It was the early 1970s when a
middle-aged English couple wandered across from the new San Antonio Hotel to
savour a touch of old colonialism at the British Games Club in Puerto de la
Cruz. They ordered gin and tonics, to which they were not especially
accustomed, and walked up the steps to the tennis courts from where they heard
very enthusiastic applause. Acknowledging whispered greetings, the visitors sat
down on immaculately painted, green benches to watch an entertaining game of
mixed doubles alongside a number of club members.
Needless to say, one wore whites to play tennis at the British Games Club
After a few minutes they began to
hear what sounded like heavy gunfire in the distance. It was their first time
in Tenerife and the couple looked at each other in a rather startled manner
whilst the other spectators continued to enjoy the tennis and to applaud as if
the thunder of exploding shells were quite normal. At the end of a game and
whilst the players were changing ends, the visiting gentleman couldn’t bear it
anymore and decided to enquire.
“Excuse me, what are all those
explosions about?” he asked the man wearing whites and a matching Panama hat
who was sitting beside him on the bench.
“Oh, nothing to worry about old
chap…..just the natives attacking again!” replied the club member casually, in
his best colonial accent, before promptly standing up and wandering off down the
steps to the bar, leaving the visitor and his wife open mouthed and
confused.
The colonial, who apparently always
liked to watch some tennis after his game of bowls, returned a few minutes
later. He wore a broad smile and the twinkle in his eye betrayed a mischievous
sense of humour. He was followed by Manuel, the barman, carrying a tray with
two more gin and tonics for the innocent English couple. He thought it had been
long enough for them to digest the thought of the attacking natives and whether
or not they should speak to their Thompson’s representative about shortening
the holiday.
He explained that it was not gunfire
at all but fireworks high on the ridge at La Guancha. The low cloud hanging in
the valley did indeed make them thud like distant, exploding shells. He had been
in the war, don’t you know.
“Fireworks...in the middle of the
day?” asked the tourist in disbelief.
“It’s a fiesta, old chap. They set off
fireworks at all hours here, especially during a fiesta. They do it to make
noise. They love noise. I’m afraid they can’t live without making noise. My
wife loves a good fiesta. Personally, I hate them.”
Sitting on the next bench, and unable to ignore
the conversation, was the wife of another old resident and she began to chuckle.
She remembered her first experience of a local fiesta twenty years earlier when
they arrived in Tenerife after one of the coldest Dartmoor winters on record.
One of the first things they decided to do was to go to the San Isidro fiesta
in La Orotava on a very hot June day. They packed themselves, their daughter,
the obedient black Labrador and provisions into the car before driving up into
the old town centre.
Just outside the upper part of the
town anxious shepherds, goatherds and cowmen had begun to gather their oxen,
goats, mules and donkeys on a country lane. The animals wore beautifully
coloured rugs on their backs and whole families stood about dressed gaily in
traditional Canary garments, mingling with all the livestock. Panniers full of
fruit were being strapped to the donkeys whilst bullocks, thrashing their tails
against stinging flies, were being harnessed to magnificently adorned carts.
They were being made ready for the romería,
a colourful procession through the streets representing agricultural and other
scenes from island life.
The family from Devon, who had made
certain of learning an adequate amount of Spanish before settling on the island
and Jan, their patient and understanding dog, found a good position from which
to view the procession. In fact a very kind and proud lady let them share the
raised position of her front door steps. They had already been invited by
welcoming townsfolk to share wine, chick peas, cheese and balls of gofio when
the proceedings began.
The Romería of San Isidro Labrador in La Orotava
The swaying procession flowed down
the cobbled streets like an undulating sea of colour and sound. Most of the men
wore black fedora hats, white shirts, woollen breeches and scarlet cummerbunds.
The girls also bloomed in rich scarlet waistcoats over their gypsy blouses, and
their striped woven dresses covered exquisite petticoats.
The girls, in their traditional "Maga" dress, were so pretty
They were so pretty
and they knew it and flaunted their beauty with a natural pride that is so much
a part of the Canary Islander’s nature.
Massive bullocks lead the way
There was much singing and even more
laughter. Ripples of admiration greeted the beautifully adorned carts and
strong men led their massive bullocks, leaning against their necks whenever
they needed to stop or to slow them down. The lovely girls offered even more
wine, fruit and delicious morsels of grilled meat prepared at the rear of carts
which made their jerky way down the cobbles.
The English family were feeling so
much at ease, loving every second and totally absorbed by the charms of a real
Spanish fiesta.
Canary Island charms at every corner
As the wine flowed and morsels of food were
shared out and exchanged for smiles, so the generosity of these people
blossomed to even greater heights amongst themselves and towards total
strangers.
Even Jan, the Labrador, seemed to be
enjoying the occasion. The scent of the huge, grilled chops filling the air and
the pieces of meat being handed here and there on wooden spikes was just too
exciting. There had never been anything so perfectly tempting. It was such
tremendous fun.
The first giant firework exploded
But suddenly it happened. The first giant firework
shot skywards and offered a deafening explosion immediately above their heads.
They should have known better. Although he was well accustomed to the sound of
shotguns during pheasant shoots on the moors, Jan objected, bolted across the
merry procession and disappeared.
“Jan, Jan, Jan” called the English
lady cutting through the same colourful procession in hot pursuit after the
dog. She was followed in the same direction, but much more discretely, by her
husband and daughter.
