10
Morning at the Cretan and the last of only three but there was a strong sense of being welcome there. A definite home from home; a place to find yourself and a place to come back to.
The Zorbus was ready and waited as they made their mushy farewells to fellow dwellers with love and best wishes but the adventure wouldn't wait. It pulled them westward on a road edged with turquoise water on one side and vivid with nature's blossoms on the other. Before long, the road turned down toward a sea village of ordinary homes, clean and white, with balconies and shutters and tiled roofs, and mad geraniums growing everywhere and not one car in sight and so they found the motherly, melodious, charming Myrtos village.
She sat only twenty minutes from Ierapetra and yet her ageing smile and comfortable poise were irresistible. They had been glimpsing this little lady on and off as she'd flitted in and out sight as they had rumbled around the bends up on the road and since there was no hurry whatever and with the sun blazing down, and singing, the telling of stories, the waving to passers by and having no need of any prompting, they simply surrendered and agreed on at least a couple of days there, swearing to spend their dwindling money carefully in this old Greek village by the sea.
The Zorbus parked just on the outskirts on a dirt track running alongside an orange grove near a Greek Orthodox church. The grove was tended by an admirable man of indiscernible age whose eyes shone and glistened as he waved and nodded to their signs and signals for somewhere to park. He looked magnificent in knee-length Cretan boots, a once-white shirt, black embroidered waist coat and the traditional black Sariki headscarf. He guided the van to a space near a plum tree and came over, beaming from beneath a bushy, white drooping moustache giving the Zorbus the once-over inside and out before slapping the door and holding up his thumb. Proudly, he led them to his patio, talking all the while in impenetrable Cretan Greek and waving his arms in invitation to look over his garden with its cabbage patch and surrounding roses, bougainvilleas and geranium reds. From the bottom of the garden four huge white rabbits silently studied all the goings on from a cage as the man gave the tour.
Along the track they found a little kafeneion with such a homely atmosphere they almost hesitated and blundered out again. There was the telly, radio, cassette player, family photographs and even family guests who looked as puzzled as they did but after a sincere welcome, exchanged smiles and nods the welcomed feeling grew. It dawned on them that this genuine kafeneion was simply just not 'tourista'. For dinner Kevin had spaghetti bolognaise and steaming beans and Ben had kebabs, chips, tzatziki, bread and lemonade. With every passing day their honeyed lemonade tasted more like nectar especially with a couple of rakis.
A new day with Kevin and Ben now swapping adventure stories with two young Australian girls, fellow tenants of the old gentleman. The girls were not too happy with the set-up there. 'The toilet is filthy,' they said, 'and the room is dusty.' It depends on whether you can cope with the real or prefer the plastic.
Sitting closer to North Africa than to Athens in the drowsy Myrtos square deep in its sunshine and early gentle noises, they sailed along on floating aromas of fresh ground coffee and the scent of honey, wine and mint. Then it was down to the beach a couple of miles along the coast, or maybe just a mile, with not another soul in sight. One small group of beach bunnies bathing in the sun as naked as could be encouraged Ben and Kevin to do the same. So it was off with the clothes and on with the snorkelling gear, a slice into the clear and silent sea and down amongst rusty hair-like, waving seaweed covering heads of old wise rocks.
For the first time in his life, Ben spent five hours naked at the beach and free from all inhibitions. They fed the remains of the lunch bread to the wildly free piranha lookalikes encircling them in the sea, watching them feasting within a definite pecking order according to size. The sun’s heat on Ben’s back made it impossible for him concentrate on his book. Out of the blue, he heard Kevin say, 'Mother of Zeus! Hello', with an uncommonly friendly lilt. Ben twisted his head round only to be astonished by an absolutely beautiful girl wandering by wearing nothing but a small pack on her back and a miniscule thong. Her svelte sun-bronzed body confidently drifting across the sands, gazing here and there at whatever caught her interest, until sadly, she faded from view beyond the distant rocks. Ben groaned, Kevin groaned and the beach groaned, stunned by her easy confidence and shining poise compared with the grit and rocks and that stinging, spiky heat.
At last the sun slowly lowered toward the horizon and with the ocean before them and shadows growing longer it was time to return to the van. On the way they ran into the two spoilt Aussies. They had found more acceptable lodgings, 'It's gotta balcony?' -
every sentence ending like a question. But they were kind enough to invite them for drinks one evening, and of course, they agreed to be there but without any intention of actually turning up.
