Entrance to the historic city
Betancuria – A Tour to the Heart of the Past
The day was clear, and the sky a flawless blue. Betancuria, the small village, lay in the mountains, waiting for us. The tour wouldn’t take long, but there was plenty to see. But first, we needed breakfast. In Tiscamanita, we found a café. Simple, unhurried. Two Boccadillos and two Cortados. A few words with the other guests. Spanish was still a work in progress, but it was enough. The morning was peaceful, and Betancuria beckoned us.
Winding roads led us up into the mountains. The village was famous, a must-see for every tourist. And so, we found ourselves at the parking lot, already overcrowded. A fleet of tour buses blocked every available space. It was the timing. Bad timing. We had to weave our way through the buses. The parking lot felt a little like a battlefield, and parking was a brief thrill.
The path to the village was narrow, a steep ascent. The sun blazed down, and we felt the sweat dampen our brows. The alleys were narrow, and tourists streamed past us. Most of them had the same goal – they wanted to see Betancuria, the historical heart of the island. We joined the crowd.
It took less than fifteen minutes. A quick walk through. The houses were old, some of them had withstood the years, while others showed the marks of time. We kept walking, passing a few shops, a few souvenirs. Everything was full. Everyone was after the same souvenir, the same memory. At the Santa Maria de Betancuria square, we sat down. A few notes from a guitar. The smell of roasted almonds wafted through the air. We bought a small bag. Sweet, warm, and simple. It was a moment that didn’t ask for much. But also didn’t give much.
The second walk was slower. We searched for details. Looked closer. We found them everywhere. The facades of the houses. The doors. The windows. But it was always the same image. Tourists wandering through the alleys. We continued to wander. Forty-five minutes later, we were back at the beginning. The square, the church. There was nothing more to see.
On the way to the restroom, we encountered the next obstacle. You had to pay in coins to enter. We paid. You pay when you have to. And Helmuth had to. It was a small, cramped restroom. But that wasn’t the problem. It was the fact that the journey was slowly becoming a series of “Have we seen everything?”
We kept going, finding the archaeological museum. Small, neat, and giving a nice impression. We went in. It showed the history of the island’s original inhabitants. A snapshot. In Betancuria, everything was a short stop. In, out. Move on. Another gallery. Another souvenir shop. The area thrived on tourism, and we lived with it.
I wanted more. Something else. But all that was left was the monastery. We took a walk to it. We found it. It was abandoned, nature had reclaimed it all. A Lost Place. I was sure it would be an experience for many. But I didn’t have anything with me. A photo hotspot with a model and great accessories. But we had none. Still, we took a few photos. Memories. It was the kind of tour we didn’t really want, but we still experienced it.
We got back in the car and drove on. Our destination was the massive statues of Guise and Ayose. They stood like guardians in the landscape. The last two Majorero kings. The view was stunning. Mountains, valleys, the horizon. A strong wind and a long line for a photo. A kind of tourist trap that we still took part in.
Next, we drove up to the Mirador Morro Velosa. The view was even better. From coast to coast. The wind was too strong to launch the drone. We felt that we had left Betancuria behind, but still, something of it lingered.
On the way back, we saw it. A tree, standing alone in the vast prairie. It was lonely, but strong. A picture we couldn’t leave behind. We stopped. A photo. Simple, but beautiful. I knew now, Helmuth was happy. I, stressed.
We decided to end the day at the beach. Playa Blanca. The waves were huge. They called us. We jumped in, the power of the water was overwhelming, but liberating. It was a moment that saved the day. We laughed and played in the waves. A cruise ship passed by on the horizon, huge, a floating hotel. In the harbor of Puerto del Rosario, the ocean was flooded with tourists. But we didn’t care. The moment belonged to us, the water, and the island.
In the end, it was a day for the blog. Betancuria had its charms, but there was too much hustle, too much spectacle. But the waves at the beach – they were real. They remained. Back home, we talked about it. About the tumbling, the laughter, the power of the water.
Some days don’t end with the twilight. They echo.
