14
Dead on six Kevin and Ben were woken by Zak, the Samaria driver and guide, knocking on their door giving them thirty minutes to shower and get to the bus in the harbour area. He'd to come all the way to the Zorbus because they were first on the list and already he was late. They followed him and climbed on board taking places one behind the other. Their idea being that if the bus was not full they'd have two seats each and be able to spread out. But when Amanda and Michael were picked up at their hotel along with half a dozen noisy Germans, it looked as though they'd purposely taken those seats in order to suggest she sat next to Ben because of their closeness in the past, but that was furthest from his mind – sort of.
Ben had had a restless night but his tiredness vaporised as the bus climbed the rounds on the first part of their adventure through a very clear and crispy golden day. He couldn't help but be astonished each time he stopped to think that after five years of being deeply intense lovers followed by another fourteen of not even catching sight each other, they had chosen to have a break at the same time, on the same Greek island, staying in the same remote village and travelling on the same bus on the same day trip as each other. Astonished and surprised and glad.
Amanda's accent had become a little more mannered and affected but she was her usual friendly self and almost looked exactly as she did when they first met. She told Ben he didn't look much different, except slimmer and a little greyer in the beard. He blew her a kiss and she giggled her giggle. Her eyes a-shining and she looking lovely as ever.
The view was entrancing from up on the high roads right down to the valleys and farms. Ben imagined Icarus and his Dad, Daedulus. It gave him quite a strange sensation. In the distance, along the bay of Kolpos Almiron, could be seen the fortress town of Rethymnon stretching along the coast from where eventually they would take to the west and head for Chania but just as the bus wound down the steep hill, the tyre on the wheel right below Ben's seat exploded with such a loudness it made them all jump and some even scream. Cautiously, it crept down and down into Rethymnon as Zak calmly explained it would take about twenty minutes to replace but refreshments would be available in the town square kafeneia.
Kevin suggested the right hand side of the square because it had the emptiest kafeneion and so there they ordered their coffee rakis well before the rest arrived. Ben liked to pour his raki into his coffee for a really warming drink.
A German girl on her lonesome holiday sat next to him and it wasn't long before they were chatting. Her name was Suzanna and she preferred to holiday alone, making her own decisions so long as, like Ben, she didn't have to travel alone for too long. After their coffees he suggested a brief visit to the cathedral because from his chair he had been watching the flickering candles and hear mass being celebrated, unusually, in Latin. Once through the high wooden doorway, he bought a couple of unusual long sandalwood candles hoping they would have the same smell of the incense that was wafting thickly around the porch. With a tilt of her head, Suzanna drew his attention towards the waiting bus.
On safe new tyres they pressed on down the highway past bushes and shrubs and trees of purple and white flowers, probably begonias since the guide informed them the area was called Begonia.
Although they were travelling along a fairly busy arterial road, one surrounded by luscious woods and meadows, it was a little strange at first to see fewer and fewer hotels or hoardings, but then the reason became clear when up popped several huge military billboards forbidding the taking of photographs. Watchful armed guards stood posted at the entrance to the navy bases they passed on the outskirts of Chania and other evidence of the military presence could be seen on the road stretching all the way toward the hugely indifferent and unflinching White Mountains.
This is the largest mountain range in Crete, finely laced with narrow windings and twistings overlooking sheer drops and deep chasms and ravines, exhilarating and frightening on downward curling hairpin bends and all depending totally on the skill of their white knight, Zak. Secretly, Ben was glad the old tyre blew when it did and where it did. Few people actually live in those isolated mountains now although they did pass one man loping through a pasture with gun cradled in his arms and dog at his heel.
Forward and upward to the magnificent and spectacular Omalos Plateau which would be their starting point at the opening of the gorge. It is breathtaking. They were surrounded by the White Mountains and the Lefka Ori whose peaks seem to touch the sky at seven and a quarter thousand feet and being the second most notoriously high mountain of Crete, they felt honoured to be part of its presence.
It is thought the plateau might have once been a lake but over time it dried and eventually became a grazing ground used by shepherds for their flocks of sheep and goats. Yet not only were they brave herders but some also produced delicious cheeses and grew grain and potatoes there. Then it became deserted and the few shepherds who do go there during the milder months abandon the area in winter because it is far too cold for livestock. In older times, the plateau of Omalos was the shelter for the locals, and base for the rebels during the two and a half centuries of Turkish occupation and during all other wars against invaders.
