Zen and the Art of Donkey Maintenance

by Robert Crisp

  This was no reflection on the prognostications of my doctor, who was an acknowledged authority on cancer and in whom I had complete confidence. What it was a reflection on I would very much liked to have known, but all the answers I got were as enigmatic as the disease itself.

  The question I most wanted answered was simply how and when I would know that I no longer had cancer.

  Well it sounded simple but my doctor’s reply only provided one more enigma: “In your case that is a question you should never ask.”

  That was soon after I left hospital and I hadn’t asked it since. In fact, I hadn’t even seen my doctor since. Nor any other doctor. And I didn’t intend – not yet anyway – to ask the only remaining significant question: “Have I still got cancer?”

  As far as I could discover, medical science was not yet in a position to give a positive “No” to such a query and who the hell wanted to hear a positive “Yes.” In my case this was not quite a question of where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise, although that certainly affected my attitude. There simply had not been any reason for me to ask such a question and to submit myself to all the expensive indignities that the inevitable examination would involve.

  For the past eighteen months I hadn’t even had a tummy ache or a bad cold. There was very little I couldn’t do and very little I didn’t do. In that time everybody I knew had had something or other wrong with him and I was not just being bravely facetious when I told my friends that if this was cancer I wouldn’t have swapped it for a bad dose of flu.

  Gaithuri, my donkey, must come in for her fair share of responsibility since if I had not found her to walk around Crete with I would probably have been sitting in an armchair wondering how much longer I had to live.

  The only time the thought of cancer entered my head was every Wednesday – my day for taking Fluoro-Uracil, the most potent and most expensive short drink in the world – and the most foul-tasting. Unfortunately – and again in the absence of other evidence – I must, in part, attribute to Fluoro-Uracil my continued healthy existence.

  I was an experiment in that I was drinking a liquid that was made to be intravenously injected. Obviously, up to now, I was a successful experiment but I wished the manufacturer, Monsieur Hoffman-La Roche of Switzerland, would include me as an item in his research programme instead of making me pay one pound and two pence for one quick swallow of the stuff.

  The side effects of this medicine were quite nauseating. Fortunately I had found the perfect antidote in Cretan wine. The consumption of alcohol with Fluoro-Uracil was not recommended by Monsieur Hoffman-La Roche, which only went to show how little he knew about it.

  I decided at an early date that if I was going to go through the rest of my life with a permanent bad hangover from two swallows of medicine a week I would rather have a hangover from more proper and pleasant causes.

  Happily there seemed to be some interaction between wine and Fluoro-Uracil which abolished both forms of hangover. As to its effects on cancer I considered myself living evidence that they were beneficial.

  I couldn’t help thinking there was Nobel Prize stuff in this somewhere.

  The message I am trying to deliver – and I’m not unaware of the terrible tragedy of cancer in many lives – is however unpleasant the disease is to die of, it can, in some circumstances, be lived with happily, fully and, though it sounds a grotesque contradiction, healthily.

  And I can prove it.

  Having said all this I realise, of course, that I leave myself bent over for a swift kick in the pants from the whimsical and capricious destiny which shapes our ends.

  Chapter 35

  The Ultimate Peninsula

  There had been two or three occasions on which I thought the Cretan expedition had come to an end prematurely. There had been that near miss by an avalanche, the direct hit on my knee by my donkey’s hoof and a midnight confrontation with a bayonet, among other things.

  But that autumn day was, I think, the first time in the more than 500 miles I had walked so far that I had been frightened.

  It began, as so many unpleasant experiences do, under the happiest of auguries. The previous day I had spent scrambling along the westernmost horn of the bull’s head of Crete – the ultimate peninsula of Gramvousa – and in the afternoon had come to what must have been one of the most perfect spots in the whole perimeter of the island.

  I had been pulling Gaithuri for about five hours through possibly the emptiest – in human terms – strip of territory in the whole of Crete. There was not only no sign of any human beings but very few signs that any had ever been there, except several thousand years before.

  There was one well for watering the herds of sheep and goats that roamed the mountainside and there was, of course, the path, on which we moved and which, I assumed, must lead somewhere for some purpose.

  Where it led me was to this totally isolated and perfectly shaped bay with a beach so beautiful and uncluttered by people or the other debris which littered the Mediterranean littoral that it seemed, as I looked down on it from the spine of the mountain, like an oil painting specially commissioned by the Greek Tourist Association.

  I had been worried about the water situation, not for myself as I had an adequate water bottle. But after a day’s march in this hot weather Gaithuri would drink three buckets full. Thus I was delighted to find a well of good, cool water which we both enjoyed.

  Her food problem was never insuperable. If there was anything growing at all she, like the sheep and goats, would find something to nibble at – though it was never easy for a donkey to find anything to eat in goat territory.

  I tied her up on a long tether near the beach, gave her half a loaf of her favourite brown bread and committed an imprisonable offence – which I hoped wouldn’t affect the renewal of my permit to stay in Greece – by sliding nude into the sea.

  I felt confident that the only humans likely to see me would be in an airplane passing overhead en route to Cairo from Rome. If I had found Man Friday’s footprint in the sand I would have been bitterly disappointed.

