Look, the PSOE was waiting to see what the first measure Primero Canarias (Prica) would take against its people would be. They've gassed old Zúñiga like they gassed rats in the hotel and apartments he helped renovate in southern Gran Canaria: politely, quietly, and with the smell of institutional bleach. Javier Pérez Zúñiga, a sweet-tongued businessman with long-standing alliances with the PSOE, has been thrown overboard in the Cabildo's engine room. The captain's name is García Brink, and his crew, hardened by the tides of Prica, no longer need that old wolf of waste and tourism who for years knew how to navigate between cement and manure. They've changed their compass. And whoever doesn't row, off the boat.
All this stew, this thick broth of power and warm lava, is being stirred up in Tenerife, tightly in their ranks, by a brotherhood of false sages. They come with their PowerPoints and motivational quotes, believing that we're still in loincloths here, waiting for someone to explain what a briefing is while they stumble over the teleprompter. A caste of enlightened brothers-in-law from Tenerife who want to turn geothermal energy into storytelling.
Meanwhile, in Tenerife, things are getting serious. There, Disa, the old oil queen—it's unknown if it's going to change its name like Cepsa did with Moeve—is already playing in a different league. €36 million are falling like European manna from the offices of the MRR, via the Treasury, via Madrid, via Brussels. Coalición Canaria opens the door to them, and the island lines up as one: the Island Council, the volcanic institute, the Icelandic company, all in a row like a Nordic drum band. Vilaflor will be the first to be drilled, to feel the metallic sting of the energy transition. There are no stories there. There are drills, dates, and millions.
Gran Canaria, on the other hand, remains just a preamble. A joint venture, 51% private, with familiar names—Dando Drilling, Satocan, Pérez Moreno—and a map showing the hot subsoil between Telde, Agüimes, Valsequillo, and Tirajana. But that was on paper. Above ground, what we have is a dead calendar, a phantom drilling operation, and a change of seats. Zúñiga was fired, Satocan left, and the former Frepic executive, Pedro Justo Brito, from the company, was put in charge. It all stays in the family.
While on one side of the islands, they're sharpening their beaks to enter the land as surgeons of the future, on the other, they're drafting reports. And the cruelest part: Gran Canaria is asking Tenerife for help. Through Involcan, they're asking for advice. The same entity that's on the payroll of the people of Tenerife to work with Disa. It's as if the condemned man were calling the executioner to sharpen his blade.
And while all this is happening, no one from the island's PSOE says a word. Old Zúñiga is left without a presidency, without support, and without consolation. He leaves through the back door, like those who were once useful but no longer fit into the picture. The socialist silence resounds louder than a slammed door.
Geothermal energy, they say, is clean. But this story reeks of gunpowder, old coal, and buried interests. The heat from Tirajana's subsoil can provide energy, yes. But it also burns. And here, the energy transition will be another form of war: one fought in the boardrooms, in the corridors of the Island Council, in the cracks of the Treasury. The winner isn't the one who holds the lava. The winner is the one who holds the key. And for now, Tenerife holds it. Gran Canaria, meanwhile, continues to warm the bench. And in the south of the island, the town councils are staring at Mount Teide.
