My Ikaria

by Tsintziras, Spiri;

  As we make to leave, I see that the dance floor is now packed so tightly it’s a wonder anyone can move. There are many hundreds of people, with the festivities spilling out of the small church grounds, bodies atop ledges, rocks and every available space. The festivities, we are told, will go on well into the morning.

  In the car, Niki tells us she is sated – she got her soup, spoke with some interesting people, saw a few people she hadn’t seen for a while. We stop to pick up two older women who are making their way down the mountain, but have somehow missed their lift. Picking up hitchhikers on the island is common practice – we have done it several times already. I listen sleepily as Niki establishes a connection with the women, finds out who they know in common. I’m not surprised. It seems she has some sort of connection with everyone here.

  I daydream, thinking about the day’s events: the soup, the company, dancing, wine. I’ve finally experienced an Ikarian panigiri, and I too feel sated.

  Foraging

  A few nights ago, when Thea and I caught up over an impromptu glass of wine and a snatched late-night meal, we found ourselves talking about being daughters. About being the children of first generation migrants. We learnt that we both had strict upbringings in our respective countries of birth, she in the US, I in Australia.

  Today, she asks me what my plans are for the day.

  ‘I think I’m going to visit 102-year-old Ioanna – but I can’t be sure.’ I smile, shrug.

  She laughs. ‘You can’t be sure of anything here.’

  It’s my turn to laugh. ‘I was hoping to meet Ioanna, but the longer I’m here, the more uncomfortable I feel orchestrating such meetings. It seems a bit contrived. Yesterday, when I went to the panigiri, I realised it’s not just about the old people – it’s about everyone, and how they fit in together.’

  ‘That’s so true!’ says Thea. ‘You’ll love Ioanna. She’s very sharp. She often says to me, “The tourists come, they ask their questions, they take photos, then they leave without buying anything. Is it because I’m too old, or don’t they like my work?!”’

  ‘As my daughter would say, “That’s just rude.” I definitely plan on buying something.’

  Everywhere, I am reminded that the islanders need to make a living to supplement the other things they do. The tourist season is all too short.

  Next I visit Isa and Niki at their studio nearby. Ilias drops by with a little bucket of strawberries from his garden. We eat and talk until midday, then Niki and I decide to head down to the beach. We walk across rough stones, wading through a muddy river and finally making it across the rocks, past a handful of sunbaking tourists, to the sea. Once we skirt the cliffs, Niki gets her knife out to wedge small molluscs from the rocks. She shows me how to pluck edible seaweed from the rock face without damaging the roots. She gently berates me when I don’t get it right. We talk about the industry that has arisen of collecting herbs from the mountains. Niki says the elders knew to collect just enough during the season to allow the herbs sufficient time to regenerate. Now, the hillsides are fast becoming stripped of the precious herbs Ikarians have used for centuries to flavour their food and treat their ailments.

  By this time, my trousers are soaked, so I take them off and leave them on a rock face. My top becomes wet too, and after a while I discard it and dive into the sea, something I haven’t felt like doing for many years. The salty water buoys me, numbs my tongue. Niki says the water is very therapeutic here, and shows me the bucket of sea salt she has collected. ‘We won’t have to buy any now!’ she jokes. I collect seaweed while in the water, the waves drawing me to and from the rocks.

  Niki guides me across the river to look for stamnagathi, a weed that grows near the sea, and we taste some of the shoots that are hidden in the prickly folds of the plant. It is bitter – we are a few weeks too late. She points out what is edible, and we collect some kritano and start heading home. Niki, barefoot, reflects on walking these paths as a child, her step sure on the sharp, slippery rocks. Though she hasn’t lived on the island for many years, I get the sense that she is home.

  It’s now mid-afternoon, and we make our way to the village of Christos Raches to visit Ioanna. We find her workshop, which is just out of town, but the doors are closed. I look through the window and see a few large looms and rugs made of tiny colourful rags, just like the ones my grandmother used to make, and vow to come back again.

