Luis Salazar and family with Birute at the end of a perfect day in the Canary Islands

Northern coast of Gran Canaria, Canary Islands

It is always doubly delicious when you meet a delightful stranger somewhere distant and then discover that he or she is actually from your home town.  It happened to me in the Canary Islands.  At lunch the day of my lecture I had started talking to Luis Salazar, a distinguished film maker, who was in the process of making a film in Spain.  It turned out he was from Los Angeles and had attended Cal State Northridge (from which my son Fred had recently graduated) and UCLA (my own alma mater).  One of his films was about the sad re-location of some 200 Navajo families from land claimed by the Hopi tribe.  We started talking and he invited me to join him and his Spanish veterinarian wife and absolutely adorable 3-year old daughter, Sophie, the next day on a trip to the north coast of the island (Gran Canaria) to see the museum which exhibits the  aboriginal painted cave found in the nineteenth century.  This cave has a series of painted triangles and geometric forms that were probably used by the aboriginal people for calender calculations, very important for horticultural people without writing.

We visited the museum on a guided tour.  The videos were outstanding and the government had done an excellent job in preserving the very large site which included not only the painted cave but also a village with house floors as well as four re-constructed huts.  As Luis said:  all one needed was an internet connection and one could live very well in one of these furniture-less huts with platforms for beds.

Northern coast, Gran Canaria, Canary Islands

Unfortunately, one couldn’t take photographs in the museum but it was terrific: very well done and modern.  The conquest of the Canary Islands was presented as was a sympathetic view of the conquered people themselves.  Very few of the aborigines escaped the slavery and slaughter but the few who did rapidly became Spaniards – just to survive as individuals.  There were also many courageous warriors who, in the hundreds, jumped off cliffs to avoid being taken as slaves.

Luis muttered, almost under his breath, when I emerged from the museum wiping a tear from my eyes, “It’s just the same old story from all over the world.”  It was as if to say “And why are you still surprised?”

I was pleased by the sympathy and respect shown to the now long-gone people of the Canary Islands in this museum.  I think, like many people, the Spanish can now look back at their past from five hundred years ago and admit the terrible wrong that they once inflicted on the Canary Islands.  ( Armenians, I hope you don’t have to wait another five hundred years for the apology due you.  No, obviously not from the Spaniards!)

Sun-bathers on a beach on the northern coast of Gran Canaria

We drove to the coast and ate lunch near one of the beaches where the co-owner of the restaurant came out to serve us.  When I looked at her out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly realized, to my surprise, that she must be of Chinese heritage.  She was.  Her two young daughters, sitting nearby,  were as cute as cute could be and played with Sophie in the gentle manner of  (some) girls.

The meal was delicious and we drove off, looking for some forest or foliage to relieve us of  all the dry brown and bare rock that we had seen.  We found some  wooded slopes, got out of the car, and walked for about an hour.   The delightful Sophie picked some  flowers and handed them to her father.  As he bent over to receive them, it became one of those one in a million moments you treasure forever.

Luis, who is of Mexican heritage (not all that surprising for a native Angeleno) and his Basque wife, were very gracious hosts, pulling out fresh avocadoes,  tomatoes, and crustless bread, making sandwiches for us while I sat with Sophie in the back seat of the car.  Sophie had a jar of olives which she was eating like candy.  She offered me some and I took about a dozen.   She didn’t even pull back the jar but continued holding it with great equanimity.  Many other toddlers would have protested the big stranger taking a dozen of  their candy equivalent. She continued eating and finished off the jar.  She must have eaten 40 olives! They start early with the olives in Spain and it probably helps keep them healthy for a long time!

Luis and his family drove me back to my hotel shortly before dusk.  It was my last full day in the Canary Islands.  It had been a perfect day with wonderful new friends, a blue sky, beautiful beaches, a slight breeze, great food, and the green foliage of Gran Canaria’s mountain slopes.

