Sally and Henry's sailing adventures: June 2015

SALLY

Our friend Alison stepped off the ferry 10 or so days ago into oh-so seductive Symi. Venetian houses in shades of ochre, pastel blue, violet, yellow, pink tumble down the hill, framing the harbour of Gialos. Almost too beautiful to bear, Alison was seduced within moments – and that was before meeting the warm and generous people we have been raving about for 4 years.

The first night we took her to dinner at our favourite family run taverna – only to be met by Papa spitting mad, tipping a plate of delicious looking fish into the sea and shouting at a shaken looking couple – who had apparently dared to complain about his food. We sat down a little hesitantly amidst the tirade, but as soon as the offending patrons had skulked off, Papa delivered two excellent bottles of wine to our table “from me, apologies for the bad welcome”.

We ordered a few of our favourite dishes and relaxed into the ambience.

Symi shrimps – tiny, crispy and succulent, sweeter than any fat Mozambiquan prawn we have ever eaten. And feta cheese wrapped in filo pastry, deep fried, smothered in sesame seeds and honey with a drizzle of lemon juice – heavenly! Wandering home along the waterfront to our bobbing boat that evening we could see that Alison was thoroughly captivated.

We have realized that so many of our special moments happen when we are in tavernas, ouzeries or cafes. The laid back ambience encourages us to ease into the local culture and chat to the owners or other diners. Alison’s second night with us was not disappointing. We had gone for a lunchtime beer to a tiny traditional kafenion / ouzerie in a cool courtyard covered with a thick vined pergola. The Mythos quarts were delivered, along with a complimentary plate of delcious meze – dolmades with fluffy Greek yoghurt, a melanzane vegetable dish, fava beans, hummous and thick slices of crusty bread. Our surprise and delight was evident – “this is natural – you drink something here, we serve you mezes. But we would like you to come back in the evening sometime. You might even hear some music”…….

So we did – the next night we booked a table painted with a winsome mermaid and arrived to a warm welcome. Within minutes we felt as if we had been transported into some kind of Greek drama. Owner and self-proclaimed chef, waiter, musician, dishwasher, Mercurious, was dashing between guitar, kitchen and patrons; Philemon with the sleepy eyes and deep husky-honey voice was playing bouzouki and singing with a passion that shook all three of us and moved us to tears; young Theodore was dancing, playing bouzouki and singing with intense emotion.

This time we ordered a large plate of delicious mezes and carafes of wine which we devoured in the incredibly romantic atmosphere, joined by our new French friend, Martine, who had been sitting alone behind us.

Mercurous, Philemon and Theodore play Rebitika music – songs of the Greek underground. In the 1920’s, two million refugee Greeks from Aisa Minor arrived in a country they had never lived in and which could not support them. In cafes and hash dens around Greece Rebetika was formed – it was the language of these outcasts and spoke of loss, oppression, pain, poverty, betrayal, and unrequited love. It was the Greek urban blues.

As Philemom sang passionate song after passionate song, Mercurious adopted us, plying us with his smooth but fiery raki that seemd to have no end. With a clash of glasses and a yammas, each downing of a raki got the 4 of us more and more entranced. At about midnight, Mercurious raided the kitchen (his wife Anna had long gone home) and produced bread, feta, olives, spicy salami and strips of smoked beef. With our stomachs now well lined, we downed more raki and surrendered ourselves to this impossibly beautiful night. At 2am we hugged and kissed our new friends for life and wandered in a daze of warmth and camaraderie down the deserted quay.

Zembekiko sounds like it is a song about a bad girlfriend, but it is really about the dreaded military police which tortured anyone suspected of being a dissident.

Frankosyriani is a song about a Catholic girl from Syros – unusal in this predominantly Greek Orthodox country.

If you are interested in Rebetika (and all things Greek), read Matt Barret's marvellous website: http://www.greecetravel.com/music/rembetika/

ALISON

One of the most moving experiences of this wonderful trip with Sally and Henry was our encounter with a bunch of Syrian migrants. I had been reading about them in the UK press – dozens of Syrians fleeing across the border into Turkey and then crammed into small boats they wobble across the sea arriving in Greek territory, many of them landing on the little island of Kos. Clutching small backpacks they have been sleeping on the streets of Kos, apparently causing irritation to the British tourists.

But here we are on the island of Tilos, the day as usual febrile with the paradoxical sense of adventure and lethargy. After a bus trip to Megalo Hora – where we visited the renowned Greek artist Angeliki Stringou – and then to the little harbour of Agios Nikolaos – we returned to our Tilos harbour base and became aware of groups of mainly men with small rucksacks all with a brand new sleeping bag dangling in its little bag, sitting waiting, chatting, smoking. We wondered.

Meanwhile I reflected on the day. Angeliki Stringou – in her 80’s – is petite, wizened, a fringe of dark red hair framing her face, wearing a bright orange T shirt . We climbed right up to the top of the village, up steep winding stairs to her small home perched on a ledge next to the church. She welcomed us in and showed us folders of watercolours capturing so deftly the essence of Greece. Needless to say I left with a couple!

