Tenerife Carnival Diary #8, Carnaval Closing Parade & the Real Deal

The creature dancing in the rain had us spellbound; not because she was a Dalmatian with a girl’s head (that’s commonplace); she was doing a sizzling hot routine that turned the rain to steam as it hit the ground.

If Dal-girl wasn’t a professional pole dancer she should have been; her long black mane swirled in MTV music video fashion sending spray in all directions. Beside her, a basketball player-sized African man-women in bikini top and thong danced in circles oblivious to the downpour. It was 1.30am and it was wet, wet, wet…but it was 17C and the carnaval drug was coursing through the veins like an electrical current. This is what carnaval is really all about.

The carnaval day had begun nine hours earlier with the Gran Coso Apoteosis (closing parade). It’s a visually vibrant affair and I always go to take photographs. But it’s a spectator event and to be honest, jostling with the united nations of visitors to try to get a decent shot isn’t my idea of fun. After an hour I’d seen what I’d wanted to see and swapped the jostling for watching Man Utd defeat Arsenal in the FA Cup before heading for home, making dinner, watching two episodes of Desperate Housewives on Spanish TV and getting into costume to head back into town.

Where we live you can forget calling a taxi or catching a bus on the last night of carnaval. The only way in is to drive (that means no drinking) or walk the three kilometres into Puerto de la Cruz. We opted to walk.

However, two unexpected downpours had us pausing mid dressing up. The first was the rain which had made an appearance most nights at about 10pm; the second was something I’d eaten decided to turn everything in my intestines into liquid. Three visits to the loo in an hour presented a much worse prospect than the rain. Carnaval toilets aren’t exactly Glastonbury levels, but neither are they places where you want to spend a lot of time.

As it was the last night of carnaval we decided to take on the fates and, telling myself that at least my brown monk’s robe might act as camouflage in the worse case scenario, at 11pm we set off through the banana plantation.

The walk into town is always bizarre. We pass through the tourist areas of La Paz and the newer side of town where virtually no-one dresses up and it was unnervingly quiet to the point that we though the carnaval street parties must have finished early (we go through this year after year).

Then at Plaza del Charco you enter the world where the wild things are; the domain of the weird and the wonderful where dullness has no place.

Almost as soon as we arrived the rain returned and we sought shelter at a beer kiosk – cañas (glasses of beer) €1; combinados (triple spirit measure and mixer) €3. It was here that Dal-girl started her dancing in the rain routine.

A canopy reached from the kiosk to Mi Pequeño Mexico (a new bar/restaurant that’s on our list to try) and Café del Mar. The canopy acted as a sort of bizarroland’s Noah’s Ark (many couples dress up the same so the two by two ruling also fitted). Vampires, witches, N’Avi, Vikings, pirates, giant mice and sexy female airline pilots in mini dresses filled the space under the canopy as the braver creatures danced in the rain. Andy and I had pole position under a metal shutter at the bar so that all I had to do was raise two fingers and a buxom wench (not sure what sex) kept refilling our beers.

The rain became heavier and the Latino music louder so that Dal-girl’s routine became more frantic and she shed the Dalmation skin until she was left dancing in T-shirt and shorts. At that point it dawned on me that the rain hadn’t actually dampened the carnaval spirit; if anything it showed how strong it is and why the street parties are so special. It’s easy to be smiley happy people when it’s dry and temperatures are positively balmy but the rain hadn’t changed the expressions on the faces around me. Some people sheltered, others danced…and everyone but everyone smiled and laughed. What the weather got up to was incidental and that is what’s addictive about the street parties. Dressed up, you’re part of a surreal community where everyone knows all the words to Shakira’s Waka Waka and strangers with painted faces hug you and talk to you for no reason other than they’re tripping on happiness. Standing in that colourful crowd with drips from the metal shutter watering down my beer I experienced one of those moments where I loved the world and the wonderful people who populated it – this little section at least. This is why Andy and I are always extolling the virtues of leaving the sidelines and getting into the thick of things when it comes to carnaval or any other fiesta on Tenerife for that matter. It’s here where the real deal is and once you plunge in you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.

