Another Wanderer

A shortish entry this time - you may recall I fell over the cat and hit my head? : the xray to determine the permanent damage done is today - but A Grand Tour this summer by someone I know can not go unnoticed. The identity of the participants cannot be revealed at this stage, all I can say is that it is not me, but is someone I know who is relatively tall with hi spartner and young child.

The map shows only part of it as the return to the Uk is via Switzerland, Germany and Holland, because I have been strugling with Google Maps, so a further entry this day is likely if I succeed in mapping the entire thing. A description of the reasons behind it are also warrsanted, but for noew, I just note that self and RHB are hatching plans to join the party for a short period in Budapest.

So I arrive at Athens airport, some 18km east of the city, with my final destinations of Delphi and Nidri in mind. Despite fifteen minutes on Google, I actually have no idea how I am going to cross the 350kms to Nidri from Athens, having resolved not to drive but to backpack (and having left my driving licence at home by mistake anyway). The internet has not been much use in providing advance information, neither has the Lonely Planet Guide because - not its fault - Greece's economy has collapsed, and when I ask at the Information Point at the airport, no one seems certain whether the trains, ferries and buses that are referred to are actually running anymore (or that day - I could not understand). The very grumpy person Information shrugs, tells me that there are riots in Athens and recommends I rent a car. She does not know where the central bus station in Athens is, but says it is in a bad area and I should avoid it.

I should mention at this point that the journey across Greece, while it cannot be described as adventure travelling was a new experience for me. True, I travelled to Canada and RHB and I landed in Canada knowing no-one and everything worked out fine, and I travel extensively for work, but this type of leisure travelling - backpacking - was not something I was familiar with. I have read lots of travel books, for example Bruce Chatwin's 'In Patagonia', but I have decided to model this sojourn on two different influences - firstly I decided that this adventure would be my Gap Year, wherein I 'find myself" and secondly, I adopted a persona for this sojourn that was a cross between Aragorn (one of the central characters of that other great travel book Lord of the Rings), Heinrich Schleimann (the discover of Troy) and Bronislaw Malinowsky (the anthropologist who described the Kula rings of the Pacific). As a persona, this was a complicated act to pull off, full of internal tensions, with the idealistic noble hero bits (Aragorn), Functionalist intellectual elements (Malinowski), and self-publicising adventurer of questionable integrity parts(Schleimann) making decision making a difficult process even before I left the airport. In fact this was the first lesson learnt : next time I travel solo, I will go just as myself, because for all my faults, I am at least quite familiar with the processes involved in being a hapless, accident prone Scouser.

Faced with being absolutely none the wiser after consulting the Information people, the fearless Aragorn character came to the fore, so I jump on a Metro and head for central Athens, leaving the tourists to their shuttle buses. The Metro is wonderful, clean, beautiful stations and announcements in Greek and English, so using the map I have I alight in central Athens at the station that (I have randomly decided because its quite near the Acropolis) will be circled with numerous tourist information bureaus from where further info can be obtained. However on exiting the Metro station, there are three surprises. Firstly, everyone is speaking Greek. Secondly, all the writing on all the signs I can see is also in Greek, which does not look like an alphabet, it looks like a series of mathematical equations. Thirdly, there are not hundreds of information bureaus surrounding me, just a load of mangy old dogs, and some 'exotic' looking women. I start wandering, a little bit perturbed by the rough appearance of the area. I am soon utterly lost.

The Aragron character soon decides this aimless wandering is hopeless and a plan is needed, but as there are no Orcs to attack, he is a bit puzzled as to what to do. Fortunately, the Schliemann character comes to the fore, seizing the moment, and decides, as a plan, to consult the (English language) map I have. The next part of my plan is a bit vaguer (eerily echoing his 'discovery of Troy), but suddenly the woodcraft I learnt in Canada comes to the rescue, and I have a brilliant idea. As I cannot read the street signs, I have no reference point, but if I can establish which way is North, relative to my position, I will then be able to approach various locals, map in hand. I can then shout loudly at them "Bus station. Peloponese. Nidri" until someone shows me on the map where the station is. I can then triangulate my position and hike across the city - a city that I later found out is currently the most dangerous city in Europe- to the bus station. Once there, I only have to hope its the right one, because one piece of information I do have is that there are two, each serving different regions of Greece.