And Agios Nikolaos – our lunch spot – a tiny fishing harbour, a few small tables with brightly checked orange and white tablecloths, cold beers in the shade of the ubiquitous tamarisk trees and a lunch of note – Madame, or “Kryia” in Greek – served us her freshly made dolmades, still warm, tiny, moist and utterly delicious, served with tzstsiki made with the thick fluffy Greek yoghurt impossible to replicate in South Africa. A good Greek salad and some fried squid caught by Papa completed the meal.

Then to sketch and a quiet hour or so with all three of us utterly absorbed in our attempts to capture the scene, totally relaxed by the beers and the heat of the day.

Later back in Tilos harbour a sudden flurry of movement – the evening ferry was coming in and the slender dark men and women with backpacks and sleeping bags swarmed down to board the Athens bound ferry. Each one in turn lined up to embrace a middle aged English woman who was wishing them well with tears in her eyes. I spoke to one young man who confirmed our suspicions, they were indeed Syrian migrants fleeing from the terror of war. He told us that fifty of them had come over to Tilos a couple of days before, crammed into a tiny boat. He had come with his brother but his mother and the rest of his family had remained behind in Syria, and he was hoping to get to Sweden.

It was an incredibly moving and emotional sight – a trail of Syrians embracing the English woman – cell phones whipped out to take farewell pictures and suddenly we were included in a selfie. The three of us were now in tears with the sheer emotion of the enormity of it all. Later we chatted to the Englishwoman and her husband – they had helped to care for the migrants on a volunteer basis and had been doing so for a couple of years. International aid organisations appear to have provided some funds and the sleeping bags.

Heart rending stuff this, and certainly gave me pause for thought about the bigger picture and that ever precarious balance between tragedy and joy.

One of the first things you notice about Turkish towns is the number of small businesses that seem to exist, if not, thrive. There are, for example, more barbershops than one can believe could be viable; there are countless choices for men. In the importance given to grooming, and in so many other ways, Turkey and Greece are similar.

Surprisingly, as you may think, I regularly get a haircut and beard trim. Barbers are highly professional and a haircut is a luxurious moment of indulgence. On the day we left the town of Fethiye in Turkey I decided to get rid of the homeless person look and found a small shop in the back streets with no tourists, and agreed a price. As I sat down I realized that one of the barbers was having a kip, sprawled across a chair; his snores, unembarrassed, reverberated around the small room. I was empathetic; in a barber’ chair I always drift off a bit too…

As I sat there in my semi conscious state, despite the Edward Scissor Hands flash of snipping around my head, I was set to thinking about the region we have been traveling in for the past three weeks or so, images and thoughts chaotically filling my head.

Known still as Lycia this area was inhabited some 5 000 years ago when the foundations for an extraordinary civilization were born and recorded in cuneiform. Lycians have been important in power struggles in this part of the world since then and were part of the formation of present day Turkey. They were a powerful civilization that predated and rivaled that of the Greeks, Romans and Ottomans. They conquered and were conquered by, or made alliances with, every power that the Mediterranean has seen and thus left their mark on European culture. Their architecture can still be seen today. The Roman sarcophagus is derived from the Lycian and the pedimented Greek style of building is seen on their earliest tombs.

Sitting in my chair, my head being firmly adjusted at intervals, I saw in the people around me the heirs to those very Lycians with their influences of East and West that make Turkey so fascinating for us.

As a piece of sagging flesh was tugged aside to facilitate a better cutting angle, I reflected on the town of Kayakoi that we had visited a couple of days before.

Once occupied by both Greeks and Turks it is now a desolate collection of ruins as a result of the 1922 population swap between Turkey and Greece. 1.2 million Greeks and 400 thousand Turks. (It was reminiscent of the current exodus from Syria of a similar number of people). The vast majority of the inhabitants of Kayakoi, an important town at the time, were Greek and after their departure, the town was never occupied again.

The experience of walking around the deserted village is emotionally charged and sharpened by images of the Greek family whose house was now converted into a restaurant. The abandoned family photographs speak of the haste in which the family had departed. The hearths that families gathered around for generations, the paths and steps that were constructed by communal effort with stones worn smooth by thousands of feet remind me of what a dreadful wrench it must have been for these people to desert their homes, friends, sacred places; the accumulation of centuries of human collaboration. The tourist notice disingenuously claims that ‘… some people moved voluntarily but no violence or hurt was suffered.’

There are about three thousand houses clustered on the side of the steep hill yet every house retains its view. The materials of construction are universally stone and wood yet they each have a uniqueness that gives them individuality and the town its character. The stone remains but the timber lintels and roof beams have been pilfered. Each house is about 50 square metres. A multi cultural, egalitarian society, respectful of neighbours, reduced to ruin for dubious political reasons. It has always been so and it still is.

Without warning a flaming wad of cotton wool sweeps across my ears, singing the errant hairs! My God! No more dozing! No hair in my ears or nostrils escapes the man’s attention!

And then the wonderful shoulder massage that is part of every haircut. Mmm… here we go again!

And some more pics....