The Road to Santa Cruz

Arico Nuevo

Headed northeast in Tenerife, I drove through the arid clay and rock of land sliced through bouldered layers, and dropping steeply into barrancos; and through the folds of vertical and treacherous ravines where sometimes doors appeared in the side of the rock. 

A door at the bottom

Often there were door-shaped holes, but sometimes there were actual wooden doors fitted into the pale dry sediment, which sometimes connected with roofs on top of the embankment. There was little sign of people or cars, as I drove the hairpin curves of the interior and its waterless land, sometimes with dried grapevines, and terraced with muddy bricks.

Arico Nuevo

We stopped at Arico Nuevo, which had been new in the 18th c, when aristocrats of the island built these white adobe homes with their elegant tile roofs and imposing wooden doors, circling and nestling in ingenious relationship with the precipitous land. Along our drive was the Camino Real, a hiking sendero that traced the Marian triangle, which linked sites of the Virgin's apparitions (even before the Spanish arrival, they claim). Giant windmills marched to the sea, and further on they were still, until our drive home when like faceless clocks they twirled their three arms.

Church at Guimar

We descended into a more ruddy clay, moister and richer, through villages, where only a few grizzled old men in tatters scratched their stomachs along the main street. Then we entered an entirely different climate as the land turned to dark, purplish volcanic mountains, sprouting candelabra of slim cacti and we were driving through clouds. Chain mail held up the rock in placces.

Guimar has a view of the sea and so-called pyramids discovered by Thor Heyerdahl, who thought he had proved that the Guanchas were in touch with Mayan and Aztec cultures, but later scientists disproved his theory. The pyramids have given rise to an exquisite museum, though they had been discovered to be simply the folly of locals who loved those dark volcanic stones.

Candelaria

In Candelaria we descended again to the sea, where it is said that a statue of the Virgin washed ashore 100 years before the arrival of the Spanish, and was worshipped by the Guanchas, children of the volcano. Their own imposing, all-too-human likenesses stand in larger than life bronze statues against the beating shore with its black volcanic sand. The sea was calming to wade in, the gritty black sand seemed healing after all the twisting, hair-raising roads. The basilica, which dates form 1959, has what is said to be the original statue of the virgin, while a replica dominates the altar. We had fish soup and paella on a terrace of the church's plaza, and fed a hungry cat with the chunks of chicken that appeared in the fish soup.

Guancha chiefs, Candelaria

Then on to the big city, Santa Cruz. Like Cagliari it faces its port majestically, with daring architecture by Calatrava and its Plaza d'Espana with a rippling pond and tourist offices like volcanic hillocks planted with cacti. Santa Cruz is airy and tranquil, some quarters Spanish Baroque or grandiose Art Deco, others are low colorful adobe with cheerful terrace cafés and Canarian wooden balconies. The museum/library is a vast masterpiece, with reading rooms like modern cathedrals dripping with long ceiling lights.

Plaza d'Espana, Santa Cruz

The parks are enchanting. Principe des Asturias hs a dirt dog run around its Baroque cupola, and feels like an enchanted forest of lauriers and palms. On benches around the cupola sat strange marginal people--an obese woman sprawled on the lap of a watchful young man, a colorful, handsome hippy who looked like Chekhov, drinking tea from a miniature porcelain pot and sewing, next to his bicycle laden with belongings that resembled the paraphernalia of a clown. Another park envelopped us with its tropical forest and fragrant herbs--we could smell curry in the air.

Principe d'Asturias, Santa Cruz

Then we crossed an elegant bridge over a dry river to Our Lady of Africa, a carnavalesque outdoor market. The beautiful white and dark stone church with its high narrow square tower housed the original wooden cross planted at Santa Cruz, but it was closed. So we headed back in the sunset.

The Market, Santa Cruz