Myrtos is simply and naturally attractive and perfectly situated with a long stretch of yellow beach you can admire as you gaze from extreme right to extreme left along the line of the breathtaking horizon. Sadly, it can only be a matter of time before the big operators realise its commercial potential and ruin it.
Scoured and shined and not knowing the time but ready for anything, Ben studied the grey, almost spherical stone he'd picked off the beach as a tangible souvenir of the ancient and ever true beach and smiled because, yes, of course, Eivald, it is all beautiful and there is really nothing to worry about at all.
Before dinner they strolled the lanes and passageways and discovered there were four main shops. There was a grocer seemingly in pain, a tall and thin pain who sells everything; there's a meat and wine shop selling everything; a general store selling everything run by a man they christened, 'Tomorrow, tomorrow'; and finally there's a supermarket selling everything.
They dropped in on George's and sat beneath some old lamps on the veranda facing the slippery black sea. It's waves inhaling and exhaling, it's tangy sea smell, it's sand, it's raggedy rocks, it's mediation; never before had Ben felt so at peace. They sat there in comfort at last. George brought their plates of sardinas cooked in flour, a plate of tomato salad and a basket of freshly baked bread with a flagon of local pink wine, a little gift of a raki each and kafes. He went inside and, possibly thinking they needed entertainment, he switched on his TV above the bar for the Greek Saturday night television so they could watch from the veranda through the open window.
Afterwards, Kevin thanked George as he cleared away the plates, 'We really like it here. It is a quiet place and the people are friendly. We think we'll stay another couple of days.'
'Well, we are only about four hundred people but we are very busy. You know, working all the time. If you are healthy we have the mountain. Some say there is a ruin, maybe Minoan Villa, somewhere on the upper slopes. It is not registered. You might find it if you climbed. Good exercise for strong young men, like you.'
They fell into a silence, thinking. George went inside. Gradually, they became surrounded by some of the local wildlife meaning at least nine crying and wailing cats and one other, half blind who fixed his good eye on Kevin who then tried to stare it out, totally underestimating the determination of a cat. Also, there arrived a large black dog who came and lay beneath the table saying nothing; and all this overlooking the calmest, stillest, darkest sea imaginable. It was all so slightly surreal.
And again, on the way home, in the dark dusty warm June-time night street, Ben paused transfixed, gazing for a second through the window of someone's home at four or five people seated round a table littered with all the usual after-dinner debris from what appeared to have been a sumptuous family dinner. Some open eavesdropping as one or two softly sang to the music of two young girls played on bouzouki and sweet violin. It was if he had emerged from a moment of blindness and stood dazed by the simple, tender intimacy beneath a clear and luminous sky. Yes, in Greece it is all about family.
And now it's early sunny Sunday glorious warm shiny tan toothpaste wet snotty nose lovely and glowing with Kevin taking snapshots as Ben sits completely naked at a table in the yard trying not to pose too obviously while writing a postcard to Doctor Ivan back in Cornwall. Earlier he had noticed a fallen rose, lying deep, deep red, on the track near the van and it seemed such a perfect signal from nature that he brought it inside and dropped it in a glass of water. Kevin looks at him as though he is going loopy but Ben thinks it is Kevin who has flipped. Of this he is sure because in the early mornings he's taken to lying on the ground and farting.
On their way home the previous evening, Kevin had casually suggested that next day might be a good day for some gentle mountaineering it being a Sunday, and therefore relatively quiet. Ben had no idea this meant but agreed anyway. Outside Ben began to consider just what they were letting themselves in for and yes, they were rested, and yes, fairly fit, sort of, but in no way would this climb be a pushover.
So after a breakfast of yoghurt and honey and coffee Kevin asks very casually, ‘Well Mr Tensing, are we ready?’ and with that Ben puts on his boots and backpack and off they go to stand behind the rabbit hutch and crane their necks to consider what they are about to tackle in the hope it might lead them to the rumored Minoan Villa.
