More Ketchup Than Salsa - Confessions of a Tenerife Barman (8 page)

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 aggravating the roller-coaster 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 circumspection. Living in a coastal community where the sun always shines has to be considered fortunate in anybody’s eyes. From our current vantage point the days of market toil seemed no more real than looking at somebody else’s photograph 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 opportunistic Italian chef operating a totally illegal but nevertheless popular beachside eatery. The spaghetti was delivered to your table by the chef himself, wearing nothing more than a congenial smile and wayward splashes of bolognaise sauce. Personally I thought it was taking alfresco 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. Weather-worn 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 randomly cluttered the shoreline.

The largest structure was a huge stone warehouse, which 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 they had been harvested from the plantation that cut a channel through the rocky gully rising 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 trod 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 still 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. 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 or other ne’er-do-wells.

This UK habit seemed exaggerated when exported to a culture in which unnecessary social nicety 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.

Take, for example, being seated at a restaurant. The waiter seats Mr and 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 backs away. 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 sleeve (or anybody else’s), 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 set off 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 fifteen to twenty dolphins, all racing our boat.

Joy and I were mesmerised. They seemed to be playing 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 was completely absorbed by the sights and sounds; the playful 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 traveller.

Even though at times it seemed this was an imported little Britain, full of patrons who thought that abroad was any sunny place where the locals couldn’t talk properly, Frank’s boat excursion and the indifferent behaviour of Lola and Pepe had provided a reminder that we were overseas.

Although the boat ride did not aspire to the level of luxury that we had quietly hoped for, it did provide a welcome break in our routine, something that we had finally become grateful for. In the first few weeks repetition was our saviour. Having to run through the same succession of wrestling open the iron security bars, sweep out the dead and dying cockroaches, trundle the same cash-and-carry aisles and prepare the same garnishes and meats gave us the chance to gradually reduce the interminable time it took to complete our morning duties. At least in theory.

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 I 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. At the hospital I was 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. 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. 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, and 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.

He carefully threaded three stitches at irregular intervals along my wound, his tongue protruding from the side of his mouth in fixed concentration.

‘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 while 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.

‘Ham?’ I offered.

‘Yah. Ham!’ he repeated, clasping both my shoulders in an alarming show of cross-cultural bonding. I feared he was going to kiss me.

‘Ham with …’ And so began Act Two Scene One as he continued to forage for an accompaniment. Meanwhile, through the open doorway to the public area, I could see we were in for our daily dose of Friedhelm.

Running a bar-restaurant obviously involves being in the company of all sorts of characters from many different walks of life. Some you could quite happily spend time with out of choice, others you would avoid like the plague given the chance. Joy had the fortunate knack of making people from both groups feel like they were all her favourite customers. All except one. It wasn’t that we particularly disliked Friedhelm, he was harmless enough, it was just that we had no time for him. To everybody else this was clearly evident, but Friedhelm had such thick skin that our indifference went apparently unnoticed.

He had the appearance of a disgruntled hound. Saddlebag jowls tugged at bloodshot eyes and dragged the corners of his mouth into a permanent frown. A retired insurance officer, he liked to pass the time of day describing the various ailments that had befallen him that day. Every sentence would be punctuated by a dramatic gasp for air, and because of his limited knowledge of English his riveting stories could rasp on for hours.