My Ikaria

by Tsintziras, Spiri;

  ‘Very little. Just the odd altercation between neighbours sometimes. They were good times. The Ikarians were good to us, kept giving us things. Chickens, vegetables, honey . . .

  ‘But you have to know that they are a strange people. They move to their own rhythms. If you want something in a restaurant, they will get it for you in their own good time. They’re not going to run after you. They don’t rush, they simply don’t care. Don’t think that their longevity has got to do with the food, or clean air, or even movement. It’s because they don’t give a shit . . .

  ‘And, if you must know, the women there are in charge. They run everything. And as for their sexuality, let’s just say that their morals are a little loose . . .’

  I’m intrigued by this, but he won’t be drawn further. He says I will need to see for myself.

  ‘Anyone who is not of the place, be they from Athens or Australia, are outsiders. They won’t trust you, they won’t tell you what’s what the first time. Maybe the second time you meet them they’ll let you in. Or not. You will have a nice holiday, but I don’t know if you will learn anything at all.’

  Now that I am in Greece, I feel strangely relaxed, with few expectations. In so many ways I have learnt so much from the Ikarians already – the Ikarians I have met on my computer screens, the Ikarians I have read about in research papers, the Ikarians I’ve watched on television.

  In a few short weeks, I will visit their little rugged island and see for myself. But whatever happens, I’m grateful to them. They’ve helped me rediscover my more gregarious, irreverent self. They’ve helped me understand that I need to move and eat well and engage with my life most of the time, not just in half-hearted spurts. They’ve reached across the seas and inspired me to live better. And they’ve bought me here, to my aunt’s generous table.

  Over the ensuing days, I spend most of my time with Theia Kanella. We fossick in a small, dank outhouse for seeds that she has placed in jars and carefully labelled in handwriting that looks like my father’s – tomato, cucumber, zucchini. I watch her plant the seedlings, her arthritic hands expertly working the soil. I help her by bringing the hose and seedlings in tiny pots to her side, but it’s clear she’s in charge. I observe her as she places oregano in trays to dry in the sun, shifting it as the sun moves across the sky.

  The day after setting out the oregano, she brings it in and grinds it down through a colander, bottles it neatly, labels it with the date. It joins the many jars of jam she has made over the summer. She shows me a large box of egg noodles she made last year, their earthy smell rising as she exposes them to the air. She checks that they haven’t become infested with mites, then seals them up properly before putting the box away.

  I marvel at her energy, despite her ailing health.

  ‘I’ve got to keep going,’ she says. ‘What can I do? Just sit here and wait to die?’

  In the mornings, Stathis checks in on her, listens for her breathing. I sense his fear that her ailing lungs might fail in the night. What if she doesn’t wake? When she opens her eyes, he brings her oxygen tank and mask to her.

  After breakfast, my aunt lets me brush her hair and plait it before she winds in around in a knot.

  ‘I find it hard to do the bit at the back.’

  ‘I like doing it for you. Your hair reminds me of Yiayia’s . . .’ I say.

  ‘Hers was so much nicer than mine.’

  Yiayia’s hair was thick and long, always wound neatly into a plaited bun. Theia Kanella tells me she washed it once a week in ash that came from the hearth which she mixed with the soap she made herself. The ash kept her hair glossy and thick.

  ‘When she came to live with me, she wanted me to wash it in ash,’ says Theia Kanella. ‘I said to her “Mother, where are we going to find ash here?” It was her one indulgence; she was so proud of her hair.’

  I am glad to be able to offer something to my aunt in the short time I am here. There is something very primal, very intimate in brushing her hair, plaiting it for her. She says that this is the one thing that she cannot ask Stathis to do.

  Theia Kanella raised her boys alone after her husband died young. She worked hard, mostly doing night shifts as an orderly in a hospital. She’s coaxed and cajoled and grown three rowdy boys into men. I watch her with her grandsons, who pop in after school most days, chiding them, berating them if they step out of line, feeding them. She still works hard, despite her ailments. I find myself, a grown woman, deferring to her opinion out of respect for her age, for her experience. She is the undisputed matriarch of the house.