It was almost time, but before they began their decent down through the gorge, it was important to stop for breakfast on this impressive plain. Kevin and Ben made their usual breakfast of yoghurt and honey and water, leaving their fellow journeyers to enjoy the more sumptuous treats of the Shepherd's Taverna while they sat overlooking the awesome gorge. Right on the rim and contrasting against the bank of green, Ben’s gaze was drawn to a small burst of yellow only to be agog and delighted to realise it was a rare flowering bee orchid, something he’d first heard of in his father’s stories and until them something he’d known only in his own imagination.
The previous night's dinner at Cleo's was as hearty as ever with Goulash, Greek salad, Moussaka, Tzatziki, bread and raki to give sturdy bellies for the wracking tracking laying before them in the downward climb of five hours and twenty kilometres through woodland and over rivers trickling through the gorge.
Out of the blue Lucy fell into a coughing fit. Ben offered her water and gave her honey to sip. She put her head on his shoulder and thanked him for always taking care of her and how much she liked him calling her his little sister because it made Bruno laugh. She was twenty-three and had been with Bruno for ten years and so there, on the plateau high in the sky over Crete, Kevin and Ben raised their glasses and wished them a long and healthy future together arm in arm.
Five minutes later they began a stumbling downward descent through the split across the island. The very first and most overwhelming sensation was the dense perfume from the pine and wild sage that was to stay with them all day. Another was the constant gurgling from tumbling mountain streams spurting from beneath huge boulders almost appearing out of nowhere, so absolutely crystalline and glittering and icy and pure and chucklingly happy. A whole host of creatures came to see. Wild dogs, rabbits, wasps, goats, sheep, wild cats and butterflies all there on the roof of Crete but the only fliers were buzzards and wide winged black carrion crows gliding in the sky crowing high above the crags. Behind, across the gorge from where they stood, ran the massive cliff face of craggy rock, towering as far as they could see and hardly changed since prehistoric times while before them, the eerie sight of people in long strings gingerly threading their way in single file down steep paths through the trees and cross-hatching the slopes over the stepping stones, up scree paths and dodging dislodged rocks and gasping at the fearful wonder and admiration of it all - and down, down and down towards the coast.
Beautiful, anonymous trees, some truly muscular, huge, growing up out of the sheer rock, some having split their boulders apart by gradual increase in bulk or maybe from swaying leverage after storms; the awesome authority of nature.
Then no more wild life to be seen apart from the occasional chaffinch but hosts of tiny purple and violet rock flowers, dandelion and a strange five-petalled white mountain flower, rather like a snowdrop, hugging dolomite stones and dust - ah, who knows this ancient place? Gradually the blissful silence of nature returns as people stand without words, tightlipped, gazing in wonder at all this ordinary co-existence and natural order. Many walkers clambered down the pathways careful not to stumble, talking loudly, checking the time while others sat deep in thought, possibly comparing their lives in concrete and manufactured fantasy with this tribute to life and nature.
Sitting by a fountain, Kevin and Ben broke for lunch at another deserted outpost half way through the gorge and took off shoes and socks to refresh them in the cool stone air. Bread, sardines, feta, tomatoes, cake and water made their lunch beneath a sign in English and Greek explaining how the Samaria Gorge was once a refuge for the Cretan resistance under persecution from the occupying German forces during the Second World War. More than half of those on the trek were German.
After lunch, onward but much easier now with more waterfalls and startlingly clear gushing green onto pale fawn rocks splashed deep brown by the wetness and forward through leafy green areas fertile with sensuous life. The narrowest part of the gorge is three metres wide and an artist's easel. The lasting impression for Ben was of how his smell, taste - because you taste the dust – sight, touch and hearing were each thoroughly seduced and stimulated.
At the end of the gorge they were welcomed by a group of ladies dressed in traditional Greek costume selling refreshments to the weary and thirsty hikers. Unfortunately, the refreshments took the shape of garishly coloured cans containing world-famous sugary drinks and as if to highlight this tragedy, there were no receptacles for empty containers which meant pull-rings and bright, semiluminous metal refuse littered the beach, the trees, bushes and ditches after all the enchanting wonder, here comes civilization to smack you in the mouth.