The rockface looks quite jagged and broken so they take a more inviting, well- worn pathway across a smooth, more gradual elevation through a gorge. Goats laze on grass wherever they can find any amongst the rocks and stones. There might well have been a sign with, ‘Route for Beginners’ and yet they seem to trek forever up through twigs and dust along a dry old cracked and solid river bed, but really not too hard a climb. That part of the Dikti Range seems to be sliced by several dried up river beds but why they were so arid is a mystery. Leaving the lower levels, they come across another narrow track, more rugged as it climbs steeply through neglected copsed woodland, rough rocks slipping underfoot. There is a movement – brown – to their left. They turn to see a hawk flying in some trees. Bigger than a kestrel, smaller than a buzzard, brown- backed, agile; a sparrow hawk effortlessly navigating the narrow gaps between the trees, flying slowly.
Kevin breaks the silence, ‘She is hunting.’
She makes a tight circle towards them and then is away, back down the slopes in a wide arc over their tracks. Part of Ben flies off with her and then returns. They continue their climb.
Breathing the warm air deeply, after a short while they pause for breath and look around. They are at the opening of what appears to be about five acres of flowered meadow spreading like an enormous quilted blanket.
‘I think we must be above two hundred feet now and the going will become more steep as the sun climbs towards its zenith. Quite obviously we must watch every step we take,’ said Kevin Hilary in his mountaineering voice.
It was exhausting. Their imaginations were their only refuge. Plodding along up and up they kept close to the bluff until, completely unexpected, they almost crashed into a shambling shack of stones. Its roof was covered in polythene and the whole thing seemed to nestle against the body of rocks. Inside they could just make out some bodies, a group of sleeping hippies but hardly a Minoan villa. One of the hippies was snoring and because Kevin’s calves were complaining and the physical strain was growing they chose two staves from a bundle found outside the shack to help them edge their way and make little noise to avoid disturbing the alternative society.
A series of graded terraces fronted by low man-made walls acted as a kind of staircase and this eased the struggle quite considerably. Between the powdery porous rocks was evidence of rabbit and goat but no other sign of any wildlife at all, in fact, only two small black and red birds with high pitched tweets.
On and on, up and up, pushing and dragging themselves and sparing their breathing by not talking. Nearing the highest point they had to be careful where they placed their feet on the increasingly crumbly rock until, without warning, they were there. Nothing above but sky. They had arrived at the crest. Kevin reckoned on at least two thousand feet and all around an unbroken truly magnificent spectacle, but still no villa. Whichever way they turned they looked down over miles and miles, and mountains and mountains, and some peaked with snow. Way below, a distant road could be seen snaking through villages of sprinkled buildings and pastel coloured chapels, higher on and up into the distance, curling round valleys and groves. Toy cars, a barking dog, cocks-a-doodling, goats a-bleating, cattle lowing, all down there below them. Over in the far west somewhere lay an ambition, the Samaria Gorge and between stood Mount Idi and at its base, the Nidha plateau. According to Fodor, there was a path from there leading to the celebrated Idean cave, supposedly the birthplace of the god of gods, Mighty Zeus but Ben thought it unlikely they would travel that far this time, but maybe next. Before them lay the range of Mount Dikti itself, with its Dikteon cave, another rival for the nativity of Zeus.
Kevin took a photo of them as evidence of their triumph standing with the silvery, shimmering Liviko Pelagos Sea to their backs and Africa just over the horizon out of sight. Any next step would be downward and since the villa was still a slight possibility, that meant the west side.
Climbing down was as difficult as going up because of the threat of sliding and landing on jutting rocks. Kevin even tried going down backwards but not knowing where you were going was a little too nutty. The track led them right into a thorn thicket and no matter how carefully they moved, the pin-sharp points pricked and tore at their legs. They scratched through their clothes into their bodies and arms and hands drawing stinging lines of blood as though they'd been whipped and lashed in the brambly wood.
At about a thousand feet they came down upon a stack of huge boulders spectacularly encrusted with sea shells. They were staggered as to how that could be.
‘Perhaps they were either thrown there by the violent volcanic eruption on Thira or piled high as a result of the crashing of continental plates,’ suggested Ben.
‘Well, they’re definitely not ice deposits,’ Kevin grinned.
They exchanged glances then laughed like school boys. Their imaginations had them spinning. They stopped pretending to be archaeologists and instead behaved like children, stroking the stones, staring more and more closely at the phenomena in their hands and chuckling, lost for words. Ben began to feel amongst the moss and foliage to see what he could find. Something fell away into his hand. It was an isolated shell, solid with ancient sand. With great reverence, carefully he wrapped it in leaves and placed in his bag as treasure.
