level, Techno trance regiments the subject into a counter-hegemonic appa-

ratus that congeals hypermobility and marginality as a tactic of opposition

against the dominant regimes of state and morality (biopower/sexuality).

In rave parties, such regimentation is carried out by means of transper-

sonal devices that saturate the body, and implode ordinary modes of

perception, affection and behavior. It thus engenders different experiences

of the self and sociality that potentially depart with the biopower-sexuality

regime (Chapter 1), even though these experiments also impregnate the

scene with self-destructive and nihilistic components.

Expressive therapies, trance parties and long-haul traveling are all

instances of nomadic spirituality. In many cases, the subject succumbs

to the derailing effects of hypermobility and subjective experimentation,

ampliﬁed by the symbolic power of exotic lands. Nonetheless, it is worth

noting that the diaspora of expressive expatriation had been experimenting

with rootlessness and estrangement long before these became celebrated as

conditions of a now globalizing world. These alternative sites of experi-

mentation may thus anticipate some of the emerging predicaments of

cultural globalization, as theoretically outlined in Chapter 1.

Finally, as I interacted with charter tourists, backpackers, sannyasins,

trance freaks, bohemian workers and expressive expatriates in India and

Ibiza, I realized that their apparent individuality was not as pungent and

interesting as the social, cultural and spatial conditions that gradually

reconﬁgured their inner selves in India. Despite the rhetoric of autonomous

self-determination, travel transformed most of them into caricatures of

smiley tourists, openhearted meditators or rebellious freaks. But among

those for whom hypermobility became a constitutive component of their

metamorphic identities, it makes no sense to try to ascertain what behavior

is ‘authentic’ or ‘true.’ For a reason, they have sought to defy ﬁxity and

nominalism, by engaging in often risky practices that grant them a ﬂuidic

quality (Braidotti 1994; Maffesoli 1988). In the ‘contact zones’ of hedon-

istic spirituality in India, I witnessed the fragile and volatile nature of

Western egos. The axiological ‘I,’ noted by Louis Dumont, was becoming

something else.

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Techno trance tribalism in Goa 221

6 Global counter-conclusions

Flexible economies and

subjectivities

Reﬂexive transformation is a leitmotif of Western modernity, progressing

– modernists believe – toward universal happiness and enlightenment.

However, such a claim of teleological progress has been disputed by

countercultural movements as farcical – an Enlightenment ideal of utopia

that would be better replaced by Romantic versions of inﬁnite dys/utopias.

Yet, paradoxically, these cultures of resistance have been emerging from

within modernity itself, manifesting expressive, cosmopolitan and reﬂexive

tropes that arise from the very modern dynamics they criticize.

Globalization complexiﬁes this dialectic by speeding up self-reﬂexivity

in non-teleological and unpredictable ways (Giddens 1989; Wallerstein

1989). Hypermobility and digitalism have become constitutive of counter-

hegemonic practices and ideologies that depart from conventional regimes

of the nation-state, morality and the market – although in a contradictory

position of reproduction and co-optation. As contemporary expressions of

this interplay between counterculture and globalization, Techno and New

Age are thus situated at the intersection of countercultural continuity (since

classical Romanticism) and postmodernist rupture (by globalization). A

focused analysis of these formations may shed light on understanding the

possibility of alternative modernities.

Within contexts of ﬂexible capitalism (as the main economic axis of

globalization), expressive expatriates have learned to explore interstitial

spaces of leisure, art and wellness; informal economies, alternative busi-

ness and what is left over from the welfare state. Neo-nomadic strategies

include autonomous, seasonal or part-time jobs, more or less autonomous

and expressive in nature, and they may also count on parental allowances,

inheritance or state-based unemployment support. A combination of all

of these sources can be noted most of the times, along with relatively

frugal strategies of expense control. In Ibiza, Goa and Pune, typical sites

for income-generation are also spaces of socialization, such as hippie

(tourist) markets, sunset bars, New Age workshops, spiritual centers, night-

clubs and trance parties (raves).

By territorializing in semi-peripheral locations, global countercultures

have an impact on local communities. The presence of alternative

expatriates and travelers in remote villages has historically provided a

deconcentrated source of income for a large segment of local inhabitants,

in addition to granting a queer charisma to such locations (Davis 2004;

New York Times 2004; Saldanha 2004; Ramón-Fajarnés 2000; Cerda-

Subirachs and Rodriguez-Branchat 1999; Joan I Mari 1997; Wilson 1997b;

Odzer 1995; Rozenberg 1990; Paul 1937). However, these places are

gradually invaded by larger waves of conventional tourists and migrants,

propelled by native and global strategies of tourism development in

which expressive expatriates inadvertently become objects, indicators and

beneﬁciaries. Tourism and entertainment industries create economic oppor-

tunities for natives and expatriates to make a living, sometimes with an

exceptional cumulative gain; however, this scenario often turns into a self-

cannibalizing quagmire, for the ensuing commodiﬁcation and overregula-

tion of paradisiacal venues, practices and imaginaries undermine the

sustainability of neo-nomadic formations. At a later stage, big hotel chains

become the main economic actors of local massiﬁcation or gentriﬁcation

of tourism, in any case resulting in environmental degradation and social

exclusion (The Guardian 2006; Newman 2001a; Ramón-Fajarnés 2000;

Routledge 2000; Dantas 1999; Sen 1999; Rozenberg 1990). Inﬂation,

overwork, pollution, surveillance, urbanization and overpopulation compel

expressive expatriates to re-evaluate their insertion in such transformed

environments.

