Five Bestselling Travel Memoirs Box Set

by Twead, Victoria

  We had to put up with four weeks without a regular electricity supply despite constant pleas at the electricity company’s counter. Our business life had now invaded our only sanctuary. Lasagne, shepherd’s pies and huge trays of curry had to be cooked in our apartments and hauled to the bar in time for evening meals just to provide a bit of variety.

  During our down time, the two Johns milked their ‘odd beer’ for all it was worth. They spent an inordinate amount of time sat at the bar buying drinks for new holidaymakers, female ones in particular. It mattered not if the husbands were with their wives. The two Johns assumed that because they themselves were residents they were automatically more appealing.

  It can’t be denied that there exists a certain amount of disdain for the ‘Billys’ as holidaymakers were affectionately known by the residents. We as newcomers had yet to adopt that arrogance but it was all too plain to see in the more seasoned expats.

  Just as the two Johns tried to impress on the new customers that they were frequenting their bar, so it was with the island in general. Whether in Las Americas or in the secluded villages like La Caleta, the expats treated the island as if it was their own, making it perfectly obvious that holidaymakers were naive and ignorant in the ways of their land and were fair game to be parodied.

  ‘Dos El Dorados por favor,’ those brave enough to make the effort with the local language would ask at our bar.

  ‘Dos Dorados? You’re not asking for a TV programme you know,’ mocked John One. ‘You mean Dorada. It’s not dorado, it’s Dorada. Dos Doradas por favor. If you’re going to speak the language, speak it properly.’ This was from a man whose Spanish vocabulary came to a spluttering halt after exhausting his knowledge on two beers, a hamburger and shouting ‘oy, guapa’ (oy, beautiful) at anything with smooth legs and a pulse.

  Mind you, our own attempts at ploughing into the local lingo had not altogether harvested the desired results. All of the delivery companies were Spanish and rather than call them all ‘Manuel’, as many of the expats did, we gave them nicknames: Chop delivered the meat; Captain Birdseye brought the frozen fish; Crusty took our bread order; Marine Boy dropped off the bottled water; Popeye was our soft drinks man; and Bill and Ben, two rotund beer truck drivers, delivered the barrels of Dorada.

  It soon became apparent that learning the numbers was essential if we wanted to order the correct quantities. Miming 60 bottles of water was not only time consuming but also carried something of a margin of error. More often than not we got it right but once or twice, to our cost, we didn’t.

  Flushed with the success of placing an order for extra beer barrels over the phone for the first time, I decided that it would save a lot of time getting the cash-and-carry to deliver what we needed rather than going on our daily two-hour shopping trip. It was to be a lesson in realising my own limitations after I inadvertently ordered quinientos (500) packs of toilet rolls instead of quince (15), doce (12) bottles of Johnny Walker instead of dos (2) and only uno (1) frozen chicken fillet instead of once (11). On top of all that the flour was self-raising instead of plain, the tuna arrived in what seemed like one-ton containers rather than the usual one-serving cans that we preferred and the lettuce looked like it had already been eaten once. It proved too difficult to get across our grievances to the teenager who was neither interested nor willing to listen to our pained complaining. Our lack of Spanish language ability was judged as a sign of stupidity and we were treated as though we had no idea what we were doing – which wasn’t altogether untrue.

  This widespread contempt was surprising, particularly from the business owners who relied on the swarm of British visitors to keep their tills ringing. In all aspects the holiday-Brit abroad was looked down upon even by their expat counterparts. An attitude prevailed whereby it didn’t matter if you upset one lot of tourists one week as the following week a planeload of new arrivals would be ripe for the picking. Why pull out all the stops to be friendly and courteous if you could get by with the barest of service?

  There were literally hundreds of bars in Tenerife all competing with each other. Most relied on advertising the lowest price for a pint of beer, a vicious circle that led to some bars making absolutely no profit on the beer but compensating by hiking up the price of the soft drinks to an extortionate level.