Town on the north coast of Gran Canaria with bright-eyed dog in front of doorway

And what will I remember most about the Canary Islands?  The terrible tragedy of the distant past?  NO!  One must remember the past but one can’t live there.  Of course, I will remember the friendship and warmth of the people I met in the Canary Islands, especially the animal activists who had dedicated their lives and labors to helping animals!

But, ironically, it is the avacadoes and especially the tomatoes that I will remember best.  (Probably because I tasted them!)  The avocadoes have insinuated themselves into Canary Island cuisine and are served everywhere.  And the tomatoes!  The tomatoes are grown on the islands in greenhouses and plucked when ripe.  They are probably the best tomatoes I have eaten since I did archaeology in the former Yugoslavia over forty years ago!

My one regret is that I don’t even have a picture of a Canary Island tomato!

Buildings on a green hill in the north of Gran Canaria, Canary Islands

I could not insert this photo into my original post on the Canary Islands.  My computer and the internet fought me.  After two hours I gave up.   But I wanted people to see what Roger and Deborah Fouts and I saw our first full day on this beautiful island. Whether it is animals or people being brutalized, it is the same.  We need to change some aspect of humankind so that tragedies of extinction , like that which took place so long ago in the Canary Islands, do not occur.

Shortly afterwards, I was interviewed on local television.  The big news concerning great apes that day in the Canaries was that a pet chimpanzee had been confiscated from a woman’s apartment.  Thus, for the five minutes of the TV interview I was subjected to questions about chimpanzees.  “No, it is a bad idea to keep a chimpanzee as a pet.  They are very strong and they might not particularly care for captivity.  Would you?” was my main message.  “If you want a pet, get a dog or a cat!”

Lunch was a seemingly never ending series of  vegetarian dishes.  We must have tasted at least twelve, most of which were quite delicious; a few, however, I must admit, were not to my taste.  On my left sat a scientist who had been studying Mediterranean tuna for the last seven years.  He did not hold out much hope for the tuna. Part of the problem was “pee-rate” fishing boats, “rate” rhymning with “fate.”  It took me about a minute to figure out he meant “pirate” fishing boats which left their country of origin and then returned bearing flags of convenience such as those of Panama or Senegal.  They were just Spanish ships but now, with their new flags, they did not register their catches or report to anyone in Europe.  The scientist suspected that the tuna catch in the Mediterranean was twice or even three times that reported.  Further, due to climate change, fish were heading north, leaving warmer waters behind.  Mackeral were now for the first time seen in waters near Iceland, something that had never been previously recorded. I asked the scientist about the presence of tuna in the Baltic Sea now that the world’s oceans were growing warmer, a question that seemingly startled him.  They had never been known in the Baltic Sea, he told me.  Even the concept seemed surprising to him.

The animal activist to the right of me related how the existence of bull-fighting was maintained not by Spanish tradition but by the massive profits pulled in by major players in the industry.  Many Spaniards were opposed to bull fights.  However, the people who bred the bulls, raised them, fed them, and the people who organized the fights, etc. fought the banning of bull fights tooth and nail  because of all the profits that they would lose.

Lunch lasted two hours.  It was a pleasant interlude.  Afterwards,  it was time to review my slides.  After I had done so, I slipped into the auditorium and listened to the speaker just ahead of me. Luis Luque Polo was a tall, older gentleman with a deep voice that resonated across the auditorium.  He was very eloquent, almost poetic. He had been fighting for animal rights since he was 15 and he had already been retired for a few years. It was the government pension that allowed him to continue his fight.  He spoke about the “migratory” pigeons (clearly passenger pigeons)  that had gone extinct and the bison that almost did as well.  ”Defense of animals meant defense of humans,” especially given processes such as climate change, thundered Luis, and I agreed with him.  I cited him at least four times in my speech which might have accounted for the fact that, after my talk, he rushed up to me, kissed me on both cheeks, and heartily spoke in Spanish.  It was exciting to listen to him but I didn’t understand a word he said. Rarely have I had such an enthusiastic reaction to one of my talks!  Clearly, there was something about my speech he liked.  I just didn’t know if it was the numerous references to himself and his eloquence.