Transnational ﬂows of countercultural subjects, practices and ideas, and

the resulting circuits and networks, are shaped in contact with a variety

of agents, forces and structures at various levels (from local to global).

As a classic example, the repression of rave culture in the UK in the early

1990s led to the emergence of corporate clubbing in that nation, and also

provided a new impetus to the party scenes of Ibiza and Goa in the wake

of electronic dance music globally. It is pertinent to note that, although

tourism is a critical industry in Balearic, Mediterranean and Indian regions,

only in Ibiza and Goa have exceptionally high rates of growth and modern-

ization been veriﬁed (perhaps with Kerala as another exception) – to wit,

Ibiza and Goa display some of the highest per-capita income rates of

Spain and India. Throughout the 2000s, northern Goan villagers have

mostly complained about the police intervention against the trance party

scene for stiﬂing their main source of subsistence. State authorities at the

capital Panaji have thus to recalibrate their decisions in order to accom-

modate diverging interests in tourism development. Likewise, the Osho

resort has emphatically adhered to the formula of institutional accom-

modation and rampant commercialization of spirituality and therapy. In

sum, and more abstractly, the global interconnectedness which emerges

from inﬁnite ﬂows of countercultural elements also unravels through

systemic attritions and disjunctures veriﬁed among social, political and

economic domains (Urry 2003; Appadurai 1996; Hannerz 1996).

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Global counter-conclusions 223

At a theoretical level, the notion of neo-nomadism was developed upon

two interrelated claims. First, current understandings of globalization

(based on notions of network, diaspora and cosmopolitanism) are insuf-

ﬁcient to address the critical features of complex globalization, notably,

the postidentitarian effect of hypermobility. Second, having considered

self-marginalized expatriates as an empirical instance of global mobility,

this study has sought to develop a dialogue between nomadism and

nomadology as a step toward a theory of neo-nomadism, an intellectual

yet empirically instantiated device for examining the cultural implications

of hypermobility.

In a Weberian sense, the neo-nomad is an ideal-type, unraveling upon

the productive tension between evidence and concept. On the one hand,

it refers to a minority of high-modern renegades involved in hypermobile

formations that seek to evade systemic regimes of the political, economic

and moral mainstream. In fact, displaying various degrees of engagement

with spatial and subjective mobility, only a few of these alternative subjects

remain permanently ‘on the road’ (as mistakenly assumed about nomads

in general). Most expressive expatriates live in one or two foreign places,

and intermittently travel across exotic and homeland locations in a

geographic triangulation. This pattern conﬁrms John Urry’s claim about

temporary rest and replenishment as a condition of mobility. ‘Overall it

is the moorings that enable movements. And it is the dialectic of mobility/

moorings that produces social complexity’ (Urry 2003: 126).

As veriﬁed in the biographic trajectories of expressive expatriates, the

simultaneity of multinational backgrounds, periodical spatial displace-

ments and transpersonal experiences is a deﬁning feature of neo-nomadism.

By integrating practices of self-shaping/shattering within a mobile lifestyle,

they develop a nomadic mentality that attempts to make sense of the impact

of globalization in their lives and environments. Expressive expatriates

have been experimenting with strangeness, rootlessness and displacement

much before these qualities became considered by the media and academia

to be predicaments of contemporary life. Their familiarity with such

predicaments demonstrates the richness of neo-nomadism as an analytical

site that probably anticipates emerging conditions, processes and trends of

cultural globalization.

Hence, sociological theories suggesting that alternative subjects are a

social product of neo-liberal exclusion miss the longer countercultural

historicities of Romanticism, and also fail to understand why and how

these subjects make critical decisions for transforming their life trajecto-

ries. Certainly, material contexts powerfully affect the range of possible

decisions, actions and dispositions. However, it is less an issue of indus-

trialist, technocratic and neo-liberal determinations, and more about

modernity itself. Away from the alienation and routine of contemporary

life, expressive expatriates seek to integrate labor, leisure and spiritual

practices into a meaningful life strategy which is irreducible to economic

224 Global counter-conclusions

explanations. In their search for holistic charisma in a fragmented world,

mobility becomes not only an economic tool for the reproduction of their

lifestyle, but also a counter-hegemonic practice of subjectivity formation,

predicated on tropes and experiences that depart from the modern subject

of sexuality/biopower.

In this connection, it is important to note the two quite different styles

of subjectivity formation that are veriﬁed within global countercultures.

New Agers cultivate the self as an inner substance to be shaped within

holistic ideals, whereas Techno freaks implode the ego during pounding

rituals of Gothic digitalism. Such polarities, nevertheless, must not be seen

as exclusive but rather as complementary orientations. At a social level,

expressive expatriates ordinarily transit across Techno and New Age sites,

in patterns of belonging that can be either simultaneous or oscillatory, in

forms of engagement at the sphere of cultural production, consumption

or often both. Techno freaks attend crystal healing practices before pro-

moting trance parties, which they see as very spiritual. Their electronic

music (both Techno trance and New Age ambient) contains motifs experi-

enced as psychedelic and ethereal. New Agers may consume shamanic

hallucinogens during a rave party, aloof to modernist distinctions between

leisure and religion. Osho sannyasins consider their careers in party promo-

tion, therapy and art as closely connected to their lifestyle values on

expression, meditation and celebration. DJs are often inclined to oriental

philosophies, with friends already involved with New Age practices in a

global diaspora of countercultural exchanges. In sum, rather than exclu-

sive entities, New Age and Techno become permeable styles: neo-tribes

rather than subcultures (Bennett 1999; Maffesoli 1988).

