Back of Beyond (30 page)

I left the daisy where she’d put it for the rest of the day. The villagers doubtless thought the sun had addled my brain, but wherever I went I was greeted by smiles and nods, and that was just fine.

I thought I’d seen just about every kind of moon there is to see: blue ones, big cheesy harvest moons, scimitar-bladed crescents, haloed, halved, eclipsed…but this one was something unique. Over dry hills and dark brittle cliffs rose a balloon of pure pink edging slowly up into a violet-black sky and casting a pink shimmer across the still waters of the bay. The tiny night-fishing boats were edged in pink. The olive trees were shrouded in a pink fuzz. The breeze had died; there was no movement anywhere—just that big balloon moving slowly upward….

“
Asti nichita ina mahiki
” (this night is magic), said Sophocles. He was usually a man of far too many words who considered himself something of a philosopher-poet but spent most of his days grilling fish over brushwood chips for his always-hungry admirers at the taverna. He was enormously proud of Kea’s history as a cultural nexus of the Cyclades during Greece’s Golden Age—birthplace of Simonides (556–468
B.C.
), the lyric poet who wrote elegant epitaphs for the Greek warriors who fell at Marathon; home of the poet and playright Bacchylides, the physician Evasistratos (founder of the science of physiology), the sophist, Prodikos, and the wandering philosopher, Ariston, who considered Kea to be second only to Athens in the sophistication of its ancient culture.

“
Asti nichita ina mahiki
,” said Sophocles again. The smoke from the fire swirled around his long curly strands of hair and goaty beard. He had the face of a young child in spite of all the hair; his eyes gleamed in the flames. This was a night for poetry, and he knew it.

The islanders seem uncertain about Vourkari. Not long ago this was your traditional picturesque Cycladean fishing village, a mile or so around the bay from Korissia, with a population of fifty and maybe a dozen or so small boats. Across from the village are the excavated remains of Ayia Irini, portions of which date back to 4300
B.C.
In the last year or two Vourkari has become something of a hit with the sloop-set, and the boat bums who arrive daily in their gleaming fiberglass and chrome yachts to party the night away in the quayside tavernas and the two nearby (dare I write it) discos. While the revelers seem to have little impact on the rest of the island, Vourkari is a warning that Kea’s idyllic isolation may not endure forever.

One incident here was reassuring though, suggesting that the traditional courtesy and kindness of the Keans still flourish intact. An Australian sailor, who had regaled fellow yachtsmen with tales of his nautical prowess around the world for most of the evening, stayed on at the taverna after his company had left, enjoying a series of strong nightcaps. He eventually paid his bill and wobbled over to his boat to sleep. When he began climbing the steep gangplank, his sense of balance left him and he looked ready to fall between the boat and the dock. Before I could even rise from my seat, the taverna owner and his three strapping sons scampered across the quay and caught the inebriated Aussie in midfall—a fall that almost certainly would have been fatal. Gradually they eased him over the rail into the boat whereupon he collapsed in a heap on the deck and promptly sank into sleep. The owner hesitated, wondering if he should put the poor man to bed but decided that may be a little too much intrusion on his privacy and returned to the taverna to the rousing applause of the customers. The sailor never knew how close he’d come to a watery end.

It was not my idea of the perfect ride but I had little choice during the 2:00 to 5:00
P.M.
siesta when the island switches off every day. For over an hour I’d been walking a shadeless road from Korissia in the direction of Panayia Kastriani monastery, stuck way on a rocky promontory up at the northeastern tip of Kea. Three cars had passed, all full. My water had run out and I was peering into a roadside shrine, wondering if the bottle of wine and ouzo inside could be used by strangers in an emergency. These shrines are all over the island, placed as tributes to the saints for fortuitous events. You often see them on dangerous bends in the mountains in recognition of someone’s miraculous recovery from a death-defying accident. They are often constructed like minibasilicas, two or three feet high, complete with towers and domes, and containing icons, photographs, votive offerings, oil lamps, and bottles of alcohol.

I had almost decided that the saints would applaud my initiative when along came this battered truck carrying a huge black bull, bowlegged by its own enormity. Surprisingly the truck stopped and two equally enormous bull-necked men gestured that I could join the animal in the back if I wished. My “beggars can’t be choosers” attitude prevailed, and I spent a most uncomfortable twenty minutes dodging the lashing tail and restless hooves of the bull as we passed the lovely Otzias beach (flashes of nude bathing here) and climbed higher and higher into the brittle, tawny hills.

Eventually we reached a small whitewashed farm overlooking the western beaches and bays. The two large men, obviously brothers, invited me to join them under the vine arbor. We sat on benches in the shade with our backs against the rough fieldstone walls of the house. Inside the rooms were small and bare with stone floors; a woman was moving around in the shadows; enormous sunflowers waved outside the rear windows. A cock crowed and a donkey replied and they began an extended dialog of brayings and doodledoos. The brothers laughed.