The moment they reached the shore they stripped and fell into the pounding waves, to be buffeted and pummeled and pushed and picked up and rolled in the luxuriant sea like so much flotsam and jetsam. The sea was merciless and threw them about and it didn't take long until, exhausted, they saw their chance and ran, literally dragging their legs, through the foam and out of the water before she could drag them back. Rubbed dry and dressed and shouting over to the awestruck Amanda and Michael they staggered into the cafe for Amstel beer which was warm but thirst quenching and sooner than soon the boat was there and they were more than ready, warm and below decks, waiting for the off.
From the afterdeck, Ben watched the evening make its way across the gurgling waters of their darkening wake. A gentle, friendly nudge and Amanda was there beside him, smiling shyly, 'He's asleep.'
She began by saying how sorry she was for the way in which they parted and how she realised it must have been so painful for him. If only she knew. How living in London had hardened her, and how recently she had decided she wanted babies and to make things less serious. Ben told her he was too busy. Well, they laughed and talked and talked and laughed and even enjoyed some moments of silence until at one moment they almost cried and by the time the ferry pulled in to the twinkling harbour at Chora Sfakia the good feeling between them was there again, leaving the pain in the past and the beginning of a new peace with each other in the now.
The friendly bus nosed its way home through the early darkening of the White Mountains and twisted its way back to Vrises, on to Rethymnon and further down home to Agia Galini where it was almost nine pm.
A long day, a full outdoor day, an unsettling, surprising and emotional day. Into Galini, onto the safe harbour quay with its cafes and smiling peoples, the tempting food smells tweaking and pulling at their sleeves, but first to put the precious candles safely into the van along with the bag which had supplied and supported Ben and Kevin throughout the trip.
The day before, Cleo had promised to have a delicious fish soup waiting for when they returned. 'Such a soup, I give to the gods!', so their mouths were watering in anticipation but the gods can be greedy and by the time they sat down there was only lentil soup left with plates of stuffed aubergine, ratatouille, bread, apple pie and a little to drink. Nevertheless, they stayed at Cleo's till the early hours and Amanda and Michael joined them, pleasantly left speechless at the high quality of the food and not at all expensive. Lucy and Bruno turned up and squashed in around the table and Cleo produced a large jug of raki, 'With me!' Ben moved to sit with Amanda since posh Michael was pissed and singing Beatle's songs to Manchester Mike. Even Bruno was legless and, as usual, Lucy was full of fun. She passed around another jug which was really full of water but her joke backfired because everyone loves the freshness of the water after the raki. Ben talked for ages to Amanda, settling and drawing further into their selves. Everybody joined in the singing and all were relaxed and happy.
On the way back to the Villa in the darkness Kevin almost fell over a bag lying on the ground. In it was an empty passport holder and wallet, a pair of flippers, a magazine and two large pictures of Greece. At the bottom was a spirit stove wrapped in a shirt. Such treasures probably forgotten on the roof of a vehicle before it cut the ropa and stormed off out of town.
Dayspring, and a voice still half asleep spoke from within Kevin's sleeping bag, 'Today might be the day we walk up to your Melambes.'
'You are joking, aren't you?' whined Ben from within his, 'It will kill us after yesterday and last night.'
At around ten, they stomped along the main truck route towards Rethymnon before taking the turn-off up the mountain slopes. Steadily climbing the occasionally overgrown, but mostly excellent track cutting through fantastic rock and bush colours and freshness of early summer for three solid hours alarmed only by trucks, little vans, private cars, donkeys, flocks of sheep, and some blood stains and wool on the road, possibly from a slaughtered goat. Lizards, the colour of Golden Delicious Apples, scurried through the shrubbery, as bright as lemons and fat like German Bratwurst sausages. Terrapins and ravens, buzzards and eagles, tree frogs, cicadas and olive groves, vineyards, twisted ancient tree trunks, snakes squashed by traffic, the hedgehog platters and all and all under the relentless, boiling, dehydrating sun.
After what seemed like days, their thighs and calves absolutely knackered from the ordeal and seemingly getting nowhere, Kevin said something they were both thinking, 'Maybe we're on the wrong road. Forget it! Let's turn back.'
But they topped one more rise and then there, down below, they could clearly see their route curling and in the distance a junction with a selection of traffic signs. It pulled them forward and with every step the sun became the assassin. To their relief, at the crossroads was the sign for Melambes and Kevin cheered, flushed with a renewed optimism, so out came their thumbs and in no time an open-topped truck, driven by a blond, sun-toasted Englishman, gave them a ride as far as the turn off to Aghia Kavala, his destination. Kevin told him they were looking for work and the Englishman told them the Hotel Kavala there wanted a chef, and to ask for Nikos.