More substantively, Techno and New Age are sites under which global

hypermobility correlates with pragmatic, ﬂuid and metamorphic identity

forms. On a surface value, afﬁliation interests are represented under tem-

poral adverbs, ‘Yesterday I was into rave, today I am into Wicca, tomorrow

I may try Zen.’ As such, alternative subjects regularly migrate across

Techno and New Age sites of experience in their quest for non-ordinary

understandings about their own self and proper sociability. Nevertheless,

under the dizzying variety of New Age labels and practices, there is

considerable consistency, which is based on a pattern of religiosity that I

have termed nomadic spirituality: a condition of reﬂexive experimentation

geared toward an understanding of the self which attempts to keep itself

in line with the shifting realities of global mobility, digitalism and multi-

culturalism, while ambivalently resonating with trends toward reﬂexive

individualism and ephemeral consumerism (Carrete and King 2005; Brooks

2000; Lash 1994; Taylor 1991; Campbell 1989). The inﬁnite exchanges

between Techno and New Age formations are also an expression of such

nomadic spirituality, coalescing in a common semiotic ground that culti-

vates alternative experiences of the self, encoded by post-sexuality modes

and a Romantic critique of modern life. In other words, Techno and New

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Global counter-conclusions 225

Age simultaneously constitute and express a global counterculture that,

while being continuously co-opted by states of discipline and markets of

desire, also entails the possibility of alternative identities based on meta-

morphic experimentation.

Upon this ethnologic assessment, the neo-nomad is also a concept that

addresses the ﬂuidic and metamorphic (neo-tribalistic) nature of subjective

afﬁliations and identity formation under conditions of intense global-

ization. ‘Nomadism: vertiginous progression toward deconstructing identity;

molecularisation of the self’ (Braidotti 1994: 16). The scholarship has

noted the corrosive effects of globalization on the stability of identity,

resulting in reﬂexive, fundamentalist and nihilistic responses (Appadurai

1996; Beck et al. 1994; Turner 1994). However, while focusing on the

mapping of ﬂows and networks, the scholarship has overlooked the

(re)constitution of subjective interiorities in elective afﬁnity with such a

deterritorializing predicament (Gille and Riain 2002; Burawoy and Gille

2000; Povinelli and Chauncey 1999). At the ethical realm, the fragmented

and colonized nature of modernity necessitates the ability to confront the

majoritarian law and to rebalance the polytheism of values (Goldman

1988; Foucault 1984i; Weber 1918). The content of neo-nomadism is thus

not made of striated substance but of provisory forms in ﬂux:

The nomad does not stand for homelessness, or compulsive displace-

ment; it is rather a ﬁguration for the kind of subject who has relin-

quished all idea, desire, or nostalgia for ﬁxity. This ﬁguration expresses

the desire for an identity made of transitions, successive shifts, and

coordinated changes, without and against an essential unity.

(Braidotti 1994: 22)

Nomadology more generally refers to the possibility (and risk) of cultural

change under conditions of globalization. The postidentitarian predicament

of hypermobility is imbricated with a logic of control and resistance that

reshapes the nature of dissent in globalized societies (Hardt and Negri

2000; Deleuze 1995). More closely seen, neo-nomads interact with seden-

tary societies in a fragile symbiosis, whether in the sunny semi-periphery

or bohemian districts of the global city (Lloyd 2006; Stalnaker 2002;

Stanley 1997). Despite ﬂeeing the mainstream, expressive expatriates are

soon followed by tourists, urban developers, migrants and yuppies, and a

dialectic of liberation and accommodation is permanently in action, period-

ically renewing itself in different spaces, sites and times, and in paradoxical

consonance with the capitalist logic of consumption and reproduction.

The utopian imaginary of neo-nomads thus exerts a seductive inﬂuence

upon sedentary societies, as media, advertising and leisure spaces indi-

cate. In a sense, ‘the more [countercultures] capture the feeling of modern

alienation and anomie, the better they serve consumptive capital.’ (Povinelli

2000: 521). How conventional dwellers and tourists are enticed to

226 Global counter-conclusions

experiment with a neo-nomadic lifestyle is a question that requires further

investigation. Yet, in the places that expressive expatriates share with

sedentary peoples, it is not uncommon to witness young tourists inquiring

about alternative gigs in nightclubs, hippie parties and spiritual resorts

(instances of Techno and New Age), and later ‘drop out’ to be seen in

some other node of the global countercultural circuit, whether it be for

a season or for a whole lifetime . . .

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Global counter-conclusions 227

Notes

1 Introduction: neo-nomadism: a theory of postidentitarian mobility

in the global age

1 An abridged version of this chapter was published in the journal Mobilities

(2006, 1: 95–119).

2 By ‘critical studies’ I refer to a constellation of empirical and theoretical studies

that includes not only the critical theory of the Frankfurt School but also the

French post-structuralism of Foucault, Deleuze and Guattari, as well as crit-

ical insights from a Weberian-Nietzschean tradition. Agger 1992; Calhoum

1995; Foucault and Lotringer 1989; Fuery 2000; Halperin 1995; Horkheimer

and Adorno 1972; Moraru 2001; Nealon and Irr 2002; Neuenhaus 1993;

Norris 1994; Owen 1994; Poster 1989; Schrift 1995; Szakolczai 1998; Taylor

1990.

