The plaque at the feet of these guys - whom I call Tweedledum and Tweedledee - tells the typical tale of European colonization: ancient Canarians were doing quite well for themselves, with multiple islands, bustling villages, chieftains, and relative peace, when the Spanish arrived. The Spanish said we don't recognize your government, your religion, and for that matter, you. The Spanish installed their own overseers and made everyone Catholic (because that always solves everything...).
And what did Fuerteventura get out of the deal? Lots of pasty white Europeans riding bikes all over it.
Or worse, the systematic assault of historic statuary markers: a busload of Italians arrived while we were enjoying the view and every woman took a picture with a hand on either Tweedledum's or Tweedledee's crotch. It was a shockingly R-rated historical education experience.
Here is how I chose to greet them:
|YES! We made it to the top!|
As you can see above, I was riding with a bunch of giants today, both statue and living, so the guys decided I was obliged to take a picture with my baby-sized bike...which will NOT be the new name for my tri bike.
And then a little late afternoon soak to put a quite fine cap on the day: