Once upon a time on a hill in the West

The policeman’s expression was the same as a rabbit caught in a car’s headlights. Standing at the centre of a crossroads where four single lane roads converged, he was faced with the prospect of trying to manoeuvre the four cars which had emerged from each road at exactly the same moment; it was impasse.

The driver in each car stared at the policeman, like band members waiting for their conductor to orchestrate their next move.

He turned full circle, seeking a possible solution, then shrugged and raised his arms, palms upwards; a gesture which spoke volumes, it said:

“What do you expect me to do about it?”

No, this wasn’t the amusing, but not unexpected, chaos which faced concert goers trying to get in to the Elton John gig in Costa Adeje (clearly not funny to those stuck in the queue as Reg started belting out his tunes), this was the approach to the small village of San Antonio, home to one of the ‘other’ big events that were taking place on the island last week, the Fiestas of San Antonio Abad, taking place on the slopes of La Matanza, however the principle was the same.

Tinerfeños love fiestas and generally organise them very well, it’s just the small matter of how you get to them and where you park when you do that’s left in the lap of the gods.

Thankfully we’d seen that movie many times and knew that when we spotted the first signs of people leaving their cars and setting off on foot, that it was time to do the same, even though we were still a couple of kilometres from the event.

We left the policemen to his logistics problem and wandered past private garages which had been turned into makeshift restaurants for the day with long trestle tables set with chequered tablecloths. There was no need for a menu; the aromas which mugged our nostrils told us everything we needed to know and by the time we reached the Ermita de San Antonio Abad, where the fiesta was taking place I was drooling like a hungry sheepdog.

Around the small church, paddocks, pens and stalls housed stocky hunting dogs, placid bronze coloured oxen built like the proverbial you-know-what, goats, sheep, mules, donkeys and horses. Caballeros in embroidered waistcoats rode their steeds through vertigo inducing streets. Old guys in felt homburgs, chewing on oversized puros (cigars) sat on walls shooting the breeze.

Although this fiesta wasn’t as big as the one in Buenavista del Norte, there were still a few thousand people and their animals packing the little streets of the small village. We ambled around the town avoiding the little ‘gifts’ left by the animals, passing a trio of girls pulling two dogs and a kid goat (poor wee thing, he was in for a right shock when the time came for him to change from family pet to family dinner – that’s the sort of thought that makes me consider reverting to  vegetarianism), ferrets, guinea pigs, a couple of snakes and, clinging to one girl’s side like a 3-D tattoo, a three foot iguana with the most beautiful markings (though they only came in green).

After a couple of circuits, we squeezed ourselves into a space at the main refreshments stall where Desperate Dan-sized pans bubbled away with beefy stews (a bit insensitive I thought considering it was placed right next to the oxen stalls – that could have been somebody’s brother in there), and ordered a couple of cervezas and a plate of carne con papas (meat and potatoes).

Dipping my doorstop sized chunk of bread in the seasoned stew, I thought about the other ‘big event’ which had taken place last week on the opposite side of the island.

Having a legendary pop star play a gig on Tenerife is great for tourism, but for me, standing amongst those smiling, simple (in the nicest sense of the word) farmers and their animals on a hill, that was the real deal.

No, Don’t Stop the Carnaval

Okay, this particular blog is a rant; a mechanism for bringing my blood down from a boil to a simmer and to release some pent up frustration caused by some anonymous mean spirited persons who would happily put the dampeners on a centuries old tradition just because it didn’t suit their particular sensibilities (see what I mean).

A week or ago I didn’t feel ready for Carnaval in Tenerife; it was hurtling toward us too quickly and I hadn’t recovered from Christmas, New Year and a visit from our Annie Lennox look-alike friend, Sarah. However, walking around the harbour yesterday, there was the slightest hint of a buzz around the square; I could taste the spirit of Carnaval in the air and I felt the first surge of excitement at the prospect of the week long spectacular of flamboyance and revelry.

Then, I happened to pick up one of the Island’s English language newspapers and read a variation of a report which appears nearly every year apparently written on behalf of ‘people who live…’ on one of the streets where the Carnaval street parties take place. People who live? Yeah, right. 