3 His place was located a few hundred meters from my ﬁeld residence.

4 As a biographic note of signiﬁcance, towards the end of his life, Weber had

to reconsider the role of aesthetic-erotic practices in engendering a life politics.

His conviction on an ethics of vocation was shaken after his brief interactions

at the countercultural commune of Ascona in the Swiss Alps foothills. There

he witnessed the shattering effects of unconventional forms of art and affective

relationship (Green 1986).

5 ‘Sexuality’ is a socio-cultural apparatus of practices, institutions and know-

ledge (scientia sexualis) that constitutes the modern subject. It reﬂects control

mechanisms of the nation-state and related institutions (science, family, church,

workplace, army) in controlling populations and individuals (biopower).

Sexuality is constructed as a category and domain of obscure causalities,

pathologies, external intervention and deciphering of the subject, to whom

‘desire’ is the central element in the production and control of modern selves

and their interiority (Dreyfus et al. 1983; Foucault 1976).

6 The destabilization of identities is also discussed in queer theory studies

(though paradoxically circumscribed to sexual identity). ‘“Queer” acquires

meaning from oppositional relation to norm. It is by deﬁnition at odds with

the normal, the legitimate, the dominant. [. . .] It demarcates not a positivity

but a positionality [and] describes a horizon of possibility whose scope cannot

be delimited in advance.’ (Halperin 1995). I propose that this conceptualiza-

tion must be deployed more generally, in the analysis of global processes,

such as hybridization and reﬂexivity, upon identity and subjectivity formation.

In this view, the notion of queer refers to the destabilization not only of gender

identity but of any form of identity (biographic, ethical, religious, aesthetic,

social, etc.), which seems to be particularly the case under conditions of

globalization.

2 Expressive expatriates in Ibiza: hypermobility as countercultural

practice and identity

1 This book utilizes the international system of units (SI) for measurement (metric,

Celsius) and the military 24-hour code. Currency exchanges converted into

the US dollar refer to the moment the ﬁgure was collected: rupee, peseta (until

year 2002) and euro.

2 About 30 per cent of this ﬁgure does not reach Ibiza, being held by tour oper-

ators and airline companies in the UK, Germany, Italy, and mainland Spain

(Govern de les Illes Balears 2003; interview with Ibiza Tourist Board in summer

of 2003).

3 In Ibiza, geographical locations have both Spanish and Ibicencan names. In

line with regionalization trends, I adopt the local terminology. As an excep-

tion, I employ ‘Ibiza town’ and ‘Eivissa’ to refer to the capital city, while

keeping ‘Ibiza’ for referring to the island as it is internationally known. Among

current adjectives (‘Ibizan,’ ‘Ibiceño,’ and ‘Ibicenco’), I chose ‘Ibicencan’

because it is a direct English translation of the Catalan word that tends to

prevail internationally.

4 The purchasing power of a US dollar in pre-euro Spain was considerably

higher than in the US. I personally estimate that one dollar purchased 30 to

50 per cent more in Ibiza than in Chicago. However, when the euro currency

replaced the peseta in 2002, this cost differential largely disappeared, and

dramatic price inﬂation, in real terms, tended to push Spanish prices toward

the Western European average.

5 In the ﬁeld of alternative therapies in Ibiza, certiﬁcation was a concern among

therapists and clients. But rather than a legal requirement, it was seen as

a proof of competence through apprenticeship. Above all, the reputation of a

therapist was determined by her efﬁcacy according to clients, a process rein-

forced by word-of-mouth.

6 Though oxymoronic, I designate as ‘Spanish expatriates’ those nationals who

moved to Ibiza for the same countercultural motivations as those other national

groups that integrate the populace of expressive expatriates.

7 I was requested to not reveal exact locations.

8 Es Vedra is an Ibicencan variation of the Latin expression ‘the veteran’, as

for Ancient Romans the sea rock resembled an old standing soldier.

9 It is important to note the presence of several ‘international schools’ in Ibiza,

all small and privately owned institutions. The remoteness of the island and

the smallness of its population (45,000 in 1971) indicate the signiﬁcant pres-

ence of expatriates in the cultural life of the island. More will be said about

international schools in this chapter.

10 Biodance is a psychodramatic system for self-development by means of group

exercises integrating music, expressive movement, affection and touch. Upon

the countercultural premise that institutional repression cripples the body’s

vitality, a Biodance therapist seeks to foster a sense of holistic self through

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Notes 229

psychodramatic exercises that work on corporeal, affective, social and tran-

scendent aspects of subjectivity. In tandem with the overemphasis on the notion

of ‘experience,’ wording is limited during Biodance sessions, usually during

brief periods of collective sharing.

11 His perception of this type of expatriate life was strategic in the development

of my research. I am grateful for his suggestions about the ‘globalization of

countercultures.’ As we ﬁrst met, Kirk readily suggested for me to investigate

‘a global network of alternative lifestyle that interconnects Ibiza, Goa, Bali

and Maui.’ My study thereafter has been, in a considerable extent, an attempt

to verify this hypothesis and possible causes and implications of the phenomena.

12 Although such generalizations often befall in a simplistic economy of stereo-

types, it is striking to note how effective some assumptions are at the level of

mainstream national cultures. Nora’s comments can be transposed to large

clubbing tastes and dispositions of English, Germans and Mediterranean

peoples. This topic will be resumed in the next chapter.

