DANGER!! DANGER!! People of the Earth – Listen to my tale of woe … well those that might have the sense to listen – the rest of them are here in Gran Canaria, or more accurately Playa Del Ingles – which I think translates to “Place of the English”. Or more accurately “Place of the English and Germans”…. This is the stuff of adventures!!!
As I flew into the airport of Gran Canaria, my first thoughts were; desolate, arid, stark, but quickly progressed to shit-hole. The airport itself is not near any of the major town centres, although since it is a small island, it does not take too long to get to one. I was headed to Playa del Ingles. The signs were there at the airport really, if I had cared to look – plane loads of English and German tourists with snotty screaming children, disembarking and getting onto large tour buses. I hired a car, deciding that I wanted to the freedom to explore the whole island.
I am trying not to be judgemental, its not my way generally, but its nearly impossible not to be. So before I really get started, I thought I would give you the upside, there is always an upside, you just sometimes have to look really really really hard. I was upgraded to business class for the flight from Barcelona to GC – there is a silver lining after all.
Additionally I was able to book a flight to get me the hell out of here, early Saturday morning, limiting my time here to a little over two days instead of the intended six.
The island has a terrific freeway, nice tunnels and almost makes it’s way around the whole island. The islanders appear to be reasonably eco friendly, with farms of wind turbines dotting the landscape, particularly near the airport. My rental car is a diesel engineered vehicle, which does not consume quiet some much petroleum.
Some parts of the island are magnificent. After making my flight changes, I headed for the hills. Gran Canaria is a mountainous island, and when I say mountainous, I’m not kidding. When I finally did reach the highest point I could find, not only could I see the top of the island of Tenerife off to the north (which is the only part of the Tenerife I could see), I was also looking down on a layer of clouds. I really don’t know how high I was, as there were not the typical markers that give you this information.
The interior is stark, arid; stunningly beautiful – as well it needs to be, to make up for the horrors that are the coastal towns. I have assumed from the discovery of pine trees, the height of the mountains, and the damns built on the sides of the mountains – that it snows up here are some point. The dams catching the snowmelt run off. I even came across an old well, its historic plaque described a day when the well was filled with snow. I am not sure if it’s a regular thing, or just happens once in a blue moon – and to be honest, could not be fecked finding out.
There were camping grounds up here in the mountains, and I spied a few stoic souls camping amongst the pine trees. If I had a tent, I probably would have joined them.
As I was driving back to Playa del Ingles, two young girls where hitch hiking from the bus stop, since I had had such a great experience in Brazil with this, I decide to return the favour and give them a lift. They off course did not speak a world of English and I – well my Spanish consists of the ability to count to nine and answer the question “how are you?”, oh yes I can also order beer – which is ironic considering I hate the loathsome ale. It was sort of strange that they did not speak any English, as everyone I have come across on this island so far, speaks a little. Every restaurant delivers its menu in German, Italian, French, English and of course Spanish – with pictures of course, what else would you expect. It kind of takes the fun out of ordering. Half the fun of ordering from a menu in another language is trying to decipher the code, ordering something, Pollo for example, and getting something you were really not expecting – well it was still chicken, but did it have to come covered in mayonnaise with a single, lonely, sad looking olive on top for garnish. The menu’s are definitely designed for the British palette, these people know which side their bread is buttered on, and is cooked with all the skill of an English chef. I had to climb a mountain to find a local speciality!!
The trip was going rather uneventfully, narrow, narrow, winding, winding roads. The road signs would indicate a gentle curve, the next thing you know your braking into a hairpin bend. I was reminded of the car scene from Cary Grant’s movie ‘To Catch a Thief’ (I think) where he is racing along mountainous narrow roads dropping off to spectacular Italian coast lines below, his speed and driving skill completely out of touch with the reality of the road conditions – off course Cary Grant had a stunt double and a green screen, I on the other hand, well lets just say, I made it home alive. Earlier in my drive I had come across a bunch of cars stopped by the side of the road, people were energetically getting out of their cars and going on a short hike up a precipitous path. I would have joined them of course, except my sandals were hardly conducive to a mountain hike and I lack the required amount of water. This meant that the road now had become one-way traffic only, it barely two way to begin with. So I took my life in my hands and cruised down the road, praying that no one would decide they needed to come up the road. Not far out of San Bartolome, where I had picked up the hitchhikers, let me digress for a moment, when I think of hitch hikers the picture I usually have in my mind is couple of lads, with long bedraggled hair, a hefty backpack and possibly even a small dog named Toto. These young ladies were dressed, with a capital D. There were definitely headed for a night out on the town, and the only conversation that I actually had with them, was when they asked me if I was staying in an Apartment or Hotel. My answer of hotel seemed to disappoint them greatly and no more conversation was to be had. I was somewhat perplexed – but will have to chalk it up to one of life’s mysteries.
