I’m starting to really feel Proudhon.
When I was last here, we shared a cave between around ten of us. If a stranger had come, we would have undoubtedly invited them to join us round the fire. I returned to the cave this night, and found that the lock on the bars that were installed when the policia threw us out had been broken, and replaced. I stood and contemplated my history here, until presently I heard the gate open. “Buenas”, “Hola”, I said. “Vaya vaya, … mi cueva! …”. He wanted me out the barranco. He even claimed the neighbouring caves, the view maybe…
Previously, on this Canarian trip, I visited La Tomatera. The shared meals round the one table were gone. The kitchen was bare. One man ate a takeaway sandwich. Instead of a welcome note, the fridge said “Kill all hippies”. A room had a lock. I suspect most of the soft furnishings, the comfort, had gone behind it.
I feel like the island has lost its soul. The stage is still here but the actors gone. Of course it was the people who made what we had here before. It’s probably stupid to say the island has changed. It’s been here forever compared to us. The cave I’m writing in now was occupied before the Spanish came. The bars will break soon enough.
Property is theft.