Into the Aquamarine

Everyone’s a Farmer

Althought the air temperature is high—mid- to high 80s, occassionally touching the low 90s—the ocean temperature is relatively low, which comes as no surprise. Twenty-two kilometers southwest of Finikounda is the deepest ocean trench in the entire Mediterranean, at a depth of over 17,000 feet. Offshore storms churn the depths and well up volumes of seawater, which are driven shoreward by circulationg currents. The end result is pockets of warm water surrounded by long fingers of chilled ocean. It is quite sensation while swimming.

But the shock of immersion is tempered by the sun’s intensity. Given the clarity of the water—crystalline at 40 or 50 feet, you can see the reflection of a coin lying at on the ocean floor. The most careful beachgoer can get a sunburn even under water.

I ran to T. and K’s house a few days ago in the early morning, stopping for a quick swim before making the steep ascent back up the mountain. The total distance of about 7 kilometers was only possible owing to a short-lived morning overcast, a blessed relief.

A visit to the village cafeneion (there is only one in our village) was the highpoint of the morning. Welcomed graciously by the proprietor and a small group of farmers, and treated to various beverages not generally associated with breakfast, all of those present offered contrasting suggestions on how and when to prune the fruit trees, repair the roof, and negotiate with the Albanian day laborers. (“Never pay an Albanian more than 30 euros per day,” they urged. “If you pay more, they’ll work less.”)

The truth is that everyone is a farmer, even those who own tavernas or other estabishments, and one’s “net worth” is not measured in the amount of acreage but in the number of trees. “I have about five thousand trees, maybe more,” one man proclaims.

Pruning Our Trees--Orange, Lemon, Mandarin, Fig, Apricot, Pomegranate

Tractors provide basic transportation and seem to outnumber cars. Basic transportation for the entire family: Momma, Papa, the children, yiayia (grandma) can be seen clinging to a tractor as it pulses through the fields—and on the main road—at dizzying speeds. Entire families defy the laws of gravity (if not other laws), common sense, and any posted speed limits. It is worth adding that there is apparently no statute that covers “farming while intoxicated” (FWI?).

Into the Aquamarine

The sea—crystalline, indescribably beautiful, and utterly seductive—meets pristine white sand beaches. Sixty percent of Europe’s loggerhead turtles lay their eggs on these beaches, which are protected from grotesque development by the European Union’s “Natura 2000” laws.

In my estimation, the beach accounts for one-third of the joy of this place. The other two-thirds are the people (both local and foreign) and the culture. Under “culture” a multitude of subcategories issue: food, dance, music, religion, history, archaeology, architecture…the list goes on ad infinitum. But for me the three-hour beach day (with sunshade, book, writing pad, snacks, and lots and lots of water and sunscreen) stands as a bare minimum. I cannot understand folks who go to the beach to swim for twenty minutes and then retreat to the shade of a cafeneion. It is bizarre behavior that is typically Greek. While the Greeks sip coffee and engage in fenzied political discourse, the foreign residents are beached whales.

Home away from home--the essential shade

My day ends at 2 a.m. and begins at 8 a.m—with a run down the mountain to the nearest beach, a swim, and then the arduous return journey. This is usually followed by a few hours of work in the perivoli (orchard), some home repairs or improvements, and then the journey to the big beach, a three-kilometer stretch of dunes and shore. There are fifty or so people there in June, perhaps a few hundred in July and August. A large swath of the big beach is cloths-optional territory—quiet, low-key, safe. Too hot for gawking.

A light afternoon meal (it is too hot for much more) is followed by the premier afternoon event: siesta. It is a restorative that makes the late evening out a delicious possibility. Seven o’clock: water the fruit trees. Nine o’clock, head to the main village of Finikounda for a coffee and sweets. By ten o’clock, the final rays of color vanish from the horizon and a purple pastel welcomes the evening. The big question emerges: where to eat. There are a dozen choices in Finikounda alone, a seaside village with just 250 winter residents. Only the Germans seem to eat much before 10 p.m. The restaurants and tavernas are humming at midnight, and still open at 2 a.m. A few of the bars are open until 4 a.m.

This is the summer routine in coastal Messenia and most of the rest of Greece. It is civil, immensely fulfilling, and repeated daily.

A Water Line Runs Through It

Water disputes in Greece are as old as Greece itself. Our elderly farmer-neighbor’s unmetered (i.e., illegal) water line runs through the middle of our property. Our tractor man has now cut the line twice while plowing—it is buried under as little as six inches of soil in places.

The first time old Leonidio appeared, he was screaming and crying simultaneously—utterly apoplectic that the water line irrigating his orchard had been cut. Needless to say, his wrath was directed at Yioryio, the tractor driver. Yioryio said nothing while the old man fulminated. He urged me to remain quiet and stoic, pretending not to notice the loud yelling, the kicking of the ground, the shaken fists. The polite neighbor in me would have none of it. “We will make this right, Leondio, don’t be upset.” Yioryio was visibly disappointed in my politeness.

And now, a year later, he appeared today, emerging from the almond grove to discuss matters with me politely. Could I please go to the mayor’s office in Koroni and explain the situation. Could I go to the water company office and complain. “But Leonidio, you are taking the water without paying. Do you really want me to tell the demos (municipality) about this”? He grunted in frustration. “I want to be a good neighbor, and I don’t want you to lose your water supply.”

In the end I offered to pay for an hour of backhoe trenching, in order to re-situate the line nearer to the road. He seemed satisfied with my solution. Later in the day I found a bag of oranges and a bottle of wine on my doorstep. Hospitality in the face of drought.

Water is life itself to a Greek farmer. Who am I to upset the garlic cart?

Morning run in the morning heat

Medieval watchtower (vigli) just beyond our orchard