Two for the Road, page 10
At Lefkada, we are keen to get out of our bike gear and into the water, so we don’t check out our hotel options as thoroughly as we should. Our room, however, is wonderful and overlooks the water. The pool has a delightful bar, plenty of sun lounges scattered about and lilos for anyone to use. We change quickly and dive into the pool. After a few minutes, something dawns on me. ‘Listen to the voices,’ I say to Brian.
‘What about them?’ he asks.
‘Notice something?’
‘No.’
‘They are all English.’
We have lucked into a destination that is a favourite with the British package tourists. There are no Greeks at the hotel apart from the staff. The restaurants in the town advertise ‘full English breakfast’ and ‘English football live’. There is an upside to all of this – our hotel offers a huge collection of English-language novels to swap. That’s the real drawback of bike travel; there’s no room to carry enough reading material.
We have news from home and it is not good. It is with trepidation that we open the first of several emails from friends. A friend from our motorcycle club, Wayne Flemming, has died. He was a good bloke. It is very hard being so far away from home at a time like this. So many of our friends are hurting and we aren’t there to share their grief. We both shed a tear for ‘Flem’. Replying to the emails is emotionally draining.
We figure that arriving in Athens on Sunday will be easier than in midweek and we are right. On the outskirts of the city it is madness, but once we hit the city centre, the traffic is not too bad. And that is just as well, because finding our hotel is not easy. While we are standing on the side of the road looking very lost, a local comes to assist. He points up a street and tells us we can nearly see our hotel, but getting to it is a completely different story. We even find the street but can’t find the hotel. When we finally find another hotel and get their map and directions we realise where we have been going wrong – we should have ridden down the one-way street the wrong way. Silly us.
Traffic, heat, time spent hopelessly lost, and even an intermittent problem with the bike’s battery are all forgotten when we take a dip in the hotel’s rooftop pool. We can view the Parthenon in the distance. It’s probably the best known site in Athens and the pillars atop the hill are so easily recognisable. It’s hard to believe we are so close to this ancient monument.
Dealing with bureaucracy is a nightmare at the best of times, but in foreign countries it is worse. Here in Athens we must get our Indian visas and renew our visas for Pakistan and Iran, so we call the relevant embassies. The Iranian embassy wants to see us to discuss our expired visas. The Pakistani embassy fobs Brian off with vague promises to call us back and the Indian embassy point-blank refuses to entertain our application, because we are not Greek. We try to explain the Indian officials in Australia insisted we apply for our visas in Greece. We even get Canberra to contact Athens and they still refuse. We decide to re-apply in Turkey.
When I originally applied for the Iranian visa in Canberra, my status as a journalist was queried. The visa was issued after I assured the Australian officials that I would be travelling as a tourist and not as a working journalist. At the Iranian embassy in Athens, the consular official photocopies our passports and gets us to fill in another application just in case. He says he will cable Iran and we can ring him back in a week! I put ‘journalist’ on my form again and Brian isn’t happy, but I feel that a change of occupation might cause even more problems.
Sick of the over-the-phone fob-offs, we go to the Pakistani embassy. In the foyer there is a throng of men, pushing and shoving and shouting. It’s back to the phone for us and this time it works. We make a time to come and meet the consul.
With all the new applications, Brian and I need some more passport photos. There is a photo shop across the road from our hotel. Brian throws on his BMW T-shirt – a favourite after our prize-winning journey to Bavaria. The T-shirt starts a conversation about bikes and a friendship with the shop-owner, Nikos, and his Dutch wife, Judy. They decide to shut the shop early on Wednesday and take us for a ride into the countryside. We can’t knock back such an offer.
Back at the embassy, it is Brian’s occupation that is now raising questions. The Pakistani consul is concerned about a policeman visiting their country. He wants to know if Brian is working, if he has a gun and why we allowed our original visa to expire. Thinking on his feet, Brian explains we had to head back to London. This does the trick. With assurances there is no gun on the bike and no police work to be done, our paperwork is signed. Once we deposit money into the embassy’s bank account, we can get our visas.
