"i just met josé bencomo's grandson," i told jenny when i returned to the cave.
he was standing at the abandoned tomato factory as i walked past. i should have known that he occupied a position of authority: the shiny 4x4 neaby showed that he had a key to the access road. all i wanted was to go to the room upstairs and take the tealights somebody had left there.
"really? what did he say?" said jenny with interest.
"not much," i said. "he said no se puede estar aquí - that i shouldn't be there, that the abandoned property could be dangerous. i said okay.
are you the owner?
he nodded.
José Bencomo?
on saying this he looked at me suddenly somewhat suspiciously, as if i knew something about his identity, but i explained easily that i had seen the name written on all the cardboard boxes.
"i am his grandson," he told me.
Jenny said that she would have so liked to have asked him a few things. like what had led to the demise of the tomato factory? why had it all been left abandoned? and what would be done now with all the rubbish? "i can't believe that, after the business went kaput, everything has simply been left lying around. in Germany that would never be allowed," jenny asserted.
thus spake the voice of german Umweltverschmutzungbewusstsein, conscious of environmental pollution, and desirous of its minimization. "so many people in the world do not care about their impact on the environment," i remarked prosaically. "josé bencomo's old tomato enterprise is but a drop in the ocean of world-wide environmental carelessness"
it could have been interesting to have followed jenny's line of enquiry. josé bencomo - from my brief encounter with him - gave me the impression of being an intelligent, reflective, amiable character. however, i wanted to keep a low profile. i had heard that the landowner did not view positively the fact that his barranco was used as a free campsite by countless campers all winter. we considered ourselves fortunate to have found an unoccupied spacious cave protected from wind and rain above the banana plantation. it wasn't right next to the sea, and presumably for that reason it had been left unoccupied. i didn't want further conversation with the landowner to lead to me revealing this fact.
camping in el barranco de chinguarime - on the eastern coast of the canarian island of la gomera - is the choice for the discerning german hippie who wishes to avoid the northern european winter. it is a climate question. although at the head of the barranco (which to my eyes looks morphologically for all the world like a wild scottish glen) is often capped by clouds - captured by the 1,000m centre of the island - no more than isolated drops of rain ever make it to the sea, and interrupt the dawn-to-dusk sunshine which otherwise pours upon the coast, and makes the place so pleasurable for those with a bent for outdoor living. it is as if this sunwashed stretch of coast possessed a protective charm which wards off clouds and rain. this is referred to as a microclimate. the stillness of the barranco is incredible; isbrand commented on this: perhaps once a day an aeroplane will cross the horizon. otherwise the place remains free from noise pollution. if there is no wind the only sounds to be heard are the occasional buzz of a fly or the respectful twittering of a bird or two in the morning; otherwise there reigns a startling silence - a deep, penetrating, expectant silence, which pervades both day and night, and which - i suddenly realise - has been absent from my life for i don't know how long.
el barranco de chinguarime attracts altogether a different type of character to la caleta - the corresponding sunsplashed area of wild coast on neighbouring tenerife. of course generalisations are odious; any type of person can exist at any given moment in any part of the world, but groups of people inhabiting the same place do generate a collective energy, which they cannot help but sharing, albeit to a greater or lesser degree. i feel that the stillness i feel so powerfully in chinguarime comes not only from the minimal soundscape, but also from the fact that it is inhabited by a host of still souls. it may seem that i communicate barely with a soul for days here, yet the mere act of crossing paths with somebody on a rocky path - and in the moment of passing exchanging eyes of watchful sunny alertness - alone constitutes communiality and could be seen as an instance of deep communication. whereas in la caleta one may encounter inebriated brawls and drunken quarrels in which someone ends up setting fire to someone else's teepee, in chinguarime one comes across extremely tidy, discreetly disposed dwelling areas, with particularly beautiful spots treated as sacred spaces - bedecked with artfully arranged shells or feathers, perhaps in the shade of an unusually twisted bough or next to an intriguing rock formation. one's eye may be caught by reading material which describes life as an inner search and a soul journey. the presence of litter may not be commented upon. i came across a pile of rusty cans and old bottles in a remote corner of the barranco one day. they seemed so out of place that i put them in my rucksack and resolved to take them out to a public bin. that was the time i first passed by the abandoned tomato factory at the top of hill. Jenny´s definition of rubbish runs thus: "Mull ist Material im falschen Ort" The abandoned building immediately seemed an appropriate place for me to let my gathered pieces of litter fall and be added to the waste products here already assembled. i explored the dilapidated buildings with a kind of horrified wonder. everywhere lay a mass of detritus - old rusty machinery, rusty metallic drums, coils of plastic tubes, plastic canisters containing sinister chemicals, fusty fridges, dusty mattresses, and one dusty room filled entirely with hundreds - perhaps thousands - of flat, yet to be used cardboard boxes, all bedecked identically with the colourful bold print: TOMATOES. PRODUCE OF CANARY ISLANDS. JOSE BENCOMO.
outside i looked up to the dark clouds on the mountain, and thought that a postcard of the scene would make an artful antithesis to the typical scene promoted to tourists. the focal point would be the big round concrete water tank (lying empty) on the brow of the rising hill. in the foreground would be the disused row of desolate dirty white houses (presumably once used as worker's lodgings). on the righthand side would stand the three dark palm trees, whose fronds were being tugged forlornly in the wind.
"imagine that you owned an entire barranco, like this" jenny invited me to consider, "what would you do with it?"
it was an imponderable thought - the possibilities of possessing of a large tract of wild land - a thought which expanded heavenwards with the evening stillness and became lost among the first twinkling stars.
he was standing at the abandoned tomato factory as i walked past. i should have known that he occupied a position of authority: the shiny 4x4 neaby showed that he had a key to the access road. all i wanted was to go to the room upstairs and take the tealights somebody had left there.
