I switched off the CB, gently closed the metal door and began the hike back to Las Casitas feeling pretty pleased with myself. Things might not be looking up, but at least they weren’t looking quite so down anymore.
At least for now.
57%
I awoke with a sore head after taking a few too many beers with supper. Playa Blanca had welcomed me back with open arms…
The hotel hadn’t changed, not that I had expected it to, and I had a long hot bath to soak away the day’s ride before heading into town to get some dinner. Don’t ask me why I didn’t just eat at the hotel, but I felt a sense of achievement after venturing deep into the unknown bowels of Lanzarote and finding what I did, and I wanted to treat myself.
I had a few glasses of rose at the Bee Restaurant (the mirror was still smashed but there was nothing behind it except a big wall), a spread of beef carpaccio which I found in the fridge in the kitchen, and an enormous plate of blancmange and fruit salad. I hadn’t eaten enough vitamins since my arrival here and I felt maybe I should start eating a bit more healthily as well as getting some cycling exercise. Then I cancelled it all out by drinking five or six strong beers in the Harp Bar while playing bass guitar and attempting to bash the half drum kit with a set of wooden spoons. I think I must have smoked about a pack and a half of Luckies as well.
The next morning after a shower and a couple of double espressos I headed into town again to seek out my recording device. It was pretty simple in the end. There was a store called Royal Electronics which sold not just Walkmans but actual dictation gadgets as well. I checked a few over and chose one with an auto-repeat function, then I grabbed a loudspeaker and wire adaptor and a huge pack of batteries and I was ready to rock ‘n’ roll.
I packed food for a few days since I knew I could be away that long. I ditched the half bottle of brandy and replaced it with two fresh ones, grabbed the crowbar I’d regretted not bringing yesterday and stuffed everything inside some spanking new panniers I nicked from a bike shop. Now I wouldn’t have to wear the damn rucksack on my back apart from when on the hike up to the transmitting station.
The sun was rising steadily as I set off, and an hour later I was back at the station with my bounty. It was as I had left it; nothing or no-one had attempted to sabotage my radio plan. I had almost expected to find the place torn apart, wires hanging from every device, all rendered useless by the invisible force that kept me on the island.
Maybe I was free to go where I wanted. All this time I had been thinking I was being kept prisoner here, but nothing had stopped me leaving except stale fuel. If I relied on my own manual ability instead of technology, as I had with the bike, then why couldn’t I get off this island? Papillon did it, so why couldn’t I? That gave rise to another train of thought. If I could lash together enough coconuts could I float myself back to civilisation? I almost laughed out loud at the thought. I already had the feeling, nay the certainty, that the nearest island, Fuerteventura, was as deserted as Lanzarote, but what if it wasn’t? I had been assuming, while wallowing in self-pity, that it must be. Focus on the radio for now, I told myself. Think organic thoughts…
The CB powered into life as I switched the solar array on. There were a few white clouds in the sky but I doubted they would have much impact on the KW output even if they did obscure direct sunlight on the panels. The sun was so strong that there might be a slight dip in output but nothing that was going to stop forward progression here.
I loaded the speakers with batteries and recorded the same message I had spoken yesterday with a few more details into the digital recording device. It sounded clear as a bell when I played it back. I set it to loop and placed the speaker in front of the CB microphone. I tuned the CB to channel 19 and hit play, resting a small volcanic stone on the microphone so it was constantly depressed and transmitting.
The drawback was of course that while I was transmitting I wasn’t able to receive any incoming response. That was the conceit of the two-way radio. So my plan was to broadcast solidly for half-hour stints, then opened up the channel and allow a ten-minute response period before beginning with the broadcast again. Anyone listening would soon realise the pattern, and as long as they were patient they would be able to hit me back after a maximum of a half-hour wait.
I had told myself that I wasn’t leaving the station without getting a response of some sort. If that meant waiting weeks (or until my percentage hit zero) then so be it. I had nothing better to do, after all. The realist in me knew that I could only take so much rejection, and I gave myself three days maximum before I went mad and decided to try a new line of attack. That’s why I had subconsciously packed food and water for a limited amount of time.
I had also resolved to stay at the station just in case someone was unable to respond to the broadcast and instead set out to try and find me. So in my message I tried to describe in as much detail as possible the location of the transmitting station.
It would mean a few uncomfortable nights in the open air, but I had my brandy and my blanket. So much for luxury I told myself.
I settled in for a long day at the office.
The CB finally failed around fifteen minutes after the sun dipped below the horizon, and it was surprising how quickly darkness came on after that. It had been one heck of a long day in the saddle, the message going on repeat for around 10 hours straight. There had been no response in the 10-minute allowance periods, but I didn’t want to lengthen these as I needed to keep broadcasting for the maximum amount of time. In fact, the next day I decided I was going to reduce the response periods to 10 minutes after each hour of broadcasting, rather than each half hour. The more time the message was on air the more change I had of it being picked up.
There wasn’t enough room to stretch out in the station itself, so I clambered up onto the flat roof and sat there for a while smoking Luckies and sipping brandy and admiring the view. I could clearly see Playa Blanca from up here, and wondered what was going down in the Harp Bar tonight. Maybe the place came to life as soon as I left. The film crew who had to spend day and night secluded in hidden camera locations packed up their gear and got on the hard stuff. Maybe they posted a junior crew member up at the boundary roundabout to keep an eye out just in case I returned unexpected…
I reflected on how extraordinary my surroundings were. Just over two weeks ago I was commuting three hours daily to a crappy job in central London. Now I was sitting on a remote radio outpost not far off the coast of Africa, with not a single person within miles, jostling for bed space with a solar panel array.
After a few more swigs of brandy I wrapped the blanket around me and went to sleep under the stars.
54%
Dawn woke me after a patchy night’s sleep. It felt like around 6am. As 54% faded from my vision I lay and looked at the sky for a while hoping to see an airliner trail or a flock of seagulls, but there was nothing but bright azure above. I was pretty stiff from lying on the hard felt roof and it took me a few minutes of stretching before I could make the jump down to get the day’s work going.
The sun wasn’t above the hilltop yet so there wasn’t enough power to operate the CB. I would have to wait, probably an hour or so. I longed for a decent coffee and kicked myself for not bringing a camping stove. Instead I ate some bread, olives and a salami sausage which looked like it would last until the end of time. If I hadn’t consumed it this sausage would have been here for whoever came along after me.