Celebrate Democracy...& Resist Tyranny

 

A pikelia--a bit of everything

Yet another unreal sunset

Mountain view from our porch

Finikounda in the morning, just down the mountain

Today is the 4th of July, which marks the 249th anniversary of Independence back in the United States. But what a difference in just six months of a new presidential administration. I have vowed both to myself and to a few others to steer clear of politics in this blog. Let others write volumes about the decay of democracy in America. Here, in the birthplace of democracy, we can only shake out heads in disbelief.

 

Where are all the peeps?

For the first week of July, this pristine sandy beach on the Ionian Sea—one of just a few designated “Blue Flag” beaches in the European Union—remains largely empty, which is just a bit mystifying.

Even the village at night, remains relatively quiet. In a place where a year’s income—for hotels, restaurants/tavernas, gift shops—is derived in just three months, this is a local cause for concern.

Finikounda's central church

"Bebis"--a friend's classic caique

This is both curious—for the casual observer, with memories of hectic nights in years gone by—and alarming for the merchants who rely on a steady flow of tourists, both Greek and foreign, through the end of August.

There are a few theories: the general retraction of the world economy; the effects of the devastating wars in Ukraine and Palestine (neither of which are particulary close by); the onerous regulations and countless laws imposed by the Greek government, in the name of “austerity.” The latter affects foreigners (expat residents and tourists—both Greek and European) and locals trying to make a living in a shrinking economy. With a local minimum wage of 900 euros a months--tolls and gas from Athens is about 60 euros, one way--the drop in Greek tourism is sad but understandable.

Perhaps the water crisis and the extreme fire danger, the extreme effects of climate change, are a cause for the diminished numbers—that is, for the 95 percent of humanity sufficiently intelligent to recognize the unequivocal and indisputable consequences of a warming planet.

If predictions hold true, partly or entirely, southern Spain, Portugal, France, Italy, and Greece will be nearly uninhabitable by 2050.

The upside, if you can call it that, is we have a largely unpopulated village and beach to ourselves.

Return of the Loggehead Turles (caretta caretta)

 

The sun is strong until it disappears

Signs of loggerhead turtle nest

We have sighted a few turtles swimming along the beach during the day, but it wasn’t until yesterday, when I ran to the “castaway beach”—called Kandouni—that  I saw the first signs of turtles having laid their eggs in the sand dunes.

Chilling out in the sweet shop

In a few months’ time, the baby turtles will emerge from the sand mounds built by their mothers and race to the sea. Some will survive the foxes, the sea birds, and the careless tourists to plunge into the surf, grow to be adults, and return one day to this same beach to lay their own eggs.

Some final images...

There is apparently a UFO in this video...or maybe the Turkish Air Force?

More to say

 

Hiding in the vineyard

 

Naturally there is more to say after fifty days spent in Greece—but the combination of late nights, early morning runs, and extreme heat have tempered my muse, and quieted my ramblings.

This morning I had coffee with my old friends Dimitri and Yioryia, whose daughter Vaso was my daughters’ first (and only) Greek teacher. Calling people the “salt of the earth” is another careless use of one of those flabby American idioms. But it applies to them especially, for they are kind, generous, stewards of the earth, and friends to all. Dimitri and I share a love of language, poetry, history, and lore. We first met in 2009 and have remained stalwart friends ever since.

Dimitri and I spoke about the magic of the evening sounds in rural Messinia: the cries of the jackals, the yaps of the fox, the mournful song of the evening owls.

One owl in particular captures my imagination. It’s song is not very owl-like, more of a long, high-pitched peep. I inquired with Dimitri about this bird.

“Yianni, it is the sound of the γώνη [yioni], our smallest owl.”

He then looked out over his pasture, with a broad view of the cobalt Mediterranean, still and peaceful in the early morning, and turned back to me.

“There were two twin brothers who were so deeply committed to one another. The first brother lost his horses and went out in search of them. Days passed and the brother never returned.”

“His twin, who was deeply saddened at his loss,  became transformed into the yioni, and at night he hides in the cover of the olive trees and calls mournfully for his lost sibling. He cries 'peeeep, peeep' but the brother never returns. And yet he keeps calling for him each night.”

Dimitri turned and our brown eyes met. And he added: “This is the story my grandmother told me long ago. It is one I will never forget.”

Nor will I.

 

The fruits of my labors--a concrete pad

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 Those of us privileged kin who claim the middle beach, festooned in our Maker's birthday suits, stroll a few hundred meters in each direction in search of signs of the protected loggerhead turtles, the caretta caretta, who lay their eggs at a point where the surf ends and the dunes begin, a place with an unusual range of flora and fauna: mounds of wild, purple oregano; flowering thistle; small snakes, beetles, and a multitude of wild bees. 

A home away from home

In a few days I will close the door of this little house and head north to Athens. I am holding out hope for signs of a turtle nest, easily found by following the flipper marks that run perpendicular from the surf to the dunes. The loggerhead lay upwards of one hundred eggs at a depth of 36 inches. A few survive the mad dash to the ocean's edge, escaping the foxes and the sea birds.

We circle the nest with bamboo to keep others from treading on them.