The tragedies of migration
Two nights ago I sat with a friend who is a head nurse at a local medical center. She told a group of us that she had received a call at home by "the authorities" at 3 a.m. asking how many body bags were available. The caller indicated that more 500 might be needed.
It is the same story repeated, but on an unfathomable scale. A rickety fishing boat, only twenty meters in length, had departed with over 700 migrants from the coast of Libya, bound for Italy, had gone adrift at sea, about 40 miles from Methoni. Aircraft had detected a hundred men on the deck, but there were several hundred more--mostly women and children--below deck. The boat capsized and sank and the fear is that more 500 migrants have perished. Only a few dozen peole were rescued alive.
Since this tragedy was so nearby--40 nautical miles from Methoni--people are beside themselves with grief. My friend D. offered more information a day later and broke out into tears. "How could this happen," she asked. "We have a Coast Guard, there are frigates in the Ionian Sea, airplanes had been monitoring this ship for days."
We sat together for a few minutes and talked our lives as first responders, the death and carnage we have witnessed up close--blood, guts, suffering, the whole deal. It was a moment of commiseration for the two of us. In the course of our conversation, while describing being level-headed in truly awful situations, I learned a new Greek word: ψυχραιμία (psihermia), which means "composure." Firefighters, ambulance attendants, and frontline nurses cannot survive for very long without it.
These were Syrians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, and Africans. They had paid about $15,000 each to board this death trap. They were not the poor, but the highly educated--doctors, teachers, and tradesmen--who had the resources to pay for this perilous journey. They are fleeing civil war, corrupt government, and, most of all, climate change that has made the Sahel unlivable for humans or animals.
It is a tragedy on an epic scale. Greece has declared a three-day period of national mourning. It made me think of the United States. When have we ever "grieved" the loss of migrants crossing our southern border?
 |
| Anemomilos beach, Finikounda |
 |
| Not too crowded (!) |
Trip to Koroni
After my morning run and a swim on the big beach (Anemomilos), I continued applying urethane/stain to the wooden parts of the veranda, then I set off in the rental buggy for Koroni, another large town with a well-presevered medieval castle.
On this peninsula, which comprises most of the prefecture of Messenia (or Messinia), there are four large Crusader (Venetian) castles. I call them “Crusader castles,” but they are very old citadels located on high ground, built and rebuilt since antiquity, from around 2500 bce (Mycenean or Bronze Age) until the early Middle Ages (Venetians then Ottomans…then Venetians again, then Ottomans…again, then Greeks in 1832). They all bear the signs and accoutrements of multiple civilizations, layered one upon the other. The castles are in Methoni, Pylos (where there are two), and Koroni. There is also a castle in the center of Kalamata, the queen city of this prefecture.
 |
| Morning run on the dunes--avoiding turtle nests |
Barber of Koroni
Since the onset of Covid (early 2019) I have had my hair cut all of three times. Dimitri the barber of Koroni has been my man. We talk about life while he cuts about one half inch every twelve months. It is worth the 10 euros just for the conversation.
After my hair cut I strolled up to the Koroni castle, whose crowning glory—aside from the highly engineered Venetian ramparts—is the Monastery of St. John, which is populated by a “heretic” sect of the Greek Orthodox Church.
 |
What is the totality of their “heresy”?
They are palaiometroloyites, meaning they follow the old Roman-Byzantine
calendar (the Julian calendar). And for these monastics they have contended with the h word for a millennia, scorned by
the mainstream church, and historically abused, violated, and attacked. In raiding parties, priests and monks would be dragged about, the beards and hair cut off--the ultimate indignity for a monastic.
You would never know this dreadful history by the
current state of affairs. Populated by a half-dozen nuns, all in their 70s or
older, this is one of my favorite excursions in our area. The abbess remembers
me by name, asks about my wife and children, and treats me to a cold glass of
water and some loukoumia (aka Turkish delight—a contradiction in terms,
unless you seek a beheading, at least historically speaking).
 |
| Nuns' quarters |
 |
| The iconostasis of the chapel |
 |
| Christ Pantocrator |
 |
| Koroni harbor |
After entering the church, located within the
walled compound, I lit a candle for my family, and said hello to the monastery’s
founder—or at least to his skull, which sits in a bejewelled wooden box by the
narthex. The faithfully prostate themselves and kiss his boney skull for good
luck. I just said “yiasou, adelfo’’—hello, brother—and called it good.
There are some incredible views from atop a crumbling staircase in the middle of the compound. It is nearly 120 feet high, with no railings at the top, nowhere particulary "soft" to land.
In 2009, a visiting Kalamata monk told us that they would push the “uncooperative” monks off the edifice in the good old days. He smiled, chuckled, but might have been telling the truth.
---------
Belonging
I first came to this region in
2007, scoping out a place to bring my family for a yearlong sabbatical. We all
came in February 2009, utter novelties to the villagers. Who comes to Greece with kids
in the middle of the winter?
We bought the old wreck in the olive
grove in 2013 and began, haltingly, the renovations whose course was dictated by the two horsemen: time and money. Today we have a little sanctuary
that we call “Temonos,” like this blog. Temenos, an ancient Greek word, means “temple”
or “shrine,” but for our purposes if takes on another meaning: “sanctuary.” And that
English word best describes it.
 |
| Last year's stone work |
 |
| Sage, lavender, and flowering oregano |
 |
| Very productive Navarro orange tree |
Over ten years I have ingratiated
myself with the people of this little mountain village, with its broad view looking
southwest across the Mediterranean. It is the most southwestern point in all of
Greece, a place of unparalleled beauty, and with a population that has retained
its sense of tradition and hospitality in most every way imaginable.
I have more friends here after
ten years than all my friends of a lifetime combined, mostly Greek but also quite
a few foreigners.
My poet-friend Niko refers to
Finikounda (which is not our village, but part of our orbit) as the United
Nations of Finikounda. Just about every European nation is represented here,
from England in the west to Russia in the east; the Scandinavian countries to
the north; and all the other Mediterranean countries. Everyone seems to agree
to get along, which makes for a rich hybrid culture that is otherwise firmly
based on the elements of life in rural Greece.
Surprises
A day doesn’t go by with some
kind of surprise or curious encounter. Yesterday I was driving down to the house
from a midmorning visit to the cafeneion. I noticed in the distance an
old women dressed in black, carrying a woven basket full of recently cut greens
and vineyard prunings. She was a particular vision of rural Greece: A little
old lady dressed in black, perhaps mourning a lost husband or family member.
As I slowly approached her, I
noticed that she was wearing a black tee-shirt with large embossed letters.
The words on here shirt were as
clear as day: “Fuck New York City.” It was one of those moments when I thought about stopping and taking a picture, but I just couldn’t stop laughing.
Was it a statement of principle,
or a gift from some errant grandchild who regrets an earlier emigration? She obviously had no idea what it said, but had been wearing it for years.
--------
The Cement Mixer
That monstrosities of modern
civilization, the cement mixers start running at first dawn, a distant hum that
echoes through the valleys. It is a reminder of the extent to which this area
is being developed. New homes—mostly oversized villas being built by foreigners, but also
some swanking, stylishly small stone hotels—are popping up everywhere.
Fortunately our area is zoned for
agricultural purposes, so we feel protected from this ongoing trend.
No comments:
Post a Comment