01 January 08

Features

GET THE FLOCK OUTTA HERE

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Juan Manuel jumps from a three-metre high outcrop and down towards snapper Tim, who, seated below, chooses to shoot the manoeuvre with his eyes shut, since Juan’s spike misses his crotch by a matter of centimetres. Then both Dailos and Juan cantilever themselves to the top of the outcrop once more and leap off together, simultaneously.

Although Guille insists that there’s little competition between practitioners in salto del pastor, the boys seem to appreciate a little friendly rivalry. Despite injuring his arm some weeks earlier, Juan Manuel still manages to climb to the top of a five-metre cliff face, point out a cola bottle lid in the gully below and, after a couple of passes, lands square on, spearing his plastic target with the tip of his lance.

Finally, it’s my turn. I clamber to the top of a modest outcrop and, under Dailos and Juan Manuel’s tutelage, place my hands on the lance, grip tightly and launch off. The initial sensation is one of immediate regret – surely jumping from this height, in this terrain, wearing these shoes, will, at best, result in a sprained ankle? I’m wrong – the folk art works its magic, the stick breaks my fall and I make my final descent onto the island’s terrain with an escalator-like grace. Now it’s time to climb. As Juan Manuel explains, the trick here is to take a small jump, then lever yourself up with rest of the pole. Soon, I’m at the top of another outcrop and ready to launch off again

This strange combination of machismo athleticism and rural tradition isn’t so odd when you consider Fuerteventura’s recent history. Patricia explains that, a generation ago, the island was known as the farm of the Canaries. Once wind erosion had done away with many of the arable smallholdings and tourism had triumphed, Fuerteventura gained a reputation as a high-speed water sports destination – it hosts annual windsurfing and kitesurfing world cups – and an off-road motorcycle scrambling one.

Salto del pastor underwent a revival in the mid 1990s, and clubs formed across the islands. Nowadays locals like Dailos, Guille and Juan Manuel stage regular demonstrations in inland towns like Antigua and La Oliva.

While salto del pastor may have less of an agricultural application these days, animal husbandry still thrives. After our leap about the hillside, we follow the lads back to Juan Manuel’s goat farm, to meet the local goats, an exclusive breed to Fuerteventura.

The animals, the hillside farm and the jumping shepherds are a far cry from the twinkling, neon-lit tourist town we return to later in the day. But, as we dine on stewed kid goat – or cabrito – later that evening at the garish Fado Rock restaurant, I can still taste the delicate, countryside flavour of that other side of the island, and know that without the herding and the vaulting shepherds it would be a lot less tasty.