San Juan and a revelation

Feli and Lali were perched on the wall side by side like twin Humpty Dumpties, watching the sea and an oddly murky moon climbing into the twilight. I touched them both on the shoulder. 'A bit dangerous, sitting here!' Their legs were dangling above a sheer drop of several metres to the beach. But Gomerans are good at heights, they've lived with precipitous drops all their lives. Our neighbours shuffled along the wall to make room for us: 'Sit down, sit down,' but we declined. Too high, too much smoke. 'We'll see you later.' They smiled and nodded tolerantly, accustomed to foreign eccentricity.

The smoke that stung the eyes and yellowed the moon came from the beach below, where party revellers were camped around half a dozen crackling bonfires. They were here in honour of San Juan and later there would be dancing, but as always we'd arrived far too early. It's difficult not to arrive early for Spanish festivities because they always start terribly late. Rule of thumb is to add an hour to the published start time before you even think of turning up, and you'll still be early. But Gomerans are good at waiting too, they are patient people, and an hour to wait is an hour to chat and joke and celebrate being Gomeran.

We retreated further from the beach to escape the worst of the smoke. Mixed with the fragrant and carcinogenic aroma of burning timber was the acrid stench of scorched meat from handheld barbecue forks. I'm not a big fan of bonfires but don't ever say that on San Juan's day.

Also down there on the beach was Leandro the loudspeaker man, plugging cables into black boxes and aiming vast black boomboxes menacingly around him, clearly determined to leave no refuge. Of the musicians there was no sign, no doubt because they were sensibly gathered in a distant bar to ease themselves into the mood.

The festival of San Juan Bautista, John the Baptist, is one of the many Catholic festivals that have appropriated a pagan equivalent. The bonfires were originally intended to inspire the sun at the midsummer solstice, its finest moment, to blaze on in glory rather than sinking towards winter. The strategy has never worked all that well but people live in hope, and the bonfires of San Juan still hold mysterious powers. If you jump over one it cleanses you of evil spirits, or something of the sort, and this forms an important part of the San Juan festivities in some towns. Like bull-running, its main function is for young men to demonstrate their fearlessness to other young men and the more naïve of young women. (Brighter ones say no way, José, no father of my children is going to leap over bonfires.) I have no idea how John the Baptist came to be involved with this, and I doubt if the Pope does either. Stop asking questions, just enjoy.

Around ten o'clock I tired of trying to get a good shot of the peek-a-boo moon and began to worry that the smoke might have ruined my camera. (It didn't.) Put away camera. We wandered up and down the track behind the beach wall, greeting people here and there. Most of those now arriving were hauling insulated food boxes the size of treasure chests, their kids following behind with six-packs of beer and cola. Down on the beach a few near-naked youths were still mucking about in the waves then scootling back to their bonfires to warm up. By now I was also worrying that the fog of smoke swirling around us would leave an indelible scent of burnt resin on my fleece jacket. (It did.)

Leandro the loudspeaker man had turned his attention to the microphones, darting around on the podium under a red spotlight like a performance art event. Adjusting the volumes. Hola? Hola, hola! Tap tap tap. Sí! No! Uno dos tres. No sign of any musicians yet.

Heart slowly sinking while the moon escaped into the clearer air above, I realised that not only had we arrived too early, we had arrived far, far too early. The dance was not going to happen until well after midnight. It would continue until six or seven in the morning, when everyone would wobble off to buy hot chocolate and churros.

This is entirely typical, not only in La Gomera but in the whole of Spain. Which leads me to a theory I've just developed. A revelation I attribute to the festivities of San Juan. How is it, do you suppose, that the Spanish in the fifteenth century managed to overrun such vast swathes of territory, including most of southern and central America, in the face of fierce opposition from so many millions of native warriors?

I think I know. Imagine the two opposing bands - invading Conquistadors and defending Indians - camped for the night on opposite sides of the valley. Oil lamps flickering, meat roasting, wine splashing into mugs. As the stars take hold, supper over, the natives settle down under their goatskins for a good night's sleep before tomorrow's bloodshed.

Just nodding off nicely when, over there on the other side, one of the foreign invaders starts twanging some strange white-devil instrument, the others join in singing and before long there's uproar, you can't hear the wind in the palms or the babble of the stream for the stamping and shouting and strumming carried pitilessly on the cool night air. They're still at it as the sun peeps over the hill, finding the Spaniards fired up and ready for anything, the natives bleary-eyed and knackered from sleep deprivation.

This, I now believe, is the secret of Spain's extraordinary success as a colonial adventurer. Its people do not need sleep. They can party all night while others fall senseless around them. San Juan, this year as other years, was honoured and serenaded without our help. Soon after eleven, with the bonfires burning merrily but still no musicians, we gave up and went home, vanquished like the Indians.