13 In addition to the interview content, it is important to note the context in

which it takes place. Had I been more formal in my approach to expatriates,

interview opportunities and rich information would have been missed. The

unusual and unexpected circumstances in which the ethnographic encounter

may occur must be acknowledged as constitutive of the practice of knowledge

production, particularly true in the case of ﬂuid countercultures.

3 The hippie and club scenes in Ibiza’s tourism industry

1 Sections of this chapter were published in the journal Culture and Religion,

under the title ‘The Spiritual Economy of Nightclubs and Raves: Osho

Sannyasins as Party Promoters in Ibiza and Pune.’ (7, 1: 61–75, March 2006).

2 In 1999 Ibiza’s socialist government implemented a ‘construction ban’ on most

natural areas of the island. Based on previous legal dispositions, the mora-

toria suspended all licenses for construction in non-urban areas granted before

October 1990. Since its inception, the legality of the construction ban has

been questioned by conservative politicians, local mayors and urban techni-

cians who claim that it debunks acquired rights and invades a legal space that

is to be regulated by a law on urban planning and by local municipalities

themselves. Nonetheless, so much for legal technicalities: the electoral victory

of the right-wing Popular party put the construction ban to an end, with

the immediate relaxation of all monitoring and reinforcement mechanisms.

A six-lane highway began to be built in 2006, under massive street protests

from expatriates and the local population. At a wider level, it must be noticed

that urban regulation and construction bans do not contest capital but rather

guarantee its reproduction, by attempting to contain deleterious effects of capi-

talistic expansion. As such, whereas the new highway (if concluded) may

actually have a negative impact on land values, capital and environment, the

surplus of capital concentrated by the Ibicencan hotel industry has been rein-

vested in the Dominican Republic.

3 The term ‘freak’ will be discussed in Chapter 5. It refers to segments of white

Western counterculture of the 1990s onward that hybridizes elements from hip-

pie and punk subcultures yet in a post-subcultural neo-tribal style, rejecting

dominant forms of capitalism, consumerism, conformism and intellectualism.

While inheriting the appreciation for rustic lifestyles, exotic travel, psychedelia

230 Notes

and communal life from the hippies, they have embraced powerful technological

assemblages of Techno trance music, and are skeptical of social transformation.

Likewise, from punks, freaks have inherited modern pessimism, and a taste for

transgressive and militaristic fashion. In a sense, a person who embraces a freak

neo-tribal style stands somewhere between the hippie and the punk poles.

4 CDs became a prevalent DJing device in the early 2000s onward.

5 A new noise regulation demanded that all nightclubs should build roofs by

1990.

6 Names were altered for privacy issues.

4 Osho International Meditation Resort: subjectivity, counterculture

and spiritual tourism in Pune

1 An abridged version of this chapter is being published in the Journal of

Humanistic Psychology, under the title ‘Osho International Meditation Resort:

An Anthropological Analysis of Sannyasin Therapies and the Rajneesh Legacy’

(47, 1: 1–26, January 2007).

2 Sannyasins reject being seen as a ‘religion.’ References to ‘religion’ and ‘cult’

in this chapter are neutral analytical categories utilized in the scope of the

sociology and anthropology of religion.

3 This estimate is based on the number of new registrations processed daily at

the Welcome Center: about 60 during the high-season (November to February),

dropping to 30 and 15 during mid and low seasons. This estimate does not

include tourists who see the resort in quick tours.

4 Osho later proposed ‘Zorba, the Greek’ as a complement to Buddha. The

‘new human being’ joyfully celebrates life and ascetically meditates upon it.

Zorba indexes the same host of attributes found in Zarathustra.

5 Dimitri gave me feedback on a former version of this text while traveling

across Armenia, Georgia and Azerbaijan in 2003.

6 Her sannyasin and legal names were modiﬁed, in order to protect privacy,

and exact locations were also concealed. Prem is a very common sannyasin

name. Nonetheless, I sought to make sure that evidence remains accurate and

meaningful.

7 No Dimensions is a one-hour dance-and-whirling practice developed by a Suﬁ

dancer under Osho’s supervision. It was the ‘last meditation’ Osho ‘created’

before his death. Whirling represents life as a hurricane, a challenge that

requests the cultivation of inner-centeredness at its eye.

8 In a Zen perspective, any mundane activity can be performed with aesthetic

zeal, such as tea preparation or archery. The goal is in allowing the mind to

be fully absorbed in the present, dropping any concerns with results and tech-

niques, while reaching a balance between discipline and relaxation as an

expression of self-mastery.

9 While in Oregon, top sannyasins asked Sam to investigate right-wing politi-

cians who opposed Osho, as well as a bomb explosion at the hotel sannyasins

bought in Portland. Sam did not ﬁnd any evidence that could be used against

their suspects. Likewise, Sam is skeptical about the preposterous claim that

the FBI poisoned Osho while in jail (due to immigration infractions).

10 Osho was allergic to scents, but the control procedure has been kept since his

death. It is claimed that perfumed scents can disturb meditation. The White Robe

is the busiest event of the day, and ashram directors hold that it is something to

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Notes 231

be kept. Nonetheless, it also operated at a ritualistic dimension of control and

liminality, which enhanced the ceremonial nature of the event.

11 As videos demonstrate, the hall was so crowded during Osho lectures that

thousands of collapsed bodies partially piled.