The paper reports that Carnaval has become “a good deal noisier and unruly…” HELLO – it’s Carnaval; the last big blowout before Lent. Of course it’s noisy, Spanish Fiestas generally are. As for unruly. I’ve been going for four years; I’ve taken friends from the UK and we’ve partied until four and five in the morning and they all comment on how good natured the atmosphere is despite thousands of people dancing and drinking in the streets throughout the night.

The criticism is aimed at one street in particular, Calle Perdomo. This is where younger Carnaval goers tend to congregate; where DJ’s play music (which isn’t really that much different from the live bands in the square). The ‘people who live there’ want the music turned down; the Carnaval to stop earlier; the kiosks to be moved etc. Basically they want Carnaval goers to just stop having fun.

What annoys me is this – the buildings on Calle Perdomo must be… maybe twenty years old. Carnaval has been celebrated for a lot longer than that, which means one of two things:

a) The people who are complaining bought apartments there knowing that they were right in the heart of most of the fiestas which take place in the town.
b) Or, whoever is complaining is an incomer who, ignorant of the culture, didn’t realise that they were buying an apartment which, some might say, was in such a prime spot for fiestas.

Either way, they don’t have my sympathy, especially if they fall into the latter category. If they don’t like the culture, they shouldn’t have moved here ergo, in the words of Simon Pegg, they can “JOG ON”.

Vive La Carnaval!!!!

Oh My God…Yoda’s Naked!

Last night I was subjected to a vision that I was totally unprepared for, and one that will stay with me for some time; the sight of Yoda from Star Wars déshabillé.

Whilst the south of Tenerife had ‘Rocket Man’ Elton John flying in by private jet, performing for a couple of hours and flying straight back out again, the north is gradually being infected by its annual bout of Carnaval fever.

In Puerto de la Cruz, street lights with cat’s faces and harlequin masks are being erected around the harbour; music stages and chorizo and beer stalls are springing around Plaza del Charco and on TV, at least five stations have begun screening Murga contests.
Murgas are village-sized groups of men and women in clown-like costumes with painted faces who sing satirical songs that seem to last for hours. The first time I saw them I thought they were great and then, after about three minutes, the novelty wore off.
But last night one Murga group broke with tradition; each member of the ensemble was dressed like a character from Star Wars. There were stormtroopers, wookies, ewoks, a particularly butch Princess Leia and then there was Yoda.
Bizarrely, Yoda, clearly carried away the razzmatazz of the occasion, kept flashing the audience. Worse was to come. Not content with just flashing, he whipped off his cloak completely and proceeded to prance about the stage with the Yoda ‘crown jewels’ on full display for all to see (thank goodness that Yoda’s assertion  ‘always two there are’ wasn’t accurate on this occasion).

It was the funniest Murga performance I’ve witnessed in my four years here, but Star Wars will never be the same again.

The Sahara on my doorstep – literally!

It’s been a beautifully sunny day in Puerto de la Cruz, well it would have been had it not been for the thickest ‘calima’ I’ve seen since moving here four years ago.
Hot winds from the Sahara bring massive sand clouds which shroud the islands in a cloak of ruddy dust. The south and east coasts experience the worst of the calima where the air can be thick enough with sand to cause respiratory problems. On the north coast we usually escape the worst (possibly because of the mountains and the volcano between us and the east). By the time the calima reaches us it usually manifests itself as a kind of haze; leaving a fine layer of sand over everything, but today it’s been more like a hot fog, so dense that I couldn’t see any of the surrounding valley.

I took this photograph at Parque Taoro above Puerto. It’s a favourite spot for joggers and even with the air thick with the Sahara’s finest, there were still some diehards trotting around the dusty tracks, ironically filling their lungs with sand in their quest to stay fit – not the most sensible of activities during calima.

Henrik Larrson to play for Man Utd again.

Whilst watching Man Utd’s demolition of Newcastle (if that had been Keegan’s first game, it would probably have been his last as well) a Swedish bloke I know came into the bar and asked me if Larsson was playing. I laughed assuming, he was referring to last year, but he was serious.

