The Banana Bunch

  

We have reached our destination; Zara and I have now arrived at the monolithic Playa de las Americas tourist resort in Tenerife. Along with the fleeting scenery that has passed us by on this journey, the fascinating five-hundred-year-old love story between Christopher Columbus and Beatriz de Bobadilla, played out on the neighbouring Island of La Gomera has similarly vanished (see post Steve, Beatriz And Columbus). As we pull in to a side street near to the beach front and finally park, I pull out my phone and show Zara a rare surviving portrait of the famed Beatriz. 'Blimey, look at her, she was gorgeous. I want skin like that! It looks flawless', gasps my nineteen-year-old niece. But beauty without does not automatically imply beauty within, and my niece's astute pronouncement on said Beatriz accompanied by a shrug of the shoulders reflects the cruel legacy that outshone the damsel's legendary beauty; 'shame she was a witch'. After a suitable pause for reflection and contemplation, Zara amplifies this summary in her refreshingly casual teenage manner; 'well, you know what I mean'.  And I tell her that, yes, I know exactly what she means, and we both smile.

                                                                   
The sprawling Playa de las Américas, 'Beach of the Americas' tourist resort, where we have arrived also has interesting historical origins. In past times, it served as a clandestine departure point for undocumented passengers stowing away on furtive boats to South America, a fact largely forgotten by locals and completely unknown to the colossal mass of visitors that populate its hotels year after year. For now however, the history lesson is over and together we walk towards the stunning Playa del Duque Beach and enjoy the side to Tenerife that visitors are met with day after day: the sun, the sand and the sea. Our summer dresses are slowly peeled away, revealing two sets of brightly coloured bikinis instantly blending us into the mass of humanity around us. The Island Girls have come prepared. Zara has already dived into the warm blue Atlantic waters, and I sit back on my towel and take a moment to absorb the relaxed scenery opening out before me, burying my toes into the warm black sand as I do so.

                                                          

Just like Zara and I, there are reams of visitors on this beach and all paying a large amount of money for this pleasure. I realise how privileged we both are to call this beautiful paradise Island also our home. Tourism is indeed an interesting phenomenon, I ponder. And I try to imagine what story has bought the people around me at this very moment to Tenerife, to this particular place and on this particular day: The whole spectrum of society is represented here on this beach today: family groups, young couples, elderly couples, groups of men, girlie groups. I try to analyse what is it that makes people want to travel to the other end of the planet for a 'holiday', and sum it up as the need to live someone else's life for just a short time; to live in their world, eat their food, enjoy their climate, and experience their different customs. We all want that feeling of being just a little outside our comfort zone and on top of that we are glad to pay for it. That, in a nutshell, is Tourism. Don't you agree?

                                     



Life is certainly very relaxed on this semi-tropical island; nestled off the coast of Western Africa and next to Morocco, it is indeed a European Hawaii. And just like Hawaii, we spend an inordinate amount of time on the beach, in swimwear and in flip flops, an acceptable form of footwear for even the most demanding of evening occasions. Cousin Sebastian tells me that mainland Spaniards call their fellow Spanish residents of the Canary Islands, Los Aplatanados roughly meaning The Banana Bunch. They seemingly think that we wait for bananas  to drop from the trees and into our laps, and in doing so exert no more effort to feed ourselves. This seems a rather narrow viewpoint, but I have to concede that we are surrounded by the ubiquitous fruit at every turn; plantations dot the island with frequent intensity, and as a child I regularly recall helping myself to bananas freshly picked from nearby trees. 
                                                      
                                        

Talking of nourishing oneself with minimum effort, there goes the beach vendor right past me. Meandering past on the hot, sticky sand with a heavy basket of goods strapped to his shoulders, he sells his wares to all that care to purchase as they stretch out on their towels absorbing the warm afternoon sun in-between swims; What shall it be he shouts out, watermelon? coconut? doughnut? soft drink? beer? and of course we must not forget the Canarian banana, Mama's favourite fruit. I have seen how she follows Zara around the apartment morning, noon and night, enticing her granddaughter to partake of this great delicacy, banana readily in hand for handover. Leave her alone, I firmly tell Mama, she is not a monkey. Mama wafts off with indignation but not before she has turned around and aims one last emotive sales pitch, 'As you please, but it's both your loss!' And with that, she deftly peels her precious bounty and defiantly proceeds to savour its sumptuous delights just inches away my face. Mama has once again had the last say in our family, and our love for her is so immense that we happily allow her this privilege (see post Gravestone Mystery Resolved).