We thought rural Greece was one big construction site. It pales into insignificance next to Athens. The roads are being dug up, the underground railway is being built and monuments are being spruced up. It’s a real pity the tourist brochures don’t mention that this is causing some closures, including that of the National Archaeological Museum. We are pissed off, to say the least, when, after walking in the heat and through a park littered with used syringes and a large population of junkies and deros, we find the museum is closed until April next year! It is being renovated for the Olympics.
Nikos rides through the city traffic with the ease only a local can muster. Brian follows with me fending off the crazy car drivers and people on scooters who want our bit of road as well as their own. It is nerve-racking. Brian does a great job in getting us through it all while keeping Nikos in sight.
Out of the city, the traffic disappears and we can enjoy the scenery. Whitewashed churches stand in olive groves that must be hundreds of years old. Goats graze on the craggy mountainside and don’t even look up as we ride past. We head to a small bay, where the beach is virtually deserted, which is just as well – Brian and I can’t get changed into our bathers under a towel nearly as well as Nikos and Judy can. After spending more than an hour floating around in the water, we reverse the procedure and change back into our bike gear under the towel.
The sun sets over the still water, and Athens seems a million miles away as we eat magnificent fresh whitebait and local fish with some octopus and fresh salads, all washed down with retsina and local beers.
It is time for another boat journey – the ferry to Crete. Nikos leads us out of town and puts us on the road to Piraeus. When we get near the port a young man on another BMW GS rides alongside us. He wants to know where we are from, where we are going, and asks a thousand questions about the bike. When we get to the ferry terminal, he admits he wasn’t going our way – he just wanted to talk to us!
On the ferry we leave the bike in the lap of the Greek gods. It is tied down with a nylon rope. The ferry hands assure us it will be fine. Brian’s not so sure. The entire way to Crete he feels every roll and pitch. Just as well it isn’t rough.
It is well after 10 p.m. when we arrive at Crete. We’ve been warned that the road is bad, but we want to get to our resort tonight, even though it is on the other end of the island. Brian rides hard and fast to get the ks behind us. The deserted roads are in our favour – no-one else is crazy enough to ride at this time of the night. We finally get to our room in the early hours of the morning and, gratefully, find that the hotel manager has left our room key in the door.
Makrigialos, on the southeast corner of Crete, is billed ‘where agriculture meets tourism’. Our studio apartment is set in a communal garden filled with fruit trees, frangipanis, flowering vines and hedges and a small olive grove. It is heaven. There is a swag of mail waiting for us, including some books from Bettina and Tim in London. Dear Tina includes a bag of our favourite Sainsbury’s chilli-flavoured chips. The only problem is the bag has burst and there are chips through everything, but they are still edible. We don’t have to take the chips with us when we go to the pool to read – they come with us in the books.
The town of Makrigialos has everything we need. There are several small supermarkets, a butcher, greengrocer, wine shops, souvenirs and several tavernas and fish restaurants. The sandy beach stretches for a kilometre, offering plenty of chances to get away from the crowds. The local fishermen sit in the sunshine untangling their nets, preparing for another trip out to sea tonight.
We stock the fridge with local cheese, olives and Cretan wine before taking a spot beside the pool. There are books to be read, food to be eaten and that’s just about it for the next week. I didn’t realise how tiring a bike holiday can be! The biggest decision we will make in this town will be where to go for dinner.
We meet a one-legged doctor from the UK and his wife, who is nursing a very badly gashed leg after tripping over one of the sun lounges. She has 20 stitches. Lying by the pool can be dangerous.
We feel guilty when all the guests announce one morning they are going for a hike through the local gorge. We drag ourselves off the sun lounges and join them. The 1000-year-old village of Pefki is at the top of the gorge. The history of these old villages is fascinating. One thousand years ago the seas around Crete were occupied by pirates. The locals built three villages to protect themselves. The primary village was up in the hills out of sight of the sea, just as Pefki is. While the hills are hard to farm even now, in those days they would have been impossible, so a secondary village was built through the gorge on flatter country, but still out of view of the sea. The men would come to this village to work the fields and their women would come twice a week on donkeys to bring provisions and ‘comfort’. The ocean was a good source of food, so the men built a third village of shacks to shelter in after fishing the coastal waters. It was mostly left deserted to avoid confrontation with pirates. This is where the present-day Makrigialos stands.
