“Psychedelic Cirque du Soleil”: Inside WooMoon, Ibiza’s Hippie Disneyland

On day two in Ibiza, I woke up after a long night at Pacha and headed straight to fry on the sand, as things go on the island. My mind wandering from the brainless beach read I’d packed, I thought about the sheer production value of last night. New York’s superclubs died out long before my time, but I felt relieved to be experiencing that extravagance here instead, where whatever happened the night before could sweat itself out under the sun the next morning. After regaining some color, I walked over to the old town to window shop, where I found—surprise—more cherry logos, some real but many more rip-offs. I toyed with a beaded necklace in one boutique, deciding against it in favor of a walk along the port, where mega-yachts were docked side by side like cars in a parking lot. After grabbing an ice cream and realizing it was the evening (the sunlight had fooled me), I hailed a taxi back to my room. 

Rushing to get ready, my phone buzzed with a message that we were going to a Sunday party called WooMoon, which was in another part of town. At dinner, murmurs that it was “like Burning Man” and we would be “exploring the caves” floated across the table, and by the time we had hit Paradiso bar for drinks, I was ready to climb whatever mountains were in store. Our gang from the night before hopped into another cherry-emblazoned van and craned our necks after a long, dark ride, trying to see the structure towering over us. It looked like a hippie Disney castle—the massive, craggy monument, called Cova Santa, was built into what was once an ancient cave, now glowing with signs and moody lighting. We were led to the base of the hill, where a tunnel descended into the cave below—open only for special parties. Walking past tarot readers, weed stands, and drum circles in the village area, we entered the open-air revelry. Heading behind the booth, I watched sea-matted heads sway to tribal house as hooded dancers gyrated to my left and right on stage. The DJ sang into the mic as she spun: “Is this home? This is home.” I tied my cardigan around my waist, blending into the flowy skirts of the crowd.

Climbing up the stairs carved into the mountain with a new friend, I found a fur shop and a tattoo hut, both tempting me for a moment. After a quick break in VIP, we decided to rejoin the shroomed-out masses down below. The show was getting wilder. A glowing fish tank attached to a crane maneuvered through the crowd, inside it a near-naked dancer in a scuba mask who twisted and dove in and out of the aquarium. Shots were passed around. I grabbed the person next to me and pointed at a massive ogre-cum-yeti on stilts ambling through the crowd, which parted like a school of fish. A woman contorting herself inside a bubble ball rolled through next, and everyone’s eyes followed as they danced while she climbed out and mounted aerial silks above them. It was our very own psychedelic Cirque du Soleil. I asked a regular I was chatting up how he felt: “Immersed,” he said. “Free.” It was almost 1 a.m., the time we were told to meet back by the entrance, so I descended the mountain again and grabbed an organic popsicle on the way down to beat my sweat. We all made it back to Solomun and Chloe Caillet’s set at Pacha, which looked entirely different from the night before, a little grungier. I didn’t make it very long, buying a cherry-embossed lighter at the gift shop before crossing the street back to my hotel, feeling euphoric.