As we were coming up a very steep incline, with hairpin followed by hairpin we came across a number of cars parked by the side of the road and people sort of milling about – I assumed that they were getting out to look at the stunning vista, or deciding whether a hike was in order, despite the heat and blazing sun. So I carefully negotiated my way around them, I started getting filthy looks from the drivers and passengers of some of these vehicles. I suddenly occurred to me that maybe these weren’t Sunday drivers after all – but something more serious had happened on the road ahead – and we all know about my track record with vehicles and shear drops. I pulled over, the two young ladies promptly got out of the car and we headed up round a bend in the road. A minor car accident had taken place. Somebody told me that two Germans had run into each other and were not moving their cars until the police arrived. Two buses were stuck in the traffic, and the tour guide had tried to explain to the Germans “Look do you think that police give a flying monkeys arse, that two German tourist and possibly a lonely goat herd, have had a dingle on some mountain top” – but the Germans were not moving and neither were the rest of us. The police did eventually arrive, the vehicles shifted and the traffic flowed – I never did see my hitchhiker friends again, must have been something wrong with my hotel.
I did see a eucalypt tree, alone, crying in the breeze. But where there is one old gum tree, there are bound to be more, and I did come across a small grove of them somewhere on the other side of the mountain. I wondered more than once that day, how did an Australian native gum tree come to live here, just off the coast of Africa, not far from Morocco.
As a testament to the harsh environment (probably why the eucalypt is thriving here), all the crops are covered with tents, tomatoes are the specialty of the island – although they are losing out to cheaper Moroccan imports – some farmers have given up their crops all together. At first I thought they were grown poppies or marijuana plants ( I later found out I was not far from the truth, particular on some parts of the island), but I think its just protection from the winds, the ever constant wind that drive the turbines, and the unrelenting sun. I would imagine that when it rains here, its pretty wild. As I was out driving, on Friday, I did spy one hill covered in green, my heart leapt, my soul soared – but alas it was a hillside of carefully cultivated cacti.
I arrived back in Playa del Ingles, which I had only seen by moonlight the night before – the cold harsh reality of daylight doing nothing to improve my previous judgement. It is nothing but low-rise apartment/hotel buildings. I have always disliked Surfers Paradise, that bastion of the holidaymakers in Australia – where families go to while away their vacation days, pretending they are having a good time, or losing the Christmas fund at Jupiters casino. But this place makes Surfers look like the Buckingham fecking palace. Every building needs to be torn down and preferable never replaced. Let nature reclaim its island. There is nothing redeeming about this place. It is Gaudy, and I don’t mean in the Gaudi sense of a genius architect, with an overactive imagination creating ethereal masterpieces to enthral future generations. I mean Gaudy, tacky, tasteless, hideous, horrid creations, slapped up to take money from unsuspecting Germans and Brits. Now if you’re a landlocked German or a Brit that doesn’t understand the meaning of the words “Hot Summer” and “Lovely Beach, and look no pebbles” – then it’s possible this place holds some appeal. It is, in spite of everything, relatively cheap, the food is decent and also reasonable priced.
The sheer brilliance of this place is not the great weather, or the stunning scenery inland, but that some Marketing bozo has pulled off the market coup of the century. It takes a brilliant, truly brilliant mind to convince people to come to such a hideous place and be grateful for the opportunity – I am sure the local people of the Canary Islands are paying this brilliant bozo a lot of money, to keep up the good work. It is also a good sign for the local economy that the vast majority of taxis are fairly new Mercedes Benz vehicles. Playa Del Ingles is a fairly new environment, until the 1970’s it was farmland belonging to one man, then the first hotel was built – and the rest of the hideousness followed shortly afterwards.
I did learn that Playa actually means Beach, so Playa Del Ingles is Beach of the English. According to the history of the island, the man who owned all this beautiful land (with acres and acres of rolling sand dunes – all but gone now), was tall, blond and blue eyed, although a native of the island. The other islanders thought he looked English – so his beach was named … Playa Del Ingles.
