The International Writers Magazine: Ozola Found

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Changed Plans • Erica Johansson Our fit surf instructor Vanessa exchanges a look with her colleague Dan and turns towards us. "The surf lesson is cancelled today. The waves are not high enough."

Yesterday the surf was superb and as Lanzarote is called Europe's Hawaii my sister and I never assumed this scenario. This day the island didn’t live up to its reputation, but I guess every place has its highs and lows. Vanessa recommends us to visit a resort that offers a long beach, shopping and several restaurants along the seafront. We think it sounds like a great idea.
"What’s the name of the place we’re going to?" I ask my sister as we step into the taxi.
"I don't know."
She looks at me blankly. The driver turns his head and highs a questioning eyebrow. I catch sight on a small map I left in my bag. At random I let my forefinger stop at one of the resorts along the coast.
"Punta de Mujeres."
I smile, confident that I picked the right place. We leave Caleta de Famara, an old fishing village situated on Lanzarotes northwest coastal strip. To cross the island takes us about twenty minutes. As we reach the ocean, the taxi driver turns his head.
"Pero no hay una playa allí." (But there is no beach here.)
I see the approaching turnoff to Punta de Mujeres.
"¿No hay una playa?" (There is no beach?)
"No".
"I actually want to go to the beach", my sister says, as if our three years age difference automatically puts the responsibility to whom of us should solve the situation.
Making eye-contact with the driver in the rear-view mirror, I try to remember more of the Spanish I learnt in school.
"¿Donde está ... una buena playa? (Where is there a good beach?)
"Está una buena playa blanca tres kilometro de aquí." (There’s a good white beach three kilometres from here.)
"Great. Thank you." I give my sister a "see-how-great-I-did" look.

After the exit to Punta de Mujeres is a throng of white rectangular houses. Closer to the ocean, they give space to sharp cliffs and stone blocks. On the other side, we see the orange red landscape of the volcano island Lanzarote. We pass the turnoff to a village named Las Escamas and a couple of minutes later the taxi driver makes a right turn into a gravelled road.
"¡Esta aquí." (Here it is.)
He drops us off by a stretch of sand scattered with black stones. Here and there people rest, chat or eat in the sand, but it’s definitely not a beach. Yet, we don’t want to argue whether here is a white beach or not, so we pay the driver and leave. Our map tells us that the village further up the road is Órzola. My sister seems to accept the situation, because she stops and makes a show of spreading out her bath towel. I see a lake of water nearby and decide to check it out.
"Don't you want to have a look around?"
"What’s it here to see? Only sand and some stones."
I approach the water and notice the lack of tourists. The lake of water is an inlet with a pond where a few children play with their toys. I follow the narrowing inlet towards the ocean. As corals cover the sandy ground I step out of the water and balance on the stones instead. An elderly fisherman tries his luck a few meters from a man who sit with crossed legs and meditates. I reach the open water and stop to savor the peaceful atmosphere. Not an island in sight. After a quiet moment, I return to the inlet and approach a family who sit by the water.
"Do you know any good beaches around here?"
The teenage son turns to me. "This is the best beach. Mostly locals come here, not many tourists know about this place."
"What is it called?"
"The white beach, but as you can see it isn't really a beach. In south Lanzarote you can find the real white beach, Playa Blanca. A lot of tourists go there."

I wish them a great day and return to my sister. She wants to stay, I don’t. When a place has given me enough, I prefer to move on. With enough I mean in a positive way, as when you are satisfied with a meal. In Brussels you can get the feeling after a day, on a Greek island after two weeks and in New York probably never. On the white beach, below the village of Órzola on the northern tip of Lanzarote, the feeling reaches me after half an hour. My sister reluctantly stands up and we continue to Órzola.

We saunter down the road that leads to Órzola harbour and enter a small shop where we buy peaches and iced water. At the harbour, a few children sit on a concrete stair leading down to the water. I decide to go for a swim. The steps are slippery from all the wet feet running up and down the stair. Two twenty something boys stop with their dinghy boat a few metres from land. Maybe they can give us a lift back to Famara? I swim towards the boat.
"Hi".
The tallest boy with brown cropped hair looks in my direction.
"Hello."
"My sister and I are going back to Famara. Could you to drive us there with your boat?"
"To Famara?" He looks at me as if I’m out of my mind. "No way, Famara is on the other side of the island. You need to go by bus or car."
"Okay. Thank you." I swim towards land, unpleasantly aware of my limited knowledge of distances.
My sister and I sit down on a bench by the harbour. Life could be worse than this, I think as we drink cool water and slurp on our peaches.

© Erica Johansson August 2006
erica.johan@gmail.com
Erica Johansson is a freelance writer from Sweden.  
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