Tuesday-Sunday
Lucia Riding
We returned to Methoni to Alexandros’ stables for Lucia to ride horseback a second time. The riding ring was still partially saturated from several days of intermittent rain.
The owner, Alexandros, was away in Athens attending to his competition horses. Lucia’s lesson was with his wife Dionysia, who offerred a parting complement on Lucia’s skills: “We better wait for Alexandros to return. There is not much more that I can show her.” A short video of Lucia riding appears at the end of this posting.
********************************
A Lot with a View
Ann and Jonathan (with Manny as the final arbiter) were shown another property lot today, this one in the small village of Grizokambo, now considered part of Finikounda, and only about 1.5 kilometers east of the village proper—and easy walking distance from Loutsa Beach. Located within the village limits, the property is considered oikonomos (buildable). The soil there is very rich (several thermokoipia—greenhouses—are sited there), the orientation is south, and the views of Schiza island and open ocean are unobstructed at one and a half meters height. The stone vigli is visible on the ridge beyond Akritohori.
**********************
Lucia and Jonathan have been swimming every day this week, usually at the western end of Anemomilos beach, a long ribbon of uninterrupted white sand. The air temperature compensates for the still relatively cool water. The ocean color, with a strengthening sun, is a majestic cobalt with veins of dark and light blue.
Wednesday was the International Day of the Gypsy, which everyone seems to know about except the gypsies. Groups of gypsies pass the through the village several times a day, plying merchanise from the backs of pickup trucks: everything from new clothes to old, rusty metal is offered. We have yet to see any takers.
On Thursday, Jonathan took a ride with Niko to look at several “traditional” houses (i.e., brick, mortar, and plaster construction as opposed those of concrete columns). Niko sought to dispell Jonathan of the belief that it costs a small fortune to build a summer home. We met Niko’s friend Zacharias, who is helping a young Italian couple build such a home. The result is smart, neat, unimposing, and right-sized—which Jonathan has lovingly dubbed the “anti-villa.”
Zacharias took us deeper into Grizokambos to show us some land a friend is looking to sell. We drove Niko’s Citröen down a badly grooved dirt track to the last reasonable turn and then set off on foot up a hillside. It was gorgeous fold of mountains with a tremendous southerly view of the ocean to the south, olive groves to the east, and sharp hillsides to the east and north. Zacharias made an offhand comment about snakes (Jonathan was the only one wearing shorts and sandals, and he had earlier explained his pathological fears of these slithering creatures.) Niko said: “You know who’s really scared of snakes? Bulgarians. Tell a Bulgarian that there are snakes about and they’ll run all the way back to Bulgaria.”
*************
After school, Lucia joined Jonathan for a bike run (Baba ran, Lucia biked) to Anemomilos Beach for a swim. Lucia snapped a picture of her father in his birthday suit—one for the “subscription blog”—before the two headed back to town. Then Manny had his turn, and son and father biked/ran the 1.5 kilometers to the lot in Grizokambo for the express purpose of determining (a.) how many olive and citrus trees could be reasonably planted while still leaving room for a small house, tenting site, and garden (answer=30); and b.) how long it takes to walk to the nearest beach (answer=3 minutes at an eager pace).
There may indeed be more important, pressing, and universal questions—e.g., (c.) will his father ever be able to retire (answer: at 75, earliest)—but we won’t spoil a sunny day with such details.
****************
On Friday after the girls enjoyed a Pascha party at school and then celebrated (along with their teachers) a two-week hiatus from the demotiko routine.
Lucia and Jonathan biked and ran (respectively) to Anemomilos beach, stopping for a quick swim, and then took the agricultural roads back to Finikounda. They decided to check the progress of Dimitri and Yiorgia’s new foal.
Yiorgia invited us for a coffee and their children, Christos and Vaso, joined us on the terrace overlooking the ocean—the thin outline of Schiza island, the headlands beyond Akritohori, the broad expanse of sea. 
