‘Why? Who’s like that,’ asked Joy.
‘All of them,’ said Frank. ‘The two Johns are the worst.’
‘They’ve been alright so far,’ I said. ‘They were good to help us out with the electricity.’
‘Aye, and they won’t let you forget it. They’re nasty little gits, especially little John. Don’t get too friendly with him.’
‘We’ll bear it in mind.’
‘Same goes for Patricia. She might seem ok but she’ll be saying differently behind you back. Watch what you say to her.’
‘What about Al?’ I asked.
‘Al’s OK. Pain in the arse when he’s pissed but he’s okay on the wagon. It might seem like a tight-knit community but believe me, they’re all stabbing each other in the back behind closed doors. They’re bored. Fucked off and bored, that’s their problem.’
‘And you?’ asked Joy. ‘What do they think of you?’
‘I call a spade a spade. If they don’t like it they can fuck right off. It’s no skin off my nose. They probably think I’m a common piece of shit, maybe I am, but at least I don’t try to hide it.’
‘Why did you come here?’ said Joy. ‘You don’t seem so happy.’
‘Don’t let this miserable face fool you. I like the sun and I like my fishing and that’s all I need. I wouldn’t go back to England now if you paid me. Too much rain, too much bad news on the telly, too many foreigners and too much tax. You can’t make a living in the UK now, you just work to pay the taxman. Plus shark bait would want some more money off me.’ He could see we were puzzled. ‘Shark bait ... the ex-missus.’
‘So you’re hiding from her then,’ asked Joy.
‘No, she knows where I am but she can’t get anything from me if I stay here.’
‘Why did you split up?’ Joy persevered.
‘Let’s just say a difference of direction,’ he answered, throwing back the last of his beer. ‘Anyways, come on. We’re not here to fucking gossip, let’s fish.’
The beer had helped to quell the seasickness momentarily and Frank handed me a rod baited with semi-frozen prawns. The nausea soon returned though as he reached into a bag beneath where he was sat and threw a handful of reeking Cebansa into the water.
‘What the hell is that?’ I said holding my nose.
‘Anchovies, sardines and tuna mixed with biscuits,’ he said. ‘The fish love it.’ He extended a handful of the mush towards me. ‘Here, want to try it?’
I had only fished once before. It was with some school friends at a duck pond in Howard Park. This outing had merely resulted in an extreme bout of apathy and a telling off from the park keeper after nearly lassoing a mallard with an errant cast.
Thankfully, in the absence of webbed obstacles, I managed to cast my line without any immediate threat to Joy, Frank or myself. The bright floats played peacefully on the surface of the ocean whilst Frank and I watched them like protective parents. Joy had already lost interest in her line and had reclined as much as Frank’s boat would allow. The sky was an unblemished canvas of vivid blue, reflecting its glory in the vast ocean.
Suddenly my reel began whirring. ‘Got one you bastard,’ Frank shouted. He put down his rod and turned his attention to mine. ‘Give it a jerk and start reeling it in,’ he said. The fish didn’t put up much of a fight, presumably saving its energy for face-to-face combat. It broke the surface a couple of metres from the boat. I lifted the line and it swung in towards Frank’s face, missing by inches.
Now don’t believe every rubber-suited wet-head who boasts of the unspoilt beauty that lies beneath the waves. There are some damn ugly creatures living down there. Let’s face it, sea cucumbers, weever fish and moray eels are not going to win any underwater beauty pageants. These unsightly monsters understandably spend much of their time hiding their afflictions in dark caves or camouflaged against the seabed until some scuba diver starts adding to their misery with a spear gun.
I’m not saying that the undersea world doesn’t have its fair share of fetching characters. The unjustly named Bastard Grunt has a certain cutesy appeal with its delicate shade of pink whilst large gangs of Turkish Wrasse with Day-Glo blue decorate the water like hand-painted ornaments.
