Spirit Traveler Diary #9

The trip to the Canary Islands entailed a long journey with the first flight to D.C. and then to Madrid, Spain from there we went two and a half hours to Gran Canaria which is off the Northwest coast of Africa. I was patted down in both Portland and Madrid and left with images of too many cop shows on television. I sat and watch the sun rise in a place I knew I had been before. The island is 14 million years old and a stark landscape of volcanic rock and mesas. The Atlantic ocean was a deep indigo blue surrounding every edge of the land scape. Rows of hotels stacked on the hills all painted white with a feeling of old Aztec ruins lined the shore.

Ancient energy rose up from the rocks that created a harsh contrast to the tropical feeling that floated through the air. We took a cab from the airport to our hotel which was in a village called Puerto Rico. The cab driver flew over the land that was marked with green houses growing tomatoes and potatoes. Our hotel was a small apartment with a kitchen and living room and bedroom. The veranda looked out over the pool and a couple of palm trees that reminded us we were in the tropics. The storms that ensued the next three days would tell us otherwise. We were on our own until Saturday when my sister and nephews would arrive from Norway.

Jet lagged and lost bags kept us close and we wandered the surrounding hillside like a couple of goats. There was either up or down and the walk to town was a good 20 minutes traveling with switchbacks and buses. We went to Morgan on Friday, a small fishing village about 20 minutes away. They have an outdoor market that many locals recommended we experience. There were tents and booths all through town with everyone selling something from China. We found knock off Coach bags and all the latest with a heavy influence of America. It was as if I had been shocked right back into Chinatown in New York City. The only difference was the people selling were aggressive and quite nasty if you didn’t buy from them. I bargained with a man from Africa over a camel. As I walked away he agreed to my price and I felt victory with the small leather replica of sand dunes and African adventure. Ultimately, it felt wrong and brought a great deal of sadness to me as I felt the anger and resentment these people directed toward the likes of me and my husband. Although we did not look like Americans we sounded clearly of the USA and discovered we too have accents but unlike the British they are not nearly as fun.

We sat by the docks with all the boats in the harbor and I had a vision. My vision was of this land long before anyone Spanish had arrived. It was my past and my lifetime in Atlantis. I was being pursued on this very ground and when I was caught I was killed with my throat slit. The death of my being in that lifetime did not bother as much as what was pursuing me.