On Toppo' the World - Tenerife

In this edition, toppoblog writes to you from the tropical, distant and uncharted island that is Tenerife.

Tenerife is located off the North West coast of Africa, but is populated by nearly one million persons who regard themselves as Spanish since it was conquered by Spain in the 90s. That's the 1490s. The only invading peoples in the most recent 90s, have been the British who have been invading the island each and every year, despite having already conquered the territory in the 70s. As if it weren't enough to have a British pub on every corner, the Brits will cease to stop their hegemony until the flag of Tenerife is simply a photograph of a plate of egg and chips, made in a caff somewhere in East London.

Argentina, however, claim the island is theirs and rumours are spreading that they lay claim to the Isle of Arran as well.

Let's start with the fantasy.

Day 4, Toppo's Log.

I etch another line into the stone wall with piece of flint from my lighter. It's been four full days now, or so I believe, that I have been held hostage in this God forsaken prison cell.

My plane crashed somewhere when trying to cross the Atlantic to reach the Kingdom of Fife. I drifted for days, running low on supplies. Luckily I remembered my SAS training that says the most important thing to have when stranded at sea, in a rubber dingy, with no food or water, is a shaving mirror. After having a shave I had the most lovely smooth-to-touch skin. Other than feeling more self-confident and  

The Sun, once a friend, now a torturer

sexy, I failed to find the benefit of my increased sexiness when potentially thousands of miles from land. The only use I found with having it, was looking at myself. I looked at myself, and I looked at myself. I guess I didn't feel so alone, as I could talk to myself for hours and hours. Like all seasoned sex tourists I had multiple packets of condoms on my person, which I used to fractionally distil the sea water to gather salt. The salt, I thought, would come in handy for preserving any fish that I may catch until I could make fire to cook it with. With my bare hands I wrestled with many a fish, but their slippery bodies were too difficult to grasp. My fish-cooking plans never materialized. I must have dozed off for some time, as I awoke to shouts in some discernible language. Men with Kalashnikov rifles approached in a black rubber dingy, akin to the type associated with Somali pirates. I reached for my mirror instantly, and reflected the sunlight, killing two of them. The other two, fired warning shots, and I put down my powerful laser shooting mirror immediately. I was forced to board their dingy. I was embarrassed, because my dingy was a child's Sponge Bob Square-pants one, which I managed to steal from a child passenger just minutes before our plane impacted into the ocean. The embarrassment was overshadowed by my shame however. Only I survived the crash, and did I deserve such luck?

I was hit with the bud of a rifle and knocked unconscious. When I came to, I found myself naked on a tiled floor. A prisoner. If not a prisoner of war, then perhaps of love. The first thing I noticed was a blue tag around my wrist. Some sort of identification I assumed. Here, it would seem, I'm just another number.

All inclusive...whatever that meant

 Through the bars of my cell, I could only safely see the sky with the sun beating down. I could hear the sound of children screaming, lots of splashing and what could only be the sick laughter of their torturers. "Animals!", I wanted yell. I needed to look through the bars to get the bearings of my surroundings, but I feared the guard at the watchtower directly opposite may see me, and I did not want to draw any unnecessary attention to myself at this stage. Announcements were made throughout the day via a loudspeaker over the same repetitive surrealist dance music. It sounded like Japanese Rape Techno. When night fell the situation was not much better, as the guards sat in a shack throughout the evening drinking liquor and playing Russian roulette.

On day II, I had a snap-opportunity to take a prolonged peak out through the bars to see what took place whilst the Japanese Rape Techno played. My worst fears had been answered. It was some sort of labour camp, perhaps a Re-education through Labour program as used historically by totalitarian regimes such as 70s Cambodia and present day North Korea. What alarmed me the most was it was the elderly who were picked on. The lyrics of the music must be filled with propaganda, this country's national anthem, perhaps.  With shaken hand I managed to capture some footage first hand. 








Before watching: 

Note at 00:16s in, the man by the base of the tree in the pool starts to frantically rejoice. I can only suppose this was for one, or perhaps all three of the following reasons:

a) he had been successfully brain washed;
b) he was begging for his life, and hopes that by praising his masters he would be freed; or
c) he completely lost his mind and was acting out of delirium. 

