7
'To visit Greece is to return to the source' - Lord Byron
'Once can be too much but twice is never enough' - Tony Brown
The island of Corfu lay before them off the starboard bow, seemingly suspended in a faint mist only inches above the Ionian Sea. Its temples, buildings, mountains and lushness resting in the air of the dawning light. They sat on deck in the stillness, mesmerised by the mirage hovering between the blue and the shimmering blue, sensing the growing warmth and the clear change of pace.
Years before Ben had visited this island on his first introduction to Greece. It was just after his second divorce; a trying time when he needed to stand back and find perspective, in fact, to find himself again. It was Kevin who suggested he join him and a few of their friends for a short holiday and it seemed the perfect solution. There were four from Liverpool and four from Falmouth, eight in all on a visit which proved to be the foundation of a perfect friendship between himself and the islands and every year of his adult life since, he has returned.
Yes, and now they were back within the sights and sounds of Greece, and they could hardly wait to step ashore but it would be yet another hour before they'd be set free and although extremely hungry, they decided to prolong the agony and wait for the real taverna experience. Maybe perhaps find a Veedub dealer; one who sold replacements for broken quarter lights but, as they say in this land, 'Siga-siga'- slowly, slowly.
''Igoumenitsa is a picturesque, small town with lots of green; the dominating forest can be easily seen as your ferry approaches the harbour. Soft, sandy, beaches with crystal clear blue waters, and green mountains surround the town.' Oh, forget it! I'm fed up with reading out this crap. It's probably out of date by now anyway. We should gather our own opinions from our own experiences and write our own guide, what say ye, Sokrates?'
The locals were charming, young and old. Those they greeted gave friendly nods, and the 'Kalimera' they whispered made Ben realise how much the Greeks and their filikotis, their friendliness, meant to him. This unique aspect of the Greek character remains in their nature even though their country has been invaded countless times over the centuries, even with millions of tourists visiting every year to investigate every centimetre of their quaintness, and even though they have been through a thoroughly shattering financial crisis, yet rarely do we realise the true meaning of Greekness.
Whenever people ask for impressions of Greece and its culture, they usually expect talk of Greece being 'the cradle of Western civilization', or 'the land where ancient philosophers were born', of how 'the Greek language has survived throughout the centuries' and how 'democracy was first created in Greece as a political system'. They expect to chatter about its remarkable archaeological sites, interesting museums, and its mythology. The land of art, architecture, revolutionary thinking, the place where the human race first invented the computer and so on. But to some, Greece is very much more. It is a breathtaking landscape with the sea as its backdrop; it is home to fascinating archaeological sites alongside amber sandy beaches; home to ancient monuments hidden next to an indigo sea. Cobbled streets created in Byzantine times. And to the Greeks, culture means celebrating your country's traditions. Culture is reading poems by world famous Greek poets in the Athens metro on your way to work. But specifically the phrase, Greek Culture, simply means owning the awareness of being unique. That is - of being Greek.
From the tannoy, they could hear the unmistakeably golden voice of Leonard Cohen. He was singing something they hadn't heard before. It was intimate, slow, almost whispered and quite sad. They listened in a respectful silence to every word and just when they thought it was over, his golden voice droned, 'Thanks for the song, Mr. Knight'. It woke them with a start, taking them so completely by surprise that their laughter exploded across the water and echoed round the sunny quayside. Years later they discovered the song was written by a Mr. Frederick Knight and it is called 'Be for Real'. After that, whenever he'd had a good time, Kevin would mutter, 'Thanks for the song, Mr. Knight', knowing only Ben was in on the joke.
Ben had a friend who, as a wise five-year-old, once wandered into the kitchen of his father's restaurant where Ben was chef and watched him preparing soup. After a while he asked if he could have a glass of milk.
'Unfortunately Harry, there's not enough to spare but if you hand over your glass, we'll see what we can do.'
'I haven't got a glass,' said Harry, and from behind his back he produced his little sister's feeding bottle.
Before there was any gentle teasing from Ben, Harry cut in with, 'Look, sometimes I use a glass and sometimes I use this. It just depends how life comes.'
Which more or less sums up the Greek philosophy of life. It is the essence of what motivates you that is significant, how you contain it is more or less irrelevant, or as they say on the waterfront in Liverpool, 'Don't limit the outcome by being attached to the container'.
At last the Zorbus cruised away from the port along a sunny flowered street of shops and coloured houses. Their main intention was to find a favourable place to breakfast but quirky Igoumenitsa kept them at bay and it wasn't long before they came to the edge of town a little deflated. They were just about to drive away when eagle-eyed Kevin spotted a garage and VW dealer. The Zorbus put on her brakes and Kevin waved to the mechanic while Ben waited behind the wheel.