The rain stopped after about and hour and stayed away for the remainder of the night. We spent the rest of carnaval’s last bash dancing to the same music we hear year after year with the thousands upon thousands of other creatures who filled the streets. (Carnaval tip: the best way to get through the most crowded street is to dance your way through in a sort of chained feet, slave shuffle routine. For some reason it works.) At 4am, when the party was at its zenith, we decided to head for home. Even the forty minute uphill trek to home and bed didn’t dilute the feeling of wellbeing.

Carnaval 2011 has been demanding and exhausting but most of all it has been exhilarating. I’m already looking forward to next year’s.

Tenerife Carnival Diary #7, The High Heels Marathon

By Friday night when I expected my enthusiasm for Tenerife carnaval to be very much on the wane it completely surprised me by heading in the opposite direction and soaring into the carnaval spirit stratosphere. There were a couple of reasons for this.

The first was thanks to a humongous chorizo and grilled green pepper catalana at Mesón California (basically a sausage butty Spanish style). I know I rabbit on about this stall, but the eating experience here is more akin to enjoying a culinary theatre performance than simply eating at a carnaval kiosk. The doorstep-thick chunk of bread that the chorizos and peppers rest on is too bready for Andy and she opted for the spicy pinchos (pork kebabs) which she declared to be the best tasting pinchos ever… and she’s tested quite a few. As I exercised my jaw and snapped a few shots, ignoring the warning by the camarero to not photograph the chef as his ugliness would break the camera lens, I also nosied at what others were eating. A plate of calamari on one side of me, a mountain of gueldes (fried whitebait) on the other and opposite was the king of carbs – a catalana consisting of a slab of tortilla as chunky as the bread it was resting on topped by what can only be described as an erect gherkin. Fantastic…and perfect as a carnaval alcohol sponge.

The second reason my carnaval spirit was soaring was that we were in Puerto de la Cruz to see the best carnaval event on Tenerife; the Mascarita Ponte Tacón (high heels marathon). The outrageous drag queen race has become so popular over the last few years that around 50,000 spectators turn up to see the 250+ contestants and their over the top costumes.

There are two ways to enjoy the Mascarita Ponte Tacón; either camp out along the route for hours until the ‘ladies’ stop parading and decide to run – or get close to the contestants’ free beer pump. We opt for the latter as the beer pump is a magnet to every stiletto-wearing giant chicken, Chilean miner and…err high heel shoe itself. The Mascarita Ponte Tacón goes against everything connected with sense and sensibility. Contestants have to tackle an assault course on vertigo-inducing heels after being plied with gallons of alcohol. Not only that, the more outrageous and politically incorrect the costume is, the more the crowd lap it up…oh, and brandishing a penis (fake clearly- I think) seems to be obligatory.

Add a charismatic and very funny compere; the best carnival music in Puerto de la Cruz, blasted out at such a volume that contestants sway on their heel as they pass the speakers, and an atmosphere bordering on pure elation and you’ve got an anarchic spectacle that blasts away any carnival fatigue. By the time the free beer ran out and the now staggering drag queens inelegantly headed for the race’s starting line (way, way, way behind schedule) I was relishing the prospect of donning a fancy dress costume and getting into the thick of the action for the final end of carnaval bash the following night.

Tenerife Carnival Diary #5, Burial of the Sardine

The Burial of the Sardine procession is probably my least favourite carnaval event on Tenerife. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t like its absurdity; it’s just that it’s a one joke gig – huge make-up wearing sardine followed by shrieking widows flashing plastic penises and mock vaginas. It’s surreal, it’s funny and it’s shocking but after you’ve seen it once the joke’s over really.

I don’t mean to put anyone off going to see it. Lots of people love the spectacle and the widows’ shocking behaviour has the older Canarian women screaming with glee, but the eagle-eyed out there will notice that, in Puerto de la Cruz at least, the best looking widows don’t even join the procession.

