The Battle of the Fireworks

The opening shot across the bow comes with an ear-splitting explosion out of which a magnificent glistening gold crucifix forms and hangs in the firmament above the church square. The crowd draws its breath in a gasp and the fading crucifix is replaced by a fiery row of red and silver fountains above which barrages of colour explode across the night sky in rapid fire. Vivid sunbursts spread like blossoming stains; tiny whorls race around the firmament like tadpoles released into a stream; shooting stars run amok in psychedelic rain and scatter gun air bombs rip through our ears and vibrate the windows of the houses.

Last weekend was Fiesta of the Cross; a traditional fiesta dating back to the conquest in 1496, during which every cross on the island, from the humblest wooden crucifix placed in the open window of a small cottage to ornate gilded processional crosses carried on the shoulders of devotees, is decorated with flowers, candles and incense.

In Los Realejos Alto in Northern Tenerife, the day is traditionally rounded off by Europe’s largest firework display. Originating from the rivalry between two firework factories in the municipality, one aligned to Calle del Sol, the other to Calle del Medio, the 3rd of May displays take the form of pyrotechnic aerial skirmishes between the two streets and the still, black, night sky provides the battleground on which the factory armies of Los Realejos wage war with their gunpowder cannons.

When the first display finally subsides the rival street retaliates. But the still night air contrives to hold the smoke pall hostage and much of the display is lost within its murky mass; it’s a dastardly ploy, perfectly executed. Though the sky blazes red and pulsates with the beat of the strobe-lit explosions, all that can be seen from the little church square are fiery comets which thunder from behind the veil and hurtle towards the earth; tantalising glimpses of clouds of gentle fairy dust twinkling behind the haze and slender ribbons of jewelled lights suspended above the valley for what seems like an eternity.

Silence falls and the smoke cloud drifts painfully slowly across the plaza where we’re standing and where crowds are now converging to watch the finale. With all eyes trained on the football stadium, we wait, and wait…and wait. After an hour of silent skies, the cold night air of Los Realejos Alto in early May starts to diminish enthusiasm for the contest and people begin to drift away, unsure of what has happened to the final battle. I head back to the car and join the queue for the motorway, the air conditioning turned to warm for only the second time in the car’s four year life.

All the way home I’m accompanied by the air raid soundtrack of the delayed final denouement and in the rear view mirror I can see the night’s bloodstained front line.
In Tenerife it seems, even a war succumbs to the ‘mañana culture’.

Cuban Nights and Rainbow Flights

In the unlikely setting of a basketball court in Los Realejos Bajo on Friday night the Cuban hip hop band ‘Orishas’ took to the stage in an atmosphere of euphoria, and not until they’d gone through their entire repertoire would they leave. Even then, they were still thanking the audience and promising to return as they finally disappeared backstage. From the moment they stepped into the lights amidst tumultuous applause, whistles and screams, through a set that lasted for almost two hours (including a fake ending after which the encore lasted as long as the set had) the audience punched the sky, aerial clapped, bounced, swayed and hollered along to every number.

Formed in Cuba as one of the many hip hop bands performing in the country, Orishas achieved international recognition in 1999 and now live outside of their home country, recording their music in Paris. Adding Salsa and Latino rhythms to the hip hop, Orishas have developed a hybrid sound that goes to the feet like dancing lessons. Their lyrics celebrate the racial mix that exists in Cuba, in defiance of Castro’s colour blind manifesto.

Orishas sang, danced and entertained as if their lives depended on it. By the time they were finally close to bidding “Buenas Noches”, they climbed down into the press area to get even closer to the frenzied crowd and performed this year’s Santa Cruz Carnaval anthem, ‘Hip Hop Congo‘. Yotuel took a small boy from the audience onto his shoulders for the closing number. It was heart warming and indicative of the attitude of Orishas who had behaved all night as if every single person there was a member of the family.

Finally sated, exhausted and euphoric, they headed to the beer tent to top up fuel levels up on vodka and Red Bull to get them through the rest of their Friday night … and that was just the audience.