  I pull out a piece of paper with the name ‘Nikos’ on it, along with his phone number. I had met Nikos’s nieces, Dorothy and Lisa, several weeks ago at a café in Melbourne’s ‘Greek’ suburb of Oakleigh. We’d been introduced by a mutual friend, and they’d kindly agreed to tell me about Ikaria. As soon as we met, they toasted the island by having a mid-afternoon glass of wine, ‘Just like the Ikarians.’

  ‘The first thing you’ll notice when you get to Ikaria is that the whole island is all hills and rock. Nothing is flat except for the airport runway. They had to cut this out of the rock. The flattest part of the island is the soccer pitch. When players kick the ball too hard, it falls into the sea.’

  They told me that their elderly father, who also lives in Melbourne, grew up on the island. The sisters visited Ikaria for the first time the previous year and met their father’s brother, Nikos, and several cousins. They uncovered a few family secrets too, including that their father’s parents had been ‘disappeared’ for their alleged involvement in the communist movement. Dorothy told me that this had never been spoken about openly in their family.

  We ask at a bookshop where we might find Nikos, the priest’s son.

  ‘Is he very old?’ the bookseller asks. ‘The laographer?’ Laos means people, grapher is a scribe. A scribe of the people.

  Yes, that’s the one.

  Convoluted instructions follow.

  ‘Do we need to call ahead?’ I know the Ikarians are used to having people drop in, but I can’t help it. My Aussie manners prevail.

  ‘Are you planning to steal him? I don’t think his carer will let you,’ the man jokes. ‘No, you needn’t call ahead,’ he adds.

  We make our way out of the village along unsealed roads, and are confused when we turn into a dead end.

  A van stops beside us, and the driver calls out, ‘Where do you want to go?’

  ‘To Nikos, the priest’s son.’

  ‘I’ll take you there – you’ll never find it.’

  He takes us up several winding roads a few kilometres outside of the village, then wishes us a good journey.

  When we arrive, Nikos’s carer comes to the door. She calls Stamatis, Nikos’s nephew. He looks confused, but invites us to come in and sit down regardless, asking our business only once we are seated and have been offered refreshments.

  Stamatis tells us that 95-year-old Nikos is having an afternoon nap. He informs us that Nikos is still well. He has no blood pressure problems, no cholesterol issues, no heart problems. His appetite is good – he eats everything from lamb to chocolates – and so he should, as he has no health problems to worry about. He’s in a wheelchair because he’s scared of falling. And yes, it’s true that he’s a laographer – he has published one book and has written another that is soon to be published.

  ‘I’ll see if he wants to get up – I think he’ll be pleased to see you,’ says Stamatis.

  Soon after, Nikos comes in. He is wearing a bathrobe and is in a wheelchair, but the word ‘cad’ instantly springs to mind – perhaps because of the slicked back hair, eyes glinting expectantly, the flirtatious, curious smile.

  I let Niki make the introductions. As a native to the island, it’s become a running joke between us that everyone she talks to is related by blood or marriage in some way. Once she and Nikos establish several connections, Nikos turns to me and says, ‘And who are you?’

  ‘I live in Melbourne,’ I say. ‘And I’ve come to bring greetings from your nieces, Dorothy and Lisa.’

  ‘You did well, my girl, you did well to come and visit me. Now don’t sit so far awa
y. Aren’t I lucky to have three lovely young women in my home?’ He winks flirtatiously, looks at each of us in turn, clearly enjoying holding the floor. He lights a cigarette and asks if we smoke.

  Isa and Niki nod. He looks at me. ‘I can tell you don’t smoke because your eyes are clear.’

  As we spend more time at his table, it becomes apparent that Nikos has honed the art of flirtation. His humour is sardonic, sharp.

  As I watch him talk, fascinated, a spaghetti western plays on the television behind him, close-ups of a young Clint Eastwood juxtaposing against Nikos’s face. I note that Nikos has fewer wrinkles than both me and Clint, his skin practically unlined.