The audience was so silent during my talk (no coughing or whispering) that it encouraged me to exceed my time limit.  Normally when that happens, the question or answer period is either cut or totally eliminated.  Not in Spain!  People were very formal and polite, first congratulating me on my work before they asked their questions.

After my talk I was presented with five coffee table books, lavishly illustrated, about the Canary Islands, books that must have weighed 20 pounds.  I tried to figure out how I would fit them all into my carry on luggage which is all that I had brought with me.  At least, these books gave me a reason to learn Spanish.

By the time I returned to my hotel it was past 11 pm.  The hotel restaurant had just closed.  I was rescued by Frederico, the head of the Jane Goodall Institute in Spain, a most pleasant genteel man who had been a volunteer for Jane for a long time, and his friend who was an illustrator.  We went to a local restaurant two blocks away.  “All locals!” Frederico commented as we went inside.  Indeed, there were several uniformed police officers sitting at the bar.  Although it was half an hour before midnight, the restaurant was bustling and  noisey.  The food was excellent, a tuna salad (hopefully, not with a Mediterranean tuna), an absolutely delicious chicken garlic soup, a tasty legume dish, and some fried potatoes which I gobbled up like the proverbial hot cakes.  We left an hour later.  I was told the restaurant, still full, would stay open at least another two hours.  The tip must have been good as the waiter insisted on shaking our hands as we left.   Frederico said that it was just the normal courtesy and friendliness of Canary Islanders.

I like the Canary Islands and the laid back spirit that even the Spanish find mellow.  We are less than a hundred miles from the African coast but  at least several hundred miles from Spain. I like this tropical version of Europe.

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After I staggered up into the hotel restaurant three floors up for lunch, I encountered Roger and Deborah Fouts, prominent great ape activists and scientists who had spent many years working with Washoe, the original signing chimpanzee.  They claimed great suffering from  jet lag but, ironically, both looked as fresh and well-scrubbed as daisies.  Yesterday after arriving in Las Palmas, they had walked several hours in the city and seen the sights.  They recommended a nearby museum with exhibits on the extinct aborigines of the Canary Islands.  It took Roger and me about thirty seconds into the conversation to start sharing our outrage at this great extinction.  Roger told me about his surprise when he walked into a large room at the museum and found it filled with hundreds of skulls and some skeletons of these extinct people, the Guanches.

After much water, lunch, and sharing of outrage, I felt better and walked around the city.  It was tropical and charming with some cobblestone streets, colorful old buildings, and a profusion of palm trees.  (After all, it was named “Las Palmas” for a reason).  Although the ocean wasn’t quite the deep blue of Fiji or the brilliant turquoise of  Hawaii, it was much bluer than the blue-grey Pacific off the coast of Santa Monica or Malibu in southern California. 

The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and the weather was perfect with a slight breeze blowing from the ocean.  It was not surprising that over half a million tourists, mainly from Europe, come every year to this relatively small island of Gran Canaria, the third largest in the archipelago.

After briefly visiting Columbus House, I found the musuem Roger had mentioned.  Despite the fact I was forewarned, I was still surprised by the skull room.  Hundreds of skulls were neatly lined up in rows on shelves that spanned the entire length of the long room. 

The museum also had much information about the aboriginal people, the Guanches, who first arrived in the Canary Islands about four thousand years ago and are believed to have been related to the Berbers of North Africa.   These aboriginal people lived in caves and round stone buildings, used stone tools and were skilled in the making of pottery.  They decorated their pottery with simple geometric motifs and buffed it to a perfect sheen with small stones.  They did not use metals nor did they have a known written language. 

