_{Over thirty one years after the event, I can’t fathom what I was thinking. On honeymoon, sitting around the pool, when I saw some smoke in the sky and I got up off of my sun lounger, got dressed and went off to find the fire. What is even more unfathomable and potentially unbelievable is that from there I ended up getting involved in fighting the fire. This is covered extensively in my book London Firefighter and having visited Gran Canaria this past week (January 2024) I decided to revisit the story and the scene of the battle.}

October 1992

 I don’t know what made me look up from my sun bed, but looking out across the pool I noticed a large cloud of smoke coming up from somewhere in the middle distance. I should have known better, but, I was soon up in the room peering off the balcony for the source of the smoke. It appeared to be coming from somewhere across the town of Maspalomas where we were staying. I fully intended to go back down to carry on enjoying my break, but before you could say “Massey Shaw”, I was dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and with camera in hand I was off to find my fire.

I briefly explained this to Joanne, but having known me for a good few years now, she just rolled her eyes in resignation and carried on sun bathing. Outside I got into a taxi, and pointing to the smoke, I told the driver the only words I could think of “fuego” and “bomberos.” He soon had me on the way to the fire. I paid the driver off on arrival and made my way through the crowd. The object of the excitement was a large shopping complex called ‘CITA’ . It was slightly raised from the road with two entrances where steps led up half a floor to the upper level shops, and down some stairs to the remaining shops in the basement. It was from these basement entrances that two ominous clouds of black smoke rose into the clear blue sky.

The scene looking into the basement from the main entrance to the shopping centre.

I looked at the local fire brigade presence. There were only three fire engines and about a dozen firefighters, some clad only in shirt sleeves at an incident that I estimated would have attracted 8 pumps back in London. The two newer fire engines were pumping water through hoses that were being fed into the basement. The third, an ancient thing with a large water tank on the back, appeared to be pumping water into the other two. All of a sudden, the water ran out. An older man who appeared to be helping, disconnected the hoses and stood back as the old machine pulled back out of the road, obviously to get more water.

I decided to try to help in any way I could and approached the old man.

“Er, excuse me,” I said as I held up my LFB ID card.

“Me bombero…London, English bombero.”

“Oh, I see, OK,” came the English reply in a German accent.

Relieved, I went on. “Oh do you speak English?” I asked.

“Yes, a little,” replied the older man.

“I am a fireman in London, can I help?”

“I am not sure, I live near here, I am a former German firefighter,” came the reply.

Feeling confident, I decided to try a few very obvious strategies.

“Is there a hydrant for the water?”

The man looked at me strangely.

“A water hydrant to get water from the ground,” I added.

“I understand what you mean,” said the German, “but there are none, this is why they are bringing water for the pumpers.”

I now realised why he gave me a strange look; I, a mere spring chicken to this German firefighting veteran, should have known better than to question or insult his, or the local firefighters intelligence.

We were soon approached by a fireman in shirt sleeves. He appeared to have some sort of shoulder marking so I took him for an officer. I went through the London bombero routine again, this time with some added translation from the German, probably along the lines of “This silly English kid is a fireman and wants to help, he thinks he is Red Adare. Just tell him to go and play with the traffic.”

The Spanish officer looked me up and down and shrugged walking off towards the fire, he had better things to do than entertain me I guess. Feeling more confident, I now approached the fire and again held up my ID and said “bombero” to a group of police officers standing on the pavement. Walking up the stairs I could see over onto the basement. Something was going good down there, I reckoned a couple of shops at least, judging by the smoke and size of the shops at the top. Once up the stairs, I saw some firemen with a limp hose talking to some police, they were peering over a ledge that looked into the basement, and with that another thick plume of black smoke escaped, adding to those blocking out the sky. Once again, I did the bombero routine and also took a few photographs.

Back in the street all of the action seemed to have come to a halt and the fire and smoke conditions did not appear to be improving. Soon the older fire engine returned and I humped a bit of hose to help the guys get water back on. The crews soon disappeared back into the fire, my officer friend got a BA set on and went to the other entrance on his own, following a line of hose into the basement.

The day after the fire, looking down into the basement where I followed the fire officer.

I followed him at a distance and looked on in horror as he, just in his shirtsleeves went into the fire alone. He was breaking every principal of firefighter safety I had ever been taught. Not only was he wearing no protection from the heat and flames, but was alone, who would know if he got into difficulty? With my heart racing and firefighting spirit aroused, I then decided it would be my job to see that he was at least accounted for if anything happened, as I at least knew his whereabouts. I looked up the street for any spare firefighters; there was one running between the two pumps ensuring they were both pumping an adequate supply of water, and the old German fireman helping where he could. To make matters worse, I saw that one of the policemen was now donning a BA set. This had a strange effect on me for some crazy reason, me, an English fireman who could speak no Spanish, with no understanding of the way the Spanish operated or the dangers inside the fire. I threw away all remaining common sense and decided that I too was going to get into a BA set and join in the firefighting. To this day, I look back on this and as each year passes, I shudder in embarrassment and shock at my stupidity.