Further down, much nearer ground level they met yet another arid river. Its boulders had pine trees growing right up through them making a perfumed arbour they could just about creep through if they crawled on all fours, until at last they reached the beach and in one crazy naked moment jumped deep into the water. The water shocked and felt cold at first but then Mother nature soothed them and warmed them and before long they were spread-eagled and fading fast with only the sound of the waves to break the afternoon's sultry silence. The last thing on Ben’s mind was his bafflement of not seeing a single flower on the mountainside and his indifference to there being no rumored Minoan villa. The experience had been outstanding and then he was gone.
They woke ravenously hungry. Prodding old deadhead Kevin several times before he returned from some distant dreamland, he rumbled on about a trapped nerve and not having any feelings in his fingertips. His hands he shook like mad until the tingling pins and needles told him some feeling was slowly returning and with that he was able to raise his stinging body to a sitting position.
Greedily, they devoured cheese, tomato and bread glugging it down with warmed mineral water. The water comes in one and a half lit re plastic bottles and with care they can be opened without breaking the seal so just before they leave they planned on filling one with raki in an attempt to smuggle it back to Blighty. Also they discovered almost all beach people seem to have rejected the false modesty bit you wrap round your dangly bits and instead they enjoy the sheer sense of freedom only experienced and enjoyed by beaching naked, and no, it’s not just for babies.
Back into Myrtos for revitalising lemonades and an indulgent wallow in their sense of achievement, they sat at their favorite table in the one winding street. George delivered their drinks, ‘So, my friends, you climb?’
‘Yes, we climbed,’ anticipating praise. ‘But no villa I’m afraid.’
‘Pah. Some say villa, some say no villa. No problem. You climbed,’ then he walked off smiling to himself.
Several hours later and still they were exhausted. There was a chill now and with the lowering of the warmth the dusk came to Mirtos.
No one about.
‘I can’t believe we did that. Are we still alive?’
Kevin laughed, ‘Let’s do it again tomorrow. And take some flower seeds.’
Out of the darkness loomed a figure. It was their gentleman gardening host. He stomped up to their table in his boots, pausing and promptly placing a large bunch of grapes on their table. With a grunt, he grinned and strolled off along the sands into the gathering twilight.
‘Mother of Zeus! That’s great. I didn’t expect an award for our achievement today,’ said Ben, ‘ but it makes it all worth while.’
By the end of their first week they shared a general optimism, a buoyancy from having no wants, minimal outlay and an airy sense of freedom from living on the outside. Ben’s head was a little sore due to the lack of personal cover but he felt fit and proper with only the usual niggle from the small of his back after its rigorous exercise over the last few days. Inside, he sensed an approaching calm perhaps from drifting without direction. During the night he’d woken up parched and was half way through gulping down a glass of water when there came some grit on his tongue with faintest of light rose notes and with it.
‘Hello to you too.’
The time had come to make a move and maybe head for the Samaria Gorge over towards the west coast. But if they really wanted to include it on their travels they would have to make a route decision. Either take a chance and travel west along the south coast, fully aware that Ben’s map was out of date so there’d be no guarantee the road marked was still reliable, or on the other hand go via Iraklion and be more sure.
It didn't take long to calculate that the surest and safest way would be via the Iraklion Road, along the northern coast road as far as Chania before taking the next road south into the Lefka Ori Mountains and the Omalos plateau of the Gorge - a long, mad haul but the surest route for definite. If they did take the more direct route via the stark and craggy Oros Dikti range where we were flogged the day before, it could be a bit awkward if the road just petered out up in the mountains.
They were deep in thought when Kevin suggested, ‘Look, since we’re in no hurry we might as well relax and enjoy the scenery along the surest routes and just enjoy the sights even if it does take longer. It’s up to us when and why we pull up. Are you with me?’
‘Let’s cut the rope.’
The following sunrise they decided to make a break for it. They would go north even though it would be like travelling along three sides of an oblong instead of along the base line but at least they’d feel safe and sure. Within the hour they had shook hands with their kindly landlord, paid the rent and were under way, windows open, music a- playing, them singing along, and the Zorbus a-buzzing.
