People greet one another as they leave the church with Christos anesti, Christ is risen, and Alithinos anesti, He is truly risen; then they go home to break the fast with a soup called mayiritsa, made from the entrails of the sheep or lamb that will be spit-roasted for the feast. Gradually, well after midnight, everyone makes their way to Bozi, the club at the edge of Livadia. Stelios drives our car and parks so close to the entrance that it would be impossible for anyone but a Greek to retrieve it several hours later when hemmed in from all directions. Suddenly, the solemn religious week erupts in celebration, and we drink ourselves silly enough to dance for several hours.
The next morning, Easter Sunday, is breezy but sunny, and I work in the garden for a couple of hours, clearing away weeds to find hidden tomato plants and forgotten shoots. When we arrive for lunch with Stelios' cousins in the Eristos valley, a whole lamb is turning on the spit over a bed of coals.
Nikos Taxijis is the cousin of Stelios' father Nikos – they had the same grandfather, and since children are named after their grandparents, they are both Nikos. Men tend to be known by nicknames to distinguish one from the other. This Nikos is simply known as 'Nikos Taxijis' because he drives the island taxi, though most nicknames have nothing to do with someone's job, and can even be handed down from father to son – but they're sometimes a bit cheeky and not used to the person's face.
'Ela Jenni! Here, try this,' says Nikos. 'Entera.' Intestines look surprisingly appetising plaited and barbecued.
'Is that liver?' I ask, pointing to the darker pieces on the plate; I like liver.
'Yes!' says Nikos. My hand has already reached for a piece when he adds, 'And lung, heart…'
I take a bite and the taste is salty but not unpleasant. The round table in the garden at the edge of the orchard is spread with horta, salad, cheese, tzatziki and bread and fried potatoes. And a huge oven dish is packed with Flintstones-style portions of lamb – bones with hunks of meat, ribcages, an accusing eye and what I realise is a row of teeth. Nikos jokingly plonks a joint of meat suitable for a medieval warriors' banquet on to my plate.
'Pameh!' he says. Let's go! Thankfully a flagon of golden home-made wine appears from under the table with increasing frequency. 'Roufa!' shouts Nikos – drain the glass!
The girls finally get up from the table with some effort and we drive to the beach with a pan full of Greek doughnuts in honey.
The church bell rings in the early evening of Easter Sunday. The service is in the other church at the top of the village, and Stelios says maybe I shouldn't come as there will be lots of vomves, but I have a trick up my sleeve – or rather, in my pocket. As we follow the alleyways and reach the courtyard, the views over the still-sunny valleys and hills and sea are beautiful. Everything is so much greener than the last time I came up here, during summer. For an hour or so, I listen to the peaceful singing of the service and breathe in the incense, our house just visible through the open doorway in the lee of the bare mountainside. I look around at the group of people who've lived through these days of Easter together.
Then, as the cracks and bangs of vomves outside grow more insistent, as if we're being besieged by an invading army, I put in my earplugs.
There's a little confusion over some readings and a mistimed ringing of the bell outside, but the priest smiles. We all follow him outside, and it's time to burn Judas. An effigy has been hanging from the belfry since the afternoon. Now as our small group of old and young – some over eighty, some younger than ten, some in skin-tight white jeans and some in dark suits – all gather in the bright early evening, someone takes a candle and after a few efforts sets it alight. The clothes and the shoes eventually catch fire, and the straw inside, and we watch the body disintegrate and fall into the field below. One of the ladies I met for the first time this week gives me a reassuring pat on the leg and a smile.
Everyone says, 'Keh tou khronou,' – And next year – a wish that we will be healthy and together again the same time next year. I've been on the island for a year now; last year just after I arrived, I went to Eristos Beach Hotel to buy olive oil and was given Easter biscuits. A year is something to celebrate, and I hope I will be here in another twelve months, too.
