Instinct for survival

There are moments in life when the clock seems to pause as it waits for a life-changing decision. Some are benign: will this house be our new home? Shall we buy that little black-and-white puppy? Some are more perilous, inviting adventure and potential catastrophe.

Halfway down the slope, Janine hesitated for a moment, looked around her, gazed down into the valley far below, and sat on a rock. 'I'm not going any further.' A truly life-changing decision, in the sense of avoiding death.

Along with two other people - Tino, our Gomeran guide, and a friend from the village, an Englishwoman who had settled here long before we did - we had left the path above and were scrambling downhill through scrub and rocks. I was now faced with meekly following our friends further downwards or rebelling like my wife.

We were on a steep slope. I like my steep slopes to be of the variety that level out as they descend so if you slip you will glide gently to a halt further down, as on a children's playground slide. This slope was of the malevolent kind that gets steeper as it goes and would reward your slip with a free launch into space like a hang glider.

A short while ago we had climbed to the top of the ridge on a genuine pathway, wide and winding, which Tino informed us had in earlier days been a camino real, a royal path, a sort of motorway for donkeys. An elderly neighbour long ago told us his father was the local postman and used to deliver letters by donkey, climbing up this very path to reach the settlements further inland. As supplementary evidence our guide pointed to a large hollow in a rock face that looked like a rough-hewn horse trough, which is pretty much what it was, a water trough for donkeys.

Not far away he pointed out something that I would certainly have missed otherwise - a series of small hollows in the top of a low rock, each about the size of a saucer and not much deeper. If I'd noticed them at all I would have put them down to natural weathering, but no, they had been carved out many hundreds of years ago by the guanches, the pre-Columbian indigenous Gomerans. 'Probably to make offerings to the gods,' Tino told us. 'They would pour goat's milk from a bowl into the top hollow and it would flow along these channels to fill the others.' I'm sure he told us more about that but I've forgotten the details.

He also showed us, on an isolated boulder protruding from the high plain above the valley, some crudely scratched lines. They were clearly artificial, too geometric to be natural, another trace of the guanche culture. There are many more such inscriptions around Gomera and the other Canary islands but nobody knows what they were for, whether they served a useful purpose or ritual, or just meant 'Steve loves Monica'.

And then he offered to show us a guanche burial cave. There are lots of these around the island too, many of which originally contained mummies but those have long since been removed. The common feature of such burial caves is that they are almost completely inaccessible for anything other than a gecko. I can't imagine how the guanches managed to deposit a dead body in a hole halfway up a vertical cliff face.

However, Tino assured us that the chamber he had in mind was perfectly reachable on foot, with good boots and a steady nerve. This, from a Gomeran, is a statement to be considered carefully then rejected. Gomerans are astonishingly sure-footed, they're born to it, and have no fear at all of heights, but Janine and I at that time lived most of the year in the flat fenlands of East Anglia where our house stood on a hill one metre high.

I picked my way carefully down the increasingly steep hillside to try and catch up with our two friends. 'We're going to chicken out,' I called to them. 'Janine doesn't like heights.' Tino had already turned left to disappear behind a large boulder with nothing but blue sky behind it, occupied by a solitary kestrel hovering expectantly. 'And I'm not so keen either,' I confessed. Be true to oneself, fear is not something to ashamed of, it's a healthy animal instinct.

I turned around. Decision made. The clock started ticking again. Janine and I scrambled back to the top of the ridge and sat down to wait. Half an hour later we were still peering anxiously down the slope. 'Hope they're alright.' I tried to suppress the wild imaginings, those terrible 'what if...' images it's hard to quell when looking over a cliff.

We were seriously beginning to plan how best to call the emergency services (no mobile phones in those innocent early years) when we heard a long, warbling whistle from much further along the ridge. Our friends had traversed a gecko track along the side of the hill and climbed up by a different route. And in another perfect demonstration of guanche culture, Tino had alerted us by the famous Gomeran whistle, the silbo. I don't know what message he whistled at us but it was probably something rude.

-------------- NOTES --------------

The guanches remain strangely mysterious. The most likely theory is that they were originally Berber migrants from North Africa but there are competing theories even for that. Their rock inscriptions have never been definitively decoded. It's known that they worshipped the sun, moon and stars as well as various minor deities, and their sacred sites tend to be in high places that offer a closer approach to the sky. But I think that's about as far as I should go in this discussion, being a leading non-expert on guanches.

However, I'm on safer ground in mentioning the other absent protagonists of this story, the donkeys, because I have personal experience of them. There used to be six donkeys in our village, each of which would greet any passer-by with that hilarious in-out bellow that donkeys make, like a bull elephant trying to clear a hamburger stuck up its trunk. They've all gone now, and I miss them.