The time has now come for me to savour my own delights, and I plunge into the refreshing Atlantic Ocean joining Zara for a swim. There is something truly magical about water, I think to myself; bathing in it, showering in it, swimming in it, just plain looking at it all imbues one with a sense of tranquility and calm. Why is this, I contemplate. Perhaps because we all began our existence enveloped in a silent sea of amniotic fluid; drenching ourselves in water momentarily returns us to the submerged world that was our first home at the dawn of this existence. The human race is indeed a fascinating species; we begin life immersed in a sea of liquid, indeed ingesting this fluid, only to expel it at birth and from then onwards fill our lungs with air. Along with our birth and subsequent expulsion from our mother's womb, a part of us is lost forever. Perhaps this is why, time after time we are drawn to the element of water; it makes us feel complete.

                                                         

Just as many moons before, I have my fill of the Atlantic waters and then throw myself onto the warm sand to dry off. Back then I was a bewildered Spanish six-year-old, escaping in the dead of night from the harsh reality of a new life in a strange country called England to the calming familiarity of my beach right on this very island (see post Watching The English Part III). Now I am an adult aunt with a beautiful English niece sat beside me and escaping from nowhere; my life may still be spread across countries and cultures, but I am finally at peace. After the sun's rays have evaporated every square inch of moisture from our skin, we changed back into our summer dresses, gather our belongings and walk the short distance to the parked car. From there we begin the return journey to Mama and the village of San Juan. Our day-long drive across Tenerife has indeed been a wonderful adventure (see posts Autopista With Vista , A Place Called Chinet, and Steve, Beatriz And Columbus). Now it's time to go home.

                                                             
                                                            

To be continued...

Next post published on Sunday 13th August: The Beach Club


Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some additions from private family archives.

Steve, Beatriz And Columbus

                                                             

Zara and I have now arrived in Santa Cruz, regional capital city of Tenerife. We have spent an enjoyable hour driving there along the Island's scenic motorway, accompanied by spectacular ocean and mountain views as far as the eye can see. On our journey I have shared with my English niece the history of this Island 

(see post A Place Called Chinet).  

Now is time for something that supersedes even the most fascinating  history lessons: Lunch.

'I had no idea that there was so much rich history on this Island', Zara tells me over lunch, 'Most visitors just think of Tenerife as a holiday resort where you come for sun, sea and sand. If only they knew a half of what you have told me', she continues. I laugh and tell her that I have just shared a small fraction of what there is to know and that we will continue with the history lesson on our return drive back to the southern tip of the Island. But while we are here in Santa Cruz, it's a good a place as any to tell her that the famous Battle of Santa Cruz was fought right here in July of 1979; Rear Admiral Horatio Nelson of the Royal Navy launched an assault on the Spanish port city of Santa Cruz on July 22nd. Fast forward to three days later on 25th July, and the English have been roundly defeated and the remains of the English landing party withdraw having lost several hundred men and Nelson himself that infamous arm amputated after a serious injury, and forever after reminding him of his spectacular failure at Santa Cruz. Spain one England nil.  'I never knew that Nelson lost his arm in Tenerife, and I studied History at Advanced Level! ' Zara exclaims. Well now you do, I reply. No day trip is nowadays complete without the obligatory selfie, so after our lunch has been eaten, my niece photographs and I happily oblige. 

Shopping is next on our agenda, and accordingly we walk the short distance to the elegant El Corte Ingles department store. It's a very up-market establishment and not dissimilar to Selfridge's in London, or Gallery Lafayette in Paris and I am in need of a dress for the upcoming nuptials of my son, Hugo to Julia, his Finnish fiancée. They will be marrying in Helsinki this coming summer and I am still dress-less. But not for long, because I set my eyes on a fitted creation which as soon as I try on screams, 'Buy me'. Which of course I do. The dress label says size six UK or thirty-four European and I have never fitted into such a tiny outfit in all my adult life, but my nineteen-year-old niece turned personal shopper informs me that the size eight does not fit snugly, so a size six it is. And I contemplate the valley of tears that has unfolded before me enabling me to fit into this dream creation; valleys of tears which I would have happily circumnavigated and remained the two dress sizes larger, but this life is not for us to choose, rather it chooses us, and we must accept our assigned path with grace and dignity (see post Cars With Memories). The dress is perfect, and I will happily wear it on Hugo and Julia's big day along with my Steve Maddens. 