The mechanic called them over and after a little miming and smiling, they received a polite lecture on VWs, 'Your VW quarter lights have a real right or left curve in accordance with their intended position and are not interchangeable, do you understand. I'm sorry. But for the camper, if we have no part, we will make one. Ha!'
They trooped off into the parts shed for a thorough rummage amongst old rusty bits and pieces for a replacement quarter light but after several minutes of no luck they decided to give up. Then just as they were climbing back aboard the bus, once again Kevin filled Ben with rapt amazement when he pointed to the derelict shell of a decaying VW in a neighbouring field, up to its knees in oily old soil and shrubbery.
After carefully picking their way through a tangle of undergrowth they climbed inside to search amongst the cobwebs, leaves and rust. Things did not look good. At least the van was a distant elderly relative of the Zorbus - a Bay Camper. The engine had disappeared, there were no seats, no table or cupboards, all the wiring had been torn out and most of the glass was missing. The only thing left and all in one piece was one solitary quarter light and was exactly the one prescribed. The gods were with them.
With permission from the amiable mechanic to remove the triangle of glass from the van, Kevin collected the Swiss Army knife from the Zorbus and set to on the solitary quarter light by slicing away at the stubborn rubber seal until it came free. Ben left him to it and spent the time wandering through a nearby overgrown lemon and lime grove looking for treasure and anything else of interest amongst the mounds and boulders and grizzly old trees. He could hardly believe his eyes when he actually stubbed his sandaled toe the slim head of a Doric column. It was just lying there, unprotected, were it belonged, most likely as it had been for a couple of thousand years at least. After all, not everyone sees rubble as archaeology.
They agreed on a price for the glass and as a parting discount he told them of a taverna just a few metres along the road. He said it belonged to his brother who would also have the necessary tools with which they could replace the glass. Off they went.
So with eyes closed, the better to savour the flavours, Kevin and Ben tucked into their first Greek salad and beers, resting on the old wooden balcony of the family taverna in the shade of a mulberry tree straggled by mangling vines, whilst their new-found brother slotted the quarter light into place for next to nothing.
Over the fields and out to sea the good ship Cefalonian Sky could be seen under way while they sat and waved it off. Along with the flavours of a memorable lunch, the afternoon dream became so summery they decided not to push on after all but to find a beach and to spend the rest of the day beside a sea of deepest blue, beneath a sun of pure shining comfort.
They thanked the taverna-owner brother, promising to return, and took off down a narrow track leading to the sea through dreamy platanakia and olive trees and wild flowers. It may have been the scent, the sounds, the mood or everything all at once but for whatever reason Ben had the vaguest sense that he had been there before, perhaps just a sense of familiarity. All was good. A little shop nearby was selling local wine, and to all appearances was used mainly by the field workers perhaps on their way home at evening when they have parked their tools and machines. Above some benches they saw a date- plum tree, known to the ancients as the fruit of the gods, and below several chickens scratching for nibbles. A trio of sheep and one young donkey and a little house of wood and mud, old and doddery, lay dozing in the silent sun. The blue sea stroked a beach flat and pine trees filled the stillness with their scent and lent shadows to the sand. A deceitful yellow grass, sharp, stretched from the shore to the olive trees. They wanted no more.
They knew they had found Nirvana.
And the waters were surprisingly warm, so swimmingly calming that falling asleep in the sun was irresistible. One thing that had a slightly joyless effect on Ben was the sight of scores of dead beached caterpillars that had fallen from trees along the coast and washed up on the tide line.
Twittering squadrons of swifts soared and whizzed under the cliffs. A donkey amongst the trees peered down from the hill behind. They began to consider the possibilities of staying there, perhaps finding some work and not travelling any further but adventure and curiosity spiced their imaginations and they agreed, maybe just a little longer than planned on this Greek threshold would really be enough before setting off to Thessaloniki.
'Just a couple of nights could be fun and anyway, we could always come back if it doesn't work out,' suggested Kevin. And he was right. It was all up to them how long they stayed and whatever they decided to do and in the early evening Zorbus took them into the town, over the causeway past the mopeds and the pretty young girls and up the hill past the little church until it turned towards the crossroads. Then a left down the promenade with a slow cruise through dappled shadows of bordering plane trees until it saw a quiet niche in the centre of the town where it eased to a halt. They were safe and secure outside a calm little kafeneion, the perfect spot.
Skin felt hot and tender taking them to a calmer frame of mind, padding along the pavements taking in the familiar Greek lettering of shop and business signs with one thing on their minds, to slake their raging thirsts.