  Dionysios takes my aunt and I to visit my grandparent’s village where Kanella, Spiro and my father grew up. I brace myself to see the old family home. Last time I was here, I was upset to see it in near ruins, the roof looking ready to collapse, the back porch and door already caved in. Since then, Theio Spiro has sold it to a fellow villager on the proviso that he rebuilds it in the same traditional style. The house now stands solid; its rustic sandstone walls decorated with shuttered windows, the back porch finished elegantly in marble. I feel happy to see it revived in this way.

  In the small cemetery where my grandparents are buried, I’m taken aback to see a photo of my father on my grandparents’ grave. I hold back a little while my aunt lights a candle beside the grave, composing myself. We make our way into the church, fill one of the vigil lamps with oil and light the wick. There is something comforting in undertaking these small rituals, remembering and honouring those who have gone before us.

  On another day we drive to my uncle Panagioti’s village and light the candle by his grave too. It’s surreal to see his photo on the headstone; last time I was here, he was alive. I feel grateful that he was well until a few days before his death; hunting boars, tending his hives, drinking coffee at the local cafeneion.

  My visit is all too short, and on my last day there, I sit on Theia Kanella’s bed while she takes in her oxygen. I pass over her steroids. From this vantage point, I can see the ravages that time has left on her; lines deeply etched in her cheeks, the tendons and lax muscles around her neck protruding under thin skin. Her eyes are teary. We don’t speak. We both know this is probably the last time we will see each other.

  Philosophising

  My cousin Dionysios drives me to the town of Kalamata to reunite with my first cousin Natassa, from Mum’s side of the family. We arrive to find Natassa dragging a trolley up the stairwell to her apartment, filled with food from the laiki, the local market. I introduce her to Dionysios, and she quickly puts the trolley to one side and takes us up to the formal parlour and serves us drinks. She waves away the grandeur, a bit embarrassed, ‘These things belonged to my husband’s family. He likes them . . .’

  After Dionysios leaves, Natassa tells me we’re going to stay in their exoteriko (summer home), which is in the hills some thirty minutes out of Kalamata. When her husband, Sotiris, arrives, he greets me warmly, and then we get down to the business of trying to fit everything into their small car. There is food, four overnight bags, the dog and their twelve-year-old daughter, Olga. Somehow, we manage.

  After only one day together, Natassa and I have returned to the relationship we had when we visited as a family when I was seven – Natassa is the leader and I am the follower. I accompany her to the beach, water her garden, spring clean her kitchen, and convince her daughter to go to bed.

  This morning, Natassa has decided on string beans for lunch. Now, after topping and tailing the beans, she is lying on a garden chair that’s seen better days, smoking. A few years older than me, she is wearing her oldest garden clothes, her hair unkempt. Her breasts are spilling out of her top, a sliver of her bra lace showing. There are no formalities here.

  ‘Why are you going to Ikaria?’ she asks, as we look down on the terrazas below us and the sea a few hundred metres away.

  ‘To see what it takes to live longer. And better,’ I reply.

  ‘I’ll tell you what it takes to live longer. You need to have lots of sex,’
she says and laughs raucously.

  ‘I don’t mean just the praxis (the act),’ she continues. ‘I’m talking about eros, sex with feeling, with intimacy.

  ‘Also, you can’t have bad feelings towards others. Keep jealousy away from your heart.’

  She sinks down further into the chair, feet up, pulling at her cigarette, ash falling to the ground. She is just getting started, clearly enjoying herself. ‘I don’t think it’s the food we eat that brings sickness, it’s about our psychology. It’s not just about diet – ppphh, that’s nothing – it’s about angst, and how we can avoid it.

  ‘You need to have dreams, to be able to step away from your life and see if from afar – not microscopically, not myopically. And don’t put too much pressure on yourself.’