“I’ll bet he’s waiting for us at the
car”, she shouted back, trying to be reassuring while shoving her way through
the masses in what, to any onlooker, appeared to be a state of panic. People
shrugged their shoulders and remarked, “Son
ingléses” to explain the strange behaviour.
The foreign lady was almost right.
Like any well trained hunting dog, the black Labrador had gone straight to
where they had parked the car. Unfortunately it was someone else’s car it had
got into. It was a big, black saloon and all its doors were locked.
How on earth did Jan get into it?
Somebody said the car belonged to a man called Paco and that he was bound to be
at the bar on the square. The Englishman and his daughter strode off in that
direction, leaving the wife to talk nicely at her dog through a rear window.
A short time later two smiling local
gentlemen ambled up. They stared at the car for a moment with slightly
bloodshot eyes and then gazed endlessly at the lady who was talking to the dog
that was inside the car. She could feel how desperately they were trying to
concentrate. After all it was an unusual situation for two drunks to deal with,
but she was foolish enough to try to explain her predicament without being
asked to.
“Never mind, señora, we will help you. You wait here. We will come back”, one
of them offered just before another huge firework exploded.
The English lady was just
congratulating herself for their departure when they returned, one of them
carrying a ghastly little brown dog with protruding teeth in his arms.
“Here you are, we have found your
dog”, he said, holding it out towards her.
“I have not lost my dog. That is my
dog in the car. I have lost the owner of the car and the car is locked with my
dog inside it. Adios. Please, adios!” she begged, and looked around at
the gathering crowd of amused spectators. A firework went off.
“Why don’t you want this dog? We
found it for you!” one of the two amigos
said accusingly. They stood there swaying, for a minute or two thinking, and
then one of them repeated, “You wait here. We will return. We know where to
find you another dog!” They looked around them at the spectators with widening
grins on their faces.
“I don’t want a dog. My husband is
finding the man who owns this car. Adios”,
the English señora insisted very
loudly. Bang went another firework and the two men wandered off to the bar
again.
A policeman joined in the fun
At that point a Guardia Civil
policeman approached and enquired “Que
pasa?”
She told him.
“Ahhhhh!” he exclaimed.
“That is Don Angel’s car. He has just
been to the plaza with his wife, but how did your dog get into his car if it
was locked?” he asked with a definite hint of suspicion in his eye.
The English lady thought their
troubles were over at last simply because a policeman had taken an interest,
but she waited and waited.
Half an hour later her husband and
daughter returned. They both looked tired and very irritable, particularly the
husband. They had been to the house of Paco but he was out. In any case Paco’s
car was green. This one was black. She explained that the policeman had said it
belonged to Don Angel, so her husband grunted and went off to look for Don
Angel. Unfortunately Don Angel was also out and his servants said he might be anywhere. He was that kind of angel.
A man in the crowd offered to smash
the car window. Another said he would get a wire. Someone said he knew a man
who was good with hinges. Another firework shook the proceedings just when the
two amigos ambled up to the car
again.
“Does it wear a collar, señora?” the braver of the two asked
kindly.
“I have not lost my dog!” she
retaliated, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “I have found my dog. I am
waiting for my husband!” A very loud firework ended her sentence.
“I told you,” said the other drunk, “La pobre mujer has lost her husband, not
her dog. You wait señora!”
They wandered off, determinedly this time,
and were back before long. On this occasion they were accompanied by an
extremely tall, blond man with a very red face.
“Señora.
He is here. We have found your husband for you!”
“Bonjour,
madame”, said the foreign stranger very courteously indeed. “These two men
told me you are looking for me”. In fact the poor man, a Swiss resident, had
merely been having a beer or two at a corner bar when the two local gentlemen
stepped in. They had assumed by his foreign appearance that he must without a
doubt have been the missing husband, and dragged him along.
Another loud firework exploded as the
English husband came around the corner. He took surprisingly little interest in
the two drunks and in the foreigner his wife was talking to in a very animated
manner and suggested he take his family home and return later to look for Don
Angel.
However, at that moment another man
parked his car alongside the black saloon. Hearing about the predicament he
invited the lady to sit in it, where the dog could see her, while her husband
resumed the search for Don Angel. This gesture, which was accepted gratefully,
and the sincere assistance offered by the two drunks, was typical of the
kindness of Canary Islanders. Meanwhile, as the English husband continued
looking for Don Angel and everyone waited for the tale to end happily, all
sorts of rumours were being whispered about what the almost certainly innocent
Don Angel was doing, where and with whom.
The drunks became drunker and brought
more dogs and one or two husbands for the English lady to inspect. The
policeman came by again and shrugged his shoulders, and a number of fireworks
made people jump every now and then.
Jan, the labrador, had given up hope
Jan the Labrador had given up hope
and curled himself up on the rear seat of Don Angel’s car.
It was late evening when the English
husband returned. His wife was about to accept the sensible alternative, which
was to be driven home whilst he waited by the car. But a tall, thin looking man
with a delightful face strolled up and surprised them in perfect English.
“You are looking for me. My name is
Angel López. I understand you think I have a dog for sale!”
Before the English couple could
reply, a volley of fireworks thundered in the sky marking a triumphant end to
the fiesta.
By John Reid Young
Author of books "A SHARK IN THE BATH AND OTHER STORIES" and "THE SKIPPING VERGER AND OTHER TALES", collections of his short stories set in Tenerife and the Canary Islands.
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