The gypsies come down in waves
beginning in the early morning, their archaic pickup trucks winding down the
mountain above Akritohori (“our village”), gliding with their engines off,
taking advantage of the two-kilometer descent in order to save a few pennies of
petrol. The drivers usually cast a curious glance at Jonathan as they pass, a
quick assessment of the foreigner and his property—the glance is reciprocated,
and they quickly turn away. Eyes meet eyes for the briefest moment. There is a
world of mutual misundertanding and apprehension from both parties.
Their cargo is varied. Some of
the trucks are laden with melons (on occasion a few have rolled off onto the
property, like manna from heaven), others are festooned with bundles of garlic,
yet others carry live, caged poultry. The megaphones that are strapped to the
cab roofs blare out a deafening litany of today’s wares, the prices, and
testimonials to the quality of the goods.
---
Jonathan drove to the medieval
town of Methoni yesterday morning, after a tortured visit with the accountant.
Nothing is easy, predicable or logical in Greece. When one accepts this strange
reality, life is easier. The accountant serves as an indispensable intermediary
between the customer and the insufferable bureaucracy that plagues this
wonderful country. No price is too large (but, by American standards, it is
quite small) for expert guidance. In fact, it’s the price foreigners pay to
navigate “the system,” whose elements change on a near-daily basis.
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Jonathan is now contending for
the recently open position of village idiot—along with a few dozen other souls—for
the audacity of distance running during the forbidden hours of 10 a.m. and 7
a.m., when most reasonable souls are in the shade or napping..
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Here in southwestern Messinia
tractors are ubiquitous. Everyone has parcels of land with olive groves or
vineyards, and they are constanting tending to their properties, even as they run
hotels, bars, cafes, and other establishments.
Tractors also double as primary
transportation. It is not unusual to see entire families—farmer, wife,
grandparents, small children—hanging on for dear life as these enormous
tractors race down the main road to their destinations.
------
Last night Jonathan joined some
English friends at Gardenia, Finikouda’s sweet shop, listening to several men
play bouzouki, baglamas, and other stringed instrument late into the night (3
a.m.).
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