12.1.2012 Bikes and Germans (Lanzarote)

I like Lanzarote.  Its black glittering beaches, its conical brown mountains, its sea - royal blue and warm, its square white houses, its pitch black rocks pock marked with holes like Swiss cheese.  Not everybody does – ‘Lanzagrotty’ some call it, shocked perhaps by its violent geology, its brutal volcanic landscape, its black gravel replacing grass.  When I first saw it, I was unsettled by it too.  But it needs a second take, a chance to absorb, a determination to abandon one’s assumptions that landscapes should be pretty, soothing, green.  Then you become thrilled by its difference, excited by its drama, charmed by its architecture, awestruck by its volcanic power.  Well named ‘ Lanzarote - the Flame Thrower’

On arrival in Arrecife (capital of Lanzarote) we decided to go cycling.  This seemed a good antidote to the endless buffets, afternoon teas, five course evening meals, midnight suppers etc. etc., available night and day on just about every deck of the ship.  Not that we have over-eaten.  Well, not a lot.  Ok – a lot.  We had tried to fight back by avoiding using the lift and climbing from our cabin on Deck 2 to the Sky Lounge on Deck 12.  But as we had not packed oxygen cylinders, we didn’t try it again, and instead reverted to scones with jam and cream as a restorative.  Hence the bikes.  

We met at the desk on Deck 4, kitted out as best we could.  One fellow cyclist was waiting already, a chap about our age.  Good – he’s likely to sweat and puff as well, we thought.  However, brief conversation revealed that he got rid of his car some years ago and now pedal pushes everywhere, rain, hail or shine.  Then Raoul turned up, a Brit with a similar figure to ours, but considerably less of an antique.  Somewhat intimidated, we suddenly recognised the attractions of the Lido Cafe, by now serving morning coffee - but we resisted.  Perhaps because we were suddenly joined by our guide, whose lithe and muscular physique appeared to have been poured into red and black lycra, whose sleek black hair and golden skin denoted many a mile spent on the saddle.  His designer sunspecs reflected rainbows making him inscrutable.  He told us he was Brazilian and that his name was Abraham.  The cycles were produced, along with red and white cycle helmets, and so down the gangway, we followed Abraham into the desert.  Having nearly fallen off my bike in the dock car park, Bill and I took up position at the rear of the party, a position which we maintained throughout the day, with varying distances separating us from the rest of the group.  In fact, Abraham proved to be an excellent guide, long suffering of his puffing, red faced charges, and providing local information as we went along, although often we were too far behind to hear it.

Abraham surveys his charges

But it was exhilarating, gliding down hills past the fat little palm trees; gardens in which the snake-like irrigation systems refreshed the cacti, aloe vera, and red hot pokers sprouting from the black gravel; the jagged black rocks over which the sea broke in mists of sea spray which brushed our foreheads.  Costa Teguise, our objective, was reached at last - a little resort with lots of charm and golden beaches on which red and blue sunshades sprouted like colourful mushrooms.  The sea was rough; grey green waves which gobbled up the few windsurfers, and, curving like polished glass, exploded onto the soft sand.  

As Bill and I collapsed into the nearest cafe, there arrived another group of about twelve cyclists - slim, muscle bound, lycra tight, sinews taut, not a bead of sweat or a tomato coloured face amongst them.  These, Abraham told us, were a group from the large German cruise boat berthed behind ours in the harbour.  It has 1,900 passengers as against our 1,450.  Unable to manage the arithmetic, I was hopeful that our four against their twelve did not reflect too badly on us Brits.  Abraham then told us that this was only one of three groups of cyclists from that ship – in total there were at least 70 German cyclists out today, and the others had all gone to the volcanoes, a 50 km route up inclines that would terrify any sane person.  Ah well.  But Abraham used to work on that ship, and he says he prefers cycling with fat Brits any day.  So our national pride remains intact.

Back on board, feeling very virtuous and fit we stroll to the Lido Cafe past the plump forms of fellow passengers occupying the deckchairs all over the pool deck. Until we spy Raoul, our fellow cyclist, already in the pool, arms powering through the water, feet producing a froth of bubbles behind him.  Maybe we should join him?  Maybe...  But those scones smell awfully good.... And then surely we deserve a deckchair too?