I point this incident out, because at 00:43s into the footage, those sick torturing bastards then throw his wife into the pool as punishment for his stepping out of line.

Now watch:

For some reason the guards never bothered to confiscate my electrical equipment, so this is how I am able to keep a log and take some photographs. They must have assumed I'd have no source of electricity to charge my belongings. Yes, I could use my laptop to keep track of the date and time rather than use tally marks on the wall, but my source of energy for my electricals is finite. This is because I am using a potato that I found in the corner of my cell. The potato must have been left by whoever inhabited this cell before me. Next to the vegetable, on the wall, were tally marks and a most peculiar tri-colour, rectangular symbol of some sort, with the colours green, white and orange. I wonder what the previous inmate was like, and where they were from? It is perhaps impossible to ever know the answer to this mystery.

The Reality 

Let us be honest. When it comes to toppoblog, the reality is likely to be far more bizarre than the fantasy.

I'll cut to the chase. I spent the whole time basking in the sun, enjoying the free food and drink, listening to music and reading books, one of which, was an erotica book, called The Eye. It was so erotic in fact, that I decided to go by myself...twice. At first, this seemed a rather daunting and strange challenge, but one which I managed to do successfully (relative to most challenges I face) and I now think going out alone abroad is brilliant fun. First night I went out alone I wandered round the corner from my hotel to the first club I could hear/see. When I walked in, it was pretty empty and the steward said I should come back around 1am when things get busier.

So, back to my hotel I went and got tanked up at the bar by myself. At about 12.30, I stood outside the hotel brandishing a packet of cigarettes, in the hope that someone would ask me for one. Two guys were nearby, I asked if they wanted a cigarette, one agreed. I said my phrase, the only thing I can say in Spanish "I'm sorry, I don't speak Spanish, I am Scottish", and would then explain by saying "solo" and pointing at myself that I was alone. The guy who took the cigarette then suggested I hang around with him, his mate, and their two girl friends, and to the club around the corner we all went, joyfully, singing and dancing. They were very friendly, they bought me drinks, I returned the favor, we talked about football, they gave me sleazy Spanish phrases to say to groups of girls in the club for their entertainment, etc etc. Just a normal night out really. The only issue, however, is that they asked me if I had a girlfriend. By this point, I was firmly on my way, having tried my best to live up to the romanticized alcohol-immune Scottish stereotype they had in their heads, and that they were so fond of. I didn't want to disappoint. Anyway, I said sarcastically that I did indeed have a girlfriend, but that she was dead. My next sentence was going to be something silly like we were bungee jumping on our honeymoon and the rope snapped, or something equally dark and unfunny like that. But, before I could get to that sentence, I was already in the strong emotional embrace of the two Spanish couples, and it was too late for me to say that I was joking. So, I had to play along, and pretend to be very, very sad.

That is my last memory of that evening. I woke up the next morning fully clothed bar my shirt, at a 45 degree angle with my legs off of the corner of the bed, my toes bearing the brunt of my body weight.

A successful night all round I'd say. I wish I had their details, as they took lots of photos, but perhaps it is all for the best.

Night out numero 2. 

Biggie Smalls R.I.P.

Using the same ingenious system that I devised, I went to the same club the following evening, on the Saturday, and stood outside at peak time, brandishing a crisp, unopened packet of Marlboro. After a few minutes, two girls approached me, asking for a cigarette. I gave the same line: "I'm sorry, I don't speak Spanish, I am Scottish". I was quite tanned by this point, and they did not believe that I was Scottish. Fortunately, they had both lived in London before, and so were happy to speak in English. When they realized I was alone, they said I should hang about with them. Naturally I did. We bought drinks, we danced, we had a laugh, and it just made me confused. Two girls, what to do. It's like splitting an atom. We ended up leaving that club, and drove around in one of the girl's car at 5am looking for a party. I was excited. But, their excitment started to fade, and eventually they said there were no parties on and that they will take me home to my hotel. I still think it must have been something I said or did. Maybe they saw me in the light?

Toppsy

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