12 The ‘inner circle’ alone counted 21 authorities (although many were scattered

around the world). In its communal legacy, distribution of authority was often

unclear, and decisions did not correspond to formal lines of power, delega-

tion and responsibility. As it seems, many communards exerted more power

than would be normally necessary to accomplish organizational ends. The

direction was clearly closed to any critical suggestions, a posture which ground-

level staff tended to reproduce in interactions with visitors and among

themselves.

13 It is interesting to note that biographic accounts about Buddha Gautama

suggest that, before joining the spiritual path, he was a prince likely exposed

to mundane activities (orgiastic banquets, sexual license and war games),

encouraged among the young nobility of his time.

14 According to the OIMR director, that was one of Osho’s decisions to be

executed according to a time schedule after his death.

5 Techno trance tribalism in Goa: the elementary forms of nomadic

spirituality

1 Intersecting global and colonial studies, the notion of ‘contact zone’ designates

a space of encounters and exchanges among radically different groups, involving

conditions of inequality and conﬂict as well as of hybridization and negotia-

tion. See Hannerz 1989; Pratt 1992. Agreeing with Pratt: ‘By using the term

“contact,” I aim to foreground the interactive, improvisational dimensions of

colonial encounters so easily ignored or suppressed by diffusionist accounts

of conquest and domination. A “contact” perspective emphasizes how subjects

are constituted in and by their relations to each other [. . .] in terms of copres-

ence, interaction, interlocking understandings and practices, often within

radically asymmetrical relations of power.’ (p. 7)

2 There were acoustic parties with drums and live rock music in Goa during

the 1970s, until the arrival of digital sound systems in the late 1980s.

3 Most names in this chapter were altered in order to protect privacy. Any piece

of information that could embarrass or endanger any subject was occluded.

Nonetheless, I made sure that descriptions remained precise and meaningful.

4 The regular intake of drugs altered ordinary notions of temporal linearity, and

biographic accounts were often fragmented, odd and expressionistic. LSD and

hashish fostered a mystical otherworldly orientation, whereas the talkative

effects of MDMA were recoded in silent interactions deemed ‘telepathic.’ All

of these symptoms are commonly veriﬁed in cases that modern psychiatry

describe as ‘schizophrenic.’ Finally, the sharing of such transpersonal experi-

ences contributed to engender a collective identity that is sensed as removed

from the ordinary world, erasing personal memories and teleologies, striving

for an endless (but impossible) enjoyment of the present.

5 Southernmost portion of Vagator beach, once densely frequented by Italian

travelers.

6 The notion of passive drug dealing better captures the sporadic nature of such

activity, carried out by the active request from an acquaintance, and taking

232 Notes

place in a subcultural setting that trivializes drug consumption as a basic form

of socialization and ritual enactment.

7 Pipi and Luigi kindly permitted me to watch and photograph one session.

8 It is a collective ritual in which women and, sometimes, outsiders may partici-

pate.

9 Durkheim was concerned with the problem of consensus (solidarity), as a basic

mechanism that binds society together. In contrast, countercultures explore

systemic ﬁssures, which, in post-Durkheimian criminology, would be inter-

preted through notions of anomie and deviance.

10 A Phantasm is deﬁned as ‘an imaginary scenario whereby the subject experi-

ences a desire that is unconscious but deformed by defensive mechanisms.’

(Airault 2000: 140).

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Notes 233

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244 Bibliography

acid see drugs

aestheticism 15, 16, 18, 19, 76

aesthetics of existence 5, 17, 19, 38,

aesthetics of the self see aesthetics of

existence

AIDS 68, 135, 164, 166, 184, 209

airport 73, 106, 108, 120, 127, 181

Alfredo Fiorillo (DJ) 101–3

alternative triangle of India, 169

Amazon: region 57, 72; bikers see

motorcycle

America see US

Amnesia 42, 101, 102, 103, 105, 106,

107, 108, 115, 122, 126

Andorra 119

Anjuna 171, 176, 177, 185, 186,

192

anti-intellectual 62; see also New Age

apartheid 164–5

Arambol 170

Argentina 48, 102, 129, 143

artisan see handcraft

ashram 9, 49, 168, 171; notion 135;

modernization 135–6; tourism see

spiritual tourism

ashramites 136, 153, 163, 180

astrology 97, 124; astrologer 168;

Maya 55, 123, 192, 193

August blues 117

Australia 60, 61, 66, 114, 117, 202,

203

ayahuasca see drugs

backpackers 55, 114, 136, 192, 195,

198, 200, 208, 220

Bahia 7, 10, 53

Bali 7, 10, 53, 54, 125, 192, 193, 203,

220, 230

Bangalore 187, 194, 201

Bar M 95, 99, 101, 113, 117, 170

barbarian 2, 197

Barcelona 41, 44, 55, 56, 62, 67, 85,

106, 122, 127, 132

beach 51, 80–1, 89 101, 102, 170,

171, 186, 190, 199, 203, 204, 210;

nude 79, 80

beatniks 10, 17, 78, 176

becoming animal 29, 211

Bedouins 26, 28

Benjamin, Walter 16–17

Berkeley 49

Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh 28, 102, 134,

137, 156

Biodance 52, 54–5, 65, 69, 74–5, 86,

87, 120, 142, 170, 230

biopower 5, 16, 18, 128, 134, 218,

220, 229; resistance 23, 26, 30,

Blanford, Gary see Lucci

body 31, 51, 52, 61, 62, 67, 69, 75,

140, 141, 144, 145–6, 154, 155,

156, 165, 184, 204, 207, 210–13,

219, 221; therapies 38, 52, 55, 62,

69, 128, 140, 141, 146

Body without Organs 213–14

bohemian 43, 65, 72, 102, 115–16;

