THE SPIRITUAL EGOS
Largely confined to the northern reaches of the island, where daylight hours are spent teaching sacred fertility yoga or organising the staff rota at their astonishingly well-appointed finca. By night they’re ‘holding the space’ at the WoowooDome, a members-only plant medicine retreat in a yurt near Sant Joan, where former city traders ingest copious amounts of ayahuasca and hit on each other’s partners.
DRESS CODE: White tunic, white headscarf, white floaty trousers. And a gold Rolex so no-one mistakes them for spa staff.
OVERHEARD: “You can’t join our singing circle.”
MOST LIKELY TO: Have an open relationship.
THE POST-RAVE PARENTS
Good looking and stylish with an air of mild desperation, this international bunch drag their kids to Ibiza repeatedly in the vain hope of recreating the halcyon days of their youth. Forever searching for a beach club with great tunes (for daddy), organic sushi (for mummy) and a kids’ club with metre-high walls, they’ve replaced afterparties and an enthusiastic cocaine habit with dragging an overflowing buggy across hot sand while three toddlers scream about burning feet. #FML
NIGHT OFF: Glitterbox after leaving the kids with Ibiza’s only available nanny.
FORMER LIFE: Club PR at Cream circa 1997.
GUILTY PLEASURES: Gin and tonic and a sneaky fag.
THE MINIMALIST PURISTS
The ever-fraught MP’s life is a constant battle to reduce their carbon footprint… and yours. They’ve ditched electricity and guard their natural resources fearfully. Consequently, they have to bathe in water previously used to wash the floor, cook vegetables and irrigate the garden. The eco equivalent of a bible-basher, MPs can be heard preaching climate change at the Sant Jordi flea market, while haggling for used batteries in order to catch Extinction Rebellion updates on the radio.
FORMER LIFE: Suburban school teacher.
CATCH THEM: Hitchhiking from Can Curuné.
GUILTY PLEASURE: A bath – but no more than five inches deep.
THE HAUTE HIPPIES
Fresh back from Mykonos, where they attended a shamanic techno trance ritual with their ‘earth tribe’ at Scorpios, the HHs are now heading en masse to a villa party thrown by an American venture capitalist. Here they’ll reconnect with their ‘Burner crew’, a bunch of overprivileged and over- tattooed white guys who misappropriate Native American culture by wearing war paint and a feather headdress with a thousand-euro kaftan.
OVERHEARD: “Is this K organic?”
MOST LIKELY TO: Instagram themselves making heart fingers at sunset.
On a yacht.
DREAM TICKET: Day Zero, an electronic music festival in Tulum styled as an ancient Mayan ritual.
THE LOVE ISLAND-ERS
Body-positivity at its apex. If you’ve got it flaunt it. If you haven’t got it, flaunt it anyway. To the LIs, their annual Ibiza trip (peak season, natch) justifies slogging it out at Carphone Warehouse in Leicester for the other 51 weeks. They’ve blagged a VIP bed at O Beach, they’ve snogged DJ Pecs on the Decks and they’re sinking cava with their bae. You’d know all this if you checked their Snapchat. #livingtheirbestlife #lolz.
OVERHEARD: “I’ve lost an eyelash extension.”
DRESS CODE: Neon fringed kimono and heels for her. Floral printed Bermuda shorts and a matching short-sleeved shirt (unbuttoned) for him.
HOLIDAY HANGOVER: Preposterous tan lines from an ill-considered swimsuit.
THE TRAP GALS
Trap Gaps are ruuuuuude and they want you to know it. Found in Parque Reina Sofia after school (yep, they’re THAT young), TGs chew pink bubble gum, compare glittery crop tops and flex their improbably long fingernails. Instead of homework, they spend hours dissecting the lyrics to Bad Gyal songs – consequently their conversation covers sex, smoking weed and being from the skanky part of Ibiza Town.
SIGNATURE DANCE MOVE: The hair whip.
MOST LIKELY TO: Scare grown-ups in Burger King.
DREAM DRESS CODE: A pink cropped Louis Vuitton tracksuit.
