Tenerife. Masca for the Whole Family. Continued

Masca for the Whole Family. Continued The story begins here — Masca for the Whole Family At night, a light was burning in Masca. The evening before, through the binoculars, we had spotted a fine young fellow with a camera and tripod. For some reason, he had not gone back to the mainland, but had spent the night under the open sky. Watching him, our reconnaissance team discovered that there was a stream in the gorge, with water you could even drink—and at that point swimsuits and towels went straight into the backpack. Rivers are a great rarity on the islands; usually, their existence can only be guessed from their dry beds. In the morning, we watched as first nature, and then people, brought the misty gloom of Masca to life. The sun slowly crept over the colossal cliffs, driving the darkness of night from their basalt snarls. The first to arrive was an inflatable sightseeing boat. A jet ski came bounding over the waves behind it. It was proudly ridden by a figure in a black wetsuit whom we initially took for a woman. But when the figure anchored the jet ski and swam to the pier, we realised—nope, not a woman, a man. Once ashore, this man changed out of his superhero outfit and into a red T-shirt, sat down peacefully beneath a parasol bearing the words “Coca-Cola,” and began selling tickets for water transport. Ashore! Our crew thought, “It’s time!”—and loaded a backpack of provisions and towels into the dinghy. Landing ashore took place in two stages: the first mate and the young sailors climbed the ladder onto the high rock pier, while the captain went around the back of the rock and dropped anchor. He secured the stern line to the far side of the pier. All that remained was to scramble up a steep four-metre wall and plunge together into the reeds. Along the trail, a clear, cold stream forms transparent pools and babbling riffles. In one place, the cliffs close tightly together high overhead. Beneath the arch, the trail runs right along the streambed, then politely steps aside before a pool with a small waterfall. Seizing our first chance in six months to bathe in fresh water, we squeeze our eyes shut, jump in, and leap straight back out with a shriek. Then we continue up the gorge as a wet beach caravan. Bamboo sticks of various lengths are floating everywhere. Looking more closely, we realise that the reeds growing along the banks are actually bamboo. As usual, we returned to the boat with a haul—bamboo clubs for whacking Cook for building a toy raft. Into the Mountains High above the stream, the mountains are riddled with fantastical grottoes and deep passages that I would certainly have explored. But our caravan moves at the pace of the last camel, who is already getting tired. We pass groups of tourists and travellers coming the other way who, unlike us, are in no hurry whatsoever to go swimming. People reach Masca aboard a motley assortment of motorboats and other craft, or descend from above on coach tours. Now for the sad realities of life, because the abundance of tourists does nothing to enhance this magical place. Strangely, despite the heavy flow of visitors and the organised sale of tickets and Coca-Cola, there are neither rubbish bins nor a toilet at the entrance to the gorge. And since no one has taken care of where the waste should go, the highly cultured “travellers” relieve themselves right on the trail. There are no waste containers either, so not everyone realises that they must take their rubbish away with them. And so this corner of “pristine” nature, too, is dusted over its age-old mysteries with the waste products of the greatest predator on Earth—man. To preserve the place’s enchantment, we stepped off the trail and straight into the streambed, and carried the few scraps of plastic we found—fortunately, there were not many—back to the yacht in a bag for plastic waste. Evening Toward evening, the tourists who have been wandering about chaotically turn into an organised crowd and gather on the tiny patch of pier, recalling a scene from Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale “The Wild Swans.” In it, Eliza and her eleven swan brothers, who turned back into princes at sunset, spent the night on a solitary rock in the middle of the sea, so small that they could barely stand on it, pressed tightly together. Gradually, fewer and fewer princes remain on the pier, and the fragrant cool of evening settles over the bay. With the departure of the last boat come silence and tranquillity. And from the deck of the yacht, the gorge once again appears pristine and full of unsolved mysteries.