Outside the lemonade shop they watched a cool dude with Bo-Bo on his T-shirt talking to a pretty French girl making every statement and expression in exaggerated words and mime as he tried to hypnotise her. As they walked past him Kevin muttered, 'What a Bo-Bo,' and grinned. Kevin might easily get us into trouble if he's not more diplomatic.
A stroll into another taverna for a taste of the food they love attended by a very friendly waiter from Albania called Alex and the alcoholic owner grossly big-bellied who proudly displayed his souvenirs and mementos from working in Africa around the room. In particular two detailed pencil sketches of tribal Africans, both men, strangely comparable to Australian Aborigines.
Later on, tired and content after dinner and puffing away on animal flavoured Greek cigarettes, they strolled back in the darkening dusk to The Villa only to discover their haven of teatime had morphed by evening into a boom-boom flashing neon illuminated disco lounge and the town, being a major link with Italy, was undoubtedly the coolest pit on the whole west coast of Greece. But unbeknown to the bright young things making dewy eyes at each other during the universal wooing and mooning rituals taking place right outside the Villa, two groovy middle-aged pilgrims were inside behind the fading curtains trying to work out how to get into their sleeping bags without banging their heads on the floor and hoping for a good night's sleep.
Lying there in his bag, in his Greece, his spiritual home at last, Ben felt the expedition properly under way. As Andrea had said in her letters, 'the expedition is really a search for the self, which will include sacrifices, and even the truth is often hard to accept'. Yes, the self-searches for the self had begun.
They stayed in Igoumenitsa for the swimming, the eating and the people. There is a workers` bar, a kafeneion, at the back of the main boulevard and managed just like it was before the tourists arrived. On top of the TV is a photograph of the owner's father.
He and his son might well have been twins. After the usual courtesies when buying the first two drinks, the owner keeps topping up the glasses with a cheap locally distilled drink like Ouzo or raki. It's the custom, and since the Greek word for stranger is the same as the one for friend, things gradually became a little unsteady.
Thinking back to the first week of the trip, Ben recalled Gaggi, the pet name for Mischa, Nancy and Isobelle`s grandmother. Now there was a woman who pours a mean pre-dinner drink on a terrace overlooking the Cote D`Az', and one who would have seriously loved that kafeneion.
Mikailis, the taximan, spoke English and introduced several other drinkers in the bar which prompted the owner to begin running round as it were imperative the glasses were kept full, if not brimful, with Ouzo. One of the drinkers was an off-duty Customs Officer called Alexis. He told them of a growing marijuana industry over on Corfu where forests of plants are grown, intended for Napoli, and the Mafiosi. They recalled the problems of Nino.
Later, staggering back to The Villa was almost, like uncool, dude, what with the bus parked on the main street in full view of the only zingy, electric neon bar in town, now buzzing with groovy catz and hot babes but Kevin had face-saving advice to make their staggering look like rhythmic glides.
'The rhythmic glides are only in our imaginations, but don't walk past the bus unless you can look as though you have dropped money on the pavement.' And, 'Please don't bang you head when you board the bus unless you can mambo and click your fingers in time,' and 'Definitely don't get undressed with the door open, unless you've got change for a ten drachma note.'
It didn't help. By the time they climbed on board they were giggling like schoolboys. As for Ben, when he got there he lay inside his sleeping bag in perfect tranquillity, convinced he could have built a nest like a crow and lived there quite happily within the landscape on the breeze, in the trees and over the sea.
The time floated along. One day cruising down to the beach on a wide and fast stretch of byway, Ben noticed a lump, black and bulky, lying on the tarmac. He had learned to avoid anything in his path ever since he ran over a lumpy plastic bag that he later discovered to be full of masonry nails. On this occasion, he steered to avoid the lump, just missing it by millimetres, and pulled up. It was a tortoise spending its present life as we all do, crossing the great divide, but he knew she would be jam unless the lumpy crustacean was rescued and placed out of harm's way. As he did so, he became aware of a vehicle screaming along towards him while he was fumbling with the formidable, four-legged ancient Greek reptile. He felt a tug on his T-shirt and realised it was the slipstream of a passing zoomer. It was a Volvo bearing Greek Navy markings and behind the wheel in designer shades was a typical Greek beauty in Navy uniform. She waved as she passed and Ben dropped the tortoise. Tortoises become surprisingly heavy and cumbersome in the second you're about to lose your life. Ben picked it up again and made a split second decision between a drop-kicking it into the bushes or running it to the other side. Anyway, no sooner had he carefully put the tortoise down safely on the roadside than it turned round and started making a lumbersome return journey. Wrong side. Typical!