But it’s the downright hideous that elicit most gasps and I had one of their brethren dangling by the lip. Back on the market this was not a fish that would have sold at three for a fiver, even ten for a fiver. Its brown and white body was mottled with a profusion of tiny warts and its dorsal fin was clearly designed to be left alone by the sensible.
‘Fuck!’ muttered Frank. ‘It’s a twatting scorpion fish.’
Anything prefixed with the word ‘scorpion’ - or ‘twatting’ for that matter - did not sound like it should be encouraged to share my personal space. ‘What do I do with it?’ I held the rod at arm’s length, which sent it swinging in an even larger circle amongst us. Joy was awoken by the commotion and sat up just as the spiky brown creature headed straight between her eyes. She flicked her head to one side, narrowly avoiding a more intimate introduction and the fish spun wildly past, opening and closing its mouth in a dizzy protest. After completing a couple of circular tours causing all three of us to duck consecutively, Frank seized his moment and grabbed the rod, lowering the fish back into its more familiar surroundings with a small splash. He reached and cut the line, releasing it, and us, from the unpleasant encounter.
I was thankful that the next half hour was spent fruitlessly but by now the combined stink of oily fish, petrol and sun tan cream was adding to the rollercoaster ride that my stomach had to endure.
Frank could see the telltale green tinge and reeled in the lines. ‘We’ll find somewhere sheltered,’ he said pointing the bathtub shorewards.
El Beril came into sight as we neared the coastline. The terracotta roofing looked like a red oasis in a desert of grey and black rock. To see the resort detached and in its entirety allowed a degree of circumspect. Living in a coastal community where the sun always shines has to be considered fortunate in anybody’s eyes. We may have been in heavy debt but this burden remained on dry land. From our current vantage point the days of market toil were two-dimensional, like photographs in an album.
To the left of El Beril lay the Altamira and further left still was a similar structure but in skeleton form. This was intended to be the sister hotel of the Altamira until lack of promoter’s funds aborted any hopes of a sibling.
We jerked on past the hippy commune where a dozen tepees punctuated the cacti-infested slopes. The reward for living in such prickly surroundings was Spaghetti Beach, a rare stretch of golden sand, popular with nudists.
It gained its name through an opportune chef operating a totally illegal but nevertheless popular beachside eatery. Of Italian descent, naturally spaghetti was on the menu. Unnaturally and rather off-putting, the spaghetti was delivered to your table by the chef himself wearing nothing more than a congenial smile and wayward splashes of Bolognese sauce. Personally I thought it was taking al fresco cuisine a little too far but judging from the often full wooden benches, many disagreed.
A few minutes further north along the coast we turned inland and headed for a rocky promontory occupied by a solitary villa. We motored around the headland and into the concealed entrance of a small horseshoe cove.
A cluster of buildings hugged the rocks and shingle to the right. Weatherworn green and blue doors marked cave residences dug into the volcanic rock three metres above the frothing surf. Half a dozen white, three-storey houses cluttered the shoreline; a contained community seemingly designed by a random school of planning.
The largest structure formed a crumbling backdrop along the entire length of shiny black shingle. Through the open side doors I could see bunches of green bananas stacked high in wooden crates, presumably harvested from the plantation that swathed a channel through a black, rocky gully behind the village like a green glacier.
Frank tethered the boat to a faded pink buoy, one of half a dozen that had been anchored to the
seabed. The water was so clear it was possible to trace the rope all the way to the sandy bottom although it was difficult to gauge the depth.
‘El Puertito,’ announced Frank. ‘It’s a bit calmer here. You’ll feel better if you have a swim.’
Joy and I jumped overboard, startled by how cold the ocean was on such a warm day. Almost immediately the nausea disappeared. Frank passed down two beers as we treaded water. A sun-wizened old man sat on a slipway inspecting the cork floats on a bright blue fishing net. He looked up at the intrusion and stared for a discomforting length of time before focusing once more on his task.
This was a side of Tenerife that we hadn’t seen yet. A side as yet untouched by the tourist trade. But a dumper-full of imported sand and one or two bars or restaurants would surely already be in the plans of a canny developer and it would only be a matter of time before the foreign invasion claimed yet another patch of Canarian life.