There is no surf to speak of, the waves, if you could call them that, approached the beach with all the enthusiasm of an Amazonian three-toed sloth. Sloshing themselves upon the shore with a melancholy sigh. The sand is black sand, very fine, but nonetheless black (well maybe a sort of muddy ugly grey that turns black when wet), although I did discover a few seams of white sand, but the white sand was doing its best to escape back out to sea. I wanted to join them, swimming for Africa – it’s only 100 Km (60 miles) away, part of my brain was trying to convince me – thankfully there is another part of my brain well aware of the fact I can’t swim fifty metres. You need to walk out at least 100 metres before the depth of the water reaches your knees. There is a large area of sand dunes that I discovered this evening as I wondered down to the beach. Very lovely to wonder upon the dunes at dusk, but the intense heat of the days sun, had baked and caked the ground where once water sloshed about. I can only assume that at high tide a reasonable amount of water floods into the dune area, the daytime sun evaporating it – my other thought, was that this is the towns sewage treatment system and I just happened along on a particularly pleasant day. As I was walking along the beach, headed back to town, I noticed that I was getting peculiar looks, the sort of once over you’d give a psycho, serial axe murderer, just before he lops off your head. I think the fact that I was walking alone was the give away that I was the strange one – not the countless couples strolling the beach at dusk. “Watch out for your children my pretties, I will come for them at dawn,” I cackled under my breath…..
Coming back from the beach it is easy to get lost (this is a very small place), all the streets look the same, the same horrid concrete apartment buildings blurring in to a seething mass of, I was trying to think of some clever metaphor, but really – its just a seething mass. There are no landmarks of note, no cute Spanish churches, no stunning sculptures just left lying about, no spectacular street lamps to divert your attention from the hordes of screaming children, no museums. It is a place devoid of any culture whatsoever. I did see a sign for a park and zoo – but I am afraid, so very afraid.
I am apparently here during low season, I cannot possibly imagine what it would be like, yes I can…. Arrrrgggghhhh, somebody kill me now.
On Friday I drove to San Nicolas, it’s a small local town, surround by tents (presumably crops). Only the hardest and most adventurous tourists drive there, so it was devoid of germans and brits. The drive is about and hour and half from Playa Del Ingles, the nice new freeway ends after about the first 15 minutes of driving, and you left to drive treacherous narrow, hair raising, suicide roads, that for a short while, provide you with a breathtaking view of the coast line – as well as more ugly places to contain the tourists. Then it heads up into the mountains, this is suicide driving at its best, to arrive safely at your destination all your powers of concentration are required to ensure you stay on your side of the road and not head over a cliff – its mesmerising and it really becomes the only thing you can think about, gripping the steering wheel, “will I – won’t I” .
I often despair when driving fantastic roads like this, I am not the world’s best driver, well OK yes I am, I was taught by my father. I play a little game, to distract me from the driving off the edge scenario thoughts, I count the number of times the driver in front of me crosses the centre line into oncoming traffic as they round corners etc. I usually lose interest after 74. These people are a danger to themselves and the oncoming traffic and other Germans in larger vehicles. I want to pull out my police badge, pull them over, take their license and give them a colouring in book – explaining that they will get their license back when they can successfully colour all the pictures without going outside the lines. Listen to ME …. The lines are there for a reason people!!!
They also come for the nightlife, somebody told me, or I read it in a book. The bars, clubs, sex shops, arcade game shops and night time frivolity all seem to be located in the commercial district, which is a large shopping mall complex. Yes that’s right, right next door to your tacky arcade game establishment, your green grocer and bread maker, is a decent array of sex shops. I have decided to be prudish and not venture in, most unlike me I know, but I strongly suspect that like the rest of this horrid little island I would just be sadly disappointed. The arcade game centres are all over the mall, the noise and flashing lights assaulting you, as you walk by. They are just tacky and ugly, but they keep the wee little ones occupied for hours on end – and I am not necessarily referring to the children.
The nightlife goes until the morning hours, so early morning shoppers are greeted with the sit of leather-clad homosexuals staging from the late night bars that pepper this shopping mall. Not that I really have a problem with leather clad homosexuals, but really, leather in such a hot climate – where is the sense and think of the cows (that ones for you Robert)
If you want a cheap family holiday, with lots of beaches (although they ain’t worth shit if you ask me), loads of very cheap beer and a ton of tacky nightlife, surrounded by harsh sounding Germans and ghostly white British lads – then this is the holiday destination for you. If on the other hand, you would like to experience some places with some interesting culture, great art, spectacular beauty – then please refer to all my previous Blog entries (Rio, Albuquerque, even Dallas has more going for it, San Francisco, London, Madrid, Barcelona – even the little known Caldes on the way to Girona had more style and grace), this place is NOT for you.
Why I hear you ask, did he go to the Canary Islands … that’s a damn good question. So I could write this blog of course!!
Enjoy the photos; they were taken to prove my point about the Marketing Bozo….
I am now in Athens, and have kissed the ground many times – which is something you really don’t want to do here. Ah the Acropolis, how I have missed thee … but that is another entry – stay tuned.
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