bourgeois 9, 16; worker 83, 101,

112, 115, 117–19, 120, 126, 129,

198

Brazil 55, 68, 75, 80, 122, 129, 142,

146, 177, 192, 202, 203

1111

1011

3111

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30111

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Index

Budapest 106

Buddha 135, 155, 231, 232

Buddha Bar 93

Buddha Hall 141, 152, 153, 154,

156–8, 162

Buddhism 2, 93, 95–8, 137–9, 151,

153–4, 159

Buddhahood 139, 173

Bullet Enﬁeld 147, 194, 206; see also

motorcycle

businesspeople 1, 8, 26, 51, 58, 59,

82, 92–3, 98, 114, 123, 153, 177,

183, 195

Byron Bay 7, 10

Café del Mar 1, 42, 91–3, 102

Calangute 170, 197, 203

California 49, 50, 84,114, 115,151,

152

Cambridge 61

Can Sort 42, 56, 87–8

capitalism 10, 136, 231; expansion

231; ﬂexible 6, 22, 26, 79, 222;

global 12, 23, 166, 221; leisure 18,

77, 78; logic 226; neoliberal 28,

126, 172, 177, 184, 200; theories 6

Catalan 45, 47, 48, 53, 64, 74, 229

catharsis 144, 160, 161, 164, 173,

218

celebrities 77, 83, 92, 93, 106, 108,

122, 127, 130, 166, 182

census 43, 47

Central Asia 26, 176

chai 86, 187, 196; shop 83, 84–5;

economy 196, 201; ladies 208, 212

chakras see energy

Challe, Charles 92–3

Che Guevara 99

Chicago 9, 21, 41, 152, 180, 188, 229

child 140, 144–5, 199, 208; see also

expatriate

children 48, 49–50, 54, 63–4, 84, 92,

191, 192, 193

chillum 201, 208

China 30, 181

Christianity 59, 72, 74, 140, 154, 158,

173, 176, 181, 185, 217

chromaticism 6, 29–31, 36, 212, 213

CIA 152

circle of light 202–4

citizenship 8, 43, 44, 49, 63, 119, 193

clubbers 99–100, 108, 112, 113,

120–2, 125, 127, 171; Argentinean

103; British 75, 102, 106, 107, 110;

business 1, 106–8, 112, 115, 128,

223; German 171, 230; mainstream

90, 98, 107, 230; see also elite

clubbing 102, 103, 126–7; marathons

57, 102; capital 42, 78

coco loco 122–3

colonial 181, 186, 202, 232;

colonialism 16, 25, 200; colonialist

16; post 6, 165, 200; studies 232;

subversion 16

commodiﬁcation 10, 38–9, 77, 88, 93,

94, 106, 131, 177, 178, 223

communards 167, 232

commune 39, 52, 132, 134, 135, 140,

151, 152, 166, 167, 172, 228

communist 116

confession 134, 144, 173

consumerism 22, 56, 59, 88, 129, 135,

225, 231

consumption 21, 40, 47, 56, 94, 103,

181, 225

contact zone 6, 11, 39, 53, 178, 183,

188, 190, 199, 201, 221, 232

continuous variation see chromaticism

cosmopolitanism 9, 12, 15–16, 20, 22,

32, 38, 43, 44, 64, 66, 70, 83, 88,

101, 107, 119, 120, 130, 161, 178,

194, 224

counterculture 3, 20, 31, 32, 34, 79,

177, 178, 218, 222

couples 45, 51, 52, 54, 62, 65, 67, 68,

85, 156, 170, 186, 188, 193, 199,

209; separation 124–5, 137; divorce

46, 143, 146–7

criminality 23, 73, 90, 109, 115, 183

crisis: existential 85, 151; mid-life 146;

of modernity 18; personal 6, 153;

self-identity 87, 216–17

D’Alt Villa 51

dandyism 5; see also aestheticism

darshan 156

Deleuze, Giles 5, 24, 132, 159, 213

depersonalization 160, 218

246 Index

derealization 218

Detroit 21

Diário de Ibiza 110

diaspora 5, 11, 181; concept 13–14;

countercultural 171, 176, 225; of

expressive expatriates 75, 93, 221;

freak 127–8; negative diaspora

13–14; rave 27, 184; sannyasin 135,

153, 180

digital shaman see shaman

diplomat 53, 58, 215

divorce 46, 143, 146, 49, 124–5, 189,

199, 216

DJ (disc jockey), 48, 70, 92, 96–8,

101, 102, 112, 115, 117, 196, 213;

equipment 190, 210; shamanism 2,

102–3, 112, 211 ; and spirituality

98; station 1, 99, 109, 112, 127,

179, 210; trance 2, 176, 189, 191,

193, 194, 206

DJ Magazine 96, 103, 114

Dorrie, Doris 132

drag queen 123

dromomania 215

drugs 20, 21, 29, 31, 57, 98, 101,

130, 151, 172, 177, 184, 186, 187,

195, 198, 199, 204, 210; alcohol

51, 100, 118; altering effects 188,

201, 203, 212, 218, 232; ayahuasca

72–3, 74, 81; dealing 191–2, 196,

233; hashish 1, 17, 45, 86, 91, 100,

187, 188, 192, 197, 199, 201, 203,

204, 205, 208, 209, 232; heroin

196; MDMA 112, 115, 171, 191,

232; LSD 100, 196, 203, 204, 212,

232; ketamine 191, 196, 212;