“That is the new donkey. The best on the island!” He told me he’d paid over 70,000 drachmas for the animal, more than $500. “A car is very expensive. The government double the price with taxes. This donkey—it will go anywhere. Very strong!”

The woman emerged with a bottle and glasses on a tray. Her wrinkled face was shrouded in a black shawl. The elder of the two brothers, Yiorgio, poured the ouzo, and we added our own water, watching the liquid turn milky. “
Yaisou!
To your health!”

I felt utterly at home. Below the farm, terraces descended to a dry valley filled with pink-flowered koumara bushes. They say witches used to eat the leaves of this bush before casting spells. Halfway down were twenty or so blue-wooded beehives (Kea is famous for its thyme honey). The terraces were still golden with barley stubble; the crop had just been cut and lay in high piles on the circular threshing terrace near the house. Cicadas buzzsawed in the fig trees; dozens of baby green figs peeped from under the big leaves. Grapes dangling from vines above our heads looked almost ready to eat.

Yiorgio stretched out his arms expansively. “We have everything—yes? We have the figs, grapes in September, maybe we make
tsipuro
(a fiery liquor derived from grape pips and skins), we have the olives in October, we hunt for rabbits and partridge, we have hay for the cows, we have goats, we grow tomatoes and cucumbers, my cousin has a fishing boat so we have fish all the time—and my mother makes the best bread on Kea!” He pointed with pride to the huge domed oven streaked with wood smoke at the side of the house.

A bright lizard flashed across the courtyard and vanished behind a line of flowery plants set in colorful ten-liter olive oil cans. Over the terraces a hawk hung in the sky, floating on the spirals, slowly circling, waiting to drop like a stone on some unsuspecting creature far below in the valley. “
Yaisou!
” said Yiorgio again. We all smiled together, and kept on smiling.

Much, much later I arrived at the Panayia Kastriani monastery perched on the top of towering cliffs overlooking a violet-blue ocean. Pappa Leftares, the Orthodox priest who oversees the little citadel, was away, but I was treated royally by a matronly caretaker and six children. The moment I arrived they rushed me off to see the cell-like rooms with tiny balconies overlooking the sea (the monks are gone and visitors can stay here for a few dollars a night). The ornate domed chapel in the center of the compound was being restored, but in spite of all the internal scaffolding the icons and frescoes sparkled in a soft white light.

One of the children who spoke a little English told me the tale of the monastery: “There were some shepherds on this hill, a long, long time ago, and they saw a glow in the earth and were very frightened and ran to bring all the people of the island. And when they all came they walked into the glow and found the beautiful icon of the Madonna so they built a church.”

I marveled at the faith of the islanders to construct this ornate complex in such a remote place but—there again—Kea has hundreds of tiny white chapels built from fieldstone on the isolated terraces. And even today, in an increasingly secular world, each chapel is whitewashed every year, the icons and altars are cleaned and candles lit every week, sometimes every day. Faith is a tangible reality here; the old ways still have meaning.

When I eventually returned to Korissia that evening I saw the village priest walking toward the quay in his long black robes and inverted stovepipe hat. He was a small stocky man with a huge grizzly beard, his long brown hair was tied in a knot at the back of his head below his hat. I wished him “
Kali spera
” (good evening) and he paused, looked very intently into my face, and smiled. In fumbling Greek I tried to explain that I had just visited the monastery, and in the middle of my garbled monologue he stepped up to me (his head only reached my shoulders) and gave me a truly rib-cracking bear hug. Then he shook my hand, smiled the brightest smile, and continued on toward the quay.

There were moments when all the little magics of this place coalesced…I lay in the warm ocean at midnight, just floating there, with the water tickling my toes and the night breeze sending briny ripples across my stomach. The smell of wild sage and thyme wafted down from the hills around the bay. I could hear the chatter of the boat riggings from the harbor dock and the endlessly plaintive bouzouki songs; I could smell the lamb roasts and grilling souvlakia from the quayside tavernas; I could hear Savros bawling out the orders in his sandpaper voice to a never-ending array of family members sweating over hot stoves….

I just floated, utterly weightless, with all these sounds and smells mingling together, and the moment seemed to go on and on…

Many lazy days later, just before dawn, I reluctantly left tiny Kea. The ferry eased out of the harbor and into the Aegean. Korissia quickly disappeared behind its sheltering bluff, and as we gathered speed the sun slowly rose from the ocean in a violet-pink haze. I saw the terraced hills of the island for a final time, layer on blue layer, before they slowly disappeared into the early morning mists.