Dream Seeking: On Nisyros a Small Greek Island

Dream

Seeking

LINA ANRITZ

© Copyright 2006 Lina Anritz.

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ISBN 978-1-4120-8015-6 (softcover)

ISBN 978-1-4122-0382-1 (ebook)

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Contents

Foreword

1 Killing the pig

2 Nikia

3 Nisyros? Never heard of it!

4 ...straining every sinew at 55mph

5 It feels like coming home!

6 ‘Water, water everywhere...... ‘

7 Well, that’s over...

8 Money, money, money!

9 Look-that’s us in the volcano

10 No good will come of it!

11 Meanwhile, back in the toilets.

12 Making ends meet!

13 Ups and downs, and downs.. .and downs

14 Green hair and flat grey stones

15 Flower power-here we go again!

16 My donkey-she is dead!

17 Avlaki

18 Santa Maria

19 The most beautiful flower.

20 Children-who’d have ‘em!

21 Dream Catching

Foreword 

This book is respectfully dedicated to the people of Nisyros, a tiny island in the Dodecannese islands of Greece.

The names of the good guys have been kept the same for they deserve the recognition. the names of the others have been changed to avoid any unpleasantness further down the line!

For some reason they could never get their tongues around Lin and Richard, so we became known as Lina and Ritz-hence the author’s name on the title page!

The authors would like to record their gratitude to Bob and Mary, good friends and perceptive and constructively critical proof readers, and to the staff at Trafford for their invaluable help and advice.

1

Killing the pig 

SUNDAY MORNING IN NIKIA.

Sundays we don’t work and so sleep late-well, as late as the Church bell will allow us, it being only twenty yards from our bedroom window. So, around 7.30am we’re awake and taking coffee on our small balcony, watching the faithful entering the Church, most of them women, but then, as Costas says, Women have the most to ask forgiveness for...!

It’s strange that, even at the height of Summer in Greece, some English traditions remain. Breakfast during the week is taken on the hoof, either the imminent arrival of the bus or the necessity to get to Mandraki and work, guaranteeing that anything more than a slice of toast is going to cause indigestion later! On Sundays breakfast is civilised, leisurely…..late!

We plan to have a picnic lunch at Avlaki. Formerly the little port of Nikia, now abandoned, the tiny harbour provides a wonderful place for swimming-its backdrop being the ruined and deserted houses. In the Winter, it is still used for charcoal making-the smoke and smell being kept away from the village itself.

So, English breakfast (minus the bacon), a little peace and quiet after the faithful have been summoned, and thoughts of maybe a bottle of wine at Avlaki later-all rudely shattered by a pounding on the door.

It’s Dimitris.

Ritz. I need you. Ella.

You need me, I say What for?

You are strong man. We kill the pig. She’s big-60 or 70 kilos. Ella.

The local people of Nikia have a way of demanding help, rather than requesting it!

Maybe it’s their limited command of English or maybe it’s just the way they are. It took a little getting used to at first, but then, they insist on giving help unasked as well.

Richard is definitely a ‘townie’, being raised from birth in a home that had a bathroom and toilet as part of the fittings rather than a tin bath that spent most of its life hanging from a nail in the shed at the bottom of the garden. He has only lately aspired to the ‘Good Life’, only lately has he learned to rough it country style!

He is, however, up for any challenge and this is not one he is going to shy away from. We have, needless to say, none of the equipment one might suppose necessary for pig-killing, nor do we know what the suitable attire is likely to be.

I’ve never been involved in killing a pig before. Like most people, I suppose, pork is something that arrives neatly cut and packaged at the supermarket or the butcher’s shop, singularly lacking in any connection with a grunting, four-legged creature other than the purely cerebral.

My stomach flips.

Kill a pig?

Yes. She’s big. Vasilis, me, you we kill her.

My sausage doesn’t seem quite so appetising anymore but I’m going to be a ‘man’ about this.

After breakfast, Dimitris. Endaxe?

Endaxe, Ritz. Come to Vasilis’ house.

Finishing breakfast is not so easy, but Lin and Garry are watching me and I think I am sufficiently in control not to show the growing fear.

Richard is very quiet as he finishes his breakfast and seems to be chewing very slowly. We are all well-tanned by this time of the year, but Richard seems to be losing his tan more and more each moment. I don’t know what to say to him, so I keep quiet.

Finally, I can prevaricate no longer, and dressed in cotton trousers, T-shirt and open sandals-is this the appropriate dress for pig-killing?-I walk down the narrow main street to Vasilis’ house. It is very hot and I sweat freely. Is this just July in Greece or is panic setting in?

There is no sign of anyone outside Vasilis’ house. The front door is off a terrace which is raised several feet above my head. Being embarrassingly English I wait and hope someone will arrive. And I wait.. .and finally, I shout Vasilis!

He appears at the top of the steps leading from the street to his terrace, a shock of black hair falling over his forehead above a prominent nose, large dark eyes and piratical moustache.

Peri meni, Ritz

I don’t like to say that I’ve already waited quite long enough-let’s face it, I’m not so keen to go and confront this pig anyway!

