Notes from a Very Small Island – Sign? What Sign?

As you can tell we had a great time on Lanzarote. The landscape and how Manrique used it was a marvel.  Another marvel is how the island road administration expect non-islanders to find their way around!
I have already mentioned how Cesar Manrique wanted to limit the numbers of advertising hoardings on Lanzarote. He was successful and, it must be said that, not being reminded how, “we’re lovin’ it” or how “every little helps”, we aren’t and it doesn’t, right! I have been able to survive really quite well without the constant reminder that it is my responsibility to send as much money as possible, with the. Motivation of “helping the economy”. Stuff the economy I say!
Anyway, returning to Lanzarote, one of the side effects of this wonderful campaign of Manrique’s is that the signage in general is a little, how can I put this, creative. Or put a little less gently, maddening, moronic and mmmmmmmm miserable! Road signs seemed to be designed to slow traffic down, because that was the only way you’d see them before you had passed.
This caused a little friction between the navigator and driver. “So” said Wilma, “turn, left, HERE!” This leaves any sensitive driver pleading with his navigator to give more than 3m warning when making a 90′ manoeuvre at 80kph! The problem was the sign was tiny in the extreme, tucked behind a cactus and tilted raffishly at 65′ in the wrong direction!
On the way to the volcanoes and lava fields, we were reliably, and confidently informed…by a brown sign, that the place we wanted was up a side road 14km away. So, off we set, excitedly twittering about, lava tubes, lava bubbles, and lava bombs (yes they are just as scary as they sound). Several minutes and more than 14km later we came to a T-junction. Hmmm! We clearly had missed the road but didn’t know how. There were no recriminations just calm statements that, yes, I had been watching the road. I find driving safer that way!
Well, we duly turned round a the T and discovered another reliable brown sign confidently telling us that the volcano tour was 13km away. Apparently several locals misinterpreted the grinding of Paul’s teeth as a sign that the volcano was ready to put itself about a bit again.
So 3/4 of the return journey later we discovered a sign–to the volcano–only visible from our return side! Our trusty Renault Twingo, encouraged by this positive result sprang into action and less than 5 minutes later we looked upon the turning off to the volcano as Christian had looked upon the Celestial City.
We had gotten lost before. You’ve got to understand the road signage on Lanzarote, it hates you! Well, maybe that is an exaggeration. Perhaps in sympathy with Manrique’s vision, it simply does not want to exist.
Come to think of it, all of this is rubbish. You have got to understand that not all road signs are meant for cars. We discovered this when we followed several signs purporting to Indicate the way to far flung places, but turned out to lead to a dirt track. I eventually worked out (don’t laugh, it happens) that the wooden dun coloured signs are for seasoned walkers. Yes, the destination may lie 30km eastwards but these are walkers’ signs. Once I had that established, I could move on, and misunderstand another type of sign on Lanzarote!
Earlier in the week we had had an equally if not more bizarre experience related to this unique Lanzarote (or should I say ‘Lanzagrotty’) phenomenon. We were attempting to free ourselves from the vicelike grip of the back streets of Playa Blanca, when I rashly turned off on to a side road. This road led into what seemed to be, the twilight zone.
This was not so much a ghost town, because the ghosts had not been born yet. Here was a road, in a wasteland, with parking spaces but no buildings. I don’t mean places where there are the beginnings of building work, but just land, bare, virgin, I don’t know how else to put it, land. We wandered a few blocks in the car, not in a normal fashion because normally you wouldn’t know what was round the next corner. We could see for 10km across the desert or at least deserted land.
We came close to escaping from our personal Emin Muil (sorry for the LOTR reference again) only to be thwarted by 10m piece of rough ground, that our trusty Twingo refused like a spooked racehorse refusing at the second circuit at Beecher’s Brook. Finally, we came to, what Wilma described as “a big road”. We headed north, we knew we needed north. So admonished and chastened, we vowed never to go to Playa Blanca again. Up to now we have kept that vow.