While Frank happily fished off the side of his boat, Joy and I swam ashore. Next to the slipway, a small tasca had just opened its doors. A few old boys eyed us suspiciously as they took their places on the sea-facing veranda underneath a blue hand-painted sign that had faded in the sun. The words Bar Pepe y Lola were just visible. Even in this intrinsically appealing cove there were no obvious efforts to attract custom. Two beers were pushed towards us without a word spoken or eye contact made. The chairs and tables were of untreated wood that would have greatly benefited from a sheet of sandpaper. Despite the rawness this lack of grace and pretension was refreshing after so many hours forging fake hospitality at the Smugglers.
The sullenness, although disconcerting at first, meant that we could relax without that intrinsically British trait of needing to be approved by complete strangers who for all you knew could have been cannibalistic psychopaths and other ne’er-do-wells.
This UK habit seems exaggerated when surrounded by a culture for which unnecessary social deportment is considered an affliction rather than an asset.
I had only been on the island for two weeks but had already become aware of just how many times the Brits bandy around pleases and thank yous compared with the Canarians. They’re thrown like confetti at a wedding; not as an expression of gratitude, more as a signal that a particular encounter has come to an end.
Take, for example, being seated at a restaurant. The waiter seats Mr & Mrs Brit - if it’s a reasonably salubrious joint - and they thank him.
He hands them the menu.
‘Thank you,’ they beam graciously.
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘A bottle of house red please,’ they reply, adding a ‘thank-you’ as he wanders off to do, what is after all, his job. He produces the bottle and allows them a sample.
‘That’s fine thank-you,’ they nod agreeably.
He then proceeds to fill their glasses and again they thank him.
A variation of the same conversation then resumes with the ordering and receiving of food. And again with the charade of paying the bill. By the end of a three-course meal, the Brits may have graciously thanked the waiter an average of 15 times.
My argument isn’t one against politeness. My mother brought me up to observe manners; not to wipe your nose on your (or anybody else’s) sleeve, always to say please and thank you when snatching other children’s toys, that kind of thing, but there are extremes. The Canarians, with their economical and abrupt demands seem to be at the other end of the scale.
‘Cerveza!’ they bark, proceeding to slap money on the bar top and chug the contents without another murmur. This, to a Brit, seems rude. To them it’s not. It’s just an example of a successful interaction. Once when local Canarians absent-mindedly stumbled into the Smugglers, they asked why I was thanking them when they were the ones being given the service. It was a fair point but it’s a habit that is hard to curtail.
We returned home as the sun began its steady decline behind La Gomera, turning the mountains a glowing orange and laying huge shadows in the ravines. ‘Look, over there,’ shouted Frank suddenly. We veered away from our coast-hugging route and headed further out to sea.
‘What is it?’ asked Joy.
‘You’ll see,’ he replied.
In the failing light we couldn’t see anything unusual. Then all of a sudden a shadow appeared under the water next to our boat. ‘Down there.’ Frank pointed. The shadow broke the surface just six feet away from our boat mirroring our speed and direction exactly.
‘Dolphins,’ said Frank calmly. Another grey fin broke the surface a little further away, then another, and another. In seconds we were in the midst of a group of 15 to 20 dolphins, all racing our boat.
Joy and I were stunned. To be this close to a pod of dolphins in their natural surroundings seemed surreal. What made it all the more astounding was the interaction. They seemed to be toying with us, almost as curious about us as we were of them. One was almost close enough to touch but as I reached out it sped forwards, leaping from the water ahead of us. Frank cut the engine and we drifted for a while as the dolphins submerged one by one and disappeared into the blue. The performance had ended, but the show had not.
Minutes had passed since we resumed our journey inland when a fish shot out of the water in front of us and flew inches above the waves before splashing down a hundred yards further on.
‘Did you see that?’ I said.
