Les grecs miserables (Οι κακομoίριδες)

Last year at this time, Greek citizens were being warned to expect harsh times ahead. This year, those hard times are slowly setting in, as people are now having to learn to live with less. We are constantly reminded about the country's high unemployment rate, the (s)low economic growth, the implementation of new taxes, the salary drops and the rising cost of living. It's getting more difficult to put a few euros aside. Instead, we are having to resort to using up our savings and penny pinching with whatever is left. This 'new' form of survival resembles the way Greeks made ends meet in the 1960s (except that in the good old days, there was no euro, only drachma).

We're often told that we can't go back to living as we did in the past: the past is a foreign country; they do things differently there. But Greeks at this very moment are being forced to remember the way of life of their recent past. Thanks to modern medicine, technological advances and the Mediterranean diet, most Greeks have people close to them who were growing up in those days and can remember what that past life entailed - it wasn't that far back in the past - in order to remind us of how we can make the necessary changes that will help us live through difficult times.  

I was reminded of this at the first parent-teacher meeting at my children's village school. After speaking to the parents about general issues, the headmaster gave them the floor. A Greek mother (as opposed to being of Albanian or Bulgarian descent - the village school contains a mix of ethnicities) stood up and asked the parents' involvement in a future meeting to discuss what can be done to raise our children without enough money. I wasn't sure if I heard right: did she really say that? Maybe she meant something like how we are going to raise our kids with the austerity measures. I (and no one else) asked her to repeat the statement. She smiled at me compassionately, with a comrade look on her face, and repeated the same words (in Greek, naturally) softly and slowly (she reminded me of Arthur Scargill for some reason), making sure that I understood: How are we going to raise kids without enough money?

I took a liking to this woman. She had an unpainted face, her blonde hair was natural, and her attire consisting of trekking boots, capri trousers and plain t-shirt made her look like a nature lover, a fan of the great outdoors. She almost looked like an artist, someone with a deeper conscience than the average Greek housewife mother, who liked to clean her house, cook family meals and go shopping.

But I didn't like the sound of her missive - not the bit which entailed that I would not have enough money (I already knew that), but the part that implied that I would not be able to raise my children with less money. The statement placed great importance on money, and this offended me, partly because I've grown up with the belief that money doesn't buy happiness, and partly because of some assumptions I make about people like this woman: she sends her children to a village school, therefore she lives in the village, in (probably) a house with no mortgage, surrounded by crop fields and tree orchards, and there is most likely someone (if it isn't actually herself) providing her with eggs, chickens and rabbits. I wouldn't be surprised if she can also procure some fresh milk and cheese (or make it herself), because the area is often crossed by shepherds (some walk their flock, others drive it). According to Maslow's theory, she's already solved most of her basic physiological, safety and love/belonging needs, something most urban Greek dwellers can only hope for as the crisis continues to deepen.

But I had second thoughts about my prejudices when I saw someone joining this woman on the podium. He seconded her idea: we don't have enough money to raise our children (there goes that word again, 'money'). He told us he had two children at the school, and since both he and the woman looked younger than me, I began to feel sorry for them. I suddenly felt sorry for all the people in the room, including myself, because we were all in the same position and we could all do nothing.

Then he revealed his 'perk': he was a retired army officer (read: a Greek state employee who took early retirement - he's younger than me) and he harped on about his pension being too low, how he deserved more because he was posted all over the country (until he had had enough and decided to take early retirement), and he was now living off a low pension; at the time of his retirement, he was supposed to be getting 1,500 euro (at the age of under-45?!), but now with all the cuts, he is only getting 1,000 euro (read: the average Greek salary these days). Admittedly, it's much less than one our neighbours, a retired army general (only just turned 60) who used to receive 3,800 euro as a monthly pension and now gets 'only' 2,200 euros after the cuts. Pray tell me, what on earth did he used to do with so much money? Grandparents like to dote on their grandchildren - the Greek village children are very well dressed.

That's when I felt really really sorry for both these people, and all those others who were about to join them in this cause: not because they don't make much money (most Greeks, including myself, are generally in the same position as them), but because they were still thinking in monetary terms. They wanted money, more money, which they are unable to earn themselves, which is what got Greece into the mess she finds herself today. As for this former military person, I assume that he came to live in the village after retirement, because, like the previous speaker, either he or his wife was from there, hence they owned a freehold home there, hence they have a large enough patch of land near their home to grow a good amount of their food needs, and since he's retired, he's got plenty of time to do all this now, unless he - illegally, because you aren't allowed to do this on a state pension - finds work elsewhere, which would entail working for money 'under the table', hello, what's new?

The school is located in the countryside, surrounded by crop fields and fruit orchards, on the foothills of some of the easier-to-manage pasture land in the region, consisting of rolling walkable hills. Most residents live in their own freehold homes, usually large single- or double-story dwellings with built-in fireplaces, where firewood is readily available (read: free heating in the winter) from the trimmings and coppicing of orchard trees (read: free olive oil and fruit), with enough space on their properties for a large garden (read: more free food), where they can raise chickens and rabbits and forage for wild greens and snails, all things that their ancestors did to survive the last time that Greece found herself in the face of the enemy.