I am consulting the map, when I hear an English voice. "How can I help you, my friend?". I look up, and a rather dapper older gentleman is offering me a cigarette and smiling kindly. Until this point, I was contemplating a return to tobacco (after mostly being free of it for some months), not really because I feel the need, but because observations made by the anthropologist character has revealed that smoking is apparently compulsory in Greece, and I had been unsure if I was breaking any rules by not indulging. I take his offered cigarette, and tell him I am utterly lost.

"Where are you from?" he asks kindly, and I almost tell him "Middle Earth" but decide on "Liverpool" instead. "Ah, the Beatles" he says "and what a great football team!" I agree, whole heartedly, and we chat about football for a few seconds. Then he says "Here, let me help you. Where do you want to go?". I tell him about the wedding, and Delphi and my desire to travel solo. I also tell him that I cannot call Lydia because my cell phone is out of charge. "Are you meeting people in Athens?" he asks. "No" I tell him "I am completely alone - my wife could not come". "Do you have tickets for the bus?" he asks and I reply that I dont but that I have is a few hundred Euros and my credit cards, so it should be no problem.

He draws on the map, and I think 'Brilliant! This is the adventure I wanted - meeting real Greek people, not waiters or pool attendants'. Having drawn on the map, Georgios, my new friend rubs his forehead, looking concerned "I have relatives in that part of the country, and I can tell you that the afternoon bus is gone", he says. "There may not be a later bus, so you might have to stay in Athens for the evening. You must be careful. Athens is a dangerous place" he says. "I have a little local bar right nearby - I can show you, its on your way anyway. Come in, have a little drink and we can ask. Then you can go the bus station, but if you have missed the last bus, you can come back and have a drink there tonight also - good company".

Georgios says he just has to make a short phone call, and while he is talking (in Greek), I think how brilliantly this is all going - in fact the Malowinski character hopes that I have missed the last bus because this - meeting and talking not as a tourist but in a friendly local bar, is surely the stuff of real anthropology.

We head off through old Athens, me holding Georgios' arm as we cross the lethal sidestreets, with scooters, buses, taxis pouring past, often on the sidewalk. We chat amiably, and I like the old charm of the place, the sheer authenticity of it. Georgios tells me about the war, about the economic problems of Greece and asks me about my family and what I do. We wind further away from the central squares, but Georgios points vaguely North East, saying that is where I will be going later. After about ten minutes, we turn a corner and he points down the street to a large wooden door, paint peeling, set into the endless jumble of stone facades and says "My bar". "Wow" I say admiringly "It really is a local, Georgios - no sign. In england, we have to have signs!" "No problem" says Georgios, then somewhat mysteriously "No Police".

We approach and he unlocks the front door with a key attached to the type of massive sets of keys that only older men seem to have, and seeing it is a bit stiff, I help him push it open. I walk in following his welcoming gesture and first impressions say 'local bar' - it is about twenty foot long, wooden floor boards, a bar along the lefthand wall and some tables with leatherette couches on the right. But there are also a number of anomalies. The first of these are the two open doors at the far end of the room that appear to be entrances to someones bedroom. The second two anomalies are two incredibly beautiful, sculpturally made-up and mini-skirted Asian women present - one sitting at a table, elegantly cross-legged, the other behind the bar, smiling broadly at us.

