Summer Solstice and a rusty nail (or five...six?)

Camp Yianni

Don't tread on the loggerhead turtle eggs

Vastly undersubscribed

Summer Solstice and Αγιο Πνευμα/Ayio Pnevma

 

A relentless torrent of summer heat, blowing hard from the shores of North Africa, marks this first day of summer in southern Greece. It is also the weekend of Pentacost (50 days since Easter), also called Ayio Pnevma or “Holy Spirit.” The village would be jammed full for this long weekend.

 

At 1 p.m. the thermometer read 43 C. (that’s 108 F.) in the shade. Add the steady wind and it felt like a blast furnace.

 

Thankfully, there is no Saharan Desert sand storm, a stifling phenomenon generally associated with late winter or early spring, but it felt like my overbuilt beach umbrella—“it can withstand 6 Beaufort” according the man in Pylos who sold it—just might pinwheel down the beach. When it threatened to do just that, I took it down, but in the process was nearly take with it down the kilometer of white sand. I held on for all it was worth trying to close it. It was my Mary Poppins moment.

 

I woke today with what felt like a massive hangover, but all I had consumed the night before (let’s say as a novelty) was nonalcoholic beer. Is this even possible? Perhaps it was some kind of subliminal seduction, or punch-drunkness from the extreme heat.

 

The creepy, crawly world

 

Forgetting my own admonition to keep all of the drawn covers closed—with an old CD/brick for the shower, rubber stoppers for the kitchen and bathroom sinks—my first sight of the day was a sarandapothia, a forty-footed creature about six inches long, wriggling in the sink. These strange creatures arise from the subterranean world, get lost in the house, and then pinch you while your sleeping. It is a excruciating welt and one that you never forget. 

Blinded by the light

Keeping an eye on homestead

 

Unable to climb the stainless walls of the kitchen sink, I look around for something with which to dispatch it, settling on the plastic cooler cover. I beat it relentlessly, until it broke into two pieces—both still wriggling. This is no way to start the day.

 

Wealth, relative or not

 

Greece has always attracted the international jet set, but today the representatives of that class—and their toys—abound.

Run down (or up) the mountain

 

Greece, which survives on tourism and agricultural exports, is the second poorest country in Europe (after Portugal) but poverty here, like in America, is relative. The Greek government, not unlike the US government—now with more than $40 trillion in debt and a daily interest payment of $3 billion—is not a great reflection of its lower- and middle-class population. Nevertheless, a small percentage of Greeks are very, very wealthy.

 

An aside: For some reason, the US government no longer advertises its debt-to-GDP numbers, probably for political reasons. While the idiot politicians in Washington, DC, spend like drunken sailors, but enjoy “Cadillac” medical coverage, working stiffs struggle with multiple jobs and a declining net worth. Our grandchildren, as they say, will pay the price.

 

But in a relative sense, the very poor in Greece are better off than the very poor in America, with guaranteed (if sometimes sketchy) medical care, available to all, and there is probably less hunger overall. Which is not to say that there isn’t poverty, destitution, and struggles among ordinary Greeks.

Separate Czechs

Give us this day our daily run

But contrast this with the super yachts that now ply the Gulf of Messinia. My friend K. has a clever app called “Vessel Finder” which identifies, by GPS, which boats are where: both commercial and pleasure vessels. We look up one that passed on the beach yesterday, which took the prize this week for conspicuous consumption. With a crew of 32, and 12 paying passengers, it is available to charter for $900,000 per week. It was a massive toy for the 1 percent, who rule the world over.

 

Pork on the beach

 

As mentioned earlier, Greece is afflicted with a growing number of wild boar, which bring havoc to the olive groves, are hazards to drivers on the road, and (depending on the circumstances) can be very dangerous for walkers, runners, and, cyclists.

 

View from the porch

Which is a nice lead-in to Ilias the butcher, who every Sunday makes several six-foot skewers of a delectable dish called kondasouvli. Messinia is pork central (the domestic kind) and this is the apex of pork: heavily seasoned, woven onto long skewers, then slowly cooked over a charcoal fire for five or six hours.

 

I ordered mia merida (a single serving) at 8 a.m. and picked up my insulated box at noon, on the way to the beach. This may be the ultimate beach snack.

 

Perils of the distance runner

 

I try my best to run in the morning, before the sun rises too high. This is nearly impossible when you don’t crawl in from the village much before 2 a.m. But run I must.

 

A few days ago I ran on the circuitous agricultural roads behind our house, which lead to narrow paths, then down the crumbling cliffside to Kantouni, which we have nicknamed the “castaway beach”—accessible only by boat or by dodgy path.

 

I arrived there at 8 a.m. and expected to have this strip of sand to myself. Alas, a young Dutch woman—another runner—was doing repeats in the sand in her birthday suit, hijacking my modus operandi. We said hello to one another (we met informally in the village) but the better part of valor told me not to hang there for very long.

Kantouni--the castaway beach

Loutsa, the nearest beach

 

A quick swim on the other end of the beach, I dressed and set off again on the path back to Loutsa, which is festooned with an array of very large spiders, which I try to avoid. Running around the mother of all spiders, and stepping off the trail for a moment, my feet hit the loose scree and I tumbled about twenty feet down the hillside, which is covered in brambles, thorns, and scrub brush. I managed to grab a wild olive tree, slowly myself down. But the damage was done: bruised, battered, and bleeding, I gathered myself and ran the last half kilometer to Loutsa beach. For the few people there so early, I was a sight to behold.

 

Good food: A hallmark of civilization

I ran up the mountain back to the house but was intercepted by my neighbor Zacharias on his tractor. He offered me a bottle of water to wash off the blood and the grit, and suggested that I ride with him up the steep grade (200 meters of elevation in just over 2 kilometers) but I said “no thank you” and limped home. I’m still sore all over, but it hasn’t stopped me from going back twice since.

 

Full moon rising

In the evening I joined my friend Niko the poet for a simple taverna meal, then we walked to Lostre, a seaside bar with tables along the harbor. He ordered Rusty Nail after Rusty Nail (whiskey with Drambouie).

 

I asked him what this drink was called in Greek: it is πρόκα/proka…which means, oddly enough, “rusty nail.”

Loggerhead sea turtle

Yesterday while walking along a nearly deserted beach, a large black creature appeared, swimming parallel to the beach inches below the surface--slow, graceful, and seemingly determined.

It was the enganged Loggerhead turtle, which searches for a nest each July--usually near or just after the full moon. I followed its path from the shore. Apparently it was doing some kind of reconnaissance for the coming evening.

Sure enough, this morning evidence of it's nest was apparent. Just follow the flipper track up the shelf of sand to where it levels.

Both Greek and foreign residents are protective of this special creature, which can be three-to-five feet in length.

In about ninety days, around 30 to 50 little turtles emerge, if they've not been discovered by foxes or trampled on by humans. To that end, locals will ring the nest in bamboo as a way of protecting it. 

Here is a video of the turtle swimming; another where it pokes up its grapefruit-sized head; a still photo of the nest with the flipper marks clearly visible.

This yet another reason why this place is so magical.