Following the rental car pick up at the Lanzarote Airport, we set of to the journey across the island towards our beach house. The one hour ride showed us what we would later deem as Lanzarote’s blessing. But at the time we saw only dimmed horrors. The emptiness which surrounded us seemed monstrously hostile. I couldn’t spot the line between land and ocean since everything looked merely like a dark void, absorbing light from my vision. The blackness of this forsaken desert gave me the impression that we were literally in the middle of nowhere. The stars, per contra, shined stupendously bright and cheerful. Hence I decided to look up, instead of around.
Arriving at our destination, we found a ghost village instead of the fishermen’s one. The houses in Caleta de Famara were closed, the gas station was closed, the store was closed. Empty streets were nameless, quiet houses were numberless. Everything was just so eeringly silent, even the waves muffled disastrously.
After some time of cruising up and down the creepy lanes, we spotted a guy. This Spanish guy with long dark hair, thin in his bleached jeans and a bit muddy tee, was idly smoking by the car. He didn’t speak much of English. But after he smiled at us asking something which we understood was a question about whether we surf, we recognised our fellow surfer there. Then we showed him the map explaining what we were looking for. However, the address didn’t ring any bells to him.
We couldn’t clarify the situation to our host since our argument of „standing in front of the white house with big windows“ covered pretty much any neighbourhood around. „Hand me your phone,“ our Spanish friend said. I was really suspicious and nervous about giving our stuff voluntarily to a shady streetboy stranger. I am ashamed of my prejudice, especially since I come from a coastal town where things hang loose by their definition and surfing is modus vivendi I aim to. The interpersonal suspicion I’ve developed during my law studies in the Croatian Capital is one of the most dangerous things I cure traveling. Anyway, the guy called our host saying „some chicos ingleses“ are waiting for her. She was there in a minute, jumping out of the house next door. We thanked the Spanish guy and entered our house unaware that we are not calling it a night yet.
Our accommodation had big glass doors and windows. I wasn’t really comfortable with the fact that only a light lock separated us from the outer world. Suddenly, a sound was coming from behind the backdoor. Someone was growling and trying to get inside. Curiosity killed the cat, I thought. But curiosity also kills ignorance, so I tiptoed to the door, took a deep breath, grabbed the doorknob and opened it agressively. I was counting on my decisiveness to shock the opponent. Two sparkling eyes with bared jaws were staring at me. It was a Yorkshire Terrier, whom we shared our backyard with, smiling at me! Nevertheless, as the scary starry night drained me, I told Mr. Yorki we’ll see eachother tomorrow. Admittedly, I double checked all the doors and windows before going to bed.
As the morning came, the village seemed much friendlier. Its black sandy streets were framed with cacti, fishing nets and surfing kit. Opposed to the white houses of Caleta, there was the wild Famara Beach beneath the majestic Risco Cliff. The spectacular scenery was soothing my nature loving soul. After long surfs and longer chills in the following days, our neighbourhood was getting cozier and cozier.
Eventually, our porch became a living room for the Spanish guy, his crew and Mr. Yorki. We were eating fresh seafood, drinking beer, making smoothies, getting tanned, and listening to the Atlantic whispers. We didn’t speak each other’s language, but we shared a common mother tongue – Taking It Easy. Thus we enjoyed siestas in a place so innocent and magical a night visitor would easily be tricked into finding it to be a forsaken desert in the middle of nowhere.
I like the way life gets much nicer when you’re jumping onto the waves rather than to conclusions.
Love, V. 🤙🏼😘
vebeway 