Earlier in the day Christos was free-diving (22 meters with flippers; his friend Panayiotis dives to 30 meters without air) and shot an enormous octopus, which was hanging in the shed. Yiorgia showed us how the octopus had begun to eat itself—quite literally. When these creatures are hungry they are known to eat their own legs.
The talk turned to snakes, especially to the feared oxia, which are the only truly poisonous snakes in this area. There are much larger snakes (some well over a meter long and several inches in diameter) but they are mostly harmless. Yiorgia advised: “The poisonous ones are at their most active and potent this month. You must be careful when running alone in the hills. Last year Dimitri killed several right here in the dooryard. When we first moved here there were many skorpia (scorpions) but the chickens have eaten them over time.” Returning to the subject of snakes, Chrisos added: “If you are unfortunate and are bit by one, you must stop immediately and walk slowly to find help. You can tell these snakes from the others because they are small and grey-black and have the Greek letter chi on their backs.”
-----------------------
Trip to Ancient Messene
On Saturday we set off by car for ancient Messene, one of the least known and best preserved classical-era city-states in all of Greece. The site was established by the Theban general Epaminondas after the defeat of the Spartans at Leuctra in 371 bce, as the southern link in a defensive chain of walled cities intended to contain the now humbled Spartans.
The ancient city is protected by an amazing nine-kilometer circuit of walls constructed of enormous fitted stones. The walls are ten meters (more than thirty feet) high and are interspersed with watchtowers from which defenders could reign down javelins and arrows against the enemy. With such an imposing barrier, the Messenians could return to their ancient acropolis, high above the ancient city.
The people of Messenia, after having been conquered by the Spartas by the seventh century bce, had been held in a state of abject servitude for centuries. As a subject people known as helots, the Messenians endured a four-hundred year oppression. A right of passage for young Spartan men included annual “hunting expeditions” against the helots—which served the purpose of terrorizing the local population and ensuring their compliance.
After the Spartan defeat at Leuctra, the liberated Messenians wasted no time in building their citadel—ancient sources say the construction took all of eight-five days. The walls survived largely intact for 750 years, and the city itself thrived well into the Roman period and then, over time, was depopulated and plundered—and then lost to history under many meters of silt. It was only rediscovered within the past ten years, and methodical excavation only began within the last six years. Jonathan asked the lone, elderly guard what he remembered of the site as a child growing up in the village. “As far as we knew, there was nothing here but our village and a large valley of olive trees with a few stones sticking up here and there.”
Our friend Dimitri the butcher urged us to make an all-day journey to ancient Messene, which is visited by very few tourists and is almost unknown to the modern Messenians, a fact that struck all of us as an unbelievable oversight. 
It was the perfect excursion on a cool and cloudy day. We set off toward Kalamata, taking the “short cut” from Pylos thorough a stupendously beautiful array of tight valleys, and past a collection of small villages: Kinigou, Potamolaka, and an assortment of unnamed settlements. The wildflowers are in full bloom, particularly after an exceptionally rainy winter, and there was no shortage of farm animals roaming loose—goats, sheep, cows, donkeys—and colorful wild birds.
Leaving the main road about 20 kilometers before Kalamata, we headed northwest on secondary roads into the hill country and then began a perilous ascent, passing on switchback roads through a collection of villages and settlements. 
We stopped in Arsinoe, a tidy village of stone houses with the small village school and church located beside the only cafeneion.
Sitting outside, we met several older gentlemen and engaged in some small talk. Sufficiently re-caffeinated, we drove the final ten kilometers of hairpin turns into the modern village of Mavromati (literally “black eye”), where a few seemingly ambiguous signs point in different directions: “Akropolis 5 kilometers,” “ancient Messene 2 kilometers,” “Arcadian Gate 1 kilometer.” It struck us, initially, as a typically Greek confusion of signs. We only learned later the true depth and breath of the site, which stretches in many directions. And only at the end of our visit did we learn that but a fraction of the site has been excavated.
