1995 Gran Canaria: In the Jackal's Clutches

I walked by a soldier fixing a military vehicle that had stalled by the curb. He looked awfully busy, moving about in a very frenetic manner, uncharacteristic of problem-solvers in this tranquilo atmosphere.

Across the street I noticed another old building. In front of it stood a guard in a ceremonial dress uniform, complete with white helmet and polished spats. On the second floor balcony two stewards were tidying up the windows and railing. They too were dressed in bright white. I stood there for a while, admiring the architecture. In the middle of the city stands a well-maintained call from the past, a product of Spanish colonialism at its peak. Catching the guard's eye, I snapped a picture.

Realizing that my Apple QuickTake 100 was full, I sat down on a park bench a few meters away, pulled out my PowerBook and serial cable, and began to download the images you see here. In the background I heard a whistle or two, and the whapp-whapp of helicoptor blades.

In a minute or two I was done. I repacked my bag and stood up, looking at the small park behind me.

I turned back to the direction I was walking before I saw the soldier - still working on his dead truck - and continued very slowly on my way. Little did I know I was about to come face-to-face with two hired jackals of the state. (Okay, okay, so they were two very nice young men. Humor me, I've always wanted to write that "jackals" sentence.)

Before I'd gone twenty meters a Policia Local car pulled up and a very young patrol officer stepped out, hatless, and closed the two-meter gap to stand in front of me. He stood with a very relaxed stance and began to speak somewhat rapid Spanish to me. I interrupted him to explain that I was a tourist, and that my Spanish was rather rudimentary (at best), and while I was very happy to entertain his queries, I would certainly appreciate his speaking a bit more slowly.

I could see two very different things going on within him: on one hand he realized the silliness of trying to explain that it was illegal to take a photograph of this particular building, among all the others in an open city, especially in a city full of tourists, especially when there are no signs posted to that effect. On the other hand, he realized that he'd stepped out of the police car and confronted me at the wrong angle: the sun was at my back, requiring him to squint. He also realized that I towered at least 30 cm (1 foot) above him, weighed 20 kilos (44 pounds) more, and that he'd placed his "gun side" closest to me, a police no-no.

I smiled a wide smile - nothing more dangerous than a nervous someone with a sidearm - and motioned us to turn in a way that he'd no longer be blinded by the sun. He relaxed, and tried to explain that I'd stumbled upon an edificio militario, and that it was unlawful to photograph that linch-pin in the defense of the Canarian archipelego and the Spanish motherland. (Okay, so I'm embellishing just ever so slightly.)

I apologized profusely, explaining that I'd missed the well-posted signs (of which there were none) and missed the obvious military significance of the building (of which there seemed to be none). (In fact, it seemed like a military reception center for Very Important Persons, much like the U. S. Army's Roosevelt Island facility under the Washington Bridge in New York City, in which I'd spent some time.)

He noticed for the first time the QuickTake, which has a profile obviously unlike regular cameras. I showed him - while narrating in fractured technical Spanish - that it was a digital camera, and how it worked with a computer. By the time I finished he was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with me, peering at the PowerBook I'd laid on the park bench. He stood, looked at the PowerBook, looked at me, and said "Americano?"

"Si, soy de San Franthithco, California," I replied.

"Bueno," he said. "Por favor no mas?"

I promised him I'd take no more photos than I'd already had. He left, and I looked once again at the building. Now there were three guards standing out in front, standing in a crowded little group, watching from across the street my demonstration and the demeanor of the police officers. (I think they were a little dissapointed that it had gone so well; my being dragged off, kicking and screaming, would have suited their tastes better, I think.) I waved cheerfully. (Nothing like antagonizing people without sidearms.)

I looked up on the roof. I could make out a half-dozen antennae, all of which I could identify. (A result of being a amateur radio "ham" operator.) No protecting military capabilities there. I looked around at the park, at the groups of tourists and locals spending a sunny day. Not much to prevent someone intent on doing harm from casing the building with a small camera or even a Connectix QuickCam (for video). Not much protection there. I must admit that I have no idea what they're trying to do by preventing the tourist from taking a photograph of a building in the middle of a bustling city, but at least it made for an interesting conversation with a junior employee of the state.

Having navigated those diplomatic waters from hell, and surviving handily my interrogation by those state-hired jackals, I present to you the photograph the Spanish government doesn't want you to see.

Here's 1995 Gran Canaria: The Forbidden Photo.

Have you found errors nontrivial or marginal, factual, analytical and illogical, arithmetical, temporal, or even typographical? Please let me know; drop me email. Thanks!

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