There have been challenges. Greek people are known for their resilience, which is perhaps why it's normal for them to shout at one another regularly. I might be resilient in the long term, but in the short term I am sensitive, hurt easily. I need to be more resilient, and learn survival techniques like the earplugs. I will be better prepared for next winter: wellies rather than umbrellas (not second-hand fisherman's wellies with holes in them). I've learned about modems and storms. I don't have to believe people when they accuse me of doing something bad.
It's time to let go of sadness and start to enjoy life again. Soon after Easter one night, the house is surrounded by silence and darkness and I am settling cosily into the sofa. Since early morning I've worked, swum, baked bread, spent a few hours with the schoolkids, had a couple of glasses of wine to relax my nerves while Stelios cooks little red crabs in exploding hot oil, and now I'm feeling very sleepy. Then Stelios calls his friend Yorgos, whose family have the taverna En Plo, to wish him khronia polla for his name day, and we are invited over. There is an enduring belief that life on a Greek island is very quiet and slow. It makes me laugh.
I sigh, feeling that usual dread of summoning up the energy to speak Greek to people I don't know so well. 'I'll go and get dressed,' I say.
'Mia hara eiseh, you're fine as you are!'
I roll my eyes and explain that I am not going out, even if it is just down the road, in tracksuit bottoms and his old jumper, which I have now appropriated. I put on leather boots and jeans and jacket. And he likes the way I look, though he grumbles about the lipstick, which he hates.
'I'm not wearing it for you,' I say, smiling. 'It's for me.'
Despite my nerves, we pass a lovely hour or so at a convivial gathering, where Yorgia celebrates her name day – Yorgos and and his girlfriend Yorgia have different forms of the same name and therefore celebrate on the same day – by working non-stop to keep everyone supplied with plates of roasted goat, cheese pie, salads and then cheesecake. The youngest family member is already asleep covered in coats on the couch, while the eldest is well into a bottle of Cutty Sark. It reminds me of the regular Christmas 'do' at my grandmother's house in Manchester when I was little, with a buffet set out in the kitchen and glasses of whisky doing the rounds among aunts and uncles, the late-night cigarette smoke eventually driving me outside into the cold night with my cousin, or to the marginally less cold upstairs of the house to bed.
People help me to food and ask a few questions. I feel honoured to be part of this, and chastise myself for my reluctance to come. Those gathered at Yorgia's are no longer strangers, I realise. I know her sister from Ayios Andonis now, through the children. I'm beginning to know Yorgos' family from En Plo at Eristos, too. When I first arrived to live on the island, I knew nothing of the relationships between the people I saw around, didn't know who anyone was. My confusion over who is who is slowly clearing.
We leave early, as the next morning we have to be up at the crack of dawn. No, we have to be up before the crack of dawn, 4.30 a.m., as once more I'm joining Stelios on the fishing boat.
Chapter 17
Turning to Summer
As the boat chugs away from the harbour, the dark sky is full of stars. To the east, a glimmer of reddish light on the horizon shows day is on its way. It's a calm morning, the sea rippling lightly as we close in on the southern headland. Then suddenly I spot a pod of dolphins and they leap in front of the boat, silhouetted against the silver-grey sea.
The sky brightens to dark blue as we follow the curve of the island, pink and yellow dawn glowing on the horizon, with a low dark shape, the uninhabited islet of Antitilos, on our left. The land is still dark. This end of the island is all dramatic grey cliffs, so sheer that not much grows here. We continue over still, serene water towards the bay o
f Ayios Sergios, enter a cove and the fishermen start pulling up nets.
Honey-coloured tones begin to appear in twisted, layered formations of rock, the occasional patch of red scree or green scrub, low cloud on the horizon showing mauve. The colours of the fish – tuna, sea bass, an eel – are also beautiful against the painted wooden deck or the wooden boxes where they're stored before being packed in ice. The first splashes of direct sunlight hit a pale high ridge, showing a profusion of hollows and caves.