Now, please do not worry, I also did not know who Steve Madden was until four months ago when I visited the Stockmann department store in Helsinki (the Finnish equivalent of Selfridges, or the very Corte Ingles that I am in at this very moment), to buy some flat walking shoes. And then I set eyes on them and the flat walking shoes faded into utter oblivion; as if by fate or destiny, the most amazing designer shoes cross my path, and at that moment I know that just as with this dress they have to be mine. My Lithuanian guide girlfriend, Tatanja soon invites me to the Helsinki Concert Hall to join her at a concert of the Radio Symphony Orchestra, and I happily acquiesce and take along my Steve Maddens: 

Big mistake. I cannot remember ever having walked in such monumentally high heels and am unable to take a step in any direction without toppling over. I am about as graceful as an elephant on stilts. Not to be deterred, I shuffle along the entire evening like an elegantly dressed Japanese Geisha with bricks strapped to her delicate feet. Enormous queues slowly accumulate behind me wherever I walk. I cannot reach my seat in a timely fashion and neither can anyone else unfortunate enough to be stuck behind me. My profuse apologies do little to help. Who is this foreign woman that does not know how to do something as simple as putting one foot in front of the other? my perplexed fellow concert visitors discretely ask one another in hushed tones. Miraculously we all somehow make it to our seats just before the lights dim and the concert begins. A most pleasant evening is enjoyed by all, including not least of all by myself smugly clad in my Steve Maddens.

But shuffling long is no longer an issue. My Steve Maddens and I are now on intimate terms and I can happily walk in them effortlessly, anywhere. Well, almost. And I also have my dress. I send the shop assistant to another corner of the store to find me a suitable bag, whilst Zara and I pick out a hairpiece, and after a while I have my complete wedding outfit gathered. Mission accomplished. As I pay for my expensive dress along with handbag and hairpiece, I make a mental note to share some critical advice with forthcoming bride, Julia: Under no circumstances let Hugo see your wedding dress before the big day. It will only bring bad luck and I should know; I let Hugo's Finnish Papa button me up on the morning of the wedding just before we left for the church. We were both staying at his parents' home in Helsinki (in separate rooms of course), and I just could not reach the upper-most button on the back of my dress, so I sensibly called him into my room to for ask for assistance. And look at me now. Divorced! I should have just gone through the entire ceremony top-most button undone. No-one but me would have noticed, after all, my long hair covered it. But no, I insisted otherwise. Drat that button

Our Santa Cruz visit is soon over, and after placing my precious purchases in the back of the car, we begin the return drive towards the southern tip of the Island. Our next port of call will be the Las Americas Tourist resort and to one of Zara's favourite beaches, the Playa del Duque for a well-deserved afternoon swim. But a drive of around forty minutes still separate us from the beach bestowing us with sufficient time to continue with our Island history lesson. And so I continue as Zara intently listens; 

Even the Island's name of Tenerife has its historical origins pre-dating the arrival of the Spaniards. In ancient times the Island was called a variation of Achinech, Achined or Chinet by the local Guanche population. The name of Tenerife widely used today originates from the neigbouring island of La Palma and its original inhabitants. Upon seeing the Teide volcanoe majestically rising out of the nearby sister Island above the clouds with its often snowy-capped peak, the Island became known as Tene e ife or 'Of the White Mountain' (from the words Tene meaning mountain and Ife meaning white). After the conquest by the Spaniards, the name was simplified by connecting the two words with an r and so creating the word Tenerife which we all use today. 

I cannot possibly conclude today's lesson without some information also about La Gomera, the neighbouring Island where Zara's Grandma (and my Mama) was born, for this too forms part of our mutual cultural heritage. And so the next part of the history lesson continues as I press the accelerator on this stunning Autopista with Vista, Motorway with a View (see post Autopista With Vista). 

On the 6th September 1492, Christopher Columbus set sail from La Gomera on his now-legendary voyage of discovery, eventually arriving at lands which we today know as 'America', To this day, La Gomera is still known as 'The Colombine Island'. In the capital city of San Sebastian it is possible to visit the home where Columbus stayed during his time on the island, the location of the church at which he prayed for safe deliverance, and the well that he drew water from for ships' provisions and to consecrate any new lands he might stumble on. And stumble he did. But, why did Columbus choose La Gomera to stop off on his voyage of discovery? Why not another Island, a bigger one such as Tenerife?  Well, for a start, the conquest of the Canary Islands by the Spaniards had not yet been completed by the time Columbus set sail on his historic voyage of 1492. It would still take another four years before the Guanche Kingdom of Chinet or Tenerife, would bow down before the Conquistadores as the last of the Canary Islands to submit to Spanish rule (see post A Place Called Chinet). Plus also there was the small detail of a beautiful woman called Beatriz, and this is the story of Beatriz de Bobadilla and Christopher Columbus. 