  The constantly busy bars kept the prices moderate but relied on word of mouth about their hospitality. It was a path that we were determined to follow. Having said that, we did occasionally wonder if some of the holidaymakers had booked their brains on a later flight. This was most evident in the standard of driving.

  The locals have honed a specific set of skills that enable motorists to neatly mesh into organised chaos – use the horn instead of the brakes; park where it’s most convenient for yourself; ignore such inconveniences as pedestrian crossings, other people’s driveways and cars already occupying the desired space; and don’t attempt to use your indicators except after completing a turn.

  Unfortunately this can appear a tad intimidating if you’re used to the relatively synchronised skills of Britain’s road users.

  Worse still, the majority of new arrivals are dumped onto the bedlam of Tenerife’s road network on the same day – either Tuesday or Friday. Mingle these road virgins with Tenerifian boy racers in souped-up Seat Ibizas, taxi drivers who have no regard for any vehicle that is not a white Mercedes and pop-pop scooter boys weaving in and out of traffic on their squealing mobile hairdryers and you can see why two weeks in Playa de las Americas can easily become two weeks in Plaster of Paris.

  Having been foolishly thrust off in their rented dodgems with no more than a 'Welcome to Tenerife' paper placemat to guide them, holidaymakers soon cause chaos on the TF1 motorway as they slow down to an almost dead halt while they squint at the road signs.

  ‘I don't know where we are, Roy.’

  ‘Find Cambio de Sentido [Change of Direction] on the map. I think we must be near there. We keep passing signs for it.’

  Even the ‘safe’ drivers cause confusion in this predictably erratic environment, as normal manoeuvres are often the least expected. On roundabouts, you would often see a rental car circling repeatedly whilst the driver, his face pressed close to the windscreen, searches in vain for some clue as to how to safely exit the demonic carousel.

  One day I followed a car on my way back from the cash-and-carry. The first thing that struck me was the fact that either there were no seats in the car or its inhabitants must have both been less than four feet tall. For a good three kilometres their speed remained fixed at 35 kph regardless of what obstacles presented themselves. There was not the faintest hint of acknowledgement for the give way signs. No concessions were granted for individuals already on a pedestrian crossings and there was no change of pace or prior suggestion that a violent swerve was about to take place. It was as though the car was programmed to travel at 35 kph in whatever direction the munchkins pointed it until it met an impenetrable obstacle or ran out of fuel.

  Several times they must have thought they had reached their destination and made to turn into an entranceway only to veer back into the middle of the road having gone off the idea. An obligatory blast of the horn fell on deaf ears. They had probably grown immune to the sound of irritated drivers tooting their displeasure.

  Finally they disappeared through a gap in a wall and all seemed safe until a moment later only my evasive action prevented them from hitting me side-on as they suddenly sprang out from a subsequent gap. With them now bearing down on me in the rear-view mirror, fear overcame my feelings of curiosity and amazement and I accelerated out of reach. I glanced back just in time to see them swing round a corner and proceed in the wrong direction up a one way street, off to terrorise some other unfortunate soul who had risked taking to the streets on a Tuesday or Friday.

  CHAPTER 6

  Having successfully reconnected to the electricity supply we were now required, not altogether unjustly, to arrange some means of paying for it. A transfer to pay
the first instalment then a standing order for subsequent bills was the obvious solution and one favoured by the electricity company. However, because we had three separate accounts with the bank (personal accounts for David and I, plus a joint business account for the Smugglers) there would have to be some shuffling of funds between the three before we could make the initial payment.

  At the best of times the dealings with our bank had not been totally satisfactory and we were loathe to trust them with something as complicated as making a transfer and setting up a standing order.

  It was a mystery as to how the bank was so inept. When you employ a gardener you quite reasonably expect him to look after your garden; when you pay a cleaner you expect them to take care of your dusting. But when we trusted our finances with a bank, the one thing that they seemed incapable of doing properly was looking after our money, although it has to be said, they were very proficient at furnishing us with free gifts of kitchenware and bombarding us with generous offers of credit.