‘Flying fish,’ said Frank, unimpressed. ‘You see loads of them out here.’ We approached the sparkling lights of the harbour in contemplative silence. I felt like a traveller more than a migrant worker, completely absorbed by the sights and sounds I had just seen; the mysterious creatures, the soporific swaying, the warm night breeze, the clinking of masts and ropes as we glided towards our mooring. I had temporarily forgotten our reason for being here. It was the first time since arriving that I felt like a tourist.
Frank’s boat excursion and the indifferent behaviour of Lola and Pepe had provided a reminder that we were overseas, even though at times it seemed like an imported little Britain full of patrons who thought that abroad was any sunny place bedecked in red, white and blue where the locals couldn’t talk properly.
Although the boat ride did not attain the level of luxury that we had quietly hoped for, it did provide a welcome break in our routine, something that we were always grateful for.
You could only endure chopping so many cucumbers and onions and washing so much lettuce before boredom took a hold and you imaginatively tried to find more interesting ways of dealing with vegetables, usually leading to a brief but hurried excursion to the local casualty unit.
On one such occasion at the hospital I had been bleeding patiently for over an hour after insisting that I did not need to be kept overnight plugged in to every drip that they could bill my insurance company for. Eventually the receptionist led me to a treatment room and disappeared presumably to try and prise a doctor from the hospital bar. The array of shiny tools was fascinating and I wondered which ones would be used to cure me of my ailment. Hopefully not the large coal shuttle look-alike. That must have been for gathering up spilt innards or scooping out the brain in medical conditions deemed a little more serious than my own.
Eventually a man of the green cloth was pushed into the room and I proudly revealed my affliction. Blood was still seeping through the checked tea towel that was tightly bound around my hand. I had gashed my palm attempting to model a carrot into the shape of a delicate orchid with an 8-inch bread knife when my hand slipped and I dripped blood on the floor, muttering expletives all the way to the cold tap.
The medical man peered at my hand and gazed inquisitively around the room. It was at this point that I had the uncomfortable feeling that this was all a bit unfamiliar to him. He picked up a brown glass bottle, scanned the label and liberally scattered the contents over my wound. We both waited a moment, he a little more curious than me to see what reaction I would have to this liquid. I was relieved when no more than a vague tingling occurred, but I sensed disappointment
and surprise from him. Next, he dabbed at my hand with an unnecessarily large wad of cotton wool and told me to hold it there while he went off in search of needle and thread.
We have all heard those news reports of phoney doctors performing intricate surgical procedures on unsuspecting patients, well I was beginning to think that this man was no more of a doctor than I. To flee or not to flee battled in my mind, but before I could run for it, he returned looking very excited.
Being English and therefore not wishing to appear rude, I tried to think of a polite way of asking him if he was actually associated, in any way, shape or form whatsoever, to the medical profession.
‘Have you been busy today?’ I lightly enquired.
‘No not really. A splinter, couple of broken legs and … how you say … a bad joint.’
He could have been either a medic or a carpenter. Time would tell.
‘Da-da! Finished,’ he announced before taking a step back to admire his own craftsmanship. It wasn’t the neatest seam that I had ever witnessed but at least my blood had stopped deserting me.
Before I could thank him, he disappeared into the corridor and returned with someone to whom he seemed eager to show his handiwork.
‘Good,’ the stranger said, nodding his head in surprise.
The man who had treated me beamed from ear to ear.
‘See? I could be a doctor.’ his expression seemed to suggest.
My hand was fine although it does have an irregular scar meandering across it now. I don’t know to this day if he was a genuine medic or not but I’m sure I’ve since seen him driving a Dorada lorry.
I was rather pleased that there was a man peering into my fridge oinking at me. It broke the monotony of my early morning prep.
‘I think he’s Magyar,’ explained Joy as though the man rummaging through the fridge whilst doing animal impressions was displaying a trait that was clearly Hungarian. It was obvious that something swine-related was required so I dangled a piece of bacon in front of him. He shook his head vigorously and continued to peel all the lids from the Tupperware containers.
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