13.1.2012 Santa Cruz de Tenerife (Tenerife)

Santa Cruz de Tenerife

1490 they came, 2000 Spaniards with permission from their King - permission to take over the nine Guache kingdoms of Tenerife.  I’m not sure how you can give permission for someone to take something that isn’t yours, but the King of Spain was not the first and certainly not the last to do so.  So the Spanish came, bringing with them a wooden cross, since known as ‘The Cross of the Conquest’, a name which in my view is a libel, given all that Jesus both taught and modelled about how we should treat one another.  But again, it wasn’t the first libel of this sort and it certainly was not and will not be the last.  But that is how Santa Cruz – Holy Cross in English – got its name.

It crouches at the foot of some extremely jagged and irregular mountains, making some attempts to struggle its way up into the foothills with modern apartment blocks.  The hills are dry and dusty, much more so that they were the last time we were here, four years ago.  At that time, the north of the island was green and lush, and only the south was dry.  It appears that Morocco’s shortage of rain applies here also.  (The cynical Scot in me wonders if this is because we have taken everybody else’s rain this year as well as our own generous share – certainly feels like it).

The city centre is a mixture of modern rectangular boxes, romantic Spanish-style houses in green, yellow, cream, peach, with swirling white decoration and an air of elegance, and dramatic modern designs, some breath taking and some in the ‘why did they bother?’ category.  In the dramatic group was an opera house which, although smaller, could rival Sydney, with a huge, free standing arch, open at one end, sheltering a series of smaller arches.  It looked like the white sails of a ship, about to be overwhelmed by an immense wave. 

There are small squares, one resplendent in ceramic tiling which covers the ground, the benches and the pool; another with a magnificent marble fountain, in which plump cherubs pour water into fluted basins while above them a man appears to be wrestling a snake into submission.  A large park, full of whispering bamboo walkways and unusual grey-green palms, concealing in its greenness fountains, and modern sculptures in a range of shapes that teases the brain and the eyes.  A floral clock, (Gifted by the Danish Consul), less intricate than the one in Princes Gardens in Edinburgh, keeps time with a splash of joyful colour.

We came upon a market, a peach and white wall surrounding market stalls.  It was a much neater, cleaner and less vibrant version of Morocco’s souk, but beguiling none the less.  Outside, a mammoth motor bike stood, flags of several nations flickering atop, two conventional wheeled suitcases strapped to the sides, and names of far flung destinations painted all over it.  Its owner, who was deaf and mute, proved to be a somewhat mature Hell’s Angel, who had in fact ridden all around the world on this between 2000 and 2011.  A map defined his route, which wiggled its way over the many continents of the world, showing he had touched everywhere, just about, from Shetland to South America and all points between.

Later, we strolled along the colossal quayside as the evening light faded and the glimmering lights of the city reflected across the water.  Three muscular tugs, with trimmed Goth- style necklaces of huge black tyres, bucked in the swell, and a flotilla of tiny dinghies whispered across the wave tops, while behind us the Destiny glowed and hummed with life.  Tomorrow another day, another port.