There are constant reminders of past civilisations. Minoan and Roman ruins still exist in the heart of town. A rusty gate in a dilapidated fence is all that protects the ruins of one Roman villa. The mosaic tiles of its once-decorative floor, as well as slabs of magnificent marble in what was originally an entrance foyer, are still visible. Some of the mosaic areas measure 30 square centimetres or more, while others comprise only a dozen tiny tiles. There are water courses, a grinding stone of some kind and an area that was probably the kitchen of the villa. But more surprising than all of this are the pieces of pottery and clay tiles that are everywhere. You can pick up pieces that once formed the rounded edge of an urn or pot, circular pieces that may have been pottery tiles, and cornices that could once have adorned the outer or inner walls of the villa. It is mind-boggling to think that it is all just lying there, unprotected.
Whenever there is a storm, the seas wash up pieces of pottery and other odds and ends from boats that came to grief off the coast around 2000 years ago.
Many of the houses in Makrigialos are made from remnants of old ruins. To some, this is a desecration of ancient sites, but Brian and I begin to understand the reality of a harsh existence where, to survive, everything is used. Even today, old Grecian urns are used as chimney pots, their shape providing the perfect vortex to draw smoke from the fires below.
Crete’s recent history is littered with tragedy. During World War II, it was occupied by the Germans. The entire population of Ano Viannos was executed on 4 September 1943. Today, there is a sign that says the town is only a few kilometres away. When you arrive at the spot, there is no town, just a memorial to the dead: Bypasser, stay guarded
Here lie dead
Who never betrayed
Who never lied
Tyranny never worshipped
Bypasser, stay guarded
And with a lucid spirit
Study them
What if you enjoy the light
And if you walk full
Of courage
And if you love
And are loved
And whatever good
You have in life
Was offered to you by those dead.
What could possibly have been achieved by killing every man, woman and child? At the end of the war, locals destroyed the village and erected the memorial over the mass grave.
Brian: The journey is starting to take its toll on my body, so I book myself in for a shiatsu massage. The masseur was formerly a photographer with an advertising firm in Europe; he got sick of the rat race, learned the ancient art of shiatsu and relocated to Crete. He takes one look at me and asks, ‘How long ago did you break your right leg?’ (I was not even a teenager when it happened.) I tell him that my right hand is going numb through constant throttle and brake use and the old knees aren’t what they used to be. He spends a full hour stretching tendons and manipulating my hands, shoulders and legs. I am surprised at the tingling sensations. At first I am sceptical, but when he finishes there is no doubt the massage has been beneficial. We talk about Tai Chi and the benefits of Eastern remedies and lifestyles. A good mix for a balanced life would no doubt be a blend of Mediterranean diet and Eastern lifestyle. Am I turning into something other than a hard-nosed copper?
Shirley: The Cretan olive oil is said to be the best in the world. Stories abound in this area of the residents’ longevity and the absence of heart disease. We are told that at the end of World War II, the Americans arrived to re-establish the infrastructure. They asked where the heart ward of the local hospital was. There wasn’t one because heart disease was so rare. Unfortunately, with the advent of junk food and a lack of physical labour, that is not the case now.
Brian: Greeks love to party and Cretans are no exception. Our last night on the island is spent singing, dancing, eating and drinking with the locals. The men dance in lighted rings of raw alcohol. The women sing and we all eat.
One of the local olive farmers entices us to try the local raki, guaranteeing that it won’t give you a hangover. ‘Raki doesn’t leave you with a soft head in the morning.’
He lied. I awoke with a soft head.
Shirley: We’re finding it hard to drag ourselves back to Athens, so we take a ferry to Santorini for a few days. The Greek gods will need to take good care of the bike again. This time we are only offered string hanging from overhead water pipes to secure it.