The locals of this area are directly or indirectly involved in agriculture. The school is surrounded by fields: oranges, olives, avocados. There's a horse tied up in one of the fields, while sheep, goats and chickens are often heard and seen. Pick-up trucks ply the empty streets. Beehives are stacked up in open storerooms. Every morning as I drive the children to school, I see someone tending animals; the smell of dung in the damp frosty morning air is not uncommon. A good number of the mothers of my children's classmates do not work, while some are seasonal workers, either in agriculture or tourism. Many rural dwellers live close to their extended families (this is often the main use of a double-story home: grandparents and children live in their own separate homes); among this group of people, responsibilities are shared, meaning that duties like the growing of food, its preparation and cooking often fall on different members of that extended family. If my rural neighbours had a bit more self-esteem and showed a greater acceptance of the facts, they would be on the way to solving even their higher-ranking needs on Maslow's scale, like their Northern European counterparts, who left the desolation of their cold stagnant countries for a bit of sunshine and more quality of life, by moving to Crete: they just know how much better life is down here.

For many years, right up until the economic crisis hit Greece, living in the rural areas has been looked down on by young Greeks. It's usually where they came from, so it could possibly be seen as a reminder of lower living standards. But the countryside is no longer where the poorer Greeks reside. It's the depressed urban centres of Greece that now cannot provide people with the freedom to achieve their basic needs: in the city, you need money to accomplish this, and if you're unemployed, you have no money, and if you have no money, you can't eat, because everything, literally everything, is bought. Since the crisis hit, the countryside has been viewed as the more prosperous place to be, often being associated with modest low-maintenance shelters, plenty of high quality food, a wealth of resources, a place to find comfort among family, and more importantly, a better place to reflect on the problems facing society, with greater space for creativity and spontaneity, two of the highest-ranking needs in Maslow's needs pyramid.

Well, I gave the woman my phone number and email (she asked for it - you can be sure that I really liked here then!), and told her I looked forward to hearing from the group (this was three weeks ago). I thought that if the group did actually get started, I could go along and give them tips that I've picked up from my food experiences: foraging, preserving, freezing, how to use the resources around us to best effect, how to empower ourselves and our children to cope with new technologies and the changing world, and how to educate our kids without that blasted costly frontistirio, which was the fundamental reason why I thought this group was going be started: how can we raise our children with less money?

I didn't expect to heat from anyone; people talk more than they act in this country. So I was quite surprised when I received this email mid-week about a meeting that will take place this Saturday (ie today):

"Γείτονες, κάτοικοι της ευρύτερης περιοχής του ___________, με συζήτηση μεταξύ μας πήραμε την πρωτοβουλία να καλέσουμε όλους τους πολίτες της περιοχής σε λαϊκή συνέλευση. Ο λόγος που βρισκόμαστε είναι ότι δε μπορούμε να πληρώσουμε άλλο. Δε θέλουμε να θυσιαστούμε όταν η πορεία που ακολουθείται είναι αδιέξοδη για τη χώρα μας. Αρνούμαστε να θυσιάσουμε το μέλλον των παιδιών μας για τους τοκογλύφους της τρόϊκας. Στόχος μας είναι να δράσουμε και να αντιδράσουμε, ώστε κανένας μας να μην πληρώσει τα χαράτσια που μας επιβάλουν, ξεκινώντας από το χαράτσι της ΔΕΗ. Ας μη χάσουμε άλλο χρόνο. Να οργανωθούμε και να αγωνιστούμε όλοι μαζί, γιατί άλλη ελπίδα δε φαίνεται. Μαζικά μπορούμε να τα καταφέρουμε να μην πληρώσει κανείς, να καταργήσουμε το άδικο χαράτσι."

"Neighbors, residents of the ​​___________ area, following our discussion, we took the initiative to invite all citizens of the region to a people's assembly. The reason is that we can not pay any more. We do not wish to sacrifice ourselves when the path being followed is hopeless for our country. We refuse to sacrifice the future of our children to the troika moneylenders. Our goal is to act and react, so none of us will end up paying the property tax being imposed on us, starting with the DEH property tax. Let's not lose more time. Let's get organised and fight together, because there seems to be no other hope. Together we can manage not to make anyone pay, and remove this unjust property tax."

Well, that proves it, doesn't it? The property tax: you only pay it if you have property! Good God, I thought, not only does she sounds like a communist, not only has she basically started YET ANOTHER damn 'Δεν πληρωνω' group, but she believes that she really won't have to pay taxes! The meeting will start in a few hours, but I'm not going. I hope they do manage to remove the property tax - it means I won't have to pay it. But I know that, deep down, they will not be motioning any such thing. Greeks are very predictable: today, the organisers of the meeting are going to tell the participants NOT to pay the tax when the notice is delivered. The whole scenario reminds me of the rubbish collectors in Athens, who went on strike (for more money, what else?) very recently and refused to collect the rubbish for days on end. The government then decided that it had had enough - the work has been given to external partners, and now the rubbish collectors have lost their pay. It's over. Amen. 

