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In Which I Perform A Colonic Investigation

November 1, 2007 by Mike

Punta Urbano

Pity the Portuguese.

From Porto Lisbon to Sines to Sagres, I've followed, noted, recorded and enjoyed their celebration of a supreme heritage of maritime exploration.

But it has to be said.. Henry the Navigator, Vasco da Gama, Ferdinand Magellan... your boys took a HELL of a beating.

Portugal extended the edges of the known world down into the Atlantic and down the coast of Africa, rounded the Cape, opened routes to the Indies, circumnavigated the world.. but it was Spain that snuck in The Big One, the single discovery that changed the world more completely than any other - the Americas.

Huelva, which turns out on finally reaching it to be an astonishingly ugly conglomoration of wretched factories, belching power stations, gas pipes, smoking chimneys, railway lines and warehouses, is also adjacent to the spot where Columbus hatched his plans to set off west in search of a route to the east and from where his expeditionary force of three tiny boats set off on 3rd August 1492.

Hence my Colinic investigation - the Colon in question being Cristóbal Colón -- what the Spanish call Columbus.

Columbus arrived here having failed to convince the Portuguese to bankroll his plans. At the Rabida monastery, overlooking the mouth of the Rio Tinto, he convinced certain clerics that he might have a point. They in turn had the ear of Spain's monarchs, Ferdinand and Isabella, they gave him the green light and the rest is history.

Colombus was Genoese, probably. Spain as a single entity was still a freshly-minted, spangly and new concept, finally (but also firstly) united by the marriage of Ferdy and Izzy 23 years before: most of the crew were from Huelva and the surrounding towns and villages. Would they have considered themselves *Spanish*?

Spain certainly claims them now. Rabida today features an Ibero-American Foundation, an International University, and a small museum recreating life in 15th century Huelva, 15th century 'America' and onboard a 15th century boat. There's a 21st century audio-visual presentation (what in my day would have been called a 'film', but that doesn't sound glitzy enough) and -- my highlight -- replicas of the Santa Maria, Pinta and Nina.

They're teeny. Park a small coachload of tourists on the deck of the Santa Maria for a guided tour - itself half as large again as the other boats -- and it's full. The tour doesn't last long, and it's eked out by including the time it takes for the elderly Spanish visitors to climb the steps to the poop deck and down again.

The three replica boats only had four, small cannons between them. There were more replica cooking pots. I couldn't believe that but checked with a guide and yes, it seems that's historically accurate. "This was a voyage of exploration, not of conquest," she reminded me.

True, but if I was setting off for the edge of the world I'd have wanted to be tooled up to take on all those monsters and dragons and old men blowing huge winds out of their mouths across the seas.

It was only later that Europe decided to take its weapons of mass destruction across the Atlantic.

Today, some of the countries of Latin America are questioning the idea that 1497 and all that should be celebrated at all. Leaders have come to power who pride themselves on their indigenous heritage. President Chavez would blush to see the huge monument that a previous government of Venezuela presented to the Rabida Monastery in gratitude for being 'discovered'.

I retreated to the campsite for the afternoon. Chores, beach, toasting an absurdly orange sunset with a glass of house red, relaxed and warm and lazily Andalusian. Why did those sailors bother to listen to that Colon chappy in the first place, when thry could have sat back and enjoyed their afternoons likewise?

I've been reading a travel book that isn't so very far removed in concept from my trip (though fundamentally different -- and a journey that others have taken and written about before). The Pillars Of Hercules by Paul Theroux tells the story of his journey by bus, train, ferry and cruise-ship around the shores of the Mediterranean from Gibraltar to Morocco.

His is a learned, literary journey. Just in his opening riff, he manages to quote Dr Johnson, Euripides, Joyce, Tolstoy -- and a man he meets on an aeroplane called Mr Wong.

That's most decidedly not my style, not least because I confess I haven't read any of those writers, nor have I met Mr Wong. Nevertheless, as a little homage to the great man, here's Theroux relaxing in Mallorca:

"Spanish pornography baffled me," he admits. "It seemed beyond sex, most of it. It involved children and dogs and torture... One film I saw concerned a man, a woman and a donkey. Another, one of the strangest I have ever seen, concerned a Moroccan boy of about twelve or thirteen, and a very bewildered goat."

What??? I can't let that go. No hand free to find the remote control, Mr Theroux? The goat was bewildered.. what about the child? Oh, and heaven forfend that it should have been a *European child*. Is that what you're implying, Mr Theroux?

Like I said, most decidedly not my style.

I checked: the book was published in 1995. Twelve years ago. It's inconceivable that anybody could write those words today without provoking protest, controversy and a visit from the police.. thank goodness.

Beside the Seaside

In Which I Perform A Colonic Investigation

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