They had been going for about an hour and beginning a slow climb on a deserted truck road through a narrow gorge when there came a point where a rock fall had littered chunks of stone debris all over the road, and lying right in the middle, blocking their path, was a boulder as big as a kitchen stove.
‘How do we know there’ll be no more?’ asked Ben.
Kevin grimaced, ‘We don’t.’ The Zorbus slowed to better negotiate the rocks and was humming away at having navigated the rubble with such great competence when the van drove straight into a huge squadron of bees.
‘Close your window Kevin!’ screeched Ben, winding up his own while shaking his head and madly waving hands in frenzy, ‘What the hell are they doing here clogging up a deserted road in the middle of nowhere?’
The drone grew louder as the bees surrounded The Zorbus. It was as though the Villa was being scrutinised by a squadron of Hells Angels hell-bent on a mission. Perhaps in search of their queen. Slowly the noise softened as the camper eased through the cloud and then they could see the reason for the bees. The Zorbus had invaded a huge honey bee farm, an urban jungle of countless hives settled all over the side of the higher slopes. She continued to inch ahead with countless tiny prospecting passengers riding on her windows contentedly serenading themselves until eventually they swarmed away, abandoning the van in one huge bumble.
‘Crikey! Am I glad that’s over. Wow!’
‘Me too. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so agitated.’
‘Bees are my moths.’
‘Oh, I see. I don’t mind bees.’
‘I don’t mind moths.’
‘Want to swop?’
‘OW!’ A high pitched howl from Ben told the world he was in pain. Kevin ducked and turned towards him just in time to see a stowaway bee drop stone dead onto the floor of the van. The Zorbus pulled over and Kevin Nightingale quickly squeezed out the barb and poison sack from Ben’s neck then warily pick up the tiny hairy body and lay it on the side of the road.
They stood either side of the tiny worker, looking down at him, heads bowed, in respectful silence. Now up until that moment, they had seen absolutely no other traffic at all, and then along comes a solitary bus carrying a lone passenger. It was a Greek Orthodox priest in long grey beard and stovepipe hat who stared at them, transfixed in wonder, unable to understand just what kind of ceremony was taking place. Kevin and Ben looked over at the priest and nodded. He inclined his head and nodded in acknowledgement. Kevin passed Ben the life-saving, thirst-quenching water bottle. Ben took a glug and passed it back to him. Kevin took a glug. Distracted by the high-pitched tweets of high-flying birds directly above, they raised their faces to the skies to see a rather large lammergeyer making lazy circles on the thermals whilst being harassed by a flock of swifts defending their nests in the trees below. Kevin and Ben looked back at the bus just as the priest raised his right hand and blessed them. The bus drove on.
Another sip of water, a smile toward the motherly mountain watching over them and away they went. Ben slowly realised that the summit fading away in his rear view mirror was the mountain of their Sunday climb and now they were covering the very distant road they'd seen from its crest.
And still no sign of other vehicles. Five weeks of moving through this natural environment and they had arrived at certain conclusions about the alternative. For instance, they began to realise how spiritless, draining and pre-packaged city life is, society's smoke and mirrors. How we are encouraged to lose all sense of reality behind constant preoccupation and reference to the past or in aspirations for the future when neither the past nor the future have any true existence. There is only now.
It wasn't long before the dirt tracks became roads again and the time came to leave behind the splendid and staggering mountains and villages of hard-working women, bearded and moustachioed mountain men and their goats, bees and simple truths. At a village called Martha the Zorbus took the main right turn and made for Hersonissos and the city of Iraklion.
Iraklion was waiting in ambush with city traffic and it was thickening. They groaned and cursed, and out of sheer frustration at the next right turn Ben left it all behind and took the first off-road track that he came to, unfortunately it led straight into the midst of a typical farmyard of goats, ducks, dogs, pigs and an innocent farmer who silently stared at the Villa in sheer confusion as Ben tried to explain and apologise while weakly hiding his embarrassment. A three-point turn, a wave and he was gone, up the same track and out on to the main road again. This time he passed a garage workshop and decided to ask for directions.
