We were in the Coche de Hora, we were eight, each with their own story to tell. Although they were quite loaded, the trip was not heavy. Each seat was like a cradle that rocked to the rhythm of the tarajaleos: the sorondongo, the isa... All together we accompanied each other. Lanzarote, a dream volcano... We are coastal people, and the chords sprang up in harmony, all in unison with the timples, lutes, chácaras, drums, bandurrias, guitars, flutes, Herreño whistles, tamboras, bucios and claves.
The smallest one joined the rest, and clapped along as well. I felt like I was floating between clear, frothy batters, ready to make sighs, and enveloped in the smell of lemon zest.
When we arrived at the stop, we got off the bus and went to the place where the blue clouds and the soft trade winds were waiting for us. My grandmother combed my hair and put her hand under my dress to adjust my skirt. "Mijita, we can't miss this special event," she said affectionately.
Pino was also with her mother, who was a seamstress. Her father, a good fisherman, brought fresh fish to La Puntilla to sell it. A lot of people crowded there, some with bags and sandwiches for the children to snack on. Frasquita and Carmelo were preparing to visit one of the women, as they had very good memories.
In the dock, the barges, the boats and even the ferry, with its siren, accompanied that moment. El Charco, Cofete, La Garita, Playa de Santiago, Caleta de Sebo, Los Cascajos, Las Teresitas and La Estaca were the first to appear in our memory. The smell of saltpeter, the dim lights and the swaying of the waves, all together, rocked us in the ocean. There was a great silence, and holding hands we closed our eyes to listen to that symphony of seas. My grandmother held me tight and whispered in my ear: "Never forget that this is what we are, mijita. This is our history".
The dresses were beautiful: hats, skirts, leggings... Colors of all shades, wools, silks... Everything put together with care and dedication. They came down so that the people in the audience could admire the costumes up close.
My cousin Mari Lola arrived and sat with us. She brought me a cardigan because the viruje was already noticeable. "It seems that this girl is out of sorts, Pepita," she said to my grandmother. The show continued, and my eyes were wide open. Suddenly, chácaras began to sound, the Gomera drum, the chords of the bandurrias and the deep sound of the bucios, accompanying the poems: By Josefina de la Torre (Gran Canaria):
"The islands were for me a world of light, breeze and song,
where poetry awoke like an echo of the waves."
By Sabas Martín (Tenerife):
"In the swaying of the sea, the island finds its breath,
and the timples, like waves, sing the memory of the wind."
By Víctor Álamo de la Rosa (El Hierro):
"The island is a small universe,
where the sea encloses stories
and the wind sings them to the ear of time."
By Ángel Guerra (Lanzarote):
"Among sleeping volcanoes,
the island whispers its song of eternal fire,
and memory awakens in its black lava."
By Pedro García Cabrera (La Gomera):
"The silbo is not just a language,
it is the voice of the ravine that climbs the clouds,
it is love made echo."
By Luis Feria (Tenerife):
"Childhood was the island,
the rock that the sea caresses
and the memory that is never lost."
By Josefina Pla (Fuerteventura):
"The desert of Fuerteventura is not empty,
it is a page of sand
where the wind writes endless poems."
By Pedro Lezcano (Gran Canaria):
"A timple is the homeland,
an island that fits between your fingers,
a song that embraces the soul."
The gofio mill, the fonil for the oil, the coffee grinders and the hand of the mortar to crush the garlic... Everything was present: mojo rojo, mojo verde, old jareadas hanging from a line, almogrote, wheat and millet.
In those bags they brought the memories and traditions of generations. Our grandparents told us stories that should be passed down from parents to children. "Without those stories, mijita, we would get lost," my grandmother said.
The presenter announced the arrival of the protagonists:
"Hello, my name is Lanzarote. I am oriental and I come with my seven sisters to make a pact with all of you: that, even if we don't see each other, we must always be a pineapple. Otherwise, our beloved history would be lost." Then Fuerteventura took the floor, with her mane of burgaos and limpets. Gran Canaria spoke of the smell of eucalyptus from its summit, so that our lungs could breathe the flavor of Canarian oxygen. La Graciosa came in sparkling and luminous, smelling of fried fish. Tenerife, with its blanket of snow from El Teide, augured clarity for her sisters. La Palma, with its volcano, wished warmth for all. La Gomera whistled, spelling the word "love". Finally, the smallest, El Hierro, closed with emotion.
Everyone, moved, with tears in their eyes, spoke with their hearts. "May this calima of ours, our trade winds, and that smell of the sea always be our Canarian seal."
The islands filled that Coche de Hora again, rejoicing and singing a parranda that now also added the chords of chácaras, whistles, drums, timples, bandurrias, flutes, bucios, claves and tamboras.