He and Dimitris finally emerge from the house and we walk down the narrow main street of Nikia, greeting the elderly residents who are, by now, sitting on their doorsteps enjoying any shade they can find. As we reach the road at the foot of the village where the twice-a-day bus turns round, Dimitris leads us down onto the first terrace level below the road’s surface. There’s a kind of rough stone shed backing onto the road above facing a small semi-circle of hard-packed earth.

Outside the shed is the pig.

Dimitris said 60 or 70 kilos. It looks enormous to me!

It’s tied by one back leg and is clearly suspicious. I’m told, and am perfectly prepared to believe, that pigs are highly intelligent animals. This pig certainly knows something is wrong. It does not usually receive a visit from three men on a Sunday morning-one clearly fearless, Vasilis, and two others a little more hesitant-Dim-itris and I!

Whilst Richard is away performing all things Greek and manly, I chat with Anna, the mother of Dimitris, who assures me that everything will be fine and that, later that evening, we will all eat pig together.

Georgios will put it on the fire, she says. I assume that this is the origin of the idea of a pig roast!

Determined to bring some offering to the meal, I ask Garry to drive me down to Pali to find some apples. There is no sign of Richard and the others as we climb into the Landrover and leave the village.

I found it strange to discover some years later a ‘Granny Smith’ label stuck into the pages of my diary, but when we go to the tiny Greek shop on this tiny Greek island, the available apples are none other than-yes, Granny Smiths!

Apples purchased, we return to Nikia where, unable to guess how many people will be at the evening feast, I proceed to convert 3 kilos of apples into apple sauce-the obvious accompaniment to roast pork-well, to us, that is. 3 kilos of apples make an awful lot of sauce-enough to fill a good-sized plastic bowl. This I will take as a contribution to the meal.

As if to resolve its doubts, the pig squeals and launches itself at us, fortunately restrained by the rope. Dimitris, wearing heavy work boots, jumps rapidly backwards out of its way, landing foursquare on my right foot.

Shit I say.

Round one to the pig.

Vasilis makes one or two half-hearted attempts to get his hands on the pig then stops, strokes his moustache, taps the side of his nose and winks at me. He releases the rope from its stake and begins to drag the squealing, protesting pig up the dirt path to the road. Dimitris follows as do I, limping.. .bravely.. .at a distance!

Vasilis hauls the pig towards the telegraph pole at the side of the road and ties it there, pulling the rope tighter and tighter so that the pig is forced closer and closer to the pole. He straightens up, spits on his hands, and from somewhere inside his trouser leg pulls out a wicked-looking, evidently razor-sharp knife. Think of the damage he could have done had he slipped over!

Again he tries to get hold of the pig which is now obviously terrified, lurching against the rope in every direction, bobbing and weaving in a way which Muhammed Ali would have envied.

Just as the struggle seems to be tailing-off into stalemate, there is the ‘phut-phut’ of a small motor-bike approaching the village. Vasilis says something I can’t catch, puts his knife back into his belt, and strides out into the road to greet the motor-cyclist.

Round two to the pig.

It turns out to be another Georgios, this one the fish salesman. He has an orange, plastic crate strapped onto the back of his bike, half-full of fly-blown fish. He and Vasilis talk for some minutes-a handful of fish are thrown into a plastic bag-evidently Vasilis’ Sunday lunch-and money changes hands.

The pig is watching everything.

I am watching the pig.

It’s not exactly a ‘meeting of minds’ but I’m feeling far more sympathetic towards this pig than I’ve felt towards a pig before. It is a beautiful morning, the sun hot, the sky an inverted blue bowl above us, and the view across to Tilos breathtaking. Who would want to leave the world on such a morning-given the choice. I do have the feeling, however, that this pig isn’t going to get a choice.

Business concluded, Vasilis and Dimitris whisper together and Dimitris hurries away. He returns a few moments later carrying...... an axe!

‘Oh my God’ I think ‘Not an axe.’

Sometimes I am blessed with too much imagination.

Vasilis takes the axe from Dimitris, hefts it, and walks purposefully towards the pig. They glare at each other, both motionless, until the pig lurches at him again and again, clearly bordering on the hysterical-or totally distraught by the nature of Vasilis’ betrayal. It has been Vasilis after all, who has cared for this pig on a daily basis since it was weaned.

It is not going to go down easily.

Suddenly, so quickly that I don’t really follow what is happening, Vasilis has raised the axe and smacked the pig on the forehead-with the blunt side of the blade, thank goodness. There is an unpleasant dull thud and the pig collapses onto the street.

Vasilis hauls on the rope so that the pig is soon clear of the ground, head down, body stretched out almost vertically. He withdraws his knife, winks at me again, crosses himself and seizes the pig’s head exposing the throat. He slits the throat with one rapid flash of the knife and the blood floods down and across the road, rich and hot and very, very red.

Round three to Vasilis.

There is an angry buzz of two motor-bikes behind us, and, as Vasilis hauls the pig further up the telegraph pole so that its gaping throat can pump the blood more freely, I suppose, two pairs of tourists arrive.