Still, the dye was cast, and handing my camera to the German to hold, I grabbed a BA set. After a quick look to figure out how it worked, it wasn’t too dissimilar to the type we used in London, I was soon under air, noting that there was about 150 bars of air in the set, giving me around 30 minutes of air if I took it easy. Stupefied even then by my actions, I ran along the pavement to the other entrance and followed the hose down. Entering the smoke, I saw a deep red glow in front of me. I was only just inside the wide mall area and by getting low on the floor I could see the legs of the Spanish officer in front of me. All of a sudden, we were firefighters in a fire, language meant nothing, you can’t understand a lot in a BA set at the best of times, let alone with the noise of the fire and the sound of water from the hose. I tapped him on the back and indicated that I was going to hang just behind him near the entrance to keep an eye on him. He instantly understood and nodded as if it was the most natural thing in the world and I was part of his crew.

From what I could gather, from what was in front of me, he was holding the fire from spreading along the corridor while a couple of other crews, the ones in full fire kit it turns out, were right inside the job putting out the heart of the fire, which appeared to be in a shop on our left. By this time, looking at the debris at my feet, that I could see from what little light was coming down the stairwell, I guessed that the fire had started in a shop and had come out into the corridor, and fed on the cladding and fittings outside of the shop. The situation was not as bad as I had originally thought and as the minutes ticked by things began to improve dramatically.

The Spanish officer shut his jet down and started to back out. He gave me a thumbs up and I crawled back into fresh air. Coming up the stairs I noticed that the smoke was much lighter and greyer in colour. I don’t know how they had done it, but these Spanish fireman had managed to contain the fire and it was now under control. I took off the BA set at the back of the pump and the Spanish officer gave me a hug around the shoulder and a hearty pat saying something to me in Spanish.

Another view from the street outside during a lull in firefighting when the water tanker was being refilled.

I helped unplug the hose as the old pump drove away again to refill. I decided that I had ultimately been foolish in my decision to enter the fire, but nevertheless, felt I had a job to do in covering the back of the man who had gone in alone. From the perspective of a fireman in a large city fire brigade this was unheard of, but I suppose on an island with only limited resources, it was a fairly common practice when the chips were down. As I went to leave, the Spanish officer called me over, and with some translation from the German, he indicated that I should visit them at the fire station the next day, and the German explained where in the town it was.

Back at the hotel, covered in dirt and soot from the fire. Stupid Boy!!!

The following day, we had hired a small Suzuki jeep, I decided to revisit the CITA shopping centre, to have a proper look at what had happened. Joanne was even less impressed seeing the damage, after following me down into the dank dark basement where the fire had been. After this, we drove to see the Firefighters where we had a bit of lunch with them and exchanged pleasantries in broken Spanish/English before carrying on with our day.

The day after the fire in the basement corridors.

January 2024.

We usually try to get away on holiday in the Winter, sometimes to the Canary Islands. Fuerteventura and Lanzarote have been regulars, but we hadn’t been back to Gran Canaria since the honeymoon. Whilst booking somewhere last November, a trip back to Gran Canaria seemed to be the logical choice as the hotels in Maspalomas appeared to be very well appointed. So on January 20th we were on our way.

January 2024, 31 years later touring the island after revisiting the scene of my adventure.

On the Wednesday of the week away, we decided to hire a car to explore the island. Picking the car up near the hotel in Maspalomas, the first entry into the sat nav on the car was to revisit Playa del Ingles, just across the infamous sand dunes from Maspalomas, to visit the hotel we stayed in and of course visit the CITA shopping centre. It’s a strange place now, essentially still the same but decorated to look like some gothic castle type structure with an even stranger set of occupants nestled among the cafe’s bars and souvenir shops. In fact the shops where the fire occurred back in 1992 are no longer used as a Bavarian Bar, but instead s strip club…. but whatever.

The strangely decorated CITA shopping centre today.

We had a wander around and I let the memories come flooding back, we walked the upper levels and basement corridor, as I tried to retrace my steps. After a few minutes, my curiosity satisfied, and before Joanne’s polite indulgence into my trip down memory was tested, we got on our way and now it can all be filed away under youthful enthusiasm and the invincibility that comes from being 24 years old.

The basement entrance where I followed the Fire Officer as it is today.

Long since refurbished, the basement corridor where I crawled in BA behind the Fire Officer.