We followed the main road past the village until a large section of walls came into view, along with the sign “Arcadian Gate.” In antiquity, this Cyclopean gate marked the northwestern approach to Messene, from the region of Arcadia to the north. 
Arriving utterly unprepared (no map, no guidebook) we were at a distinctive disadvange. In a few minutes, however, we noticed a highly animated man shuffling about with a professional camera, tripod, and bag of lenses. Manny, an aspiring photographer, was immediately drawn to him and sought to learn more about his camera. 
We spent most of the day with our new friend, Panayioti, an agrotis (agricultural worker; his family owns 1,500 olive trees) from the town of Gargalianoi northwest of Pylos. A bachelor farmer in his mid-forties, Panayioti possessed a passion for both photography and for this ancient site, which he has visited more than a dozen times since its discovery. He was full of wisdom and had a vivacious philosophical tenor that was electric. When he learned that Manny shared his passion for photography, we found ourselves firmly in his grip for the entire afternoon.
He not only explained techniques of composition to our young aspiring photographer—but about the “soul” beyond the image. He offerred a veritable swift current of ceaseless life lessons: “Learn from others, Manoli, but always trust your own eye. Never think that you are better than another—learn from other's work, but don’t be consumed or overy influenced by it. Know your subject, whether it is a person or an inanimate object. See the “soul” behind the object, human or otherwise. Take one thousand photos before you are satisfied with the one perfect shot.” Jonathan struggled to translate into English a rapid-fire conversation.
Panayioti explained to Manny that there are but “twenty-five days when this site can be photographed properly—and today is one of those days.” And Panayioti was not just idle talk. He showed us a collection of photos he had taken in the previous weeks—images of waterfalls, animals, statuary, and people—and his mastery was obvious.
Best of all, he proceeded to take photos of the five of us, in different poses with sundry backdrops. This lasted for more than hour at just the Arcadian Gate—which represents a mere fraction of the outer site. Before parting we exchanged local addresses and telephone numbers (Panayioti promised to mail us a disc of the day’s shoot) and then we set off for the village of Mavromati. Panayioti’s parting words to Manny: “Remember that money is not the important thing in life. It is what you see all around you, and what you see inside of your self. And there is nothing more special than your family. I could tell from the moment that I set eyes on you that you are a loving family. You have something special, so cherish it. You will forget many things in life but you will always remember your family.”
The weather was threatening and we were all very hungry, so we returned to Mavromati and found an eatery on the hillside with a broad view down into the valley—to the ancient city that we had not yet visited. We feasted on local specialties, including a variety of greens, a delicious briam (vegetables cooked slowly in the oven with olive oil), the taverna family’s wine and olives, and a delectable olive paste served on toasted proseimiko (unleavened village bread).
We visited the very small museum that houses a small number of statuary found at the main site—the excavation lacks proper funding and most of the finds are housed out of view in a warehouse: at the Aspeleipon alone, more than ninety statues were recovered, another several dozen statues were discovered in the temple of Artemis, and there were a multitude of Roman-era finds as well.
Jonathan’s mobile phone rang before we were halfway through the museum. “This is Panayioti. Where are you right now? I’ll meet you at the stadium when you’re done.” And so we reconnected with our new friend for the balance of the afternoon. We drove nearer and then walked into ancient Messene, and were astounded by the magnitude of the site: a theater, a healing spring, several temples, the Ascleipon, and at the the lowest level, an ancient stadium. Apparently as recently as five years ago, the stadium was totally buried under many meters of silt and clay—and so was perfectly preserved.
Panayioti soon became the bane of old Yiorgio, the site’s sole guard, who followed our every step from a distance. Every two or three minutes the guard would blow his whistle and shout: “Hey, what are you doing! You can’t do that.” The culprit was Panayioti himself, who was climbing onto broken columns, slithering up cordoned-off sections of the site, going where visitors were generally prohibited from entering.
