Were they like her own folk, the guanches, or different altogether? Perhaps more handsome. Especially the young men. She fantasised that among them was a prince who would somehow find his way across the water, take her into his arms and sweep her into a glorious future. Who would save her from the imminent marriage her father - the local chieftain - had arranged, to the son of a tribal chieftain from another canton. A prince if you like but small, ugly and terribly boring.Meanwhile, over on the Island of the White Peak, the youngest son of the mencey or ruler of the Adeje canton watched the dazzling sunset outlining the low, dark shape of the Mysterious Island and felt that it was trying to tell him something. He was stifled by his life at home, keen for adventure and, like so many boys of his age, stupid enough to do almost anything. He fantasised about swimming across to that intriguing island... but a shred of sanity warned him he’d never make it.
Everything changed during the autumn Beñesmen celebrations, the most important fiestas of the year, celebrating the annual harvest. Music, dancing, games, wine and copious quantities of food. It was the roasting of the goats that gave him the idea. Rescuing a discarded bladder from one of the slaughtered animals, he cleaned it, tied it at one end, inflated it then tied a knot at the open end to contain the air.
He’d learned this trick as a kid! Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Preparing two more bladders to be quite sure, he crept away unnoticed from the evening’s celebrations, tied the bladders around his chest, waded into the sea and set off with purposeful strokes towards the island.
The next morning the young princess spotted a figure sprawled on the beach as though washed up by the sea. She ran down to investigate, turned the body over and saw that it was a young man, and still alive. Pulling off three limp bladders and some seaweed dangling from his chest she patted his cheeks gently to try and revive him.
His eyes opened, and they were beautiful eyes. He smiled a little, and it was a beautiful smile. They fell instantly in love with each other.
At first the girl’s family were impressed by the young newcomer’s feat in crossing the water and treated him with respect, gave him food and shelter to restore his strength. He spoke their language, although a bit strangely, and everything was fine for a few days until the princess announced that she was cancelling her previously arranged engagement and would be marrying this new man instead. Seeing their darkening expressions she argued tearfully ‘He’s a prince! And I love him!’
An urgent council of elders from the two families involved rapidly agreed that breaking her engagement and marrying a foreigner was way out of line, that the young man had clearly abused the hospitality of his hosts and that he would have to go, one way or another. Find him at once, bring him here and we’ll pass sentence!
Nobody knew where he was that morning but there were suspicions. He and the princess had gone into hiding. She was well in tune with local customs and had quickly realised they were both in deep trouble.
‘What’s that whistling? What are they saying?’ whispered the prince. His young lover, arms wrapped around him as they lay among the shrubs outside the village, interpreted for him the silbo, the whistling language: they were searching for the foreigner from the Island of the White Peak.
They ran further inland, towards the high ground. ‘They’ll kill you,’ she warned him. ‘And if they do, I’ll kill myself too.’ This is love, in its purest and most desperate form. Why does everybody have to die? Couldn’t they all just sit down and discuss things…? But no, the young couple kept running and the pursuers kept pursuing, and finally the two lovers reached the very top of the highest mountain with nowhere else to go while the whistling came closer, the instructions to go this way, go that…
‘We’ll die together,’ said the princess, being fatally young and consumed by her fantasy. ‘If I can’t be with you in life, I’ll be with you in death.’
The prince, being also terribly young, broke a thin stick from a cedar tree, took a sharp stone and scraped a point at each end of the stick, then explained to his lover what they must do. As the sounds of pursuit came closer - ‘There they are!’ - they wedged the sharpened stick between them, heart to heart, wrapped their arms around each other and drew themselves into a final embrace.
Her name was Gara. His name was Jonay. The peak where they died together is now the Pico de Garajonay and all around it is the wonderful Parque de Garajonay, an unspoiled wilderness of ancient laurel forest and a living testament to the power of undying love.
NOTES
for the serious student
There are many versions of this legend, some very different although they all end in tragedy. This one seems to be the favourite and we first heard it from a local enthusiast for everything guanche - so much so that as a young man he invented a guanche name for himself and announced to friends, family and colleagues that he would respond only to this new name. Thirty years later he’s still known only by his guanche name.As for the legend - well, as with most legends, it’s a charming if sad story but not to be taken too seriously. In the original guanche language garajonay simply meant a high rocky outcrop or hill, and as this is the highest hill on La Gomera it would be a logical name for it.
But let’s not spoil things. The legend lives on in the form of real people. There are girls and women called Gara in every one of the Canary Islands and in many parts of mainland Spain, something over 1,000 in all. Jonay is even more popular with over 2,000 boys and men named after the legendary hero. They’re both lovely names and clearly linked to the island they came from. I dedicate this account to all the world’s Garas and Jonays.
