Temenos: Back in the Hood

Sfakteria island--where the Spartans made a last stand to the last man, c. 411 bce

From spruce trees to palm trees

I am blessed to live in two of the most beautiful places on earth—Downeast Maine, the land of the pointed fir, and southern Greece, the land of the palm tree.

Both places are suffering the effects of climate change, with different outcomes. In the southwestern Peloponnese it hasn’t rained since January, and it might not rain again until early October, just before the olive harvest commences.

Both places are experiencing more and more extreme fire dangers. Just ten days ago, I responded (as a fire fighter) to a fast-moving woods fire in our neighboring town in Maine. Here, in Messenia, the danger grows exponentially as summer approaches. It is still relatively cool (mid-80s during the day) but temperatures as high as 116 F. are likely come by early July. Extreme heat and wind are a terrifying combination. The wildfires, through the lush olive groves and amid the sharp topography, are nearly unstoppable. Greece has already received its summer complement of EU firefighters, fix-winged aircraft, and support crew. “Standing down and standing by”…to quote America’s former imbecile-in-chief.

The bachelor farmers

In traditional Greece, the daughters are married off first. Families with three or four daughters are in an especially tough spot. Sometimes the sons here never marry, hence the proliferation of bachelor farmers.

The valley

Everyone’s a farmer first, even if they have restaurants, hotels, or tourist bling shops.

One of my dearest and oldest friends in the village is a bachelor farmer--and also an erudite scholar. Niko, the unofficial mayor and the cultural ambassador of this village, is a UK-educated political scientist who carries on the family tradition of farming and making organic, craft olive oil. But he is a recognized European poet of note, with several editions of his vibrant work available in translation.

Olive cultivation isn’t just “agriculture”; it is a way of life that is all-consuming. Olive oil has been the currency of life in Messenia for more than three thousand years. This work involves a daily commitment over a twelve-month period: harvesting the olive groves in the fall, pressing the olives, pruning the trees in the early winter, fertilizing, spraying (organically or not), and rototilling.

The village is abuzz with bachelor farmers on their tractors. They fly by the house in both directions from morning to dusk. Some stop and say hello, or drop off a bottle of wine or a bag of lemons. People are so kind and generous.

Mediterranean yoga

The afternoon siesta is a kind of spiritual experience. Niko refers to the siesta as “Mediterranean yoga”: after a big lunch, you lie down and fall asleep. It’s too hot to do anything else. Only the daft tourists are out and about—walking through the deserted village or encamping on the beach between 2 o’clock and about 6 o’clock. You see their rosy-red bodies in the cafeneions at night.

A word about words

The locals insist that my Greek is excellent, but they are being far too generous. Some foreigners are too hesitant to even to try speaking modern Greek. I suffer no such hesitation, throw caution to the wind, and make a variety of mistakes that are are a great source of pleasure and humor for my local friends.

For example:

A lovely spread of yogurt, cucumber, and garlic is called tzatziki. But a tzitziki is a cicada/grasshopper. “Waiter, please bring me a plate of grasshoppers with some warm bread!” Kounoupidi is cauliflower, kounoupidia are mosquitoes.

Methoni castle from afar

There is nothing quite like steamed mosquitoes with your grasshopper.

A word about names

Most people (especially men) have a second name, a nickname as it were, which is called otherwise known as a παρατσουκλι/paratsoukli.

On the island of Spetses I met a man called μελιτσανα/melitsana, which mean “eggplant.” I asked: “Why do they call you ‘eggplant’?”

“Because of my nose,” he answered. “It looks like an eggplant.”

The old men in the cafeneion, who see me run up the mountain every morning, have offered a parastoukli that I can call my own: το κατσικακι/to katsikaki…the little goat.

I’ve been called worse.

Venetian aqueduct in Pylos, c. 1250

Pylos harbor

A word about Gypsies (Roma)

I resist stereotypes, which can be utterly cruel, unfounded, and insulting. So here we go.

Gypsies are thieves. Plain and simple. It is their cultural imperative, cultivated over the more than one thousand years since they left India, escaping persecution.

Yes, there are many Roma who work hard (stealing is a type of work, after all): selling produce, collecting scrap metal (some “donated” the rest nicked off your property). If it’s not nailed down, say goodbye to it.

Thievery, of the non-violent variety, is rampant throughout Greece. One might argue that all Gypsies are thieves, right or wrong. One thing is for certain in modern Greece: Not all thieves are Gypsies.