legislation 73, 118, 191; music

synergy 20, 212; sociability 199

Dubai 118, 119

Durkheim, Émile 205–6, 233

eclipse 132, 195, 210

ecstasy see MDMA

Eden 102, 104, 105

education 44, 61, 63, 64, 119; body

55; globalization of 63; high levels

116; institution 134; international

schools 44, 61, 63–4, 230; low levels

100, 129; regionalization 64

Egypt 26, 52, 70, 124

Eivissa 65, 83, 89, 229

El Divino 42, 45, 86, 92–3, 104, 105,

125

elite 4, 9, 10, 43, 90, 138; club 89,

104, 118

El Jardin de Luz 70, 171

email 36, 133, 156, 186, 205

energy 12, 46, 61, 126, 169, 195,

203, 204; body 141; chakras 48,

204; healing 149; of the place 124,

137; personal 52, 97, 140, 143,

155; sexual 111, 203; spiritual 157

Englishness see nationalism

Enlightenment 222; spiritual 137, 138,

142, 151, 157, 159, 168, 217

Enlightenment Guaranteed 132, 174

epistemological suppleness 33

Es Canar 42, 60, 84, 88

Es Paradis 42, 104, 105

Es Vedra 42, 53, 124, 230

ethics see aesthetics of existence

ethnocentrism 8, 9, 43, 70, 76, 83, 96,

118, 119, 145, 189, 199; reversed

64; see also nationalism

ethnography 25, 31–4, 36, 45, 98,

230; encounter 131, 230; horizon 3;

macro- 4, 32; methodology 3–4, 45;

methods 35–6; myth 76; nomadic 4,

33, 32; translocal 34; uncertainties

75; see also ﬁeldwork

existentialism 62

expatriate 16; enclaves 43, 64, 76,

107, 118; expressive 3, 10, 17, 38,

43, 53, 56–7, 64, 69, 72, 75–7,

78–9, 84, 119, 120, 125–6, 129,

171, 173, 178, 188, 193–4, 198,

221, 222–7, 229; utilitarian 8, 65,

107; see also

education; media

extraterrestrial 53, 190, 210

FBI 231

feminotopia 200

feminist 20, 200

ferryboat 44–5, 73

ﬁeldwork 4, 38, 61, 130, 132, 178;

hostility 188; methodology 31–4;

pre- 41; procedures 34–5, 133;

uncertainty 75; see also ethnography

1111

1011

3111

20111

30111

40111

45111

Index 247

ﬁlm 41, 70–2, 73, 74, 125, 132, 182

ﬂea market 56, 88, 171, 192

ﬂight 132, 181, 191

Foucault, Michel 5, 17–19, 134, 166,

228

Franco, General 62

Frankfurt 105, 127

Frankfurt School 228

freak: deﬁnition 1, 112, 231; and

hippies 184–5

gangs 190, 196, 201

gay 10, 21, 51, 79, 105, 109, 120–3,

177

gender 13, 143, 154, 165, 194, 199,

200, 207, 229

German Bakery 186, 187, 188

Germanness see nationalism

globalization 10–11, 13, 63, 89, 222;

concepts of 12–13, 15–16; cultural

3, 178, 215, 226, 229; studies 4,

11–14, 23–4, 32, 224

Goa: in counterculture history 21,

39, 128, 176–7, 223, 232; as a

ﬁeld site 36, 130; general

description 181–3; in global

circuits 92 193, 230; links with

Ibiza 22, 86, 117, 125, 170–1,

182, 187, 193–4, 223; links with

Pune 39, 134, 170, 178, 179–80;

Goa party see trance; tourism 182,

197

Goa Gil (DJ) 176

gods 48, 81, 85, 124, 126, 138, 156,

203; Nataraj 85, 185; Shiva 2, 81,

190, 208

Greece 60, 163

Grinberg Method 55, 62

Gujarat 159

handcraft 26, 43, 48, 53, 67, 69,

76, 81, 83, 88, 192, 193, 205,

220

Harvard 150

healing 67, 70, 146, 166, 173, 202,

219; crystal 202–4, 225; space 59;

spiritual 149

hedonism 17, 50, 74, 95, 98, 110,

184, 200

Himalayas 81, 137, 152, 192, 220

Hinduism 2, 48, 81, 85, 88, 138,

156, 175, 181, 182, 201; see also

gods; religion

hippie 2, 45, 82, 91, 171; clothes

1, 2, 83, 84; community 54, 117,

166; and freaks 184–5, 231;

history 54, 102, 114, 186–7,

215; market 36, 38, 52, 54, 60,

83–5, 87–8, 120, 123, 128, 129,

177, 185, 192, 197; party 85–7,

92, 123, 177, 197, 227; scene 79,

83, 86, 90, 93; style 53; traders

60, 69, 83, 84–5, 89, 126, 129,

187, 192, 220; venue 128; see also

ﬂea markets; freaks

Holland 49, 73, 86, 142

homosexuality 132, 150; see also gay;

lesbian

hotel 48, 51, 56, 66, 84, 106, 149,

191, 197; business 47, 120, 223,

231; concentration 46; guests 47,

199; hoteliers 58, 82, 83; Osho

135, 136, 231

house 53, 61, 87, 92, 186; farmhouse

83, 86, 102, 152; ﬁnca 54, 62, 111;