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.
Next post published on Sunday 5th January: 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.