Before making the arduous trek over the mountains and mainland to Thessaloniki, Kevin and Ben decided it might be a good idea to change the spark plugs. With the Zorbus parked near the beach, Ben set to work with the feeler gauge and plug wrench he had bought over in Italy. One and three quarter hours later, cursing and grunting, smoking and cursing and grunting, he claimed victory. Now it is well-known to all those who know him that Ben is an arty-farty, technophobic ignoramus yet the sight of all the plugs sitting in their seats all bright and eager, gave him such a flush of achievement he could easily imagine precisely how an eminent brain-transplant surgeon might feel. In no time they had replaced a gasket seal, a fan belt and all of the plugs, not at all bad for three thousand miles. Oh yes, and not to mention the ashtrays.
Later, just when they were stretching out for a hard day's sunbathing, they were delighted to see once more the whitely uniformed officer-lady and her male colleagues passing by. She was carefully explaining a lesson to a class of school kids on the pebbly shore. She tottered by in uniform white stilettos and matching spray-on skirt and shirt but never once really lost her composure. This vision of authorative loveliness became the enduring memory of their stay in Igoumenitsa, as well as the unforgettable vision of an old lady down at the water's edge trying to wash three sheep in the sea.
Ben woke in the early hours, half dreaming of planets and sea-caves, of walking through crowds, coming face to face with scores people he did not recognise. Then came a delicate sense of contentment of simply being in the land of those dreams. He recalled his childhood desire to camp at the home of the gods, Mount Olympos, but the mountain no longer called so loudly. It was enough that he was in Greece and since the mountain was also in Greece, siga-siga.
The Zorbus slipped into gear just as Kevin pointed to the business card trapped behind the windscreen wiper. It was from the guy who'd fixed the quarter light, one Af. Tsatsh - a man to be remembered.
They had started out from Igoumenitsa around seven that morning, aiming for the troposphere and it was a pleasant drive until around mid-afternoon when after countless turns and turns, Ben began to complain of dizziness and there were still many miles to go before they reached the coast. He pulled off the road and stepped out to get some fresh air while Kevin consulted the map and its details, 'Metsovo seems to be the nearest village. 'An important site for shepherds made wealthy by the richness of its wool, it is now famous for its local jeezes and winemaking industries. Metsovo is also a popular winter vacation destination and a ski resort.''
They were perched high on a ridge in the Pindus Range, soothed by the hidden wonder of nature. Before them, their road wandered into a forest of beech trees and pines. Above and around, crystal clear waters gushing in spate from springs high in the rockface. Cries and songs and calls from who knew what filled their ears. Were they really driving through Greece or was this Switzerland or Austria? Deciding there and then to stay and rest, they spiralled down and down for about a mile before rolling into the central square of what might have been an alpine village.
Metsovo was a beautiful overgrown typical hamlet seemingly in a state of permanent siesta. Showered with jasmine and geraniums, it smelled of well-watered growing things, charcoal fires and baking. Rambling vines had engulfed the wires of the telephone system. It was just what they needed for a stopover.
With the Zorbus safely tucked in beside a ski lodge, they crossed the main square where a few elderly gentlemen were sitting in the sun outside the kafeneia and souvlakia shops wearing the old Vlach-style hobnailed boots and black pompommed shoes. One of the gents wore the traditional black kilt and white wool leggings and black cap. Further along, in contrast and much to their surprise, they came upon a large group of quite stylish young women with progeny. All laughing, gossiping, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer just like in any modern city or perhaps the more advanced areas of Cornwall. Kevin and Ben had never seen Greek women out socialising in such an animated, unrestrained manner, at least not in the places they usually explored let alone designer dressed and free of male escorts.
'You can imagine how the village grew wealthy and changed until now it's a little too tidy, too quaint, with all that carved wood everywhere and those pine doors and timber ceilings. I bet even the streets would be paved with carved wood if it were at all feasible,' added Kevin to the Fodor guide The older villagers wore strict Alpine-ish costume as though Greece was a different country and to them, perhaps it was. The local barman spoke no English but used a form of English mime with which he managed to boast of his local ski slopes and fine woollen weavings and even got into a strange sort of one-word discussion with Kevin existing entirely of surnames regarding the various merits of football managers from the past. Neither the barman nor Kevin spoke the other's language but they were able to make perfect communication.
The barman finally scored with his opinion, 'Sourness? No Good!' and they both fell about laughing. Apparently, there was once a Mr. Sourness who captained the Liverpool team back in a distant century and had even managed it for a little while afterwards. It was all innocent banter and the barman scored again with a round of beers he bought at the final whistle.