At long last they arrived at Melambes. It was almost one pm. Weak from exhaustion and completely desiccated, Ben's first thought was for an ice cold beer although he nodded enthusiastically when Bacchus suggested a more sensible lemonade and salad.
'Sit. Sit. I know not you coming,' smiled the lady in the doorway.
So they sat outside the entrance from the street in the shade. It was quite likely Ben had sat with Bee at this very table three years before. He remembered how Bee had serenaded a group of village elders on his guitar and wondered if they could be the ones now sitting inside, gathered for the traditional daily mutterings of ideas, chitchat and gossip; each day, a little lifetime. Just like the gang of old men in Mona Di Bari outside the old warehouse where he and Kevin had parked The Villa.
Melambes was dead asleep in the mid-day swelter. All was white sunshine and glare. No shadows. No tourists, yet in the still and silent heat was the faint riff of a bouzouki as the elders sat and listened. It was as though they had wandered into a rural religious ceremony and didn't quite feel at home.
They were just about to eat when, from the depths of another kafeneion across the street, a man appeared and stopped within the shade. His dyed black hair was oiled slick and parted in the centre. Across his top lip grew a thin moustache, very carefully trimmed. Dressed in white shirt and cream trousers he wore white kid shoes. He was the epitome of twenties suavity, of swagger. Ben recognised his elegance. He was a mangas. The manges were men who formed a sub-culture on the fringe of society. Many of them were actually members of the underworld.
All at once Ben was back, several years earlier, in a small kafeneion on the slopes of Mount Profitas Ilias on the island of Karpathos, a night when he'd enjoyed the unpretentious and easy company of handsome women and shepherds, their complexions the colour and texture of chamois leather. They had filled his soul with a music they knew as Rembetika and for the first time in his life he had felt utterly complete.
Rembetika came from the subculture evolved in the hash dens of Piraeus, Athens and Thessaloniki. It was the music of thieves, pickpockets and those known as manges, the cool guys. These men lived on the edge of society and haunted the hash dens of Piraeus. Rembetika was the sorrowful music of the underworld with its drugs and dealers and daggers, and a rembetis did not exactly sing, he threw his sorrow out of his body.
Back then, that night on the mountain was the night he had surrendered to the music. Eyes closed, he had listened to its plaintive melodies and angry clashes of Arabic, Turkish and Slavic themes until it actually fired his blood and took him further and deeper than anything he had felt before or since. And those shepherds had shared their drink, the home-made, illegal Raki with him, a complete stranger. They warned him to be careful, it had been known to induce blindness. But Ben only saw eyes which sparkled.
This was heavy Greece, and he wanted to eat it.
The mangas stepped from the coolness of the taverna and carefully spat a ball of saliva into the gutter before resuming his place within the darkness.
Ben and Kevin at once decided not to explore the town because they were both too tired to move. Instead they devoured the salad and gulped down two more lemonades before feeling the strength they needed to return down to Galini. But still, they felt ill at ease and sensed the need for the coast and more usual tourist stuff. In truth, they weren't the intrepid pioneers they pretended to be.
When they felt ready, they stood and aimed their bodies down the twisting, dizzy mountain surfaces which would eventually take them back to Agia Galini. Even in the heat of the Cretan afternoon it felt much better to be on the move, cavorting and bouncing down the mountain, cutting the occasional elbow bend by jumping down into a dusty paddock or bounding across the stone scrub and rutted clay to the next piece of track. They were children running away from school, downing through the olive groves and damp, deep tresses of their vines watched only by ants and lizards, into woods with crickets drowning their shouts amongst bushy pine trees tall and green as elms. On and on, down and down round bends disregarding perilous drops into the dazzling blue. But for all the frantic energy they were relieved to come across a donkey from time to time.
Ben liked donkeys. They are peaceful, undemanding creatures who reach their ultimate high when they are standing stock-still and dozing. Occasionally they flick their tales to disperse the ubiquitous flies accumulating on their haunches, but only occasionally. He loved their placid demeanour and chunky shape but their eyes said it all. They had a kind of knowledge and if only they would let us in on it, we humans might find our way again. Perhaps he might return as a donkey next time.