  We ask about his life and he tells us that two of his brothers had to escape their childhood home, alluding to political reasons. No one knows exactly what happened to them, their bodies were never recovered, even after much searching. They left in the middle of the night, and though Nikos had begged to leave with them, they’d said he was too young. He reflects quietly that he was spared, and they weren’t. He says his father always wanted to build a chapel on the property to honour their memory. Nikos has now realised his father’s dream, with the chapel due to be completed in a few months.

  ‘And I’ve been to jail you know.’ He watches our faces for our reaction.

  ‘Been to jail? What did you do?’

  ‘I burnt a well,’ he says, laughing raucously. Then he pauses, a far-off look in his eyes. ‘Don’t ask. It’s best not to reflect on these painful memories.’ There is another moment of silence.

  As his story unfolds, we piece together that he’s been a journalist, working for a notable Athenian paper and living in many countries across Africa and in Beirut. He also studied film and worked as a cinematographer with some notable French directors. He wrote a book about Ikaria, in Ikarian, which drew on many ancient Greek words. He asks Stamatis to bring copies of the book to give to us.

  Niki reads out a few passages, remembering words from her childhood. We talk generally about the beauty of the Greek language, and Nikos says that being well versed in language is like ‘having a third eye’ from which to see the world.

  While we’re chatting, Nikos turns to his carer, a softly spoken woman originally from Bulgaria.

  ‘Dora, my love, my sweet, please can you get the girls some coffee,’ he asks.

  ‘Dora takes care of you,’ Isa says.

  ‘And she does a good job of it too. She has seven grandchildren. Two of her sons live in Athens.’ He pauses. ‘If you had come a few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have seen me like this.’ He glances at his wheelchair, which he clearly doesn’t like being in.

  He shrugs philosophically. ‘Life is sweet, you still want to live.’

  I ask him what his favourite film is.

  He pauses, then says: ‘The films that move me emotionally. Those about the Depression. Because anyone who has lived through the Depression knows what it means to be starving. To have to get on a boat and leave your country. And to get on that boat not having eaten for days. Would you like to leave your home and get on a boat with nothing except the clothes on your back?’

  I confess that I wouldn’t.

  He lights another cigarette. ‘It doesn’t matter how long life is, but how entoni, how intense.’

  We worry that we will tire him, but our conversation continues for close to two hours. Finally, we say we should leave to let him rest.

  He jokes about what he should write in the books he has given us, then goes around the table, asking each of us what he should inscribe. We make more conversation. I wouldn’t put it past him to dawdle so that we might stay longer.

  ‘Is your husband the jealous type?’ he asks me.

  ‘Oh yes!’ I joke. ‘But he doesn’t read Greek, so you should write what you want.’

  He pauses for several minutes, then asks Stamatis to be the scribe. ‘For you, my sweet one, to read in the cold nights of winter, your grandfather, Nikos.’

  Stamatis dates it, and passes it to Nikos to sign. Nikos checks the grammar and spelling. While it’s not up to his high standards, he lets it go, and signs the book with a flourish. He asks Stamatis to write the same thing for Isa and Niki. To Niki’s, he adds, ‘and to connect with your culture.’

  ‘Now, I have keys to the house next door,’ he says, picking them up from an ashtray and holding them up, his eyes teasing flirtatiously. ‘Why don’t you stay there?’

  ‘We can’t. Perhaps next time.’

  He looks sad for a moment. ‘Don’t leave it too long.’

  As we make our way from the property, we pass a stately war memorial with many Ikarian names on it. Meanwhile, Nikos and Dora are at the window, waving us off all the way to the car.

  We make our way down to Christos Raches again and decide to get a bite to eat. We go into a shop that makes pizzas and snacks. It quickly becomes clear that Niki knows the owner; she once dated her brother when she was in high school. Isa and I exchange glances. Is there anyone she isn’t connected to here?

  Niki’s friend heats up food, offers us syrupy deserts she has prepared from local fruit, and sits down with us as we eat our pizza and rolls.

  Niki quickly catches up on who is doing what, who has had kids, who is still unmarried.

  Her friend is impressed that we are three mothers taking a trip alone. ‘Escaped from Alcatraz. Lucky you!’ she exclaims. ‘As a working mother, you never get a moment of peace. In the summer, we keep this place open 24/7. It’s hard. Who has time to go to the beach?’