Like many of carnival’s events, the real fun lies in the street parties and what goes on after the parades are over. I get more of a buzz seeing a group of burly six foot blokes in black evening gowns and high heels standing outside one of the fishermen’s bars chatting to each other as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Or the gangs of thirteen year old lads in tight sparkling black mini dresses, fishnets and flowing wigs, which they flick back from their eyes just a little bit too convincingly. Quite a few of them look more glamorous than the ‘real’ girls that are with them. A visiting friend was amazed at seeing so many local boys ‘girlied up’ and remarked that lads of that age in the UK would never have enough confidence in their sexuality to dress up in girls’ clothing.  Ha…it ain’t only lads that age. I know plenty of men who wouldn’t.

Whilst most visitors crowd the harbour area waiting for the sardine to be cremated and the subsequent firework display, hordes of young and not so young ladyboys arrive at the carnaval kiosks at the top of Calle Perdomo. It’s here that some of the most imaginative and outrageous outfits are to be seen. And it’s here that we tend to hang about. But not for too long this year as we weren’t in costume and when you’re not in costume it’s impossible not to feel as though you’ve crashed the party.

However this year the sardine did actually manage to surprise us… and we discovered its lair. We were driving to the harbour car park when a policeman stopped us in our tracks. Lo and behold right in front of us the 20 foot long giant fish emerged from its secret den in full make-up and…get this…a plastic mac in case it rained. A fish wearing a mac! How crazy is that?

Tenerife Carnival Diary #3, Santa Cruz Street Party

“I mostly stick to Puerto’s carnival,” I said to a Santa Crucero friend who’d asked if I was heading into the capital for Tenerife’s biggest party of the year.

“But that’s tiny,” She laughed.

Tiny… and that’s despite there being up to 30,000+ people at the nightly street parties in Puerto de la Cruz. That should give you some idea of the scale of celebrations in Santa Cruz.

Arriving in Santa Cruz via the bus station during carnival is like arriving via a portal from another world. You enter the station from a relatively quiet, modern city and emerge into what could easily be a bizarre and unfamiliar post apocalyptic landscape.

But this is no Blade Runner bleakness; this is a parallel universe where Disney and Marvel characters rule the world; the place where vampires, zombies and all types of miscreants go to party and Snow White reveals a dark side, as well as a lot more, by wearing micro skirts that expose her stocking tops.

Costumes are essential keys to the carnaval kingdom and Andy and I had prepared ourselves for entry by donning a monk’s robe (me) and a Hit-Girl (Kick-Ass ) costume (Andy)…or rather Hit-Girl a few sequels down the line. That was a foolhardy comment which earned me a super hero karate chop.

The glass-walled bus station is like an acclimatisation zone and at 11pm on Saturday night the few people in costume (carnival doesn’t hit its stride until much later), aided and abetted by a neon-lit world beyond the windows, added a surreal, slightly trippy feel to the place.

Outside, a fairground ran the length of the port promenade to the centre of the city, a 10 minute walk away. For every ride there was a junk food stall selling churros, burgers and baked potatoes.

11pm is far too early for carnaval and the mix of those in fancy dress and those not was about 50/50. But with every step towards the centre, those not ‘in gear’ began to look more and more like dull intruders in a Dayglo world. In carnival land the tables are turned. A man wearing false breasts, high heels and a lace-panty revealing skirt looks normal, whereas one in a jumper, jeans and sensible shoes looks and feels (I know from experience) odd.

There was a Ministry of Sound set (from 11pm to 6am) at Plaza Europa. By midnight there were still only a handful of people in front of the huge stage as a supporting DJ warmed up the crowd, so we went on a tour of the other carnaval hot spots.

Plaza Candelaria was already bouncing as a young, lively maquinaria band had the crowd in the plaza screaming approval (Latino music wins out every time in Tenerife) and a conga line of police women, cavemen and a flamenco troupe snaked their way through the throng.