In bright-orange overalls, Nikos leans towards the water, gripping the side of the boat with strong, dark arms, and shouts out instructions as a yellow net is winched up from the water. It makes a triangle that glistens with diamond-like water droplets. A long and pointed loutsos, or barracuda, is thrown into the wooden crate along with a fish that's been half-eaten. The sunlight becomes golden, burnishes the water, and the pale rocky shore is reflected in the oil-smooth swells of the sea. The men are pensive, quiet. A couple of hopeful gulls start to follow the boat, but there's not much in the net. The men look disappointed. A large seal surfaces nearby. The fishermen busy themselves extracting what fish they can from the tangle of nets. The promise of the morning is sullied.
Each adult seal eats 20 to 40 kilos of fish a day, I've been told, and there are families of up to seven seals in some of the little bays. It's only from boats that they can be seen, in parts of the island inaccessible by land.
Nikos asks something I don't understand, and Stelios explains.
'If you can steer the boat, it will help us finish the last nets and get back to harbour more quickly. It's OK, Nikos will tell you what to do.'
I readily accept the chance to do something useful and learn something, too.
I sit at the back and push or pull the wooden rudder, stop or start the power according to shouted instructions from Nikos. Krati – hold it. Apo tho – this way. Apo ki – that way. Isia – straight. We seem very close to the rocky shore and it's scary but exhilarating.
Green scrub now almost glows in sunlight on top of a smooth headland, and the sea is so clear I can see the yellow net spiralling down into the deep. Up comes an angry-looking purple lobster. A moray eel is flung back into the blue. The fish come in ones and twos. Seagulls line up on the rocky shore, and a cormorant glides by. The boat gradually fills up with wound-in nets and floats. The day is not a disaster as among the fish are two sinagrithes – king of fish – one of them weighing 4 kilos and worth a lot of money. My reward for steering the boat safely is a fouska or spinialo, something like an oyster, perhaps a kind of sea squirt, with soft yellow flesh that tastes like the sea.
Back ashore, we drink Greek coffee under a cloudy sky at the kafeneion in Livadia. Nikos parks his flatbed truck across the road by the square, the fish on ice in the back to entice customers. Men and women lean in to look – an older woman called Anna who lives alone near Eristos beach, wrapped up in layers of clothes because she rode down on her scooter; Dimitris the headmaster in jeans and blue shirt, his ubiquitous belt-bag hanging under his belly, casting a curious eye over the catch on his way to the post office. A clever ginger cat sits patiently under the truck.
There are days when they catch very little. On other days, they might catch hundreds of fish, and have to work for hours against the clock, packing it all in ice to ship it off quickly to the markets – if they can get a good price. They only earn whatever they can sell the fish for. And sometimes they don't even go out to catch more if they have nowhere to sell or keep them. There's no welfare to make up for the bad days. It's an unpredictable, demanding life. An hour later, at home, I hear Nikos' voice shouting 'Psaria!' as he tries to sell what he has left to the people of Megalo Horio.
An old lady is in conversation with Rena when I arrive at the shop, and I overhear her saying she doesn't go in the sea until it's summer.
'What's this?' demands Rena in her no-nonsense way, pointing out the door.
Though still early May, it's 28ºC. Protomayia, First of May, has passed. Protomayia is officially the start of summer. We've just had the Ayia Irini festival, the first festival of the summer, which takes place in the afternoon of 5 May at a pretty little chapel surrounded by fields in the Eristos valley. Triangular religious flags in many colours fluttered in the wind and the sun was bright on the circular dance floor. This daytime festival – held while the island is quiet – feels relaxed, like a birthday party, and I enjoyed dropping in for an hour or so to watch the dancing.
The start of summer is also signalled by the power going off for an hour a couple of times a day, with restaurants opening again and people returning to the island from wherever they've wintered, turning on their lights and appliances; not just this island, but Kos and Nisyros, as we get our power from there by undersea cable. The beaches are being cleared of the detritus that washes up over the winter. The young kids aren't allowed to play football in the schoolyard from lunch until five, because the same man who shouted at me for teaching on Ochi Day tells me 'kalokeriazei', it's turning to summer, and people will now be taking a siesta. I now know he's the father of Yorgos the nurse, and husband of the primary school caretaker who throws the keys to the school over the fence to me.