The impossible romance

Young, lovely and a little daft and dreamy like so many girls of her age, she gazed wistfully at the big island just across the water. The high peak that soared skywards through the clouds, strangely white at the top and especially in winter, turned to flaming gold when lit by the setting sun. There were stories of it spitting fire and smoke in the past and, although she had never seen that, she had seen faint lights lower down, small fires burning nearer the coast, so she knew there were people living there.

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.

The Romería

Cleverly dodging through a side street to avoid the gathering swarms of spectators, we continued walking into town on a street parallel to the procession but deserted.

Almost. Coming towards us was a pushcart decorated with flowers, fruit and biscuits and draped with brightly striped cloth to hide the sides of a supermarket trolley.

Lorenzo paused to greet us, reaching into his trolley. 'A little wine?'

He and the couple walking with him wore traditional Gomeran costumes and had guitars slung across their backs. We spent a pleasant few minutes sipping red wine from plastic mugs and toasting each others' health, Saint Sebastian, the whole splendid concept of fiestas and, in particular, today's Romería.

'But,' Lorenzo said suddenly, 'you're missing the procession! It's already started.' He thumbed towards a distant murmur of drums.

'So are you,' I pointed out.

Lorenzo nodded. 'Claro! Of course. I'm far too old to push a cart that far. We're going to wait at Silvio's then join in later.'

Silvio's is a bar. This is the healthy realism of the true Gomeran. A romería is conceptually a very serious occasion, but the trick is not to treat it so seriously that you spoil the fun. In essence it's a pilgrimage in procession to a holy shrine, and for maximum spiritual benefit it should involve a pitiless uphill trek along ancient pathways in torrential rain. The Gomeran version traverses wide, traffic-free streets in gentle winter sunshine.

But to be fair, completing the course can take anything up to three hours when you're strumming and dancing the whole way.

We arrived at the town square just before the procession, which was led by a group of young folk dancers energetically leaping and twirling to show how it's done. The steps are more complicated than they appear and tourists who try to join in risk looking like the dancing hippos in Disney's Fantasia.

Close on the bouncing heels of the dancers came their accompanying musicians, armed only with the tambor - a smallish drum - and Gomeran castanets, which are called chacaras and are a lot beefier than the prissy Sevillian variety. They were beating out a primitive rhythm accompanied by a weird, chanting song that is so viscerally Gomeran it sends shivers down my back. You can tell it goes back a long, long way, perhaps as far as the guanches, the Berbers of North Africa who were the first to set up home here.

Next up was a row of beautiful young ladies parading elegantly in traditional dress. The girl with the red banner was the Romera Mayor, symbolic leader of the celebrations, while her companions were Romeras de Honor who hadn't won the contest the other night but looked just as gorgeous anyway.

Their job was to continue looking beautiful and to smile for the spectators, the official photographer and their Aunty Margarita.

And then we were into the romería proper, an endless succession of musicians and dancers, still on their feet and twirling after their protracted journey into town.

Somewhere in the middle of all this we spotted Luzma, a neighbour, parading behind a small cart decorated like Lorenzo's with flowers and fruit. Perched on top of the cart was a chihuahua the size of a hamster wearing a flared skirt and cheeky straw hat.

Luzma beckoned us over. 'Have a dulce!' These are Luzma's festive speciality, sweet nibbles made from gofio*, almonds, honey and lemon, and I can't resist them. 'Have another!'

Further back along the street was a seething logjam where, if you peered above the bobbing heads, you might glimpse the dignified figure of San Sebastián perched silently on his pedestal. This was the focus of the pilgrimage and its entire justification, the spot where every musical group paused to play a song in homage to the town's patron saint while their dancers danced and the TV crew tirelessly filmed them.

San Sebastián deserves special attention in another story, but he was surely enjoying this brief release into daylight from his claustrophobic niche in a windowless chapel. And he should be pleased that, despite his painful history, he is now able to inspire such innocent pleasure for so many people.

In the town square the procession spread like a river at its delta, swirling around dozens of tables hygienically covered with white paper. The town council, astonishingly, contributes giant pans of freshly-cooked paella to this annual event, along with free wine, beer or fizzy.

Cynics might ask why the council should pay for paella and booze when the schoolkids need more books, and what about the potholes in the roads etc etc. But for me it's only wonderful that a local authority should pitch its three penn'orth into a day of such warmth, colour and good cheer.

* Gofio: toasted maize or other cereals finely ground into flour - see the story dated 15 November 2015