The streets running parallel to the square were full of decorated floats blasting out a mix of dance and Latino to the costumed revellers. In front of one a group of dirigible-sized mock Scots in kilts bounced and waddled to the music.

In Plaza Principe butterflies and ladybirds salsa’d to the sounds of another Latino band whilst in the street below the plaza an overweight Marilyn Monroe flashed her knickers to the strains of a Spanish rock band as the statue of Padre José Murphy (I kid you not) looked on disapprovingly.

By 1.30am the centre of the capital was a whirling mass of colour and costumes. We had casually arranged to meet some friends, but there was little chance of spotting them amongst the tens of thousands that packed the streets and even less of trying to communicate by phone. So we continued to shimmy our way through the madness, being stopped every so often by creatures of the night who wanted a brief dance or to have their photo taken, whilst carnaval just got busier and busier.

By 2am the Ministry of Sound party had filled considerably. As Andy and I jigged to Shane Kehoes’ set someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to face a clown who pointed at the bag slung around my shoulder.

“Your mobile phone’s on show,” he said. “You should keep it in your pocket; much safer.” The clown smiled.

It’s a nothing little story, but to me it spoke volumes about carnival on Tenerife. You can talk about the imaginative costumes, the live music and the sheer spectacle of Tenerife’s bigger carnivals, but what really makes the street parties very special is that to experience one is to experience the best of the Tinerfeño character. Carnival is a lot of fun and visually an intoxicating rollercoaster ride, but possibly most important of all, its atmosphere exudes an overwhelming wave of warmth and friendliness.

That’s why it’s so dammed hard to drag yourself away from it until the cocks start to crow.

The first Buzz of Carnival in Puerto de la Cruz

Last night I saw something that sent a shiver of excitement down my spine and brought a tingle to my tastebuds; something that seductively whispered ‘carnaval is here’ in my ears and had me licking my lips in anticipation of the maelstrom that was about to assault the senses of anyone who had the courage to plunge into its all-consuming madness.

I’m not talking about seeing the carnaval stage taking shape or the mini taster parade to announce this year’s carnaval queen candidates…no, I’m talking about a force that was responsible for pulling me out of a decade of being a pescatarian and back, grunting with desire, into the world of the carnivores again.

I’m talking about a food stall extraordinaire…Mesón California.

Forget the wussy bite-sized montaditos of the Madrids and the Barcelonas of this world; at Mesón California you get Desperate Dan-sized, jaw testing versions. Check out the picture if you think I’m exaggerating. These are montaditos for real men – and women of course – and being carnival, also for ghouls, vampires and slutty nuns and nurses etc.

Its erection is the sign for me that carnaval has arrived and I’m positively salivating at the thought of my annual pilgrimage to worship at this exquisite shrine to Spanish street cuisine.

Carnaval in Puerto de la Cruz 2010 – ¡Qué Desastre!

Puerto de la Cruz' opening parade!!!

A little boy wearing a clown costume stood on the street corner looking hopefully along an ominously empty street. As the minutes ticked by his excitement drained away to be replaced with heavy-as-lead disappointment…I knew how he felt. We were both waiting for a carnaval parade that never came.

I mentioned in a previous blog about the ‘strange’ pre-carnaval atmosphere this year in Puerto de la Cruz, but as we squeezed through packed streets on the way to Plaza Charco last night it seemed as though the doom and gloom of the run-up had dissolved in the party atmosphere. However, even then there were signs that all was not as it should be. The plaza café was once again shut, just as it was during New Year, the ongoing industrial dispute causing the town to miss out on much needed revenue during the busiest periods of the year.

But as we plonked ourselves down on stools at the best food stall in the world and ordered two Desperate Dan-sized montaditos (catalanas), the sight of the deserted café was soon forgotten. Latino music blasted out across the square and the place buzzed with anticipation and I felt that addictive carnaval drug course through my veins. Then I noticed something odd. There were no rows of people lining the route of the opening parade.