Beneath the roller shutters in the doorway, five or six men were hunched over a game of Backgammon, muttering, smoking and drinking from several bottles of Raki. Ben excused himself, and in very bad Greek tried to explain that they were looking for the main road to Chania. The men stood completely stony-faced, as though they had never heard a foreign language before. Ben said, 'Chania, parakalo?' The men exchanged glances, one of them muttered, then one of them giggled then they twittered like a nest of birds then one of them wheezed. Sniggering took over and spread until one chap, who Kevin took to be the head mechanic said, 'Surr, you are lost', and with this they nudged, they stumbled and they spluttered, suppressing their amusement like young boys in the church choir until one of them apologised and offered drinks.
It would have been good to join them in their Sunday afternoon get-together but there was a long road ahead, yet all their suppressed merriment was infectious and took the edge off painful confusion. The mechanic apologised again, coughed and gave precise directions pointing down a track he promised would take them away from the Knossos Maze and straight onto the road for Chania.
Ben's foot had hardly pressed the pedal before Kevin yelled, 'Wait!' Ben braked.
'Listen, why don't we go down to Agia Galini instead of driving on into the evening? It's only about two hours away.'
'Or less,' Ben said.
'We could be at the coast, relaxing, swimming, and tackling the gorge whenever we're good and ready. After all, there's no rush. Madam Samaria has been waiting for us since Crete first rose out of the sea. I'm fairly sure she won't mind waiting another couple of days.'
At this Ben leaned out of the window and shouted to the men, 'Please, Mires?' They all nodded and smiled, 'Yes, Mires. Yes. Odomos 97!' and pointed in the direction they were heading already.
There they were, on one of those mornings, fresh from the oven, flying along in the Zorbus, its door handles too hot to....well, anyway, they were very hot, and with as much breeze flying through its louvered windows as nature would allow. Route 97 is a pretty good route although a little dull, but it takes you through the most abundant agricultural land on the island, which explains why the hamlets you pass all seem rather large. After only about twenty minutes south of the capital the van was surrounded by acres and acres of vineyards and olive groves and elegant eucalyptus and laurel trees stretching right across the Messara plain.
Scorching along the road, giving it some real welly, they had settled in to the last part of their trek to the south coast of Crete when something made them change their plans. Just visible amongst the branches of overhanging trees was a sign announcing, The Dafnes Winery. They pulled over onto the side of the road. On the eve of sailing from Brindisi, they had completely drained their portable wine supply so as soon as The Dafnes Grape Pressing Plant loomed into consciousness, they jumped out, locked the van and off they hiked along the sticky asphalt track trailing towards the doorway of large wooden storage building.
About three metres inside the gate entrance, their mouths tightly closed against clouds of tiny unnamed flying things, they came face to jowl with two hysterical dogs snarling and barking and flashing their gums, straining against their chains and looking like they might be just be about to uproot the sturdy old olive trees to which they were attached. Ben and Kevin inched carefully by then marched up the endless crunchy track to the buildings.
Kevin grunted, 'Not happy.'
Ben tried to cheer him. 'This is Crete for real, Kevin. No adverts, no tourist trash – just an unpretentious hard-working farm.'
'I'm sure you're right, but why do I feel like a stunt man in Deliverance?'
They began tip-toeing in deafening silence like a couple of burglars. The dogs were way behind. Against the black hole of the doorway to a derelict out-house, there materialised a shaggy scrubbing brush moustache on a face screwed up with suspicion and disbelief. Ben almost jumped out of his skin.
They stopped, speechless, before a man, thick-set, sinewy and naked to the waist. The Man fixed them with the concentrated gaze of Poseidon as slowly he drew off his cap, dipped it in the water bucket he was carrying, mopped his brow with it, rubbing it all over his sweaty skin with a suspicious eye. He put the wet cap back on his head and all without shifting his gaze or uttering a sound. He was the same colour as the soil. Compared to him, Ben and Kevin were anaemic aliens.
'Kalimera,' Ben ventured. 'Forgive me, but I wondered, I mean my friend wondered, if it might be possible for you to er, sell us a flagon of wine, please?'
Another grunt from Kevin.
The Man was giving them the once-over and seemed to ignore the question. He shook his head and made a circling gesture with his right hand, 'But how did you get here? Did you walk? Where are your bags?'
'No, no. We came in the van parked further down, off the road,' said Ben pointing to the campervan sitting on the bend in shimmering tarmac amongst the trees. The Man shielded his eyes from the glare and peered off towards at the van. No sound but his mouth framed the words, Vil…la....Zor…bus.
'Aahh!