The Messini supermarket has security guards wearing bullet-proof vests (a bit of overkill) patrolling the aisles, on the lookout for groups of Gypsy women and children who enter the store and play a kind of cat-and-mouse game with the guards. A woman with a beautifully embroidered wool skirt thinks nothing of sticking an entire chicken down it. They enter the store looking thin, they leave looking pregnant.

Gypsy culture is intensely closed, a secretive society that resists outsiders entirely. In fairness, this is the result of over one-thousand years of persecution, marginalization, and humiliation. Racism has so many faces, this is just one of them. Greeks can demonstrate a combination of both pity and dismissiveness toward these mysterious people.

Years ago the European Union built a Roma community outside of Kalamata, in an effort to keep them from setting up their tent encampments among the reeds and bamboo. It was a very Western looking bit of suburbia, with straight roads, and uniform brick homes.

The Gypsies promptly tore our the windows and doors and sold them, used the buildings for their livestock, and set up the tents beside them.

It can be tragic life, of course--with little in the way of healthcare or prospects for "advancement"--but so too is a home break-in, a screwdriver in the car lock, a disappeared barbeque, or pickpockets during the many panayiris (festivals) that are held in villages throughout the year.

Still, I find myself buying various things from the Gypsies: woven braids of garlic, lovely hand-made baskets, fresh fruit, plastic ware. The need to eat too--and as a white, male American, I am incredibly privileged and know it.

Yesterday I installed steel window grates for some additional security, with the help of a very nice man, Yioryo, and his son, Vasili, metalworkers from a nearby village.

Grates on the windows

With the screens off the window during installation, a large scorpion wriggled onto my kitchen counter. I chased it around the kitchen with a broom and managed to beat it to death before it could disappear, knocking over pots and pans in the process. The men outside were astonished and perhaps a little perplexed by my reaction. I’m sure they thought: “Who is this crazy guy banging a broom against the counter!” Snakes and scorpions are on my list of scary creatures. Had I not dispatched this creature, I would have been sleeping in the rental car for the next month.

Running

Morning run

This year marks my fiftieth of daily distance running. The locals are amused but also slightly impressed. Only donkeys and goats, they say humurously, can compete with the Greek American guy who lives in the ambeli (vineyard) below the village.

Today I woke early, drove to the big beach, and ran into the Managiotika River valley, which has been designated “Natura 2000” by the European Union.

It a wild place that extends for 18 kilometers to a distant village, Kato Ambelokipi, and is teeming with wildlife: wild boar, jackals, and the golden eagle. It is an important flyway for birds migrating from North Africa. I saw my first golden eagle during today’s run, an extraordinary creature.

Little chapel of Aghia Rigani

It is also a famous valley for its resistance to the brutal Egyptian Ottoman onslaught in the 19th century, and as a place that witnessed extreme savagery during World War II. Evidence of these earlier battles can be found everywhere: in abandoned villages, war materiel lying about, and the like.

After running I headed to the small city of Pylos, about 15 kilometers distant, to purchase a rugged beach umbrella from Fotis the shopkeeper.

Before inquiring how he can assist a customer, he sits you down for a drink of juice and a sweet. This is normal hospitality. I could have left and not purchased anything, and he might have been glad just to have met me. But I walked out with the Rolls Royce of beach umbrellas.

“This umbrella can survive 10 Beaufort” (the sailor’s measure of extreme weather—10 being a severe hurricane). I realized only later that he had included a bottle of olive oil, two lemons, and a small cake in the bag with the rope and the hardware. Such is the hospitality here.

Big surf from the south

Fotis might be right about the umbrella. A gale howled from the shores of Libya and the umbrella didn’t flinch.

The waves were huge but I was determined to swim, timing my entrance into the sea between waves, a foolhardy but enjoyable exercise. It went well until I started to return to camp, turned seaward for a moment, and was struck down by a fast moving wave. It punched me so hard in the chest that it knocked the wind out of me.

Fortunately I was in knee-high water.

Pruning the olives, avocados, and mandarin

My neighbor Yioryio, a farmer with more than 1,000 olive trees, came by for a master lesson in pruning our olive trees, avocados, and mandarins. Here is what he said, verbatim:

"Yianni, pruning a tree is like undressing a woman. You need to go slowly and treat her with great respect. Never rush. It is a kind of art form. Take off one branch at a time. You stop. You admire your work. And then you take off another."

This is most eloquent description of pruning that I've ever heard. I'll never look at my Maine apple trees the same way.