The
Canary Islands: Flying in the Face of Covid
My forty-day
trip involved both Silvio and the Canary Islands. The outside
world was still struggling with Covid, but the Canaries were a
kind of haven. We moved in a complacent bubble through historical
villages and freshly painted hotels and poolside bars. We traveled
to lush and beautiful La Palma and more rustic and traditional
La Gomera, but mainly we spent our days on Tenerife. As we had
on the other islands, we drove every road and path on Tenerife,
returning to favourite spots until we began to recognize certain
roadside stands and sudden clumps of green once we'd passed twisted
rock left over from the Teide's volcanic eruption. Before long
we felt as if Covid hadn't been a worldwide phenomenon but rather
a transitory moment before we returned to what the politicians
were calling life as normal.
The volcanic
landscape was stark and surprising. Even in the barrancas, the
narrow canyons which broke up the mountain slopes, barren rocky
igneous fields were replaced by verdure-covered hills and sudden
splashes of colour as odd birds darted amongst the trees. On the
coast, the fungus growth of tourist hotels and resorts was capturing
the best beaches, and the locals were driven increasingly up the
hill where ancient pipes directed the scarce rainfall into village
cisterns where it had once been equally shared. Agriculture was
a thing of the past, and although we walked past banana plantations,
we rarely found local fruit in the shops.
We talked
to locals, heard stories from credulous tourists, and met refugees
from the African coast a mere hundred kilometres away as well
as other countries experiencing war and oppression. Like Singapore
and Macao, the Canary Islands are a centuries-old crossroads for
trade, and we were merely the latest guests to be castaways on
its shifting shore.
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