"Have a drink" says Georgios, slamming the door behind us. There is a moment of silence. "Er, no" I finally say. "What?" says Georgios, grabbing my hand "Its a good place. Clean." "Er, no" I say " Maybe another time" and gently withdraw my hand. Georgios' grip gets firmer "Just stay for ten minutes. Clean place" he says, as if my primary thoughts are about the cleanliness of his staff in any activity that might be implied by the setting either immediately or a bit later. In truth, my thoughts are following a different tangent and are primarily self directed. The first of these thoughts is "Stupid", but is not alone, as it is rapidly followed by "Stupid", "Stupid", "Stupid" and "Stupid". In my only moment of inspiration that day, I realise I have described that I am totally alone, have all my money on me, am lost, that no-one knows where I am, that my phone isnt working and that I dont constantly call my wife, and I am standing in what looks like an unlicensed brothel on what has rapidly gone from a 'quaint' to a 'seedy' area of Athens. I have, in other words, demonstrated to Georgios that I have that unique combination of gullibility and self-assured arrogance (believing bad things only happen to other people) that makes a perfect 'mark'.

A strange wresting match follows, with Georgios now clinging on to my hand and forearm with both his hands, while I am smiling and attempting to walk backwards while gently prizing his hands off me, and apologising for leaving (a bizarre feature of English behaviour is to hate causing offence to anyone and to apologise for everything, even when its "I apologise that I feel in danger for my life and you are, at the very least, a dirty old man, and possibly plotting my murder") and simultaneously noticing that the jaw of one of Georgios' staff is rather squarer than that of the average female.

Eventually, I break free of Georgios' grip, mumble something about "Maybe see you later. Sorry! " (I know, still trying not to offend - I have been in England too long)fumble frantically with the door and flee into the street. At a half jog, I reach a main square and see an official taxi rank. Establishing that English is spoken, and that the driver knows exactly where I want to go, I get into his taxi and am spectacularly fleeced (20 Euros for a five minute taxi ride) but happy to get to the bus station. The guy in the ticket office lets me charge my phone and I have dinner amid the aroma of diesel fumes, cigarette smoke and mangy dog. "Not very clean" I think to myself as I text Great Margaret to tell her that I have decided to come straight to Nidri that night.


There are two footnotes:
1. The only photos I have of the first day in Greece are the ones presented here of the bus station, where I spent two hours watching this dog chase buses. It was a nice dog though.
2. Thanks to the Legal Eagle and Great Margaret who stayed up till about 2.00am and picked me up when I finally arrived in Nidri , and Lil 'Than and Suzie Woozie who also stayed up and let me sleep in their place. Respect is due.

Introduction: Innocents abroad..........

It ill behoves me, having mentioned in the previous liturgy a bike ride, to not be illustrative of how I got to the place where the bike ride happened. The reason I was on the bike ride in the first place was that I was attending, along with substantial elements of the Greater Large Clan, a joining in matrimony of Lydia (RHB's niece) and Theo (another male who will soon discover what the phrase 'matriarchal' means).

Firstly I should explain the the use of 'Greater Large Clan' to describe the attendees, who included Jane, Sadie (and partner Davide), Niome (and baby Holly and partner Matt), Great Meg, The Legal Eagle Bill, Suzie Woozie, Lil 'Than, myself, John Henry and Phillipa, Malcolm, Ruby and myself . It is true that not all relatives from Blighty are, strictly speaking, derivatives of the 'Large' lineage - for example Suzie Woozie and my man, Lil 'Than, are Steele by origin, while the Legal Eagle, Davide and Matty have not yet been formally assimililated, but if you ever find yourself associated with the GLC, you will come to realise truism behind the Borg's catchphrase "Resistance is useless". Particularly, as Theo will find out (and I suspect he already has), the strong matriarchal nature of the GLC. This extends not only to females who are, by blood, members of the clan, but also to females who male members marry. Thus while Greater Large Clan is geneaologically inaccurate, it is descriptively, in my experience, accurate. This observation is not critical of either gender - it does not imply that the males are emasculated in any way, or that the women are in any way unfeminine, on the contrary. But based on my experience females of the GLC tend to act themselves rather than adopt a role of shrinking violets entirely dependant on their mate: for example, if a pride of lions were encountered by a mixed gender group of GLC members, while the men were discussing options for a valiant defence, the women would have stared the lions down, told them off, and made them apologise for their behaviour before slinking back into the jungle, before the men had sharpened their spears. And the women would have a list of the lions names and addresses in case of future infractions. If Celine was present, there'd also be some really nicely lit photographs as well, while Lorna would have given them all personal organisers so they could plan their huntng more effectively.