They practised a Neolithic lifestyle.  They grew grains, herded goats and kept sheep and pigs.  Their clothes were simple, from the skin of sheep and goats.  The local people of the island of Gran Canaria (where Las Palmas is located) also made beautifully woven knee-length skirts or kilts from palm leaves and reeds.  They  decorated their faces with removable tattoos in bright colors of geometric patterns similar to what they put on their pottery.  They were tall, athletic, and European-looking.  Some were blonde with blue eyes.  They practised serial monogomy although on one small island a woman could have up to three husbands at the same time.  The husbands rotated in terms of sleeping with their wife.  (Clearly, a superior people!)

At the museum I bought the two English language books available on the aborigines and the Spanish conquest of the Canary Islands.  Since I read them both the same night, it didn’t do my profound jet-lag any good.  However, I discovered, among the tragedy and sorrow of the conquest, a happy fact.  Some Guanches did survive!  Their culture and language did not but some of the people did.  Tens of thousands were exterminated but some were taken to Spain as slaves.  Ironically, hundreds were freed by the Spanish Crown (King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Christopher Columbus fame) who objected to Catholics being kept as slaves, the Guanches having been converted.  (It probably helped that the Guanche slaves looked European and had adopted Spanish names).

Many of these freed slaves eventually made it back to the Canary Islands.  Others in the long course of the war of conquest inter-married with the invading Spaniards and probably some natives survived in the isolated parts of these extremely rugged islands.  In addition, a  few of the more fatalistic noblemen had actually sided with the Spanish and survived.

It took the Spaniards 94 years to conquer the Canary Islands.  During that time, the remaining few aboriginal people made the leap from the Neolithic to the Renaissance.  A few of the surviving Guanches who had sided with the Spanish were actually rewarded with land after the end of the conquest.

The story was bitter; the ending was tragic.  But it made me feel much better to learn that a few of the aboriginal people of the Canary Islands had survived, and a very few had actually thrived – but as Spaniards, no longer culturally Guanches.   There has been so much talk about change these last few years and the story of the Guanches, once again, indicates the flexibility, plasticity, and adaptibility of humans, a trait humans share with some of their monkey cousins.  Unfortunately, the great apes don’t have the same flexibility in their reproductive rates in the wild with their ten year birth intervals (Sumatran orangutans) and seven year birth intervals (forest chimpanzees) to survive much change  - such as the massive killings and destruction of habitat going on in Borneo and Sumatra as well as West and Central Africa.

The conference was held in Spanish that evening with no translators present.  The last event was a film on bull fighting. Like the Fouts, I fled the film.  For me, it was unwatchable to see the agony that the bulls suffer before they are brought down.  Bull-fighting in Spain is justified in the name of “tradition”.  My answer to that is that the Dayaks of Borneo have hunted human heads for centuries but nobody justifies the practice in the name of tradition.

That evening Agustin, our event facilitator, took me to one of the beaches in the city of Las Palmas.  This city has one of the highest population densities in the world with half a million people living primarily in apartments and flats.  At dusk the beach was extraordinarily beautiful with the twinkling lights of the city competing with the distant light of moon and stars.  I went back to the hotel delighted with what I had seen but with two books to read about the past history and culture of these beautiful islands called the Canaries.

Translators Sara and Veronica, facilitator Agustin, Birute, Deborah and Roger Fouts

Photo is of translators Sara and Veronica, facilitator Agustin, Birute, Deborah and Roger Fouts

Typical street in the old part of the city of Las Palmas

My one thought is that if the Bush administration really wanted to interrogate putative ” hard” suspects, they need not have bothered with the methods they actually used to “soften” them up.  They could have just taken suspects, deprived them of their water bottles, made them sit for hours on hard plastic chairs at LAX, and then put them on planes to Europe where, calendar days and two connecting flights later, the arriving suspects, dehydrated, jet-lagged, and sleep-deprived, would have confessed to anything. 

The romance of travel simply isn’t what it once was, that’s for sure!