Can You Stand the Heat in Tenerife’s Cooler North? The July Fiestas

There are two days in the year that I could tell you what the weather is going to be like in Puerto de la Cruz way in advance. The first is Midsummer’s Eve (always cloudy) and the second is embarkation Tuesday.

For every year we’ve been here, the day that the Virgen del Carmen is taken on her annual sea cruise during the July fiestas has always been a sizzler. In fact a sizzler is an understatement.

It’s usually hallucination levels hot and yesterday was no exception. Ironically the hot weather alert had been lifted yesterday, but nobody told the sun which battered us with searing rays as we plunged into the madness a.k.a embarkation Tuesday during the July fiestas in Puerto de la Cruz.

The smart thing to do at the July fiestas is to travel light, wear as little as possible and cool down in the harbour water as often as possible – early on though; the water which is turquoise in the morning is dishwater brown by 5pm.

We’re suckers for good natured mayhem and embarkation Tuesday is a perfect example of this. It is wet, wild and frantic fun and to get a real feel of what the day is all about it’s essential to embark on a fiesta circuit – from the harbour to Plaza Charco to the water pistol killing fields of Calle Perdomo and then to the open air rave and then harbourside where people are thrown into the water with little disregard for what they are wearing (only the younger people luckily – one thing I’m glad I’m too old for). A loud thumping soundtrack accompanies the route with Latino changing to dance changing to traditional Canarian.

If you’ve ever been to India, it’s akin to the assault on the senses that you experience in cities such as Mumbai, except in Puerto you can add the sensation of touch as nobody, but nobody escapes the attention of the water pistol gunslingers (note: – they have to hang up their guns to use the public loos)

For eight hours Andy and I completed circuits to soak up literally everything that was happening and stopping off for refreshments (beer, beer and more beer) when the heat demanded it. Sit too long in one place at the fiesta and someone with a WPMD (water pistol of mass destruction) will notice that you’re too dry and rectify the situation, so street food taken on the move is the only way to eat.  At various times, whilst we watched each other’s backs for water bandits we stopped for  best pinchos I’ve tasted in Puerto served at one of the kiosks beside the harbour; pumped up the sugar levels with some fresh and crispy churros and carbed up with cheeseburger and chips.

By the time the Virgen del Carmen was due to make an appearance, the town resembled a battlefield and being in the heat for hours was taking its toll on some.

Every year by this time I’m so hot, sweaty and exhausted that I think ‘stuff it, I’ve got enough photos of the Virgen, I don’t have the energy to stand and battle with tiny Canarian grannies for a good position’. And then, just when she’s due, mas o menos (that means an hour beforehand) we spot a space with our name on it. From then on we re-enact our annual battle with Canarian families who magically grow in numbers magically seconds before the San Telmo and the Virgen appears and are bundled onto their waiting boats as the townspeople sing, clap and cheer with heartfelt emotion.

It’s an exhausting day, but it’s an experience which tells you all you need to know about the sense of community that exists in the traditional towns on Tenerife. It might be boisterous and loud and overwhelming (and not everyone’s scene), but it is compelling fun.

Trapped by a Beach

After our disastrous attempt to show Sue the best of the Anagas, a day of R&R was in order, so we headed along the coast from La Paz, through the banana plantations, to the beautiful black sand beach at Bollullo, hidden in the folds of the cliffs.
It’s popular with locals; however, as the only way to reach it is by a thirty minute trek across the cliffs, or by a single track road most visitors never get there.
After a cold beer and some tapas at the little beach bar, we headed onto the black sands for a lazy Sunday afternoon.
Whilst we’d been quaffing our beers we’d noticed that, despite it being Sunday when all beaches are packed to capacity, nobody was sunbathing at the back of the beach; everyone was squeezed onto the darker sand near the shoreline. We didn’t really think anything of this; the Spanish aren’t the greatest of walkers, it’s normal for them to plonk themselves as close to the water as possible. But that wasn’t the reason today. As we walked across the empty black sand, some grains slipped into my flip flops and I discovered why nobody was on this part of the beach, the sand was unbearably hot. It felt as though somebody had just poured hot coals over my feet. I cried out loud (well screamed to be more accurate)at the level of the pain and tried to shake the sand out of my sandals, causing a landslide which engulfed my other foot in what I can only describe as molten lava.
It was like walking barefoot on a hot plate and from that point I yelped and hopped, making John Cleese’ ‘Ministry of Silly Walks’ seem mundane, until we reached a darker and therefore in theory, cooler patch of sand amidst the other sunbathing victims trapped at the water’s edge.