He went on to tell me that he had bumped into some young players he knew from Helsinberg and had asked them to ask Henrik to sign a Celtic shirt for him, but they told him that they couldn’t as Henrik Larsson was in Manchester and had signed to play for another three months just like last year.

Now this might be a lot of nonsense, but he insisted it was 100% true. Being in Tenerife, I’m probably well out of the loop and this might be common knowledge, but none of my UK based Man Utd supporting friends have mentioned this. Has anybody else heard anything?

The Leaning Tower of Tenerife

Every so often, like many people, I can be guilty of taking photographs which for no apparent reason seem to be slightly askew.  Recently I took some shots of the Iglesia de la Concepción in La Laguna. When I uploaded them I thought my whole vertical perspective must have been shot, because on every one the church’s tower had a most definite list to the right. I couldn’t believe that my judgement could have been so bad, but on the other hand I had been leaning out on to the road to try to avoid getting some workmen in the shot, so I put it down to that.
Then yesterday, I came across some photos I’d taken a couple of years ago and guess what? Exactly the same; a tilt to the right. I looked at the more recent photos more closely and noticed that whilst the tower is tilting, the buildings on the right of the picture are perfectly straight. So the good news is my vertical perspective is fine, but the tower of the Iglesia de la Concepción is doing a very passable impersonation of a certain tower in Pisa. Still, if word gets round it might attract more visitors to the city’s lovely old quarter to see Tenerife’s latest attraction; the ‘Leaning Tower of La Laguna’.

The Tourists’ Lament

“What’s the weather like? What’s the weather like?”
That’s all they want to know.
“Will it be sunny? Will it be hot?
Please tell me before I go.”

They don’t care that if it always stays dry,
It’ll soon be a desert and the crops will all die.
Livelihoods lost; no food, water, or grain.
“What’s the weather like? What’s the weather like?
Please don’t tell me it’ll rain.”

The Party’s Over…For Now

At last, the festive celebrations are over on Tenerife and I can take stock on whether this year was more ‘bah humbug’, or ‘full of Christmas Cheer’.

Christmas Eve (day)
First blood to Spain’s post office service, Correos. They completely outmanoeuvred me by closing for the whole of Christmas Eve without any prior notice. I joined an equally bewildered and bordering on mutinous mob of ‘Canarios’ outside the Correos offices looking for signs, anything that would tell us what was going on.
The only source of information was an elderly Canarian woman on a balcony beside the office who proved a more useful source that the Correos by warning us that they were planning to do the same on New Years Eve. As I have an apartado (postbox) in the Correos, this unexpected situation meant no ‘pressies’ on Christmas Day (Humbug).
Nochebuena (Christmas Eve)
We decided to console ourselves by going into Puerto de la Cruz knowing that:
A) We’d never get a bus so it would be a three kilometre walk into town.
B) As Canarios celebrate Nochebuena at home with the family, the town would be dead and the only chance for a shindig would be a Brit bar where Scandinavians, Belgians, Germans and British congregate to drink too much, wear silly hats and sing-along to music that was already twenty years out of date when I was a teenager. (An, almost embarrassed, Christmas Cheer)

Christmas Day
No presents to open, so we made some bucks fizz, stuck on ‘Faithless’ at full blast and spent the day cooking a pavito (little turkey). Amazingly, it’s the first Christmas that we’d spent on our own in twenty years. We had a lovely day. Ate too much; drank too much and spent the evening watching ‘Blood Diamond’, an episode of the second series of Rome (the one pressie which had gotten through the Correos’ blockade) and snacking on turkey bocadillos and chipolatas without the stress of having to keep one eye on Andy’s stepmother who’s a snack fiend and usually snaffles the lot when my back is turned. (Definitely Xmas Cheer)