In truth, the independence of female GLCers can be very liberating. In my case, it meant that at the end of my degree, the inability of RHB to attend a wedding in Greece of a neice, did not mean that I was unable to attend in case a fuse needed changing at home. RHB, while not happy not to go, was supportive of the idea that I should go to Greece at the end of my degree. As the degree progressed, the idea burgeoned, until I had decided that the wedding event itself, in Nidri, Greece, would be the destination, after some solo travelling, of an exploration of Greece. I finished the final essay, handed it in and jumped on a train to London. Five days later I was on a mountan bike, terrified of snakes.

Tales will follow, including discussions on whether 'toadpoles' is a real word or not, what the inside of Athenian brothels look like, why people shout their business on trains via mobile phones and why the Parthenon sets the tone for Greek architecture, but for today, I will conclude as I noew have to make some bird boxes. When all this will happen, I am unsure, because after completing my degree, I have found myself plunged back into real life, and to my immense suprise, it is rather busy. And there is a backlog of news - my younger nrother is currently on a three month trip through Europe, I am back teaching and plans for the PHD have seen developments, but for today, I have to sign off.

The Hills Are Alive

"And you have to watch out for scorpions too"

"Scorpions?" I ask, querously, adding it to the mental list I already have of heatstroke, sunstroke, snakes, bandits, rogue drivers,attack bees, cliff edges, rabid foxes, bike chasing dogs, botulistic rats and feral cats as potential hazards on my planned ride.

"Especially the little ones. They get into your socks"

"Socks?" I exclaim, realising there is yet another thing I have forgotten. I rush back to my little apartment, adding another pair of socks to my back-pack, already bulging with emergency water, phone, towel,maps, Rough Guide to Greece, medications, extra food, two hats, spare teeshirt, cycle cape and camera. I am a bit put out by emergency procedures necessary for this ride, especially since Greece is in the EU. One would think there would be some sort of regulations against all these hazards.

I'm in Nidri, a small port turned tourist town, nestling in a little bay 18km south of Lefkada on the Western side of Greece. Nidri occupies a scoop in the hills, and I've been attending a niece's wedding. Its been eating, drinking and very pleasant (with none of the condescending implications that the word pleasant has sometimes attached and all of the attractive meanings of that word meant) but the mountains that rise 3000ft behind Nidri have been calling. So I rent a bike from a shop in town, borrow a map and announce a plan to the parties assembled to attempt a solo expedition into the interior. Advice comes thick and fast. Malcolm reckons I'll make about 8 kms, then probably die of heatstroke. Matt thinks its a good plan, but would be much more enjoyable petrol powered. The Great Meg tells me to take a phone in for inevitable use - my track record of self-injury, particularly on bikes, is undeniable- in contacting the emergency services. The last, most comprehensive advice about snakes, cats and scorpions, is given by Theo, Lydia's husband, who appears to hold an almost Irish bemusement in respect of people who want to undertake solo or group exercise in the hills that are readily accessible by car. However, all the advice is well given and bearing in mind that I have made two promises to RHB in coming on this holiday alone - firstly dont return home in a cast, sling or having to take medication that I didnt need before I left the UK, and secondly dont buy (another) time share, as cancelling them is costly - I appreciate it.

I set off up the hill, and a number of things are immediately apparent. The first of these is that riding this particular bike is torture: there are no pads on the handle bars, it weighs more than me, half the gears dont work, and its balance is all wrong. Secondly, I havent rode with a pack for ages, particularly not one weighing about 35lbs and as I hit corners on an interminable series of switchbacks, it shifts weight unpredictably, which causes a wild panicked correction. Combined with the steepness of the ascent, this means that the better part of valour is simply to get off and walk for some sections.