A boy appeared from a field carrying a long pole probably used for shaking olives from the trees. It is the custom in Crete at the birth of a male child, and the primary obligation of the father, to plant an olive tree guaranteeing the lad food, an income and shelter throughout his life. When the boy dies as a man, the tree is cut down and buried horizontally where it had stood for the best part of his life. Now, very confidently, the boy before them pointed to a short cut he knew would take them straight into the town and they thanked him.
Sure enough, an hour later and with the last drip of energy they stepped off the red dusty soil onto the first bit of gravelly track that would lead them into town.
Kevin was triumphantly happy, 'Ben! My very first mountain. I feel rather chuffed.'
Slowly they padded into the square for more lemonade and after easing aching bodies into big comfy overstuffed wicker chairs under huge motherly brollies each devoured a rewarding cob of chocolate cake at the first coffee house they came to. All they wanted to do was sleep.
Eventually, Ben dragged himself into the toualetta to freshen up. There was an English girl in there changing her contact lenses and he was happy just to watch a bit of applied technology in contrast to the raw exposure of the last six or seven hours high on the slopes because after so long in the wild, Kevin and Ben were almost feral.
They made it back to the camping like a couple of bedraggled convicts finally free of the chain gang, and flopped into their cell. The afternoon flies and mosquitoes were still resisting the fly papers but Ben could pay no heed. He took his injured body over to
the shower and when the water was just warm enough, stood limply beneath the spray, head slumped and hands pressed against the wall for support as the calming cascade diluted all the stress and strain. He stood and stared, mesmerised by the little insects, twigs, grit and leaves that swirled around his feet before whirlpooling down the drain. The sea held the antidote.
The first slice into the wetness filled him with renewed gusto. A little swimming and rolling, some floating in the swell as it rocked him in its embrace, the salty drops on his nose and eyelashes blurred by the sun into a million swirling galaxies; achievement and satisfaction.
Their life riding thermals was cheerful again. Ben had never lived so long and so freely on his own two feet. At mid-afternoon the hills had been green and stone, in the evening they turned yellow and the sea glittered darkly. The settlement of Matala appeared faintly along the distant coast in a milk-white mist. Dusk returned bringing home the boats and lights came on in homes around the town. They grilled thick chops and boiled rice and noisily and happily devoured dinner with local red wine from the camp shop. Limbs ached and muscles tightened, an early night was essential. And later, lying in his bag, Ben made a decision. He would find a job.
They needed the money and he needed the space. There'd been a sense of tension growing again and it had to be kept in check. Work might offer relief and since they'd been hanging round the Neon for what seemed like an age, and although Ben hadn't actually lied, he had puffed up his experience and knowledge of the culinary arts enough to make himself seem like an irreplaceable asset in a town full of restaurants.
One busy evening a couple of days later, right out of the blue Theo asked, 'Hey, you say you can cook?'
'Er, yes, but not in Greek.' said Ben.
Theo laughed, remembering what Ben had said about Cleo's, 'Good. Now I won't have to unteach you. I have to go to Athens next week. Want to take over for a couple of weeks till my chef returns?'
He showed Ben round his kitchen, telling him to forget everything he'd ever been taught before, and over the next six days proceeded to re-educate him in the art of cooking for crowds - and in Greek! He put a hand on each of Ben's shoulders, looked him in the eyes, his waxed moustache rigidly pointing east and west, and announced with his customary doleful expression, 'Listen to me, Ben. You might not make much money here but at least I don't charge for training.'
He not only sharpened Ben's humour, but also told Ben he could fly.
He couldn't wait to tell Kevin his news and when he trotted into the bar Ben was all smiles, 'Good news, Kevin!'
'Er, how did you find out?'
'Find out what?'
'I have got myself a job! AND I'm my own boss!' He pranced about, laughed a lot, made faces and generally lost the plot before ordering a couple of drinks.
'I have a job too - with Theo! Only for a couple of weeks but it'll be good.'
'Well done, Ben. Brilliant. Mine's with Andonis, the guy with the sun loungers down on the beach. He reckons he'll make more money fishing which is why he needs someone to collect the monies from the sun worshippers and watch his sun beds. Andonis even gave me training. It went like this, 'You charge three times. Once for each bed plus one charge for the umbrella. Not just one cover-all charge, OK? It's the only way I can make a profit. Understand?' Hilarious! And all those lovely ladies. Problem is, early starts. Which means I've got to calm right down with the drinking. Can't wait, dear chum. Can't wait.'