Beatriz de Bobadilla was the young widow of Herman de Bobadilla, former Spanish Governor of La Gomera and living a lonely life on Tenerife's neighbouring island when on August 9th, 1492, Christopher Columbus arrived with his trio of vessels, The Niña, The Pinta and the Santa Maria. Columbus planned to carry out essential ship repairs as well as to gather provisions for the long and unknown voyage ahead, and La Gomera is still known to this day as 'The Colombine Island'. In the capital city of San Sebastian it is possible to retrace the trailblazing adventurer's steps; The home where Columbus stayed during his time on the island, the location of the original church at which he prayed for safe deliverance, as well as the well that he drew water from for ships' provisions and to consecrate any new lands he might stumble on. And stumble he did, on soil eventually christened 'America'. Attesting to this monumental link between Old and New World, the city's coat of arms is adorned with the words, 'From here Columbus set out'.

Rumour says that Columbus was already familiar with the legendary beauty of Beatriz, having met her previously at the court of the Spanish King and Queen. He was not alone in his admiration, for apparently much to the ire of Queen Isabel, her husband, King Ferdinand was also not immune to the womanly charms of this stunning beauty. So much so, that Queen Isabel took the decision to marry Beatriz off to the nobleman Herman de Bobadilla, and in doing so expelled her love rival to the farthest corner of the Spanish empire, the Canary Islands. For a lady of noble birth used to a life of privilege at the Spanish court, this was tantamount to being exiled to the farthest corner of the Planet. Columbus' arrival on the island in August of 1492 must have served to dispel a lot of the boredom and frustration of this noble lady, languishing in enforced widowhood, yet having lost none of her captivating beauty. 

But why did he not set sail until nearly a month later on September 6th,1492. Why did he delay his departure for so long? Historians repeatedly ask this question with no concrete answer to date. Mama's elder brother, Uncle Fernando pronounces his opinion on a matter that has baffled historians for centuries with one impacting word: 'Beatriz'. Studying a rare surviving painting of Beatriz herself, I realise that she was indeed a stunning beauty. No wonder that Columbus was intoxicated by her, and I cannot but wholly agree with Uncle Fernando (see post Columbus And the Gravestone Mystery). However, squeaky clean and beautiful this story is not, for Beatriz was also known by the local Guanche population as La Dama Sangrienta or Bloody Beatriz. In 1488, after her husband, the equally ruthless Governor of the Island, Don Hernan Peraza had been ambushed and killed by the Guanches on his way to a clandestine meeting with beautiful Guanche princess Yballa, Beatriz exacted her own pitiless revenge: All males from the Guanche tribes directly implicated in her husband's death were ordered to be executed, and the men, women and children from the remaining tribes were enslaved. This was too much even for the Catholic Bishop of the Canaries, who denounced these immense acts of cruelty at the Court of the Spanish Kings. As so often happens, beauty without but not within.

Stunning island scenery fleetingly passes by us on our drive southwards, only to equally swiftly vanish. Beatriz is similarly consigned to the preceding moment, for now we turn our attention to another fascinating topic and this is called linguistics; Despite the fact that the Canary Islands are surrounded by water at every turn and an abundance of trees, ready material for the construction of vessels, the Guanches did not astonishingly possess any seafaring skills. This effectively means that each Island developed its own distinct culture, and this difference is most visible on the Island of La Gomera with their unique language called El Silbo, or The Whistle. El Silbo developed as an efficient way for the Islanders to communicate with one another, living as they did in isolated valley communities and separated from one another by elevated mountain ranges. It was way easier to climb to the top of the nearest mountain peak and whistle your message across to the people in the adjacent valley, rather than trekking all the way up the mountain and down again to get the same message delivered. 

Mama tells me that, as a young girl she remembers listening to the people in the villages communicating with one another in this way and thought nothing of it until her later years when its uniqueness finally dawned on her. Indeed, El Silbo, or The Whistle is still keenly studied by linguists and anthropologists from around the world and the language has nowadays been revived by its inclusion as part of the school curriculum for the Island's school children. How interesting, Zara tells me, I had never heard about Beatriz nor the Whistle language. Did you share this with Hugo and Sofia? she asks me. Of course, I tell her, we are after all descended from this very tribe of Columbine Whistlers. And true as it may be, we cannot but laugh at the idea.


Just as with the fleeting scenery, Beatriz, Columbus and the Whistle language all soon fade away into obscurity, for we have now reached the monolithic tourist resort of Playa de las Americas. Our long-awaited appointment at the Playa del Duque beach for a well-deserved afternoon swim has arrived.

To be continued.....


Next post published on Sunday July 30th: The Banana Bunch

Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some additions from private family archives.