"really? what did he say?" said jenny with interest.
"not much," i said. "he said no se puede estar aquí - that i shouldn't be there, that the abandoned property could be dangerous. i said okay.
are you the owner?
he nodded.
José Bencomo?
on saying this he looked at me suddenly somewhat suspiciously, as if i knew something about his identity, but i explained easily that i had seen the name written on all the cardboard boxes.
"i am his grandson," he told me.
Jenny said that she would have so liked to have asked him a few things. like what had led to the demise of the tomato factory? why had it all been left abandoned? and what would be done now with all the rubbish? "i can't believe that, after the business went kaput, everything has simply been left lying around. in Germany that would never be allowed," jenny asserted.
thus spake the voice of german Umweltverschmutzungbewusstsein, conscious of environmental pollution, and desirous of its minimization. "so many people in the world do not care about their impact on the environment," i remarked prosaically. "josé bencomo's old tomato enterprise is but a drop in the ocean of world-wide environmental carelessness"
it could have been interesting to have followed jenny's line of enquiry. josé bencomo - from my brief encounter with him - gave me the impression of being an intelligent, reflective, amiable character. however, i wanted to keep a low profile. i had heard that the landowner did not view positively the fact that his barranco was used as a free campsite by countless campers all winter. we considered ourselves fortunate to have found an unoccupied spacious cave protected from wind and rain above the banana plantation. it wasn't right next to the sea, and presumably for that reason it had been left unoccupied. i didn't want further conversation with the landowner to lead to me revealing this fact.
camping in el barranco de chinguarime - on the eastern coast of the canarian island of la gomera - is the choice for the discerning german hippie who wishes to avoid the northern european winter. it is a climate question. although at the head of the barranco (which to my eyes looks morphologically for all the world like a wild scottish glen) is often capped by clouds - captured by the 1,000m centre of the island - no more than isolated drops of rain ever make it to the sea, and interrupt the dawn-to-dusk sunshine which otherwise pours upon the coast, and makes the place so pleasurable for those with a bent for outdoor living. it is as if this sunwashed stretch of coast possessed a protective charm which wards off clouds and rain. this is referred to as a microclimate. the stillness of the barranco is incredible; isbrand commented on this: perhaps once a day an aeroplane will cross the horizon. otherwise the place remains free from noise pollution. if there is no wind the only sounds to be heard are the occasional buzz of a fly or the respectful twittering of a bird or two in the morning; otherwise there reigns a startling silence - a deep, penetrating, expectant silence, which pervades both day and night, and which - i suddenly realise - has been absent from my life for i don't know how long.
el barranco de chinguarime attracts altogether a different type of character to la caleta - the corresponding sunsplashed area of wild coast on neighbouring tenerife. of course generalisations are odious; any type of person can exist at any given moment in any part of the world, but groups of people inhabiting the same place do generate a collective energy, which they cannot help but sharing, albeit to a greater or lesser degree. i feel that the stillness i feel so powerfully in chinguarime comes not only from the minimal soundscape, but also from the fact that it is inhabited by a host of still souls. it may seem that i communicate barely with a soul for days here, yet the mere act of crossing paths with somebody on a rocky path - and in the moment of passing exchanging eyes of watchful sunny alertness - alone constitutes communiality and could be seen as an instance of deep communication. whereas in la caleta one may encounter inebriated brawls and drunken quarrels in which someone ends up setting fire to someone else's teepee, in chinguarime one comes across extremely tidy, discreetly disposed dwelling areas, with particularly beautiful spots treated as sacred spaces - bedecked with artfully arranged shells or feathers, perhaps in the shade of an unusually twisted bough or next to an intriguing rock formation. one's eye may be caught by reading material which describes life as an inner search and a soul journey. the presence of litter may not be commented upon. i came across a pile of rusty cans and old bottles in a remote corner of the barranco one day. they seemed so out of place that i put them in my rucksack and resolved to take them out to a public bin. that was the time i first passed by the abandoned tomato factory at the top of hill. Jenny´s definition of rubbish runs thus: "Mull ist Material im falschen Ort" The abandoned building immediately seemed an appropriate place for me to let my gathered pieces of litter fall and be added to the waste products here already assembled. i explored the dilapidated buildings with a kind of horrified wonder. everywhere lay a mass of detritus - old rusty machinery, rusty metallic drums, coils of plastic tubes, plastic canisters containing sinister chemicals, fusty fridges, dusty mattresses, and one dusty room filled entirely with hundreds - perhaps thousands - of flat, yet to be used cardboard boxes, all bedecked identically with the colourful bold print: TOMATOES. PRODUCE OF CANARY ISLANDS. JOSE BENCOMO.
outside i looked up to the dark clouds on the mountain, and thought that a postcard of the scene would make an artful antithesis to the typical scene promoted to tourists. the focal point would be the big round concrete water tank (lying empty) on the brow of the rising hill. in the foreground would be the disused row of desolate dirty white houses (presumably once used as worker's lodgings). on the righthand side would stand the three dark palm trees, whose fronds were being tugged forlornly in the wind.
"imagine that you owned an entire barranco, like this" jenny invited me to consider, "what would you do with it?"
it was an imponderable thought - the possibilities of possessing of a large tract of wild land - a thought which expanded heavenwards with the evening stillness and became lost among the first twinkling stars.
Beautifully written, darling. It sounds like quite a place.
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