Temenos: Dangers--Real and Imagined

Gypsies on my doorstep

With all this talk (and appearance) of snakes I thought it was high time to dig out my snake bite kit from the medicine cabinet. Good Boy Scouts are always prepared. Smart Boy Scouts have a German-English dictionary on hand. I realize only now that the directions are entirely in German. So, as I am slowly dying, I will be looking up key words in my German-English pocket dictionary.

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At 6 p.m., just as I was starting my siesta in the loft, a commerical vehicle stopped and idled in front of my house. I assumed for a moment that it was the umpteenth delivery of sand/cement for Panayioti's workers, who are building the stone house across the olive grove.

But then I heard the outside faucet turn on. I quickly dressed and swung open the door to find three gypsies, all tatooed from head to toe, filling water bottles. I don't doubt that they were thirsty. Or might have had an alteriar motive in casing my house.

"We need some water," they said defiantly. I thought quickly, realizing I was outnumbered--and succumbing to my own stereotypes about gypsies: they are thieves, they are knife-weilding, they will do as the wish fearlessly. But these are not entirely stereotypes. Gypsies are on the make, thievery is their life, another cultural imperative, and they are relentless souls.

"Do you need another empty bottle," I asked? I've got one inside. I got the bottle and stuck a knife in my back pocket. Another manifestation of my Cretan heritage, perhaps? We run toward danger with a blade in our pocket, against the advice of our mothers, and with the support of our fathers.

When they were done I could see they were sizing me up. So I took the camel by the arxithia (no translation necessary) and offered the following:

"It's dangerous to come to my house without asking first. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Silence for a moment. Then I smiled at them. I added: "I'm a crazy person. Ask anyone in the village. Don't do this again, please, without asking first. Do you understand?"

More silence.

"I asked you a question, friends. Do you understand?"

"Yes, we understand. Thank you for the water."

"I'm glad to help. It is very hot. You need water. Go well, friends."

They jumped back into the gypsy truck and left in a cloud of dust.

Hiring an Albanian

One of the Albanians who was a worker during the renovation keeps asking me about more work. This has gone on for several years. He seems like a nice guy. His name is Leonida, like the legendary Spartan king.

Solar panels share a field with olive trees

"Can you paint? And do you have a generator and a power sander?" I asked.

"It is my first job. I do very good work. And yes, I have these tools." In fact, I had heard this from others. He seemed a kind and gentle soul, and he told me that it has been very hard to find work. With that said, this is no place for Pollyannaism.

"I would like to give you some work, not much work--perhaps a day or two, stripping the old varnish off my columns and then staining them. Can you do this?"

He came by later that afternoon with another Albanian, a man with brilliantly blue eyes. The idea, I thought, was to give me an estimate. The wouldn't answer the question about how many euros per day or per hour. They simply told me when they would come (Thursday).

My Greek friends have told me, "Never pay an Albanian more than 30 euros a day." The comment has sickened me. And yet Niko and others advise not to let them start without a firm commitment of a price. I will look for him in the village tonight.

Strangers in the night

The moon is nearly full and the evening warmth, tempered by a vanished sun, is totally delicious. The night sounds are incredible--the low hum of the cicadas, the yaps and skreeches of foxes, the long guttural howls of packs of jackals, the musical melody of the tiny owls that are everywhere in the olive groves.

I feel safe here--and yet, some of the night sounds are unfamiliar. Are those human steps on the road at midnight?

A slow fox--one less member of the village symphony orchestra

There is no one to call in an emergency. Especially the police, who would never respond to an emergency anyway. There is coffee to drink, backgammon to play--please don't bother us with a crime in progress!

I am a non-violent soul with a large hickory hoe handle by my bedside, and another by the front door. And I recall the advice of a friend back home, a former combat Marine who served in Vietnam.

John once told me: "When outnumbered and outgunned, always let the enemy come to you. In these circumstances, never seek out the enemy." In fact, let the enemy know, in some spooky way, that you are waiting for them. It turns the tables in your favor.

But I have no enemies--really just the sounds of evening and a vivid imagination.

Holiday weekend

Today (Monday, 6/17) is a national holiday in Greece, Το Αγιο Πνευματα (the Holy Spirit), which marks 50 days since Easter (the Pentecost in the West). The village fills up with Greeks from Kalamata (40 km away) and from Athens. The Athenians bring a different "feel" to the village--akin to people from Massachusetts visiting Washington County, Maine. (We love their patronage but not all of their antics and attitudes.)

The usual events--free roast pig, wine, salads, bread--plus lots of music, dancing, and a certain joy in living that is hard to convey with my insufficient words. Everyone here dances, especially young men. Maybe a bit difficult for Americans to comprehend, but good dancing is a palpable sign of "manhood" in a still patriarchal society.

Morning run

Last night I joined Niko for dinner with his German, English, and Dutch friends in a mountain village not too far from Finikounda.

The joyful magnitude of Greek summer surrounded us, with the shocking bright sun fading by 9 p.m., replaced by a palette of pastels. His friends’ house, located down an almost impassable stone and gravel track, far off the grid, was surrounded by nature—undulating hills of olive groves, haphazardly planted citrus, and a panoply of fauna. From the dinner table on a stone terrace, we watched the owl landing in the nearby trees. It was total magic, a sort of serenity to a power of ten.

Despite another poor night of sleep--is it because I'm so utterly excited to be here? is it because we eat dinner at 10 p.m. and stay out until 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. most every night?--I set off on my longest run yet. I climbed the mountain to the village square in Akritohori, carrying only a small water bottle (mia culpa) and my trusty camera, then turned just before the next village, Yameia, and headed west toward Kaplani. I had done this circuit twice before. This morning obstinance got the better part of me (it is, after all, a family dynamic) and so instead of turning left toward Grizokambos (the 10-km loop) I chugged slowlyy up another mountain toward the village of Zizani. I asked directions to Lahanada from a man tending his olive trees. He said what I feared most: "it's not too close."

Heading back down toward Lahanada

A new morning loop

My water bottle was nearly empty and I was looking at another 8 km, most of it uphill. Whatever little shade existed at 7:30 was all but gone by 9:00, and the temperature was already pushing the mid-90s. I persevered and was amply rewarded when the broad vista of ocean appeared in the distance. From Lahanada it was all downhill until Finikounda. But there was one last mountain ascent to get back to the house. I was tuckered when I reached my destination, drank an entire quart of orange juice, and took a cold shower behind the house. Total distance was 23 kilometers.