Suntanned, scantily-clad hippie chicks ribbon danced and sold handmade jewellery and head accessories from stalls alongside the beach while their tattooed, dread-locked boyfriends juggled diabolos around a uni-cyclist; this was Glastonbury’s Green Fields without the mud.

The sun was blazing down as it had done all weekend as I headed down the steep hill towards the idyllic cove of El Socorro. From the vantage point of the road I could see a narrow landing strip laid out along the black sand and behind it, rows of people were sunbathing. In the sand flats beyond the shore a group of bathers were lying while the sea gently lapped their bodies.

Above the beach, the sky was filled with the rainbow silks of paragliders dancing like butterflies on the warm air currents and gently floating down above the heads of the sunbathers. From the stage the Weather Girls blasted out “It’s Raining Men ” as one by one the paragliders touched down on the sand and gathered up their sails to the applause and whistles of the onlookers. In between landings, Amy Winehouse’s ‘Rehab‘ and The Scissor Sisters’ ‘I don’t feel like dancin‘ were amongst the sounds blasting out from the DJ’s decks while on stage a band tuned up in readiness for their appearance later.

It wasn’t just the fireworks this weekend that lit up the cloudless skies of Los Realejos; for the fourth year running, the municipality staged the aerial festival of FLYPA 2008 (Festival International de Parapente de Los Realejos) which, over the course of four days, saw hundreds of rainbow silk sails gliding down from La Corona to the beach of El Socorro and the harbour of Puerto de la Cruz.

The sun began to set and preparations got underway for the night’s beach party. There was to be a nocturnal paramotor show, a live band, a giant paella and more fireworks. I desperately wanted to stay but I was completely partied out by the weekend’s activities.
Reluctantly I climbed back up the hill, passing hordes of people making their way down to the party. For the first time in my life I was glad the weekend was over and I could look forward to Monday.

And in my head all I kept thinking was…there’s a whole lot more to Los Realejos than meets the sky.

You know it’s Calima when…

You know it’s calima when… the temperature cranks up into the red zone, the sun turns white and Mount Teide disappears from the horizon to be replaced by a white veil behind which shapes ghost in and out.

You know it’s calima when… you’re woken at 6 am by the sound of the wind howling and a sizeable proportion of the garden and the banana plantation next door is swirling in mini tornadoes around the house while your windows and doors are rattling like a thief looking for a way in.
When you finally give up on sleep, haul yourself to your feet and in your heat-induced torpor open the doors to the terrace wide and hot air rushes in to replace the, what you now realise was only tepid, air.

You know it’s calima when… your chimney’s where it should be when you go out to watch the match and when you come back it’s on your front terrace in a pile of crispy leaves.

You know it’s calima when… you go up to La Laguna to watch Echo and the Bunnymen in concert; it’s an outside venue, you’re wearing a T shirt and jeans and you’re breaking a sweat before a note has even been played.
A hot night in La Laguna… that’s when you know it’s calima.

Life’s short, move fast

It’s been a fleeting week for me. I don’t just mean in the way that time has a habit here of running away like water down a drain, I mean because I’ve been involved in things that fleet.
Firstly, we’ve been working on a feature about the flower carpets of La Orotava. On the feast of Corpus Christi, which falls in May this year, the residents of the beautiful Renaissance town of La Orotava decorate their streets in the most incredible detailed carpets fashioned entirely in flower petals and seeds.

At the crack of sunlight on Corpus Christi, materials are gathered, outlines are drawn, frames are placed and the intensive work can begin. None of the petals are cut until the day to ensure maximum freshness and so the first job is for the women to painstakingly snip thousands of petals from flowering branches into buckets which slowly fill with crimson, cornflower blue, primrose, white, lavender and pink.

On hands and knees, whole generations of families meticulously place the petals row upon row until the image begins to form. With every passing hour the ranks of bystanders swell and everyone files slowly down the streets watching each illustration take more form with every circuit of the route.

By late afternoon the carpets are complete. Cameras flash and TV crews film to capture the beauty of the artistry. In a few short hours it will all be gone and only digital images will remain as the Corpus Christi procession walks over the carpets, scattering petals to the breeze and the street cleaners.

