Going underground

Our lazy ways continue. We’re not even making much attempt to get out of the house in the morning now – other than to go out on the terrace. It’s often hot out there because it catches the morning sun and the breezes aren’t quite as strong as later in the day. Friday morning we had some entertainment on the terrace.

Karen and I had been wondering why there’s so much street parking right across from our complex. Turns out it’s for the surfers and boogie boarders. This is another surfer’s paradise apparently, despite the jagged rocks in the water. Whether because it was Friday and kids were bunking off school, or because the waves and tide were just right, we had a small horde of surfer dudes – and a couple of dudettes – in the water out in front, bobbing in the swell, waiting for the right wave. Some of them were pretty good too, zig-zagging along the crests and staying up on their boards, or at least on their boards, right into the calm water.

The only downside is that they lounge around right in front of our complex, sometimes right in front of our unit. The walkway beside the terrace is public. There’s a low barrier on the other side of it, between the path and the beach. They sit on it and chat, change into and out of their wet suits, rig their boards. One had the temerity to stretch himself out on somebody’s chaise longue, which had been placed on the other side of the barrier the day before to catch the evening sun. One sat on the barrier in front of our place, talking loudly on his cell phone.

Still, worth it for the fun of watching them surf. For Karen, watching the surfers – they were out again last night and again this morning – has become a welcome substitute for monitoring “my boys” on the construction site across the street at home. If she seems to be talking to herself, I know there’s a good chance she’s addressing the boys, telling them what to do on the construction site – or asking them what they’re doing. Or now, praising or dissing the surfers.

Hmmm. Is it coincidence it’s always young men she’s watching? Should I be worried?

Our big activity Friday was to be the Cueva de los Verdes, a four-kilometer-long cave formed by eruptions from Monte Corona, just to the northwest of us. The cave entrance is only a few kilometers up the LZ 1 from Punta Mujeres. At the cactus garden the day before, we had purchased omnibus tickets for a few north-end-of-the-island tourist attractions, including the cueva.

We also wanted – or I wanted – to find a way in to the Malpaís de la Corona, the volcanic badlands, to get some photographs of the wild landscape. Karen had spotted a little roadway marked on our map that might get us to where I wanted to go. We headed there first after lunch.

The road was a dirt track that went back into the malpaís from a highway we’d taken before, just below the mountain. It passed a couple of farms and then more or less dead-ended at another farm. The track continued a little further, but looked treacherous, so we parked and walked.

It appeared to be a mostly abandoned farm that once cultivated prickly pear cactus. They still grow them here for the cochineal beetles that feed on them. The bugs are harvested, dryed and used to make a brilliant red dye. Or were. Before tourism, cochineal dye was one of the island’s main industries. But it died a slow death after synthetic dyes began to appear in the 19th century. Today, the practice is continued in a small way to maintain the tradition and to supply a niche market that prefers natural, non-toxic dyes.

This farmer, though, had obviously given up. The plants and drystone walls built to protect them were old and broken down. But the views out over the surrounding badlands to the sea and back towards Monte Corona were interesting, wild. We spent 30 or 40 minutes picking our way back through the desolated farm fields to the edge of the property. I took a bunch of pictures, then we walked back to the car.

The entrance to the Cueva de los Verdes was only a few kilometers away. The reviews Karen read suggested waiting until after three because there were less likely to be bus tours crowding the place. So we did. But wouldn’t you know it, a huge double-decker bus pulled in just behind us. The parking lot was also surprisingly full of cars. As it turned out, though, we only had to wait ten minutes or so for a tour to set out – you have to go in with a guide – and there were maybe 20 people in our group.

This is not the most beautiful cave in the world. There are no stalactites or stalagmites because the cave is too dry. There are no soaring cathedral-like chambers. It is an interesting story, though, about how they were formed. Lava flowed down off the mountain and spread across these lands towards the sea. As the molten lava on top came in contact with the air, it started to cool and solidify, while lave flowing underneath maintained its high temperature and continued to flow, boring out this tunnel-like cave.

Our guide spoke heavily accented English that was sometimes hard to catch, and we were constantly on the move, it seemed, often ducking down to waddle through narrow, low passageways, or climbing uneven steps. One stop was in a large chamber where the acoustics are apparently very good. They’ve set up a stage and seating for concerts, which are held during a brief season in late fall and early winter.

By the time we were two thirds into the tour, I was thinking it wasn’t very good value. Without the discount from our special tickets, the entrance fee would have been 9.50€ each. And I wasn’t even a little bit awe-inspired so far.

The last chamber almost made it worth the price: long, well lit and with an interesting structure. The guide told us we were going to test the acoustics in a pool in this chamber. He kept us back from the edge of it and asked that nobody shine light on it or take flash pictures. It appeared to be a deep well. No light came from it.