  That night, playing my usual bedtime game of spotting satellites moving among the stars, it was as though I had at least the whole Mediterranean to myself. In this I was wrong. When I heard the high flute the next morning, I knew I was going to have company for breakfast. Sure enough, when the sound stopped and I looked up, searching, I saw the black figure coming down the mountainside in that wonderful, bounding, fluid motion of the Cretan shepherd.

  Within a few minutes I was receiving the standard shepherd salutation: “Be-joyful-have-you-got-a-cigarette?” Having no cigarettes I gave him a piece of Danish cheese instead.

  In other circumstances it would have been an intrusion – although I wouldn’t like to debate the point of who the real intruder was. But I wanted to know what the water situation was at the end of the peninsula where there were some ruins and a cape.

  It wasn’t the ruins I was after. A cape is an essential point in an island perimeter and the perimeter was what I was walking around. After I had explained my needs, he made up my mind for me.

  “There is water but your donkey will not need it.”

  He laughed at the puzzled expression on my face.

  “The donkey will not need it because she will never get there. And maybe you wouldn’t either. The path is only for goats and dogs. And shepherds.”

  So that was that and after I had thanked him and given him a tea bag – well, I had to give him something – I packed up and set off back along the way I had come. It was very much a single-track peninsula. The rising sun brought the meltemi with it. This was the famous Aegean wind of August and September. It came out of the north in three sizes: the chair-thrower, the table-thrower and the bell-ringer. This one felt like a table-thrower but might have rung a few bells had there been any to ring.

  It was the smell that made me turn round. The unmistakable smell of burning. Then I saw the tall column of dirty-white smoke. My first reaction wa
s one of regret and anger at the carelessness of somebody – even in this unpeopled land – that could result in the destruction of so much that had taken so long, and so much travail in this barren earth, to produce.

  Five minutes later, my feelings were quite different. I realised that the bush fire, on the swift wings of the meltemi, was bearing straight down on me. Gaithuri realised this as clearly as I did and, her primeval memory stirred, reacted a good deal more violently.

  It seemed to me that I risked either breaking the bridle in my struggle to hold her or breaking my neck by going with her. I compromised easily by letting her go with a quick prayer to safeguard my belongings. She was off along the path at a sure-footed gallop.

  The strategic situation was pretty obvious. On one side of me a deep ravine cut into the mountain for about 100 yards. On the other, the fire was roaring towards me with the advance guard of smoke acridly enveloping me.

  If I could get to the other side of the ravine I would be safe from death by incineration but could I get to the other side without being asphyxiated?

  I was not standing still asking myself these questions. I was running as fast as my years and the stony surface would allow. Even then it is possible that I broke the 100 yard record for sexagenarians with cancer.

  From the corner of my eye I caught a dim glimpse of Gaithuri on the other side of the ravine. She had, I noted with relief, slowed down to a trot. Well, I wouldn’t be writing this if all had not ended happily. I avoided suffocation by taking deep breaths whenever updraughts of gale lifted or diverted the smoke and holding my breath whenever I was enveloped in it.

  I remember thinking: “What a good thing I am a non-smoker.” Not such a curious thought as it might sound when you appreciate that smokers can’t hold their breath for more than about three seconds without starting a coughing fit.

  I made the bend at the top of the ravine a few minutes ahead of the fire and was profoundly relieved to discover that the path on the other side was on a considerably lower level and that the worst of the smoke was billowing overhead.

  The immediate danger over, my attention was now concentrated on finding Gaithuri. If I knew her, she wouldn’t run or even walk a yard further than was necessary with the load on her back. But was the load still on her back?

  A few score yards ahead the path disappeared behind a big rock outcrop and as I hurried round it I almost bumped into her rear end as she calmly nibbled a bush. The load was intact.

  The Greek authorities were, rightly, very hard on fire-starters and as there were apparently only four people on the peninsula that night and morning I was pretty high on the list of suspects. But I had no difficulty later that day explaining to my interrogators that I did not carry matches and as I was not a Boy Scout or a Red Indian, it would have been impossible for me to start a fire.

  For the second time that day I found myself unexpectedly thinking: “What a good thing I am a non-smoker.”

  Chapter 36

  The Crowd Shouted Their Approval

  If ever you wanted to start an argument in a Cretan taverna or cafe you would have only to ask the inevitable groups of male coffee-sippers and card players whether it were possible to get from this place to that place on foot with a donkey.

  You’d get all grades of opinion from an emphatic yes to an emphatic no. But the answer you were most likely to get whenever you abandon the roads for the footpaths and goat-tracks is: “You could get there yourself but not with the donkey.”

  On only one occasion had there been total unanimity. That was at the small port of Palaiochora, just after I had turned the last corner of the island and pointed my footsteps homeward to Matala.

  The question I asked followed routine: “Can I get from here to Agia Roumeli along the coast with my donkey?”

  No argument this time. Just the general verdict that it was impossible. There was no way of getting to Agia Roumeli on foot, with or without a donkey, except by following the roads well inland to Omalos and then down the famous Samaria Gorge – well known to guide-book readers as the deepest gorge in Europe.