Eventually the road runs out,the rough track starts, and views begin to reveal themselves. Views that my photographic skills only do partial justice to. I keep going higher and higher, and the track gets more and more technical, but its brilliant fun. As I get higher, people disappear and I see no-one, apart from a man who is sleeping by the side of the track, presumably a shepherd, his face more deeply tanned than anyone I have ever seen. I ask him if he wants some water, but he points to a bottle of beer next to him, offers it to me, grinning widely. I decline, we shake hands and I ride on.



Further up, I stop to consult the map, and realize I have no idea where I am but can see Nidri spread below me. Suddenly, there's a movement at the side of the road, followed by an extrememly pungent smell, and a fox with a large black tail jumps out of the bush and runs down the track, miaowing like a kitten. I trundle down the road to where it disappeared back in the bush and while I am peering into the bush, notice one of the branches underfoot moving. The bike is dropped in an instant as I realise its a snake and I jump backwards across the road in panic. A deep breath, then I sneak towards the bike, grab it quickly, violently pull it out of the bush and jump on, cycling blindly and desperately trying to find the pedals. Now all I want to do is get down, but as I ride, I see more of the things, five, six, seven, ten, a hundred, lying all over the track, many of them disguised as old olive branches. I reach an open area that looks like it was once the foundations for one of the many abandoned villas up here. Gathering my thoughts takes a minute, because they have scattered throughout the brain and have been hiding where they think snakes cant get them, and only reluctantly come back when I promise them beer if we make it out of here alive. Together, me and the thoughts realize that the best course of action is not to continue to be lost, but to initially head back the way we came and when we get to the first split in the path, choose the one which looks the slopiest downwards.

I take a drink of water, regret not bringing any duct tape to tape up the top of my socks and set off. The first five minutes are a panic of attack snakes and jumping scorpions, but when I actually see another one, lying in the road, this all changes. It is unmoving, and as I get near, obviously dead, possibly run over, and possibly by me. I get off, and examine it, feeling incredibly guilty. It is beautiful. Very, very beautiful. It dawns on me, that in reality, the wildlife here is probably in more danger from me, than vice versa. Its good that no-one comes up here very often. My thoughts interrupt this reflection, reminding me that I promised them beer, and so I jump back on the bike, and descend. Trying not to hit any snakes, scare any scorpions or freak out any bees, the descent takes about fifteen minutes. It's breathtaking in parts, and when I hit the tarmac again and the speed really begins to climb, the fear returns. Without pads on the handle bars, sweat keeps making my hands slip, and the brakes are badly set, making the bike pull to the left, especially at speed. I overtake a couple of mopeds as the curves get less intense towards town, but suddenly the back pack shifts, pitching up over the right shoulder. Time, I think, to slow down, so I slam the anchors on, reduce speed to a crawl and head into town. My thoughts return and demand to be taken to a bar. The beer tastes great.

Is toadpole a word???

Announcement

Announcement:

Mr Mazzer 'Funtime' O'Reilly McEvoy Nickson and His Brain are happy to announce the birth of a healthy degree after three years of gestation. Both degree and Brain are doing well, but the father M. O'Reilly Mcevoy Nickson is said to be in shock on the completion of his final assignment. Asked what type of degree it was Mazzer said "It's too early to tell: we only find out in mid-August. All I can say is that Brain has survived a difficult birth, and although expected to make a full recovery, will not be doing any strenous thinking for some time. Tomorrow, I'm taking Brain to the pub to shout at the football, while baby degree is going to rest in the computer system, awaiting further evaluation".

O'Reilly McEvoy Nickson and Brain chose a controversial new technique for delivery of the new degree that involved applying Science to Art and Art to Science, supported largely by Wikipedia. Wikipedia refused to comment, pendig further editing.