Then today , I went to the butterfly farm of Mariposario del Drago in Icod de los Vinos where, in the beautiful setting of a tropical garden I witnessed eggs turn to caterpillars, then to chrysalids and finally to butterflies as they split their cocoons and unfurled their beautiful wings.
After such a complex metamorphosis, the butterflies have only a short time to live, their entire life cycle lasting on average between 1 and 3 weeks.

Resting quietly on the bark of a tree was a giant night butterfly (as moths are apparently known), Attacus Atlas, the largest butterfly in the world. It remains in its cocoon for between 7 months and a year and then emerges, to live only for 5 or 6 days.

Beauty and transience, I found myself musing on this subject on my way home and just as I was sure I was about to reach a profound conclusion on the fleeting nature of life, I was pulled over by the Guardia Civil and slapped with a speeding ticket and a fine… bloody perfect.

Street Life

It’s a hot day. At the pharmacy the neon green sign is alternating between 11.20am and 28 °. Down at the harbour a small stage is in full sun. Stacks of speakers are vibrating to the rhythms of R & B and hip-hop that resonate around the little plaza, setting the heat haze to sound.
At the front of the stage a teenage lad in gravity-defying trousers and a crash helmet starts to spin on his head, his legs acting as balance, steering and acceleration all in one. He forward flips to his feet, sweat glistening on his neck as his body jerks to the rhythm.

High above the harbour a man is sitting on the arm of a crane playing the flute. His oversized trousers and waistcoat give him away as a clown and his Pied Piper flute is calling the Sunday strollers to follow its melody to the exotic dance that is about to take place above their heads.
From the high wire two broad black cloths unfurl to the ground. She starts to climb one of the cloths gracefully and effortlessly, her left foot wraps and unwraps to form a stepped stirrup as she pulls herself higher. Once in position, she coils a cloth around each leg, hangs upside down, her legs wide to keep the cloths apart on the ground, and waits for her lover.
He furls the cloth around his waist and she begins to reel him in, slowly, provocatively, her arms weaving him ever closer until his body draws level with hers and the lovemaking can begin.
In an erotic, aerial ballet, the lovers twist and turn; his hands always on her body, her hair on fire in the sun. Below them we are transfixed; like voyeurs, our eyes cannot leave them.

On Calle Quintana a metal pirate stands with his back to the wall. His eyes are green bulbs, his cutlass is glinting in the sunlight, his chest heaves in and out with metronomic regularity. Beyond the robot, a man sits on a cardboard horse frozen in time, his white face and broad smile set, his black eyes fixed. A small boy drops fifty cents in the basket on the ground in front of him and suddenly the jockey resumes his race, his whip hand raising and falling on the horse’s flank, the reins looping and tightening as he urges his steed forward on the spot.

In Plaza del Charco two fairies sit side by side on a settee playing a silent game of Simon Says. The small one is plying her hair idly into plaits. The tall one mimics her but only twists the strands, unable to follow where Simon has led. Contemptuously, the small one opts for an easier mimic and placing her closed hands beneath the side of her head she lies down and closes her eyes. The tall one mirrors her but keeps one eye open. The wide eyed little girls watching the show giggle at the antics of the inept fairy.
Under the laurel tree, a wood elf is dancing and beneath the canopy, children’s faces are being transformed into tigers, daisies and butterflies.

This is Puerto de la Cruz and this is Mueca.

The Silent City

I kept wishing I’d worn the scarf Aunty Barbara bought me for Christmas.

Less than a week ago I’d been stretched out on Playa Jardín, turning intermittently like a chicken on a spit. Now I had my collar turned as high as it would go and my ears hadn’t been this cold since I spent an October night at the Alta Vista Refuge 2,500 metres above sea level.

But that’s La Laguna for you. Even at the height of summer you think twice about coming here without socks and a sweater for insurance. This was 9 pm on Good Friday and even a rollneck sweater and jacket were no match for the cold wind that was coming in from the north and racing down the narrow streets between tall buildings creating mini tornadoes of litter that danced along the cobbles.

There were considerably more people here than I’d expected. Last Easter at the Magna Procession there were no more than a dozen people at any one point along the route. The Silent Procession wasn’t due to start until 9.30pm and already the route was reaching capacity. Like me, most people had opted for the relative shelter of the narrow streets rather than the open space of Plaza del Adelantado where the wind had nothing else to do but seek out the gaps in people’s collars.