We finished our catalanas and wandered over to a policeman who confirmed that the parade was following its normal route. But as we walked along the street towards Castillo San Felipe there was no-one. Admittedly we were a bit early, but things weren’t normal.

We walked to a little bar underneath El Peñon, hoping for signs of a parade, but there were none. We’d always fancied having a drink at El Bajio beside the car park entrance as it always seems to be buzzing, so we grabbed a table and ordered a couple of beers. It’s a great little bar; full of character. Next to us a Canarian family tucked into a plate with a whole fish and a couple of grilled cuttlefish on it; pulling strips from the fish in between watching a TV set up outside the bar and cheering as Christiano Ronaldo scored a hat trick in about as much time as it takes to say the phrase. But still there was no familiar sound of beating drums. Something was definitely wrong. We finished our drinks and headed back. This time as we walked along the road we heard the rhythmic drumbeat that normally accompanies the parade, but oddly there were still no people. We turned a corner and there it was…one group of dancers. They were doing the usual dance moves, but without energy or flair – they were simply going through the motions.

Unwilling to accept that this was it we moved on and that’s when we encountered the little clown boy and his mother. As we approached them, the mother stopped a passing policeman and asked him about the parade. We asked her what he’d said.

“He said it’s only a short parade this year – only a few groups.”
“What about the carnaval queens – aren’t they in it.” I asked her.
“No, only at the big parade next week it seems,” she replied.
“Why?”
“Maybe the crisis,” she shrugged before adding. “Este año carnaval es fatal.” (Basically – carnaval is going to be crap this year).

We knew exactly what she was saying and why. The portuenses (people of Puerto) aren’t happy.

“Do you think he’s punishing the town for not voting for him,” Andy murmured.

It might seem ridiculous, but that’s exactly what it felt like. That Puerto’s mayor had stopped a tradition that was loved by the townspeople and visitors to punish them. But if there’s one big mistake you can make in Tenerife it’s to mess with the people’s fiestas.

I wonder if Mayor Marcos Brito woke today to find that he had developed tinnitus. But instead of ringing in his ears, he might have been hearing a tap, tap, tapping noise – the sound of nails being hammered into his political coffin.

I reckon that los portuenses no van a olvidar este.

An essential stall for accessories during carnaval

Carnaval on Tenerife 2010 – Election of the Santa Cruz Carnaval Queen

It catches your eye doesn’t it? I’m talking about her name. The new carnaval queen for Santa Cruz is called Alicia San Juan Mc-Nulty.

Alicia San Juan McNulty – it’s great, like the statue of the priest in Santa Cruz called Father José Murphy.

Alicia hails from La Laguna, but at least one Spanish paper commented that she had a foreign appearance – no surprise as she has Irish blood in her veins, like  quite a few Canarios. A lot of Irish settled around the north of Tenerife from the mid 16th century onwards and every so often you hear a name that is half Spanish and half Irish.

One Victorian explorer attributed the exceptional good looks of the Canario people around La Orotava to the mix of Spanish, Irish and even Guanche blood.

Carnaval on Tenerife 2010 – I Just Don’t Have that Carnaval Feeling

The California Carnaval Food Stall - YUM YUM or What?

I don’t know why, but this year I just haven’t been infected by the ‘carnaval’ spirit. We’re on the eve of it actually starting big time and I feel as happy about it as a down-in-the-dumps Victor Meldrew.

It could be me, but I don’t feel that ‘buzz’ coming from Puerto de la Cruz that I usually feel in the week before carnaval hits its stride.

I haven’t heard any batucada drumbeats filling the night air announcing ‘carnaval is coming, carnaval is coming…’ Even last night there were no fireworks to accompany the election of Puerto’s carnival queen. Press releases from the town council have been more about finger pointing and back-biting than shouting out about what should be the town’s most fun-filled period and that hasn’t helped with a mood that feels as though Franco’s spirit has returned.