There are muffled screams from the women and not so muffled curses from the men as they try to avoid driving through the widening pool of blood..and hoots of laughter from Vasilis and Dimi-tris.

Dimitris turns to me.

Ef aristo, Ritz. he says.

I smile weakly, stomach heaving and, assuming, I’m dismissed, walk away up the hill towards our house.

About an hour later we are sitting back on our small terrace. The colour seems to be returning to Richard’s face but he is still very quiet. His foot is turning a lovely shade of purple where, apparently, Dimitris landed on it. I can only imagine what colour the air was! There is a gentle murmur of conversation from the taverna below as , religious duties over, the priest and the worshippers take coffee together.

A voice shouts from the square below. It’s Dimitris again.

Ritz. Ella.

I go downstairs and open the door. Dimitris stands there, his grin a mile wide, clutching a black dustbin bag which he holds out to me.

What’s this? I ask.

For you. For your help with the pig.

He turns away, and then adds Come over here, meaning to the taverna we eat some now.

Inside the black bag are several pounds of freshly butchered pork.

Lin and I have never been too fond of offal-liver and kidneys and so on-and this is offal with bells on. Or should I say ‘balls’ on for yes, they’re included in the chunks of meat sizzling on the grill. But we are guests and still English enough to feel it would be rude to refuse.

Still, the ouzo helps!!

That evening we are summoned to share in the roasted pig. I take my bowl of apple sauce, explaining to Anna, as best I can, that in England pork is usually eaten with apple sauce. She seems to understand and takes the bowl into the taverna.

It is a warm evening; a slight breeze off the sea keeping the air fresh and as more and more people arrive, we desperately try to keep track of all the new names.

Small village Greeks are invariably, and compared to most of us ‘sophisticates’ from Northern Europe, excessively polite. They would never come to sit at the taverna in the evening without including us in their ‘Kali Speras’ (Good evenings) and apologise without hesitation if the chair in which they sit means that they have to turn their backs to us. The pig, turning languidly on the spit, is much admired and around 10pm, ready to be eaten. Georgios hefts it inside and there shortly comes the sound of an axe falling repeatedly, as if he is hewing down a few small trees.

He returns triumphant, his smile brilliant in his dark face, and bangs onto the table two large dishes of roughly chopped-up pork. Anna strolls behind him, bringing fried potatoes and salad. Dimitris brings the bread and bottles of beer.

Plates are passed round, as is the food, and we eat. I look for the apple sauce in vain but decide it would be rude to say anything.

Vasilis stands and begins to rehearse a few steps of a Greek dance, clutching in his arms his small son, Manolis ...or Manolakis (little Manolis) as he is apparently known. Georgios takes the hint and rushes inside. Bazouki music floods the small terrace from the two tiny speakers hidden in the branches of the fiscus tree.

Vasilis dances-and oh, how he dances! Strutting, arrogant, rhythmic, graceful-his black hair flopping over his high forehead, his eyes flashing in the semi-dark, he weaves his way between the tables, never losing the rhythm of the music, never missing a single intricate step.

He gradually gathers up his wife, the wife of Dimitris and many of the others.

He produces a handkerchief, passing Manolakis to Anna, his grandmother, and more formally now leads the dancers, bending and leaping, slapping his spare hand against his leg, grinning and twirling. Never once losing his balance, never once deviating from the pattern of the dance.

The evening is magical.

The evening is also productive. Another Manolis, a young man of maybe thirty years, asks Garry to work for him for a few days on a house he is renovating further down the village. Another villager disappears part way through the evening and returns to present us with a large lump of feta cheese made, seemingly, by her cousin. All Greeks have a plethora of cousins!

And finally, as midnight looms and the Metaxa begins to take effect, we solve the mystery of the apple sauce-Anna is sitting all alone, outside the taverna, the bowl on her knee and a large spoon in her hand.

She eats the whole lot!

2

Nikia 

THE MEMORIES OF OUR arrival only two short months ago are still very vivid.

We had only seen the house in Nikia once before and its prime position in the heart of the village had meant that we looked on it through rose-tinted glasses.

I turn to Richard. Do you remember the day we arrived?

Leaving the harbour behind we had driven along the only road from Mandraki which follows the shoreline before climbing into the mountains. on our first visit this road had been no more than a dirt track, and the bus we travelled in had finished its service in the UK in the 50’s. The bus driver, now (thankfully) retired was reluctant to set off up the mountain without first having drunk a bottle of retsina-this at 7.30 in the morning! Needless to say, during his long career he missed the road a couple of times and was lucky to survive the subsequent tumble down the hillside! Now there are patches of what once was a tarmac surface, potholed and strewn with loose rocks and earth which have fallen from the mountain side on the right.

Passing the turn-off to Pali and then to Emporios and the volcano, we negotiated another several hair-pin bends, aware of the sheer drop to the ocean on our left. As the road levels out, the view across the sea to the island of Tilos is wonderful, framed on one side by a single gnarled oak tree which clings for dear life to the edge of the road. Turning a final corner we saw spread before us the village of Nikia. It is beautiful, perched