He got one of the tour members to throw a rock into the hole. The joke was that the whole appearance of the chamber was a clever visual trick. What we had taken for a large opening at the end beyond the hole was actually a perfect reflection of the ceiling in a 20-centimeter-deep pool. Black gravel on the bottom and special lighting created the effect.

  

As soon as the stone broke the surface and the water rippled, the illusion was destroyed. There was lots of the-joke’s-on-us laughter when it did. The ban on lights or flash was to preserve the illusion. Light reflecting off the water would have given it away.

We waited until the water stopped rippling and then took pictures. Once you knew the trick, it was hard to figure out how you had been fooled because the scene in front of you made no logical sense. Cool.

After the cueva we made another attempt to get photos of the Malpaís de Corona. We drove back down the road to Órzola, and pulled off on a dirt track that ran to the sea, stopped near the highway and I shot back towards the Monte Corona. But I still have not even come close to capturing the ultimate badlands picture.

Back at the ranch, we watched the surfers, who were back in force. They congregate in the water in one place about 40 feet out from the shore, right in front of our apartment, and just bob there, straddling their boards until the right wave comes.

They were out again this morning (Saturday). We were both up a little earlier today – Karen before seven, me by eight. We had planned a long drive down to the far end of the island, to Playa Blanca to have a look at an “artisanal” market at the Rubicón Marina.

I went for a run but we were still out of the house before 10:30. We drove by a “back” route along the length of the interior. It took us near Timanfaya, the only still-active volcano on the island (though not very active) – and through the interesting-looking wine-growing district. We will return to have a proper look at these areas later.

Volcano near Timanfaya

Playa Blanca is the kind of place that gives Lanzarote a bad name as a white-bread, middle-class geriatric suburb of Little Britain – or Little Bavaria. It’s infested with Brits, Germans, Dutch, a beach town, a place to shop and sit in over-priced restaurants looking out at the sailboats of the rich who shall be eaten. There are gated communities here, people. OMG.

Rubicón Marina, Playa Blanca

The artisanal market, held each Saturday and Wednesday, is the kind of thing we normally hate, crowded stalls stocked with mostly junky merchandise – although also a few with real artisanal stuff. As much as we groused about it while walking through, we also found ourselves stopping here and there, and actually spending money – shock, horror!

12€ for a little four-pack of jars of traditional Canarian sauces, including one that tasted almost exactly as I remember Leslie Classic’s much-loved macho sauce tasting; 5€ for a pair of clip-on sunglasses for me (I’d left mine at home); 9€ for a cool little sun hat for Karen, a visor with a triangle of scarf attached that you tie over your head to hold the visor in place.

One of the reviews we read of the market said we should haggle, but the prices for the stuff we bought all seemed reasonable enough to begin with so we didn’t bother. Two of the sellers were Spanish, but the third, a woman at the sunglass booth, was a Scot. It’s hard to imagine wanting to put down roots and work in a place like this – where we are in the north, yes, maybe, but here?

On the way out of the marina area, we stopped at a supermarket and bought rolls, cheese, ham, apples, wine and beer for lunch – and some Werthers for the sucaholic. Our afternoon activity was a walk up Montaña Roja, which our walking guidebook describes as “just a little pimple of a volcano.”

We drove up towards it, found a place to pull off in a depressingly soul-less suburban housing development and ate our picnic lunch. It took a little more driving around to find the starting point for the walk, but find it we did.

The walk up the mountain is easy. It is just a pimple, with gentle slopes of volcanic rubble, almost completely bare of vegetation, except some small and low-to-the-ground wild flower plants. The views back across the Rubicón Plain to the mountains above Playa Blanca are good, especially as on this day, with cloud shadows on the brown hills.

At the top, you can look down to the shallow crater of the volcano – or walk down in it, if you prefer, by more than one path. Today it’s covered with a thin layer of vegetation, and its sloping sides are decorated with what our book decries as graffiti. It’s actually just people’s names – Scott and Yvette in a a heart – spelled out with rocks. Few are perfectly legible, either because they’ve been vandalized or the rocks have rolled away over time.

A path circles the crater. Craggy look-outs along the way give fabulous views all around the island. You can look up the wild south coast towards the Parque Nacional de Timanfaya, the national park around the Timanfaya volcano – source of much of the volcanic activity in the historic period. Or south across the straits to Fuerteventura, the next (inhabited) island in the archipelago. I had not realized it was so close. The ferries, which we could see from our vantage point plying the strait, take only 12 minutes each way. We’ll have to go over there. Another tiny island between Lanzarote and Fuerteventura, Isla de Lobos, can also be reached by ferry for day trips. (It’s named for the monk seals – also known as sea wolves – that lived there when the island was first discovered by Europeans in the 15th century.)

The best views are over Playa Blanca – which looks much more appealing from up here than when you’re down in it – and Punta Papagaya. Then you come back around to the Rubicón Plain and the lovely mountains beyond.

I was knackered by the time we got back to the car. We drove back along the main road, the LZ 2, through – or by – Arrecife and the airport. The surfers were out when we got home.