Santorini is a great place to chill out and watch the sunset, and we do just that. I doubt if we can get more relaxed. Donkeys graze in a field at the back of our hotel. Just after dawn they are dressed up in their best saddles and taken off to carry tourists from the wharf to the town – all except one. He spends the day alone in the field; his braying is mournful. There is a definite change in his tone when his mates return from their day’s toil.
Local wine, seafood and the sun setting over the water is as close to perfect as you can get. Until you see Oia. Think of every photo you’ve ever seen of whitewashed churches and houses against a backdrop of blue water – it’s as though they were all taken in this tiny village. The narrow, cobblestoned lanes wind between the beautiful buildings. We glimpse the sea between the structures set atop steep cliffs. There are art galleries, restaurants and bars dotted between the churches and houses. It’s peaceful up here – despite the tourists.
Brian: We arrive back in the real world with a thump when we collect our Iranian visas in Athens. First off, the officials relieve us of €120 for the privilege of issuing a new visa. Then the real trouble begins.
A consular official queries Shirley’s profession as a journalist, saying that it is not possible for a journalist to travel to Iran due to the problems some Western nations, including Australia, are making for them. Luckily he wants to help and tells us to fill out a new application form without declaring Shirley is a journalist. I assure him we are just tourists travelling through, and he says she should be called a writer or publisher. I get a fresh application and think I impress him by getting her to fill it out while I stand over her!
Shirley: It is another emotional farewell when we say goodbye to Nikos and Judy. Nikos embraces Brian and kisses him on both cheeks – the traditional farewell for good friends.
We take a detour to the Temple of Poseidon – one of the wonders of Ancient Greece. It is impressive, standing on top of a cliff 60 m above the sea. The temple has stood there for more than 2000 years, a credit to the talents of the original constructors. The peace is shattered by the noise of American tourists – and by gunshots coming from the nearby hills. It is duck-hunting season and they take it seriously here. We see many middle-aged men in army fatigues wandering along the road toting shotguns.
We head back towards Athens and our last stop in Greece – Delphi. The road skirting Athens isn’t finished yet and we wonder if it will be before the Olympics. We travel 20 km in choking dust and diesel fumes before finally clearing the industrial zones of Athens. As we climb into the hills the road narrows and gets steeper. Long lines of cars bank up behind struggling trucks and the bike comes into its own as we overtake the traffic with ease. Slowly but surely, we leave it behind us and crest the mountains surrounding Athens. We find ourselves travelling through lush farming country with fields of vegetable crops of all description stretching as far as the eye can see. The fields are interspersed with small villages eking out an existence supporting the local primary crop producers.
We get off the highway and go into Livadia for lunch, and find natural springs and a stream dissecting the town. Two water wheels turn lazily as the stream tumbles down small waterfalls. We park under the shade of the trees overlooking the small town square and share yet another salad, a small meat dish and delicious grilled peppers in olive oil.
Eventually we drag ourselves away, mount up and ride towards Delphi. Rounding a corner, we are knocked out by the view of the Temple of Apollo high on a hill, and the smaller, yet no less impressive, temples to Athena nestled among the olive groves just below the road. The marble columns are in stark contrast to the dark cliffs behind. Delphi quite rightly lays claim to being the heartland of civilisation.
Even up here the Delphi Museum is being refurbished, presumably for the Olympic Games. Only one room is open and the main display is the cast-bronze Charioteer of Delphi made in 470 BC. He is incredible. You can see his eyelashes, the curls in his hair, and the folds in his tunic. He looks as though he was only cast yesterday. He still holds his reins. Unfortunately, all that remains of the rest of the sculpture, believed to be four horses and two servants holding the outside reins, are a couple of horses’ legs, more reins and the leg of one servant. There are also the remains of a silver-plated bull that was held together with leather strapping on a wooden frame, and an exquisite bowl featuring Apollo playing the lyre and making an offering to the gods. It is beautiful and I am enchanted by it. There are also a couple of statues from the same period and Brian and I can’t help but notice the first toe on each foot is longer than the big toe. (I mention this to Red during our next radio chat. His wife is Greek and we laugh at the image of her sticking her foot out from under the doona to see if her first toe is longer than her big toe!)