  To date there had been only one occasion when a statement had arrived and not revealed that some fortunate stranger had benefited from an involuntary charitable gesture from our account.

  Our branch was is in Los Cristianos. With the arrival of tourism, this sleepy fishing village had been hauled out of bed and re-dressed from top to bottom in hotels, apartments, souvenir shops and banks.

  As was the norm, I took my place in a queue that started just outside the adjoining cake shop. I wanted to explain that I was not a charity and just because I had been seen making polite conversation with other account holders in the queue, we had not yet reached that cosy stage of friendship whereby my funds were freely available to all and sundry.

  There were two counters at the branch but as the queue inched forward I could see that as was customary only one was in use. Behind the other sat a stern-looking madam, inattentively flicking through a bulging wad of 10,000-peseta notes. Occasionally she glanced up and from over horn-rimmed glasses cast a lofty look of contempt over us all.

  The man at the front of the queue had emptied the contents of one of several large brown envelopes onto the counter. The clerk set about sorting the notes into separate piles, meticulously making sure they were all face-up. We were in for an exceptionally long wait.

  To pass the time I decide to write down the precise details of what I hoped to achieve from this particular visit. I drew pictures showing little stickmen happily passing money to one another. From these I felt sure that there could be no doubt that I required money to be transferred from account A to account B and then to the electricity company. I knew that if this actually occurred it would be a minor miracle and I, along with my little stickmen, would be extremely joyous.

  After 40 minutes of slow shuffling, I gave the piece of paper to the girl. She turned it around in her hands and without a glimmer of personality passed it back informing me that I had to join another queue to process a transfer. To save the trouble I suggested she just withdraw the money from account A and then deposit it back into account B. We stood eye to eye for a while whilst I waited for the logic to register. It finally clunked into place. Hesitantly she filled out a form, pondered over it for a while, screwed it up and filled out a different one before asking for my signature.

  I then queued to see the assistant manager to find out why I had been chosen to pay my brother’s health insurance, my stepfather’s phone bill and a complete stranger’s monthly subscription to National Geographic magazine.

  ‘They didn’t have enough money in them,’ he explained. ‘To avoid them going overdrawn we transferred the money from your account.’ He sat back and smoothed down his tie, content that this was a perfectly logical solution to the problem.

  “But that was my money!” I said, exasperated.

  “But you know them,” he countered.

  After I explained that it was totally unacceptable, completely immoral and probably illegal he begrudgingly agreed to put the money back and promised, with a tone that suggested he thought I was being a little selfish, that it wouldn’t happen again. We both knew that it most certainly would.

  By way of an apology for our near incineration, Frank offered to take the four of us out on his boat the following morning. When he wasn’t tampering with gas supplies or threatening to shoot the locals, he could usually be spotted bobbing several hundred yards out at sea with a fishing rod in one hand and cool beer in the other. He admitted that he wasn’t a people person and even back in the UK much preferred the companionship of dead carp.

  David and Faith had to decline the offer as it was their night on duty. Danny and Sam were staying with friends and Al was recovering from a three-day bender in his apartment.

  The marina of Puerto Colon has often been termed as Tenerife’s secret, though how multi-million pounds worth of flashy steel and sail, the majority skippered by a bunch of raucous nouveau riche, can remain a secret is anybody’s guess.

  Tenerife’s yacht-erati shared their berth with an array of excursion boats varying in size and comfort from the latest catamaran to converted fishing boats with on-board menageries. There were bright yellow glass-bottom boats, fiery red speedboats, replica schooners and a dozen or so serious ocean-going yachts.

  The rattling and chinking of masts brought forth similar feelings that I had about airports. This was a port of fantasy. From here, lifetime adventures would begin, culminating in a step ashore on any exotic coastline that took the fancy.

