12
Even as we cut engines and drifted around the headland and into the bay of Diafani, it was clear this was no tourist centre. It was real - a working village.
A break-water, the quayside, two churches, village houses and fishing boats. No sandy beaches just small pebbled bays providing a clear sea and I could see no bars or tavernas on any of the beaches. A small, open-all-hours, traditional general store and two small, occasionally open shops seemed to provide most of the basics for the villagers. No stress, no fuss, no pollution. Even before I stepped ashore, I knew it was my type of place.
Captain Dimitri shook my hand as I thanked him for the safe crossing of the Styx. He bowed with great humility and smiled though I wasn't convinced he had any idea what I was talking about. Most of the passengers were herded onto an old bus whereas my bit of the queue, and by that I mean myself and an older man carrying a huge cabbage, was cramped inside the rear of a much abused and dented van which was to be our very own shuttle up the mountain to Sophia. The others wasted no time in pushing on ahead, leaving us quite alone. The old man nodded and said something that would have been hard to understand even if he had teeth in his gums. I nodded and smiled back. He looked as uncomfortable as I felt as he rubbed his grey stubble. We were just touching knees, waiting for someone to come and break the tension so we could carry on to Sophia.
Quite without warning, in jumped the driver and off we went, crunching up and up the mountain road towards our mountaintop retreat. We lost the view, the higher we went, hidden by outcrops and boulders. I tried not to stare, but the old man looked scared, and fiddled with the leaves of his dinner. After some minutes, the view disappeared for good. We were enveloped in a sudden mist which in turn enshrouded what appeared to be an eerie forest of dead and burned out trees. It was the sense of life being extinguished that inflamed my imagination and the deeper we went the more I found myself searching the gloom for signs of Cerberus, the three-headed dog; he who guards the entrance to the Kingdom of Hades. We might well have been in the Mourning Fields where the spirits roam in everlasting punishment. Between taking off his cap, wiping the brim and replacing the sprig of basil behind his ear, the old man fingered his worry beads and prayed. As we grew closer to the top, he grew more calm and even entertained us with some humming and fine wailing whilst looking through the rear windows. His smile did nothing to reassure me of our safety in the mist. Sometimes I'd look up and he'd be looking me over, inspecting everything I was wearing, and if our eyes met he'd nod in approval. So, apart from the fetid smell from the man, or the cabbage, and my head banging on the roof, I can't say I've ever felt more grounded. I leaned towards the driver, 'I've heard the village has a special charm. Is that true?'
With a voice hoarse from too many cruel cigarettes, he rasped over the growl of the engine as we headed up the mountain, 'Please, if there is one thing unique to this particular island and something no other Hellenic island can offer, it is this very village. These traditional settlements in the mountains have resisted all influence from the outside world to this day. Dorini and Sophia are my villages. I am Sophian. I was born here.' He chose his words with care and spoke with the slight smile and nods of one who knows. His free arm hung from the cab, like an indicator. 'Now, let me tell you about old Sophia. She was built on the mountain by people from the coast seeking refuge from ravaging pirates and so, it is isolated from the rest of the island. We are proud of our valuable traditions. You know, we don't even speak the standard Modern Greek. We still have the ancient Dorian dialect. We value peace above everything so we have everything we need. Our feet and legs take us wherever we want to go and at night a million million stars just break our hearts. We are a matriarchal society so women have always been the centre of our world. We still make beautiful decorations on the outside of the houses and flowers grow everywhere like in days long ago. And, when a wife dies, all her possessions pass to her sister,' he lowered his voice, 'including the husband.'
He offered me a cigarette pack then passed me his lighter. I needed neither but by then he was in full flow, 'Sophia is unspoiled because the village was cut off from the whole world until about thirty years ago when a dirt road was made wider, connecting the north to the south of the island and this explains why time seems to have stopped for Sophia and all its traditions. The village is an oddity, a living museum. A living museum yes, but one that is dying. Look at me! I used to teach English there and now I drive this damned van.'
From time to time he licked the tips of his fingers like a teacher cleaning away the chalk. 'There is no proper school and the sick have to wait for the helicopter. Before the dirt road 2000 people lived on the mountain, now there are just 400. Sophia needs help. Life is very difficult but when the new road connects with the airport, maybe things will get better.' He looked doubtful. My heart sank. 'We used to be content with our lot up on the mountain but the television advertises another way of life so our children leave to find it.'
I tried to rearrange the packages and parcels into a nest where I could lie with my discomfort but it soon became clear I should have skipped the cheese pie and lemonade because before long my stomach was trying to settle on whether or not to surprise me by throwing up over American parcels, Australian parcels or the fragrant cabbage.
The way was narrow and the windows were opaque. Our driver looked fierce and didn't say another word but kept cursing the icons on the dashboard. And then, as often happens when you come to a turning, the mist was gone and revealed a most beautiful, serene, mountain top village - Sophia.