Puerto de Mogán

After lunch I caught a bus to Puerto de Mogán, located at about 7:30 to Maspalomas' 6 o'clock. Mogán has a secluded harbour which still supports local fishing.

Even though this was still mass tourism territory, it was on a far more human scale. Instead of high rises, there were terraced holiday villas.

Canals ran through the resort, making it the Venice of Gran Canaria.

I could see fish in the clear ocean water. I thought: I would enjoy a calm vacation here.

The beach was small and I imagined would get crowded in high season but looked tolerable when I was there.

I wished I could wander around longer but I had to return to Las Palmas before the day got too late. The service was a milk run; it did not take the coastal autopista, but wended inland and stopped at every little village. I didn't mind that, it was a scenic tour, but a few Lebanese (I think) teenagers talking loudly at the back of the bus annoyed me. At first I thought they were Israelis; they have a reputation for talking loudly too.

The problem was not the teenagers but me. The Canary Islands made me feel out of place as a backpacker, because I was not a package tourist. Two months into the trip and my thoughts were turning homewards.

In a philosophical mood, I thought, what if a person's life were a journey home too?  Anaïs Nin wrote in her final days about music: ... a remarkable man, my healer, Dr. Brugh Joy ... feels the same way. Yes, music indicates another place, a better place.  ... Brugh explained that the tears come from remembrance of that place. And we cry because we sense at last the return home.

But I was not done yet, not with the trip, nor with life, so it was back into the fray for me.

Back in Las Palmas I took in an exhibition of the centenary of powered flight situated inside a tent in Parque San Telmo. There were informational panels and live models which could be activated. Quite well done really.