  As with planes, the mystery of propulsion added to the intrigue. How could these tiny vessels reliant on the direction of wind and speed of current compete with the vastness of the ocean? Boating was shrouded in its own language, its own culture, its own sights, sounds and smells. If you weren’t a part, it was unfathomable.

  The tourist industry too had always held an air of mystique. I was always mesmerised on family holidays when we were ushered in to our tourist world. The British reps in their matching costumes seemed as alien as the land we were visiting. What were their lives like? How did they spend their time off? Where would they go on holiday?

  The holiday would run seamlessly from buffet breakfast through games and activities, afternoon excursions and themed dinners. It was just a fortnight for us, but in a whole new world created just for enjoyment.

  Even long after I had tagged along on my last holiday with my parents, I still remained in awe of holiday resorts and the parallel world they represented.

  Without realising it I had crossed over into this surrealism when we took over the Smugglers Tavern. No longer would resorts or hotels be exciting and mysterious. I had stepped across the line and seen the mysteries, been part of the set up. I had already stepped through the back doors, the trade entrance of the Altamira, spoken to the reps when they were off duty and met performers without their makeup. For me the mystery was gone forever. But possibly I was now the focus of that same sense of wonder in some of our own customers.

  Frank was about to enlighten Joy and me about the mysteries of the fishing world, a seemingly sad, sullen population of loners who would much rather sit in the rain staring at ripples than join the real world.

  He was almost ecstatic in his enthusiasm. Well, at least as ecstatic as Frank could be.

  ‘Best thing in the world,’ he droned in a monotone as we bounced along the pontoon towards a row of sleek and shiny motor cruisers. Smoked glass windows punctuated the fluorescent white hulls like Ray-Bans on a Hollywood film set.

  This was a shock. Could it be that Frank’s dress-down demeanour was a guise? Was he a secret millionaire living the idle life? His drinking partner Al had hinted that Frank was a secretive soul who liked to keep some things to himself. Was this his mystery solved?

  No, was the answer. ‘Flash bastards,’ he muttered as he placed a cool box, plastic bag and petrol can underneath the upturned bow of one of the mega-cruisers. In the shadows, between this and another similarly showy boat, was an 8-foot motorboat. It was the colour of an old beige bathtub and rock
ed from side to side in the wake like a demented, trapped animal. It could barely accommodate the two thin wooden benches. In-between lay empty beer cans, more carrier bags and an assortment of fishing tackle. Frank was certainly not from the old school of seamanship. Shipshape and Bristol fashion were clearly absent from his nautical vocabulary.

  After bailing out a small puddle he yanked on the starter rope and fired the bathtub into life. I had never been particularly good travelling on water or rather my insides hadn’t. The outside was more than happy with the exfoliating sea spray, sun on skin and breeze through hair. Fortunately, as we set off the sea was remarkably calm.

  ‘It’s still,’ I noted, content that even my weak stomach could hack this millpond.

  ‘We’ve not left the harbour yet,’ said Frank. ‘It’ll be a bit choppier out there.’

  Sure enough, as soon as we passed the harbour walls the boat began to lunge at the oncoming waves. Joy and I lurched back and forth on our bench like Muslims at prayer.

  ‘It’s not too bad,’ said Frank.

  By the time Puerto Colon was bobbing on the horizon, I was not feeling my best. I scanned our surroundings; further west over the great watery expanse lay the Americas, shorewards Tenerife’s southwest coast played hide and seek behind the swell. Beneath us lay the very creatures that I was so keen to escape from in Bolton.

  Frank cut the engine and opened the cool box. ‘First things first,’ he said taking out three cool cans of beer. We sat in silence for a while drinking Dorada. The ocean clapped time against the side of the boat, a rhythmic accompaniment to our synchronised swaying.

  ‘So how’s it going with the bar?’ Frank broke the hypnotic spell.

  ‘Ok, so far,’ I said. ‘Most of the regulars seem nice.’

  ‘Aye, well don’t believe what anybody says, they’re a bunch of two-faced bastards. Kiss your ass in the morning and stab your back in the afternoon.’