In fact, the older kids have exams coming up and the rest want to be outside. I don't blame them. It's no time to be cooped up in school. One day, driving to Livadia and wondering when we should finish English sessions for the year, I offer a lift to a couple of walkers with backpacks and it reminds me how much I'd like to be out doing the same, now that I can. I love feeling free now; I mustn't lose that feeling if I get pregnant again. I start to feel sure I want to try. It's easier to feel more relaxed when it's warm and bright, the sun shining.
The fishing has been going well, and Stelios has a few kilos of sea bass to grill – ones they can't sell, with little bites taken out. Of course, there is nowhere on Tilos to buy a barbecue, but no matter because apparently everyone makes barbecues out of old hot water tanks.
There is an island habit of discarding objects large and small when they are no longer needed, and leaving them wherever they fall. This happens with fishing nets, wooden pallets, washing machines and fridges, an old car Stelios once crashed, and of course the disused cement mixer which demarcates the turn-off to Skafi, helping me explain to people where I live. This habit comes in handy when you need a barbecue. Stelios finds a rusty old water tank lying around somewhere, borrows an extension cord from Pavlos for his circular saw, and starts attacking the rusty metal, with scant regard for the possibility of rusty bits of metal flying off and hitting him in the eye, or his fingers getting in the way. Sparks are soon flying. I can't bear to watch. But an hour or so later, ta-da! By sawing off a section of the boiler, he has managed to fashion something that looks more or less like a barbecue, albeit a rusty one that has to be propped up with a rock. As a piece of recycling, it's impressive. He is quite ingenious. He finds an old grill somewhere and scrubs it clean, then we drive down to Eristos beach to see someone who makes charcoal. He grills the fish, leaving the patio spattered with oil.
I keep getting confused between tha psisoume (we'll grill – what you do with a barbecue) and tha psifisoume (we'll vote). Elections are taking place, and Tilos is busy with people coming home to vote. There's a lively, celebratory atmosphere, as people meet friends and family they haven't seen for a while.
As for the elections themselves, though, people are unhappy with austerity measures and being bossed around by Europe. They are angry with what their government has allowed to happen over the previous decades while assuring everyone that things were fine, which has left the country in such a mess. Welfare payments only last for a limited time after you lose your job in Greece; after that, you must rely on family to keep you alive. So when the results of the vote come in, the current ruling party, PASOK, is firmly defenestrated from the political scene. It's a strong message.
The elections leave Greece in limbo. Neither the old, rightwing Nea Dimokratia party nor the new, left-wing Syriza w
in enough of the vote to form a government, nor are the parties able to form a coalition, so the people must vote again in June. The outcome could determine whether they stay in the eurozone; there's the potential for monumental change and it's tempting to hope for that path – the one that would allow Greece to forge its own future.
It's time for me to fly to England to see colleagues, friends and family again. The plane descends through white-grey cloud as I arrive, but I don't go to England for the weather. Seeing people face to face after several months apart is wonderful. I feel so lucky to have the best of different worlds in my new life.
Many people have fixed ideas about Greece and the Greeks, which they pick up from the media – people like to think issues are simple and a single article in a newspaper is sufficient to understand a situation. Rushing from one meeting to the next in London, I take a cab and have to pretend to check messages on my phone when the driver makes it clear he thinks the Greeks are lazy, layabouts – a familiar opinion. I think about the fishermen, about the people I know and the several jobs they do; and laugh, remembering when I caught a glimpse of Eleftheria, after working in the shop all morning, standing behind a mound of vine leaves and rice mixture and preparing dolmades for her extended family. No lazy nation would actually make stuffed vine leaves from scratch for lunch.
An Octopus in My Ouzo Page 13