The Scirocco and the Old Farmer

 

The Scirocco

The Scirocco, a phenomenon that can afflict the southern Mediterranean during the summer months, consists of a powerful, hurricane force wind that blows from North Africa and brings with it suffocating heat and Saharan Desert sand.

The southern parts of Greece—Crete and the Southern Peloponnese, in particular—see the worst effects, but the sandstorm can reach as far north as Athens in mainland Attica. The Scirocco, which blows from the South, is contrasted with the Meltemi, an equally powerful and storied wind known since antiquity (but without the sand) that blows from the North and is the nemesis of sailors and beachgoers alike.

Last night five Turkish sailing ships were anchored in Finikounda’s outer harbor, presumably to escape the dangerous winds and enormous seas generated by this phenomenon.

Given the long history of relations with the Turks, including four hundred dreadful years of domination by the Ottomans, the presence of a small Turkish fleet garners some attention among the locals.

In the 1820s, as the Greek Revolution began, a fierce Turkish-Egyptian commander named Ibrahim Pasha raped and plundered his way through the Peloponnese, bringing legendary brutality that has become the stuff of poetry, song, and modern historical recreation.

Each fall, a wooden replica of an Ottoman man-of-war is summarily bombed and burned in Navarino Bay in Pylos. There are thousands of Greeks—along with representatives of the French, British, and Russian navies, who assisted in the great naval battle that expelled the Ottomans—who watch the recreation of events from the town square, with a highly amplified theatrical rendering that is positively deafening.

 

But today, Greeks and Turks—the people, not the governments—are more alike than ever, sharing a similar culture, music, foodways, etc. that joins adversaries in a curious way. Greeks visit Istanbul (Constantinople), once a storied Greek city—with the world’s greatest urban population during the early Middle Ages, and the seat of the Byzantine empire, which lasted more than 1,000 years, from 332 ce until the great city’s fall in 1452. Still the Greeks, more than 600 years later, refer to Istanbul by its original name—Constantinople, the city of the Roman emperor Constantine. It is known simply as “The City.”

And now our Turkish neighbors can visit the easternmost islands with a special tourist visa. This is a heartening development that tempers the years of acrimony and distrust among peoples.

Last year the Greek government assisted Turkey during a terrible period of wildfires, providing fixed-wing aircraft and materiel.

Still, even with such old rivalries largely set aside, the presence of Turkish vessels near the Peloponnese is cause for concern if not some alarm. One person at the sweet shop had a cheeky comment: “Are they here to take our women into the harem and our children into slavery, like the old days?”

 

An Old Farmer with a Gift

The sandstorm did not deter me from a late-day run, but rather than running down the mountain to the ocean, I chose to run on the endless dirt roads that pass through thousands of acres of olive groves behind our house. It can be a lonely place, populated by wild jackals and boar, and one rarely sees another human, except perhaps the occasional farmer.

 

About four kilometers in, I heard the sound of a battery-powered chainsaw and noticed an old man halfway up a tree, carefully balanced and pruning the branches.

One of my greatest pleasures in being here is in striking up conservations with total strangers, in my serviceable but often flawed Greek. The man in the tree was more than obliging. 

We introduced ourselves. His name is Niko, he is 81 years old, and he is from my village, Akritohori.

I admired the artistry of his pruning and asked how many trees he owned—the measure of one’s wealth in the rural Peloponnese.

Niko said that he had 500 trees and pointed down the valley to a brilliantly tended olive grove.

“I do a little bit each day,” he told me.

Our conversation took wide turns. Eventually he told me about his wife, whom he married at age 21. She was 16.

“We’re still in love,” he offered. “And we have a dozen grandchildren and even more great-grandchildren.”

He appreciated my running, and I appreciated his hard labors.

I was deeply moved by one vignette in particular.

“Last year I became very ill.” He pointed to his belly and mentioned something about his liver.

“The doctor told me that I needed to stay in bed and wait for surgery. I was very sad and uncertain about the future. Then, one night, my trees spoke to me through God in a dream. They said, ‘Niko, we need you, we miss your love. We will heal you.’ So I dragged myself out of bed and back to the olive grove that I have known for more than sixty years. And the trees were right: They have healed me.” 

His piercing blue eyes twinkled with a serene satisfaction. We promised to meet for a coffee at the cafeneion someday.

I realized as I ran back through the maze of roads that I was getting a bit weepy while running and had to stop to catch my breath. There was something about the simple beauty of his story.

And it was first time that I have cried since my sister Dyan died in 2018—but these were tears of the joyful variety.