I made my way along the route looking for somewhere to squeeze into and settled on an intersection where a group of schoolgirls were gathered, all of them at least 2 foot smaller than me and so no object to visibility. I moved in behind them and waited. Around me people shuffled their feet and re-arranged their scarves, chatting and greeting friends in the usual holiday atmosphere.
Amber lanterns cast a flaxen glow over the seventeenth century buildings and the cobbles, lending the scene a Dickensian aura. Above the end of the street the full moon hung like a Chinese lantern, the last wisps of clouds scudding across its face in their haste to vacate the firmament and abandon it to the cold.

Suddenly the lamps went black and darkness fell like a blow across the street. Everyone stopped talking, as if their voices had been light-activated. In the silence, the bells of La Concepción rang out and heads turned to watch the top of the street.
First came the sound; a soft, rhythmic beat like an army marching in slippers. Then came the torches, swaying in the wind high above the heads of the Brotherhood torch-bearers. The rhythmic beat grew more audible as the group drew closer and I could see that the noise was coming from the way they were walking; each foot brushing the ground before creating an arc and returning to repeat the manoeuvre.
In the torchlight, the tall conical hoods cast two storey high, menacing shadows that crept along the walls of the buildings opposite. The noise changed. The steady beat was replaced by a grating of metal on stone as the shackled ankles of the barefoot Brotherhood dragged their chains behind them.

For forty minutes I stood in that cold street in La Laguna along with hundreds of others while Brotherhood after Brotherhood filed past in the dim torchlight and no-one broke the silence.

With the whole of the old quarter blacked out and barely a Policia to be seen, no-one tried to pick a pocket or steal a car.

When the Procession had passed, the murmur of conversation resumed and shutters and doors were thrown open to allow the warm glow of lights from bars and restaurants to spill onto the street in invitation.
In the absence of Aunty Barbara’s scarf, they didn’t have to ask me twice; a shot of rum was just what I needed to bring the feeling back to my fingers and ears.

In the land of eternal spring, how do you know when the season changes?

As a visitor to Tenerife, you’re likely to discern only minor differences between your January and your June holiday. In January the backless dress you’ve been saving for your last Saturday night when the tan would be optimum may have to stay in the suitcase, or you may decide to wear it anyway and go for that ‘I may be frozen but hey, check out the tan’ look, but other than that, the long sunshine hours and the flowering bougainvillea will be pretty much constant.

But in the garden, spring arrives with an assault on the nostrils when the jasmine and wild freesias come into flower filling the air with their transient scent which drifts through the windows and causes me to almost hyperventilate in my attempts to greedily drink it all in while it lasts.
As well as being perfumed, the air has notched its temperature up a few degrees heralding the abandonment of socks and the return of sandals. For feet which have been cosseted for the past 2 months that can only mean one thing; some sun and a varnish make-over.
So when yesterday dawned glorious with a monotone sapphire sky and temperatures in the high 20s, I headed to that litmus test of spring’s arrival – Puerto’s main beach of Playa Jardín.

As I suspected, on arrival at the beach, the tell tale signs were evident. The rows of sunbeds which decorate the rear of the beach are normally almost fully occupied by the dark brown, oversized bellies and non-too-pert, naked breasts of the retired British and German ‘swallows’ who over winter in Tenerife and for whom tanning is a way of life. Yesterday, hardly any of the sunbeds were occupied, the swallows having flown north for Easter and the summer.

Instead, one or two Spanish mainlanders were sitting below their brightly coloured umbrellas on the water’s edge where they wouldn’t have far to walk if the urge for a dip came upon them. Most of the middle ground was occupied by young, good looking Canarios for whom the warmer air had tempted them to cast their clouts and allow the sun to turn their perfect bodies a shade more golden. It’ll be another month and another five degrees or so before their parents venture onto the sand; for them, the prospect of a day on the beach in winter is about as tempting as a January dip at Scarborough.