I was in town today, walking around the rows of beer kiosks and food stalls as the final preparations were being made for the first of Puerto’s big parties tomorrow night, but even there, I didn’t feel the usual buzz of anticipation and my favourite food stall in the whole wide universe, California, had it’s tarpaulin shutters closed – sort of symbolic really.

However, I’ve a suspicion that this is only the calm before the storm, only the storm this time is going to be of the hedonistic party till you die variety.

When the masks go on and the music starts I expect Puerto will let loose as always at this time of year and about 8pm tomorrow night someone is going to take a hypo full of carnaval spirit and shove it deep into my veins…

There was one thing that made me smile today. Taped to a wall was a council notice about official regulations during carnaval, part of which stated when the music could go on until in the streets.

On 13th, 19th and 20th February the bands and DJs at the street parties can blast out their rhythms until 6am. But on 14th – 18th they can only do it until 5am.

Only 5am – don’t you just love carnaval?

Shopping in Tenerife – The Price of Clothes

“You can’t go out in that!” Andy had her hands on her hips; she meant business.

“Why? What’s wrong with it?” She was referring to an old T-shirt in whose company I felt as relaxed as if it were an old friend.

Sure the T-shirt was faded and maybe even slightly ragged here and there, but that gave it more street cred. For me wearing something that looks brand spanking new can be slightly naff. I used to fall into the trap of buying a new holiday wardrobe every time we went on holiday. So that from the moment I stepped off the plane I smelled and looked like a shiny new person. The problem with this was that the clothes of all the most interesting people I ever met always had a faded, worn look. You felt that you could sit down with one of their T-shirts alone and it could tell you a whole load of fascinating yarns.

Therefore, the more faded my clothes become, the closer I come to reaching a windswept and interesting nirvana – that’s what I told myself anyway. The truth is, if you’re Charlie Brown, you’re Charlie Brown.

In the year before we moved here I stocked up on what I thought were ‘travellers’ type clothes. For 6 years most of them have remained in my wardrobe relatively unworn except for their annual Carnaval outing when, devoid of inspiration, we dress up as hippies. I’m a suit person at heart really, yet I’ve never worn one here – it’s too hot despite what anyone will tell you about the north of Tenerife. So most of the time it’s T-shirts and light pants; although since Casino Royale  I’ve decided that Daniel Craig’s smart but coolly casual style is right up my street. Anyway I digress.

“What’s up with it?”

“That. That’s what’s up with it,” Andy pulled at the bottom of the T-shirt and held it out so that I could see.

There was a line of holes, each progressively bigger than the last. Daddy moth, mummy moth and the kids had obviously had a right old meal.

“Oh… I hadn’t noticed those.”

It was a feeble excuse; you could stick your finger through the biggest of the holes.

“You need some new clothes.”

“I’m sure I bought some new T-shirts not so long ago,” you can take the boy out of Scotland, but you can’t take Scotland out of the boy. The idea of spending money on something as frivolous as clothes brought me out in a sweat.

We did a quick calculation and worked out that it was over two years since I’d bought any T-shirts (I’ve had ones since, but as presents), so an emergency trip to La Villa shopping centre in La Orotava was arranged.

An hour later I emerged with 2 polo shirts and 1 T-shirt from Zara; 2 T-shirts from Springfield and a pair of trousers from Pull & Bear.

And the total cost? €30 – those sort of prices I can live with.

Now I’ll have to wear them about the house for a few weeks before I go out in public to get rid of that shiny new look.

Carnaval on Tenerife – Trapped in a Crazy World

A real Monster Mash

This might sound like an exaggeration, but there was a point at the closing night party where we were positively trapped by Carnaval. At the top of Calle Perdomo in Puerto we were surrounded by an undulating sea of colour and painted faces which stretched into the distance in all directions. Movement was impossible. Carnaval had us firmly in its grasp and we surrendered happily.