There was a lively exchange between Panayioti, who sought the perfect angle for his shoot, and Yiorgio, whose lifelong mission was to protect this underfunded site from plunder and damage. We were witnessing an archaeological standoff and became convinced that the Kalamata police would be arriving anytime with their blue lights flashing. Both men were utterly unrelenting: Yiorgio with his whistle (“please, sir, I’ve told you a dozen times now not to do this! What if we let everyone do this? The site would be destroyed and people would get badly injured!”) and Panayioti with his retort (“Yes, sir, I agree with you one hundred percent and respect your love for this site. I love this site, too. I just need to climb up here now…”). More whistles, more pleas from Yiorgio, and then the final face-off, in the Asclepeion, the sanctuary of the healing god.
By now it was raining steadily. Panayioti had given us his umbrella and he walked beside the altar and stood with old Yioryio. The two were highly animated: “Listen, tell me your name Mr. Guard,” Panayioti asked gently.
“Why do you need to know my name, you won't listen to anything I say!” The elderly guard was clearly exasperated.
“Because I want to be your friend. I want you to understand that I love this place as much as you. Look, I’m not a professional photographer. I’m not taking pictures of these people for money. They have come all the way from America to see this place. They need to have their trip documented very carefully—not just a picture of people in front of a column.”
“I don’t care what you’re doing. You can’t just go anywhere you like!”
“Listen Mr. Yiorgio”—Panayioti had managed to get the guard to say his name—“I’m an olive farmer, just like you. I’m a Messenian, just like you. And this is our site. We have an obligation, a sacred responsibilty, to preserve it and protect it. Your job is to keep people from climing all over the marbles. And my job is take perfect pictures. So these folks can go home and show their friends, who will then come here themselves.”
We watched the old man and Panayioti walk off together in a downpour, speaking intensely. “What are they doing?” Lucia asked. We caught up to them twenty minutes later. Jonathan took Panayioti aside and asked if the old man was giving him a hard time.
“No, no, no! He is a very good man. He loves this site. I wish all the guards in Greece had his passion, love, and knowledge of history.”
A few minutes later, out of earshot, Jonathan approached the old guard. “I’m sorry if our friend, who we only just met today, gave you a hard time.”
The guard replied. “Oh, no, don’t say that. This Panayioti is a very good boy. He is a Messenian like me. He loves our culture and our history and he will protect it. Just like me. We’re both just simple agrotes (farmers) who are proud to be Messenian.”
--------------
Samarina
At this point, the girls were shivering and Manny had that perennially hungry look on his face that serves as the ten-minute warning sign of a deeper, approaching discord.
Panayioti said: “Follow me on a short-cut back toward Kalamata and we can stop at a twelfth-century chapel in the village of Kalogeroachi.” Earlier in the day we had talked of visiting the chapel, which was built on a plundered classical sanctuary to Apollo—Doric columns supporting the apse, marble lintels in the knave. We took Panayioti up on his offer and followed him along a maze of country roads. Clearly we would never have found the chapel at Samarina on our own. We were greatly rewarded by the detour.
----------------
We returned to Finikounda just after dark, slightly chilled and thoroughly exhausted but feeling very fulfilled by the experiences of the day.
---------------
Sunday: A Liturgy and the Scirocco
Jonathan and Ann were able to rouse Evyenia for Sunday liturgy but Lucia and Manny were lost causes—they were still sleeping when we returned home from church at 10 a.m. but the promise of “breakfast” at the sweet shop on the waterfront proved sufficient motivation.
A full gale--a fierce scirocco blowing from Africa--dominated most of Sunday, but the five of us nevertheless packed up and headed to the big beach, finding shelter in a sand dune. We flew the kite, built some sand castles, and Jonathan played his guitar. It was a lazy Sunday—and a perfect end to our week.-------------------------
No comments:
Post a Comment