The spring tides, which last week had been gathering pace filling the ocean with white caps and smashing against the harbour wall, had taken the day off and were gently lapping the shore as if they were the Med. The lifeguard changed the flag from yellow to red but nobody took any notice, including the waves, and after a while the lifeguard lay down on the sand with his head propped on one arm, ready to spring into…well, a snooze.
As the sun rose higher the sand became hotter prompting the inevitable spate of the phenomenon known as ‘Daniel Craig to Lee Evans in the space of sea to towel’ to occur up and down the beach.

I lay back listening to the strains of ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ coming from an ice cream van in the distance which had at first evoked a sense of nostalgia and a mild curiosity as to what exactly the line “stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni” meant, but had begun to feel like the onset of insanity as it played over and over and over again.

In the land of eternal spring, how do you know when the seasons change? It’s in the sights, sounds and smells.

Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved a tall girl.

This weekend Patricia Rodríguez, a girl from Granadilla de Abona in the south of Tenerife, won the Miss Spain 2008 title.
Like Pamela, once I get past the whole ‘women seen solely as articles of ornament and objects of sexual desire’ bit, I can confess to a politically incorrect twinge of pride on behalf of Tenerife.
What struck me most about Patricia, apart from her obvious stunning beauty, was her height; a slightly-above-average-for-anywhere-else but bordering-on-giant-for-Tenerife, 5’10”.  Exactly my height in fact, although there the similarity unfortunately ends.

Before I moved to Tenerife I had never considered myself to be abnormally large. I may have gained a few excess inches around the midriff as middle age and I become far more closely acquainted than I would like but that’s nothing that a dozen weeks of fruit, boiled rice, water and intensive exercise won’t shift.
But since moving here, I’ve developed a certain affinity with Gulliver, which is useful for the inhabitants of this real life Lilliput when it comes to getting me to reach for their favourite brand of flour/biscuits/soap powder from the upper shelves in Al Campo supermarket in La Orotava.

The Tinerfeños are not what you’d describe as tall people. Today at the supermarket, an eight year old girl had her arm across her mum’s shoulders as they strolled back to their car and from the back, if it wasn’t for the school uniform, I wouldn’t have known the difference in their ages. And that’s the norm for both sexes here.
Even in flat shoes, I’m a good head and shoulders above the rest of the population and when the high heeled boots come out I’m apt to get the sort of second glances that I just know are of the ‘Dutch or Carnaval Trannie?’ variety.

So why then are the trousers here so ridiculously long? Jack (tall for a Tinerfeño, short for a Brit and average for a Scot) can’t get trousers here for love nor money. Every purchase results in either a trip to the dry cleaners to have a yard or so lopped off, or turn-ups to the knee. I on the other hand, who in the UK could only buy trousers that either had a large hem which I could take down, or, God help me, as a last resort had to buy from the M & S ‘tall’ range, bought a pair of trousers in the sales at Zara in La Villa last week that are actually slightly too long for me.
Someone should tell the manufacturers of clothing destined for the Canary Islands that their target market is ‘below average height’. I know that these things are taken into consideration in the world of clothing manufacture because large bosoms and protruding bottoms are both accommodated in the women’s department and Jack assures me that a lack of dance floor (ie no Ballroom) is evident in the gent’s department.

So congratulations, Patricia Rodríguez for your double achievement; for winning Miss Spain 2008 and for getting an entire island to stock long trousers just so you can shop anywhere you like!

P.S. Yes, I do know where M&S is in Santa Cruz and no, I am not going to give you directions, get a life and some better trousers!

My advice…grow papayas instead

For the past 6 weeks I’ve been locked in combat with the over sized avocado tree that dominates the garden.

Every morning, I step onto the terrace filled with joy for another beautiful day and my feet cushion on the carpet of seeds from the avocado tree which overnight, have covered every surface. I sigh, look up at tree, take the sweeping brush and painstakingly set to work removing the sticky little blighters from table, chairs, steps and terrace and bagging them up.
By lunchtime, it looks as if the sweeping brush and I have never formally been introduced and I have to repeat the sweep of the area before I can sit down to eat. Over lunch, coasters act as ‘tapas’ for the water glasses and every salad has turned into an avocado salad by the time I’ve finished eating it. So far, “15–love” to the tree.
Then last week we had a blustery day and the volume of seeds quadrupled in the space of a morning. Refusing to provide amusement for the tree by sweeping into the wind as seeds rained down on me, I let them fall to their heart’s content until they were virtually ankle deep. “That’ll take the last of them out” I mused.
“30–love” to the tree.