Once Ben and Kevin had declared the public convenience in the car park CleanPlus, which meant it had passed their strict Hygiene Test, they could relax, take it slow, stay a little longer and thereby gain a good night's rest and be ready to make an early start on the long road to Thessaloniki at cockcrow. As soon as Ben slid back the door to the Villa and climbed onto his bag, he was out like a light.
The earth turned, the new day arrived and Ben woke refreshed and feeling as though he'd shaken off a heavy cloak of what he knew not, and so, very quietly, the Zorbus eased out of Metsovo trying not to wake the locals, waving goodbye to the taverna and smiling all the way down the road.
But it was another long day. Dawdling and creeping, twisting and turning with deep concentration over featureless mountain roads placed more of a strain than usual on the lower gears of their trusty bus, and each other. In one way or another that journey took them way off the beaten track and onto the little market place of another mountain outpost, Megalahori.
Kevin stretched, farted and announced, 'OK. That's enough. Let's it park here, Sokrates.' Neither thought it funny. They were too tired. Perhaps the altitude, perhaps the taverna beers, probably both. The air was laced with the fragrance of sage and thyme and they began to feel lightheaded.
Kevin murmured, 'Wow! Can you smell it? It's almost hallucinogenic.'
Right in front of them, on a brightly-lit veranda along one side of the square, sat a group of locals overlooking the gentle, level sea thousands of feet below. The square was like a stage with many entrances and many players; old crones wandered across it, chatting and smiling; a farmer rode down steps on a mule with a bunch of flowers tied the saddlebow while leading a donkey; a tractor parked on a steep slope at the far end, had a large stone holding it still, and children played evening badminton over the electric wires.
They collapsed into the nearest vacant chairs, hardly able to keep their eyes open, gently mesmerised by the orange glow melting into the sea out there between themselves and a distant planet earth. And still the world's a stage. For a whole half hour they did little in Magalahori but watch more gentle dramas in the square. The mule, now wandering, now making a series of clever raids, and now and again being chased away. The old man on a horse riding in with honey. The saddling and unsaddling, the shooing of the mule, even the choosing of a chair, all were performed with deliberation and the play continues in the mountains of central Greece and stretches far into the past. Perhaps in these hills is a well-satisfied, well-tended goddess with hives and bees and olives of her own.
From either side, the curious locals humoured them with nods and smiles and comforting signals and waves and slowly they began to fold themselves more deeply into Greece. The village folk seemed bemused by their relaxed attitude and strange faces and they might well have been aliens, although they must have smelled a bit too, so there they sat in silence, listening to the nightfall.
A man appeared from nowhere, happy and humming to himself as he wiped down their table, 'Good evening. My name is Yiorgos. What can I do for you, my friends? You look very tired.' He sounded like a teacher of the English language.
'Hello,' smiled Kevin.
'Kalispera,' said Ben. 'Can we order food please? We are starving. Anything will do.'
He looked at them quizzically for a moment, 'Ah, strangers in our village. Ha. Ha.' He smiled, 'I'm sorry, sirs, but I think now there is only salad and feta but if you want to wait, my mother will make you an omelette. OK?'
'Omelette would be perfect, thank you very much,' said Ben. 'Signomi, Excuse me. Also, can you bring us something to drink, please? We are dying of thirst.'
'Amessos! Right away!' He chuckled, shaking his head knowingly, as he disappeared into the kitchen only to reappear almost immediately with two tall glasses filled with ice and a bottle of Ouzo.
'Brilliant!' said Kevin. 'Cheers and thanks. Efharisto.'
After a few moments hush, Kevin said, 'It's probably quite rare to see strangers up here, it being so remote. That might be the reason for all the surprise and attention when we first sat down.' Ben made the effort to grunt in agreement.
The omelettes were delicious, more than expected. They were slightly crusty, and with the feta cheese and the olives, completely satisfying. Cheered, they sat in the stillness, digesting the moment and feeling the strength slowly return to aching limbs. It was time to sleep. They asked for the bill.
Yiorgos looked puzzled, 'Bill? What bill? No bill, my friends!' As the penny dropped he spread his arms, 'Ha! Ha! This is my home.'
Ben's mouth fell open, his jaw fell to the ground and he almost fainted with embarrassment, 'Crikey! We are very, very sorry. Please excuse us. When we saw all these people sitting here, we thought you were a taverna!'
'No, no, no my friends! Once a month my explorer son phones from Australia and all the proud family gather here to speak to him. Tonight is the night,' he grinned from ear to ear savouring their embarrassment. 'Hey, don't worry, it is nothing and please, come back tomorrow,' he wagged a finger and puffed out his chest. 'Tomorrow, maybe sardinas! Ha!'