  We talk about several young people who’ve moved to Christos Raches from Athens. She says some of them don’t last.

  ‘They think it’s easy living off the land, making a go of it. But it’s not. To keep your house warm in the winter, you need to cut firewood two times a week, if you can find it. The garden doesn’t produce much in the cold months. You need to work at it. But of course, there are the benefits – clean air, a safe place for your kids to grow up, real food.

  ‘I had it hard as a kid. I was orphaned early, had to work, practically brought me and my brother up by myself. I remember I wanted a pair of runners, Nikes. They cost more then than they do now. I saved up for those runners for months, and when I wore them, I was so proud. I had very little, but I appreciated what I had.’

  When the conversation moves on to our children, she says she doesn’t want her adult children to work until they’ve finished university. It’s seen as slightly shameful when a parent sends their child out to work. What will people say, that their parents can’t support them?

  I say that in Australia, kids are encouraged to have a job from an early age, so they can have a bit of independence, and some pocket money.

  ‘Is it true that Australian parents tell their kids they must leave home once they turn eighteen?’ she asks, looking mortified.

  ‘It used to be more prevalent,’ I say, ‘but now kids can’t afford to leave home so early because house prices in cities are so high. At any rate, my parents didn’t want me to leave home until I got married!’

  ‘It’s natural for kids to get independence, for couples to move in together, but there has to be a balance,’ she replies.

  We spend a good hour with Niki’s friend and buy several jars of her sweets. We then go to another café, order a beer, and watch parents and young children move around the square. A tiny basketball ring has been set up, kids ride their bikes up and down the square and someone calls out to a neighbour as the sun sets on the village. It feels like a scene in a movie, and I sit back, watching contentedly.

  Accepting

  The days bleed one into another, time seeming to stretch and contract languidly. Isa and Niki find out that the ferry back to Athens is on strike on the day that they planned to leave – they are obliged to extend their trip. It’s as if the island is conspiring to keep them here, just like the Sirens entrapped Odysseus and his men. Happily, they allow themselves to be seduced for a few more days by the island’s charms.

  After anot
her slow start to the day, we set off to drink from the ‘immortal waters’ gushing out of a wind-beaten rock on one side of the island, our hair whipping wildly about us. Then we have coffee in a little taverna overlooking the sea, and visit an isolated monastery that is a few hundred years old. The young monk there looks a little bewildered when I buy some incense and a vigil lamp as a gift for Mum, handing me a note in change that looks as if it’s been sitting under a rock for the last decade. Winding our way through the mountains, we go in search of Pigi village to sample the famous honeyed donuts, loukoumathes and to see the Chapel of Theoskepasti, which has been carved inside a cave, covered with a giant rock. Isa is keen to see if the donuts are still as good as she remembers them.

  After visiting the low-roofed chapel with its dark and delicate old icons, we head down to wait outside a tiny room. A woman is heating a large vat of oil. We chat with her while she pulls back the towel on a tub of loose dough and drops a few spoonfuls of it into the hot oil. The donuts sizzle up seductively. When they are cooked, the woman removes them from the oil, drains them on some paper, and drizzles them with dark honey. We make our way to long wooden tables that overlook the fields below, and feast on our sweet bounty.

  ‘They’re amazing,’ I say. ‘But are they as good as you remember them?’

  ‘They’re just as good,’ Isa says as she wipes away the last of the viscous honey from her plate.

  It’s after 10 pm by the time we return from our day’s outings and I’m looking forward to going to bed with a book I’ve borrowed from a rickety bookshelf in Urania’s office.

  ‘What about a drink at Thea’s?’ says Isa, who still has a bit of energy left.

  Given the tavern is just downstairs from my room, I think that one drink can’t hurt. I’m conscious of making the most of every opportunity while I’m away from home. Going out for a spontaneous drink late at night doesn’t feel possible back in Melbourne. Waking, eating and going out whenever I want has been liberating. Niki and Isa are also rejoicing in being child-free. We all have teenage children, and they appear to be coping in our absence.