When the breeze died down I spent an hour teasing seeds from every corner of the terrace while they fell and lodged into my hair and trickled down the neck of my T-shirt. When I went inside, a trail of them followed me through the house and when I tried to sweep them out, the ones that had previously refused to leave the head of the brush suddenly decided to make a bid for freedom and joined their colleagues in a ten yard dash around the living room.
“45-love” to the tree.

Last night the day’s drizzle turned to a deluge. This morning the bird baths are overflowing. The pot with the end of last year’s chillie crop is almost floating in its tray. The terrace at the front is pale and patchy, long lines of sand deposited from the calima rain have dried along the border of each tile and filled every crevice in the ceramic. On the horizon, Mount Teide has acquired a fresh thick coating of brilliant white snow and its peak stands out against the iridescent blue of this morning’s sky like a brand new creation.
At the back of the house a million avocado seeds lie in drifts where the deluge has deposited them like seaweed after the tide; along the steps, under the table, around the jasmine pots and the watering can. They lie in soggy heaps that will be impossible to move until they’ve dried out which might be a full day, or longer if it rains again. Looking up at the tree, I can see fresh flowers forming that will soon turn to seed.
“Game, set and match” to the avocado tree.

The Height of Drag Queen Fun at Puerto’s Carnaval

From barrels at either side of the stage, draught Dorada is being dispensed in small plastic glasses and disorderly queues are forming. In the mêlée, there are several minor casualties; two wigs, a bedside cabinet whose contents are spilling from its drawers, a fortune-teller’s headscarf and a false nail. When everyone’s got a least one drink in their hands there’s a short interlude of repairing hair and gathering spilt accessories before resuming the promenade of the arena, posing for the hundreds of camera flashes that fill the plaza like fireflies. When the beer runs out there’s a human chain of drinks being passed from the vendors in the square, above the heads of onlookers, to the waiting manicured hands of drag queens. Small measures of coke are being liberally topped up with lashings of Arehucas rum and guzzled in the flutter of an eyelash.

It’s the 14th Annual High Heel Drag Marathon in Tenerife’s Puerto de la Cruz and it’s the most popular event in the Carnaval calendar. This year, there are over 200 contestants and more than 35,000 spectators.
The area in front of the stage is teeming with contestants, many of them topping seven foot tall in their shoes. The minimum height of heels for entry in the race is 8 cm but most contestants prefer a staggering 15 centimetre stack; calf muscles are pulled tight and backs must be near to breaking but alcohol helps to dull the pain and more than anything else, the show must go on.

For 2 hours, the event’s compère and real star of the show, ‘Lupita’, calls contestants onto the stage to introduce them, indulge in a great deal of witty, double-entendre banter and tell us all how high the heels are; in this race, size matters.
Costumes are extraordinary, witty, fabulous, sometimes bawdy, often weighty but always worn with panache and attitude. The size of the heels is rivalled only by the height of the headgear, most of which has clearly been modelled on Marge Simpson. There are more false eyelashes than at a Miss World Pageant and the make-up is louder than the steady Salsa beat that pounds out from banks of speakers at either side of the stage while Lupita and her ‘guapas’, ‘cariñas’ and occasionally ‘muchachos’ dance and whoop their way through the never-ending list of contestants.
The further down her list Lupita gets, the more unsteady the contestants become on their well-oiled heels and the steps up to the stage are proving to be the first real obstacle in an entire race of obstacles. There are several heart-stopping moments, particularly on the dismount, and several ankles have dress-rehearsal sprains.
By the time Lupita introduces contestant number 78, it’s already 10pm and the contestants are only just beginning to make their way to the starting point. It’s going to be a long night. Very few of the contestants will attempt anything more than a fast totter on Puerto’s cobbled streets; in this drag race, there’s very little speed involved, just a great deal of pantomime and thousands of memory sticks filled to capacity with unforgettable images.