  I love the Greek language; even when crudely expressed, it is the language of poetry, of the soul. As Natassa lets loose, I’m reminded of Cavafy’s poem ‘Ithaca’:

  Laistrygonians and Cyclops

  angry Poseidon – don’t be afraid of them:

  you’ll never find things like that on your way

  as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,

  as long as a rare excitement

  stirs your spirit and your body.

  ‘Are you listening?’ asks Natassa. ‘The most important thing is to give of yourself. When you give love, you get love back, and that fills you up. Don’t infect your heart and your soul with bad feeling.’ She looks at me like a stern school teacher who expects her recalcitrant student to hold onto her every word.

  ‘Natassa, these are all good things, but you told me yourself you are tired. You are exhausted actually.’ I look pointedly at the full ashtray before her and raise an eyebrow.

  ‘Well, it’s clear that I don’t follow my own advice! In my work, I try and give what I want to get back. But in my life overall, I don’t do these things.’ She draws on her cigarette.

  ‘All I want is to grow my flowers, to share things with others, to give something away, to have a meal with those I love. That’s what gives me pleasure.’

  Sotiris comes up to the terraza and joins the conversation. He too agrees that giving is what counts. He recounts visiting nearby villages around Kalamata when he first started out in the family business as an oil trader.

  ‘The villagers looked forward to seeing us. We were their bosses in a way, we paid them money for their oil. They didn’t use banks then. The money they got from us was their income for the year.

  ‘One thing I found is that the poorest people were the most generous,’ he continues. ‘Even if they didn’t have anything to eat, they set the table for you, gave you bread, and horta and cheese, whatever they had from their farm. They fed you, then they cleared the table. Played music. Danced. They trusted you with their oil, didn’t question the price, let you have the dregs for free. These were content people. They didn’t have much, but they appreciated what they had.

  ‘The rich people, they didn’t even offer you a coffee, though we were there for several hours, collecting their many litres of oil. They negotiated everything to the last drachma. And they seemed unhappy. Deeply unhappy.

  ‘The trick is not to have more money than you need, but to have your health. Without your health, you are nothing. And to be content with what you have at any given moment. Money is nothing if you are not content.’

  I think back to the documentary I watched about the Ikarians, about being content with enough. I look around me on the terraza; the string beans in a bowl, a plate of cumquats, conversation that ebbs and flows. At this moment, I feel content.

  Sotiris’s sister Clare and her husband George have invited us and a group of their friends to Sunday lunch. We are sitting at an outdoor table set near a vegetable garden and olive grove. I’m in the company of a microbiologist, a surgeon, a few mechanical engineers and a poet. We’ve just finished feasting on roast lamb, livers wrapped in entrails, pork cutlets and sausages, all cooked on an outdoor spit. These were accompanied by baked potatoes and several salads, dips and bread. The meat has come from local farms, the salad vegetables from the garden. Though we have finished eating, the table is still groaning with leftover food.

  After I introduced myself to the group, they embraced me and my Ikarian quest with gusto. Everyone is keen to contribute their thoughts on what factors help us to live a long time. But, as always, the conversation veers from that to what it takes to live well. To be healthy. To live a meaningful life. I’ve tapped into something that concerns us all. And here in Greece, everyone is an expert. The art of dialogue and argument is still alive and well, with anything and everything up for discussion. And it’s usually explored loudly, passionately.

  ‘Are you meaning to tell me that Socrates wasn’t stressed? Stress, productive stress, has always been around. It’s necessary for creativity, for progress,’ says one of the guests.

  ‘Like hell he was stressed. Stress is a modern creation, something that we don’t need. That, and that alone, is the reason the Ikarians live such a long time. They simply don’t get stressed,’ says another.

  ‘Look, to work hard, to worry about your family, to get ahead – this is not stress, this is life. You can’t just sit to the side of your life, observing it. You need to live it, be in the thick of it. And yes, inevitably this causes stress,’ counters Maria, the microbiologist.

  ‘It’s when you don’t release stress that it turns to illness,’ she continues, on a roll now. ‘The old ones, our elders, they used to say that if you don’t express yourself, if you don’t release what is inside you, it will become an ulcer. It’s well known now that psychological pain can cause physical pain . . .’