It is points like this that the weariness accumulated by a week spent at the occasional street party and all of the parades completely dissipates. Carnaval is a drug for sure. It gets into your veins and injects you with a natural high. A friend of ours who stays in Puerto every year had stayed out till 7 in the morning a few times, feeding on the buzz of the animal. By the time we met him for the Carling Cup final he could have completely dispensed with any make up as he looked like a zombie. Extra time and penalties nearly did for him as the adrenalin boost from the previous night/that morning’s carnaval party wore off.

It was a great closing night; one of the best. It had been a beautiful day in Puerto; in fact after the rains which had delayed the election of the Carnaval queen, it had been a good week for weather. For once during Carnaval, the fun loving weather gods had kept the straight-laced ones at bay and the closing parade was a sunny event where the sun shone as brightly as the smiles on the participants’ faces.
The parade takes place from around 16.00 mas o menos and lasts for about three hours, giving us enough time to get home, eat, and try to figure out what to dress up as.
I had three attempts: a cowboy (boring), A big game hunter (didn’t have a gun) and finally a vampire.
Andy knew she was going to dress up as a witch, but had a clothes crisis about what skirt looked the more witchy under a longish jacket; until we noticed that the best effect was when she was mid change i.e. sin skirt…well it was carnaval; to be wearing more than what is basically underwear is overdressed for many carnaval goers.

If there’s one thing I’d change at Carnaval, it would be the music in the so called ‘clubbing’ area. I enjoy Latino, but I like a bit of pulsating dance as well (even if my attempts to move to the groove are embarrassingly like a ‘dad dance’) but all the dance areas stick pretty much to Latino sounds all night.
There was a point on Saturday night which was quite illuminating about the Canario psyche. There was some decent dance music being played in the ‘dance tent’ and the younger Canarios were bouncing away happily. But even in this area, they couldn’t seem to go more than a couple of tracks before changing back to a Latino base. At one point they actually stuck on a track which I swear was a ‘murga’ number (murgas are the satirical clown like bands which fill TV screens on the run up to carnaval – not the most musical of sounds and certainly not rave material) and the crowd went crazy for it. At that point we realised that if we wanted to hear some variation in sounds there was only one thing for it; head to the gay area. That’s where the best costumes usually are anyway. And it was there that we got trapped, drinking cheap beer amidst a throng of mutant flowers, giant penises, an ‘is that a man or that a woman’ in full length see through body costume, gimps and tribes of Indian Braves jumping up and down singing along to ‘I Will Survive’ and the soundtrack to Grease. There are more boring ways to spend your Saturday night, but there aren’t many more bizarre.
For the closing night party there were as many people as I’d ever seen at carnaval. The road from the harbour to Plaza del Charco, up Calle Perdomo and back to the harbour was a solid mass of thousands upon thousands of people in fancy dress. The words of a British ‘swallow’ we’d bumped into at the parade came back to me.
“The town’s very quiet this year,” he’d said.
It seemed an incredible statement, given the fact that there had been carnaval parties nearly every night, but it’s the perception that some visitors can have when they come to Puerto and keep ‘British’ hours.
Time as it always does at carnaval did a bit of a magic trick and what we thought was about 2.30 turned out to be closer to 5.00. We decided to attempt one last circuit then turn our back on Carnaval for another year.

This is what Carnaval does to your complexion!

It’s been a tiring one this year (nothing new there) and lots of important things (work) were shelved for a week, but taking part in Carnaval is important, if not essential, in understanding what makes Tenerife tick. It’s also incredibly good fun even if my body felt as though it had been through the Spanish inquisition.

We’d been hugged and bumped till we were black and blue (actually that was my face paint smudging); on numerous occasions various people (all men – I think) have exposed their genitals (fake ones…err, I think; although there was one disturbingly realistic vagina) and at one point I even received a proposal of marriage. All in all a typical carnaval experience and even though it was another unforgettable occasion and I wouldn’t miss it for the world, I’m glad it’s over…I desperately needed to rest.