We threw our sarongs hastily onto the sand and lay down hoping to escape the torture of the hot sands.
Sarongs may look like a ‘cooler’ alternative to beach towels, but as protection against searing hot sand they’re useless.
“I thought this was supposed to be relaxing and fun,” grimaced Andy piling a layer of clothing between her and the sand as protection.
I couldn’t answer, I was to busy trying to fit onto a copy of the Guardian; my saviour from scalded buttocks.
Unfortunately as we struggled to avoid being scalded, we didn’t notice the tsunami sized wave that was rushing toward us until the last moment. Just as it reached the edge of my sarong, I spotted it and grabbed the most important items, my camera bag and my clothes; gallantly leaving Andy and Sue to fend for themselves.

I only managed a few yards before the fierceness of the sand stopped me in my tracks and I threw my shorts and T-shirt onto the sand and jumped on to them to try to alleviate the agony in the soles on my feet. Devastation in the form of a line of sodden sarongs was strewn behind me. Andy perched on one clutching her bag and clothes, her bikini top half on, half off (a very classy look – NOT); on another Sue sat holding a rucksack which had transformed itself into a water container. We squatted there for what seemed like an eternity, unable to go forward or back due to the ferocity of the hot sand which surrounded us. Around us some people tried to make it to the top of the beach and the sanctuary of the beach bar. One bloke ran a few feet then dropped to the sand, holding his arms and legs in the air like a dying fly; his swimming shorts his only protection between him and the unforgiving sand. A young girl, one end of her towel between her hands, the other under her feet, shuffled up the beach using her towel as a variation on a Zimmer frame. Suddenly my silly walk onto the beach didn’t seem quite so out of place.

As we squatted on that beach, trying to work out a plan of escape that didn’t involve waiting until it fell dark and the sand cooled, I couldn’t help thinking about all those people who talk about the north of Tenerife as being ‘cold’.
Of course it’s all relative; the north is ‘cooler’ than the south, but this is in sub-tropical terms. In this case the ‘colder’ north was still hotter than the fires of hell.

White Sun

There’s no escaping the heat, even the shade offers no relief. The cat slinks from one promising shady looking spot to another, seeking respite, but there’s none to be had. He collapses defeated; he could be dead. A lizard runs right past his nose, but he hasn’t the energy to open even an eye. I know how he feels. There’s no noise, it’s too hot for anybody to do anything. The only active creatures are the birds and the lizards who are feeding frantically on the thousands of insects which the heat has brought forth.
The idea of a cool shower isn’t an option; the cold water is hot and the hot water is scalding. Opening doors and windows makes no difference, except to let more hairdryer-hot air into the house.

35° before 09.00 and the temperature rising reaching 41° by midday. Crazy temperatures are being quoted like 55°. Seems impossible, but not beyond the realms. It’s a heat which pervades your brain, making it difficult to think; impossible to do anything physical. Everywhere is a tinderbox, a disaster waiting to happen, which only requires one careless moment. Fires are already raging on La Gomera, fanned by the hot dry air and strong winds which we experienced here yesterday. The calima has spread westward since Thursday, pumping up the heat with a fiery wind which gusted at up to 80 kph, taking our chimney with it. The wind seems to have past us now, leaving a fiercely hot stillness in its wake and the white hot sky is starting to show signs of blue, evidence that the calima has possibly run its course.

It might not be what anyone visiting Tenerife wants to hear, but what we really need now is some rain, just to cool things down again.

Echo & The Bunnymen rock Tenerife

In a previous post I mocked the Echo and The Bunnymen website, which announced news of their gig in La Laguna with the headline ‘Echo and the Sunnymen’. La Laguna in April, sunny? Yeah right. And then along came the calima and probably the hottest weekend that La Laguna is likely to see this year.

Tenerife’s former capital was positively balmy last night as Echo and The Bunnymen took to the stage in front of Central Campus University.
Supported by El Guincho and The Mistake, they played an impressive set to an audience made up of mostly sickeningly stylish Spanish students and a decent number of the ‘baby boomer’ generation who were probably fans the first time around.
I was never a big fan, but after last night I’m a convert. Ian McCulloch´s voice has developed a rougher edge over the years which suits the band’s Doors inspired sounds and lyrics.

It was interesting to watch the mainly Canarian audience lap up a set which included a couple of new numbers (one of which Ian McCulloch sold to us as being ‘probably crap’ cause it was new),The Killing Moon, Seven Seas and Lips Like Sugar. One stage hand seemed to be in complete rapture singing along to that one.
One of the oddest moments came when the band finished their set. As they walked off the stage, there was enthusiastic clapping for sure, but no shouts of ‘more’, or even ‘¡otra!’, even though everyone had clearly enjoyed the performance. It was as if the audience seemed to think, that was it, game over. It was left to a small band of British fans to lead the way and their shouts of ‘Echo, Echo’ were soon taken up by the people around them. So at least the band didn’t have the embarrassing situation of reappearing for the obligatory encore without the audience actually demanding it. I can only put this deviation from the norm down to live gig etiquette being a wee bit ‘lost in translation’.

Still, listening to a good British band, even if they are Liverpool supporters, on a balmy evening in La Laguna was a great way to spend a Saturday night – and the bonus ball was that it was all free.

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.”