  ‘Do you know what the actual word “anthropos” (a human), means?’ Maria asks me.

  I admit I don’t know.

  ‘Anathron ol apope. This translates from ancient Greek as “to critique everything you see”. To be human is to explore, to ask questions, to hold your head up, to engage. In its essence, it is not the absence of stress.’

  Dessert arrives, an orange and almond jelly that Clare has made from the oranges in her grove, and frozen strawberry ice-cream George has made. The orange desert is intense, tangy; the ice-cream creamy and fresh. George talks at length about how he had to stir the milk with a fork. While I don’t understand every word everyone is saying, I know enough to be aware that the conversation has become lewd as they talk about how much whipping is required, how hard one needs to do it, whether one has a good enough tool.

  Dessert is followed by homemade limoncino, and then a sour cherry liqueur, an offering from a guest who made a batch last year. The conversation veers towards the food, and Clare shares her recipes. We in turn salute her for her hospitality. She hardly sits down, pours drinks, offers food constantly. The music is turned up, and someone gets up to dance.

  We chink glasses and drink to life. The conversation gets even more raucous. The poet asks me why the tax office won’t allow him to declare his profession as a poet – isn’t that as legitimate as being a mechanical engineer? His eyes dance, challenging me across the table. He gets up and recites a ditty about a widow in Gucci glasses and push-up bra, replete with hand gestures. There is much laughter.

  I marvel once again at the elegance of the Greek language when it comes to social connection – it’s like observing a passionate dance between lovers, the words lilting and swaying around each other in ever more joyful circles.

  George sidles up to me and asks if I have heard of Stamatis Moraitis.

  ‘Yes, he’s the one who got my started on this journey,’ I say, excited. ‘I read his story in the New York Times. He reminded me of my grandparents, of my uncle Panagiotis, perhaps a little of my father. He’s the reason why I’m here.’

  ‘I have a friend who’s from Ikaria, who knew him,’ says George, then tells the story about how when Stamatis moved from the US to Ikaria, he had cancer and was frail and sick. He also tells me how, after forty years, Stamatis was still drawing a pension from Americ
a, even though he should have been dead a long time ago. The US authorities got suspicious, and sent auditors to look into it. They were amazed that he was still alive, still entitled to his pension. He’d even outlived the doctors who diagnosed him.’

  ‘I heard that he died only a few years ago,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, they say he was more than a hundred years old.’

  ‘I’m going to find his grave and light a candle for him, to thank him for starting me off on this little quest of mine.’ I look George in the eyes. ‘Thank you so much for your generous table.’

  ‘It’s nothing. I can tell you’re a good person. At the end of the day, that’s all that counts. And this –’ he says, extending his arm around the table. ‘Being with friends, eating good food, talking. It’s a good way to pass the time now that we have retired.’

  We chink glasses. I agree. It’s a great way to pass the time, even for those of us who haven’t yet retired. An island song comes on and he grabs my hand to dance.

  My final visit to relatives before I head off to Ikaria is to my mother’s niece, Smaragthi, in the town of Kalamata. Soon after my arrival, Smaragthi takes me off to spend a day at the beach in her mother’s village, some twenty kilometres from Kalamata. The village is set on loamy earth, where my aunty spent most of her adult life growing oranges, tomatoes, cantaloupes and watermelon.

  Since I was last here seven years ago, two international resorts have been built on the seashore. The gleaming buildings with their manicured lawns look incongruous among the rustic village homes and small farm holdings. At the beach, we sit on sun chairs, waiting for someone to take our coffee order. When Smaragthi realises no one is coming, she goes up to the hotel while I watch English tourists take wind surfing and canoeing lessons. Smaragthi stomps back across the boardwalk twenty minutes later, two cold coffees in hand.

  ‘They wouldn’t let me buy coffee because we didn’t have a room number,’ she fumes. ‘I had an argument with the wait staff. I said I’ve been coming to this beach all my life. The beach is free. They gave me my coffee.’