  It was a bitter disappointment. Not only would it take me at least four days of uphill grind to get to Omalos, but it was a complete negation of my objective of walking round the perimeter of Crete. Omalos was halfway back to Chania and Rethymnon on the north coast.

  I explained my dismay and my objections while we all gathered round the map I had spread out on a table top. It had a broad black line running round the coast where I had traced my route thus far and was always an object of some wonder to the locals who very seldom ventured farther afield than their nearest market town.

  Anyway, it enabled them to appreciate the gap it would leave on the map if I had to go so far inland.

  “Then why don’t you go to Roumeli by kaiki?” a man said triumphantly and received a chorus of assent. “Kapitanos Manouli goes every Monday morning. It will take you less than two hours.”

  It seemed the only sensible solution. It was, of course, cheating a bit and I would never thereafter be able to say with absolute truthfulness that I had walked round the entire perimeter of Crete. But Roumeli was a lot closer to the perimeter than Omalos was. I went looking for Kapitanos Manouli.

  He was clearly more than surprised when I asked him if he would take me and my donkey to Roumeli on his boat.

  “It has never happened before. I have never had a donkey on my kaiki.”

  We discussed the matter through two ouzos. Paid for by me. Then he suddenly said: “Right, be at the harbour at half-past eight on Monday morning. That’s when I get the letters from the post office and that’s when I leave.”

  I was delighted. I didn’t even ask how much the fare would be which was perhaps a little unwise. The other matter I didn’t give much thought to at the time was how we were going to get Gaithuri on and off the boat. Gaithuri had never before been on a kaiki. I knew only too well how immovable she could be when she didn’t want to move. I was down at the quay side early Monday morning for a preliminary recce. Thank heaven the sea was calm and Manouli’s boat rising and falling gently. Even with that it was apparent that my donkey would have to be persuaded to make a small jump of about a foot over the side with a two-foot drop on to the deck.

  I had my doubts about it and went back to load her with special care.

  The Monday boat to Roumeli was a regular run carrying mail, people, provisions, building material and any other needs of the isolated community there and on the island of Gavdos, further to the south. On this particular morning there was also a dog and some chickens. Gaithuri was to be left to the last.

  Uncomprehending of what lay ahead of her she followed me meekly enough on to the quay and as far as the railing of the kaiki. I stepped aboard and gave a gentle pull on the lead rope. Suddenly she realised what was expected of her.

  Her ears went up in that familiar twin exclamation mark of astonishment approaching horror. The expression of shock was further increased by her eyes opening so wide that the whites were visible all round.

  The four-wheel brakes went on hard as I leaned back on the rope. There was an immediate reaction from the group of people come to watch the departure including one well-dressed lady who said, surprisingly in perfect English: “Oh, the dear thing doesn’t want to go for a sail.”

  Dear thing my foot. Three men got behind her to push but were immediately scattered and Gaithuri had got back the ground she had lost by back-pedalling and dragging me with her on to the dock.

  Old Manouli, a large man, contemplated the situation in silence for a few seconds while we all awaited his judgment breathlessly.

  Then he bent down under Gaithuri’s head and began to manhandle each of her front feet forward alternately a few inches at a time.

  The trouble was she wouldn’t move her back feet in unison so although there was some ground gained in front, the overall progress was nil. Also, Manouli, in this unaccustomed position, showed signs of approaching apoplexy. He soon gave it up.


  A considerable debate followed and I felt confident that the men, who know donkeys as well as their own families, would find a practical solution. Finally, they recommended that I unload Gaithuri and try again. I shrugged my resignation at the thought of unloading all my carefully packed possessions and began untying the first knot.

  “That will not be necessary,” said a young man and, beckoning a friend to help, they proceeded to lift the whole load off, saddle and all.

  I clambered aboard again, this time taking with me a handful of the grain, known as tajee, which was my donkey’s favourite food and which I always carried in case of emergency or to reward her for meritorious service.

  I didn’t even have to pull her. She was over the rail like Arkle nibbling at my hand. The crowd shouted their approval and Manouli beamed his relief. I was not going to demonstrate any relief until we got Gaithuri off at the other end. I was also hoping she would behave herself during the voyage.

  Two hours later, we edged alongside the small jetty running out from the apron of pebbles on which the scattered houses of Roumeli were built. In the background the overwhelming bulk of the White Mountains had been split asunder to form the great canyon of Samaria.

  But I was temporarily more interested in Gaithuri’s intentions. Fortunately, the level of the jetty coincided with the level of the deck. There was the two-foot high rail to negotiate and she gave another Cheltenham performance. It must have been impressive because I hadn’t been ashore ten seconds when a young Cretan approached me.

  “Do you want to sell your donkey?”

  I had heard this so often in so many villages that it no longer surprised me or even interested me. But this time I was astonished. There were no roads in or out of Roumeli.

  There was the weekly mail boat on which we had come and there was a daily ferry – if there were enough passengers – to and from Chora Sfakion along the coast to the east. There was the path down the gorge from Omalos, frequented by the more energetic summer tourists but impassable in winter when it was mostly waterfall.