The Luck of the Irish

A great writer quoth "The only thing we have to fear, is fear itself". After many years of self inflicted injuries, I tend to paraphrase this saying to "The only thing I have to fear is to fear myself". And in the great tradition of stupid accidents, I can now introduce my latest, the 'head/neck' thing. It all started when I was asleep....

I woke with a start. Pitch black, the only thing moving a cat rummaging around the bed. Tosh by the sound of it, licking his nether regions, a slightly disturbing sound and when attended to as enthusiastically as he does, capable of interrupting sleep. Fully awake, the bathroom called, so I crawled out of bed and headed, sleepily to the smallest room. From experience, I can attest that when engaged in potentially life threatening accidental behaviours, no account is true. There's always a degree of recreation, embellishment, fragmentation, and this was no different. When I say I 'felt' myself falling, noticing as I did so that I had tripped over the bahroom mat, I am entirely unsure what order I felt the fall, and what order I noticed the trip, but lets just suppose that I did.

Again, its ex post facto, but the next thing I noticed was a hefty connection with the windowsill and a sharp pain in the neck. It was all very quick. Next I suppose, I blacked out because I dont regaining my feet, but I must have because I now remember urinating. Then I went to bed. Next day, a hugely stiff neck, and a massive headache. I also felt like puking all day, but this particular feeling has been a constant for the last two weeks as final deadlines for the degree - next Tuesday- rush to meet me. Some may quibble here : how, they might ask can a future event rush to meet you? That, I would say is a decidely Western view of time - linear and static. Many cultures (ok, some) dont view time that way, they percieve it as a great big sea that we float around in, so the past present and future are all around us. Our relationship with time isnt fixed, sometimes tides rush us towards the future and sometimes the same tides bring the future to us. for me, the last few weeks have seen the future approaching me as I float statically in Sargossan tangle of words, unable to move. And the future hasnt just been approaching, it has been a tidal wave, an unstoppable tsunami. Naturally, and with the smell of rotting - in this case rotting words, not kelp- that I always imagine pervades the Sargossa filling my nostrils, I have felt ill for good portions of the time. So to awake then feel like puking is not that unusual.

I should at this point mention that three days after the event everything feels fine - neck only a slight twinge, headache completely gone, nausea still present but only for very short intervals and only when I think about essay deadlines. Possible diagnosis - possibly a mild concussion, some soft tissue damage to the neck. Treatment has been icepacks and painkillers. But that’s this time. In all seriousness, it could have been much worse – I could have damaged the windowsill that RHB had taken such pains to beautifully paint. And medical services here are, despite the best effort of the brilliant doctors and nurses, not the best in the world, as our politicians insist on politically telling us. I don’t want to enter a political diatribe describing how neoliberal economic determinism that’s rampant in the UK(and that Canada is shortly going to understand the full fury of, given the recent victory of the Harpon tyranny), knows the price of everything and the value of nothing and therefore puts a price on our health, but very little value. And I don’t want to say that what was once a victory of civilization – universal health care – has now been re-trenched to a minimal service and the bastards that have run this country for the past thirty years are now even going to privatise that as well. NO, I will not say that, as politics has no place here.

But perhaps its time for a rethink. Perhaps, given that the next time I do injure myself I may be asked to choose between a full repair and a patch job, based on my ability to pay, maybe I could change direction: focus less on the physical accidents , and more on the cerebral haplessness. So instead of falling over, and off, and onto things, I could focus on saying the wrong thing. I could perhaps, be introduced to someone for the first time, and just gratuitously insult them. The thing is, it will have to be accidental.

Opportunities arise for this new career next week, as I travel to Greece immediately after handing in my final assignment. My plan is to get to Athens, and then somehow get across Greece to wherever it is my friends are getting married. The trip involves at least two days of solo travel, by train, bus and ferry. I will of course have to speak to hundreds of total strangers. Probably in Greek. My knowledge of Greek is limited to dogma, praxis, Soto Kyriakous, Telly Savalas and the notion that Oedipus has sex with his mum. This might be the ideal opportunity to test my new verbally based, insulting accident career.