Boxing Day
Not a holiday here, so the Correos office was open, but some presents were still missing. The staff told people, who seemed to be in the same situation that their packages might turn up the following day. This was code for, ‘there’s a whole pile of stuff in the back, but we haven’t gotten round to sorting it yet, it’s Christmas don’t you know.”
Man United were playing Sunderland, but frustratingly it wasn’t being screened live on Television (Man Utd won 4 – 0 which made it even more frustrating), so we went to the beach instead even though, after the pavito dinner, our stomachs were probably too big to expose in public. (2 humbugs and 1 Xmas Cheer)

27th December
Needed to shed the Christmas pounds, so we headed for the 17 kilometre wide crater around Mount Teide. It seemed everyone else had the same idea and the roads were packed. When we reached the crater we parked in the overfilled car park beside the Parador and headed along a track through the lava away from the crowds. Within five minutes we were alone in a landscape straight out of Jurassic Park. We climbed up to the rim of the crater, through snow and ice, despite the sun burning our faces and drying out our lips. At the top we looked out over a sea of white clouds. It was like being alone on the top of the world. On our way back we bumped into a really nice English couple. This might seem unremarkable on an island which welcomes  millions of British visitors a year, but the sad fact is that to bump into any away from the main tourist enclaves, and pit- stop popular tourist sites is still a rarity. (Xmas Cheer)

30th December
Quickly passing over West Ham beating Man Utd on the 29th, it was my birthday and time for another pointless trip to the Correos as the wayward present was still missing. It was a beautiful warm and sunny day, so we headed for the beach again (for only the second time in as many months) and in the evening ate out at a restaurant we’d been meaning to try for some time, El Templo de Vino. We liked the look of its menu because its tapas dishes were different from the traditional offerings. We ordered choco (grilled cuttlefish), ensaladilla (a mixed salad of potato, veg and usually tuna), croquetas (fried ham and fish croquetes), german sausage and mustard, pork pinchos with spicy dip and dates wrapped in bacon. All washed down with extremely quaffable wine. Delicious. (Xmas Cheer)

Nocheviejo (New Years Eve)
Always a hoot, but takes a bit of prep if you want to ensure good luck for the coming year. 12 grapes are essential; to be consumed on the countdown to midnight and this year I learned that if you wear red underwear then you’re guaranteed even better luck. Not a problem for Andy, the shops are always full of red underwear for women at this time of year, presumably because of the luck thing, but I had to make do with a pair of boxers whose redness was confined to the waistband. I don’t know if this means my chances of good luck will be proportionally less. As usual the firework display on the harbour was sensational, the Latino band enthusiastic, and the atmosphere electric. We reluctantly pulled ourselves away at around 4 am. (Xmas Cheer and then some)

New Years Day
Pretty much a rerun of Christmas Day, except that in Britain there’s a full footballing calendar, so Man Utd were playing again and once again the game wasn’t being screened live. As we hadn’t hit our bed until after five, this wasn’t the disappointment it should have been, but the result, Man Utd 1 – Birmingham 0, adds to another lovely chilled day (Xmas Cheer)

5th & 6th January
The week after that is pretty much for the kids, a run up to Tres Reyes on the 6th January; the day when Spanish kids are visited by the Three Kings and receive gifts. There’s a parade on the night of the 5th in most towns on the island when the Kings arrive on floats, camels and all sorts. This year we gave it a miss, watching the Aston Villa – Man Utd FA cup match instead. Finally a Man Utd game on TV. The downside is that we had to watch it in a bar where the Canarian barman is an avid Man Utd hater and makes derogatory marks about the team throughout the game. The irony of this is that this is a guy who he says he hates Man Utd because of the money they spend on buying players. And who does he support? Real Madrid!!!! I ask you? We win courtesy of an inspired Wayne Rooney and the ever wonderful Ronaldo. (A double Xmas Cheer)

And that was it, except the Correos had the last word and decided to shut on the 7th of January, presumably in lieu of the previous day, thereby having more holidays than anyone else in Spain. To cap it all, when I dragged myself down the Correos office the following day I found it in a state of chaos (cynics might say ‘so what’s new’), their ticket machine, designed to create an orderly queuing system, like the staff, wasn’t working properly and the missing parcel was still missing…Bah Humbug!