Νo one wants to pay, and no one wants to count their blessings. They think of paying and being thankful as soft options. Εveryone thinks it's someone else's fault, never ever theirs. Greece is bankrupt, but everyone continues to give her money to support her. Greeks continue not to pay taxes. Those owing money or squandering public wealth have not been punished. No one's bank accounts have been frozen and no one's property has been confiscated. So why hope for any change in Greece?

The photos have been taken from facebook and real estate agents' sites of the school area; I so much wanted to show you the picturesque green fields of the main road leading to the school, but the price of petrol (coupled with the tank drivers' strike) doesn't allow it. Working out how much money a person makes in Greece these days is not difficult: just ask them how much they paid in 'Solidarity Tax': that's about 2% of the total income in their household.

©All Rights Reserved/Organically cooked. No part of this blog may be reproduced and/or copied by any means without prior consent from Maria Verivaki.

Off the beaten track (Ξεφεύγωντας από την πεπατημένη)

All good things must come to an end sometime - this is the last of my summer holiday posts in Central/Northern Greece. 

"Have you left the lake district?" Hrisida was calling to ask us how the trip to Limni Plastira went.

"I think we saw more than we bargained for," I told her. It was quite getting quite late, but this was mainly our own fault. We could not help pulling over every few minutes or so to take a closer look at something that caught our attention: a strange-looking landscape, an unknown tree species, a field cultivated with an unusual crop. So much seemed quite novel to us here.

"Feel like taking a shortcut?" she asked me. We had decided not to return to Karpenisi along the same route that we had taken to arrive at the lake. We didn't have the energy to take that road again, as it had been quite a tiring journey, winding around all the remote mountain tracks.

"As long as we don't get lost," I replied. Using the main arterial routes is not really much fun; the roads you pass through usually show up the worst of an area. Dust, concrete, and congestion mix together, forming a shanty-town look, creating an ugly image that prejudices your feelings about an area - all the above are  necessary evils when you want to drive on auto-pilot.



"Take the road towards Lamia," Hrisida explained, "and turn off at Xiniada, then drive on to Makrakomi after you pass Trilofo." These names all had an onomatopoeic ring to them; they conjured up images from the meanings of their stem words. Already, I had put it in my mind that Xiniada must give off a "sour" odor, while Trilofo was surrounded by "three hills", and Makrakomi would feel somewhat "extensive".

"And don't forget to ask for directions," she added as an afterthought, "because not everything is signposted." After today's drive out in the unexplored depths of Evritania, we did not need reminding of this, as we had lived through it quite poignantly. The detour would bring us back on to the main road for Karpenisi and we would save about half an hour's worth of driving. I thanked her for her quick thinking, not because I was worried about driving more kilometers than necessary and wasting expensive fuel*, but because I knew I would be seeing more of the off-the-beaten-tracks of my country, strips of tarmacked road where the chance of meeting up with other drivers was slim. Once again, we found ourselves alone on the roads, and once again, we were not disappointed.

Instead of driving all the way to Lamia, we crossed a valley through the mountains which took us back on to the main road at the town of Makrakomi.

 
The sky was still bright, but the autumn sun was now darkening the naturally bright colours of the countryside. Orange turned to brown, yellow to ochre, red to brick, olive to bottle green. The turnoff at Xiniada took us into a large flat valley surrounded by fields and low-lying hills, all showing signs of summer's coming to an end. The grasses by the edge of the road were tinder-dry, while most of the fields were now lying naked, their harvests gathered and their earth turned, in readiness for the next sowing season. Very soon, the rains would start to fall, turning the area into a green carpet.

"Where are we now, Mum?" my son asked. "Are we going to be home soon?" Home in the child's mind is the place where they feel safe. Even though we were hundreds of miles away from home, my son was content to think of home as the hotel room where he had left a few toys on his bedside table. The valley was empty and it did not feel like home. Yet, this place felt like it could have been home; any of those houses  tucked away in one of the eerily quiet people-less villages that we came across every now and then could have been our home.



Pit-stop time is usually when someone wants to go the toilet. In the backwaters, this is also known as 'fertilising the fields'. We found a clearance near a fig tree on the roadside from which a dirt path led off behind the hill. The fig tree provided the opportunity to recall a blast from the past. As he led the children down the track, their father told them the story of the fig tree in the village, which provided his own father, then a child, great relief from the hot sun, along with many other children living in the same area.

"Your grandad used to try to get to the top of the tree first, to get the best position, so everyone else had to sit on the lower branches. If the figs were ripe and juicy, he didn't need to climb down to find food or water. I remember he told me one day that he wanted to go the toilet after eating too many, but he knew that if he climbed down, then he wouldn't get to sit in the best place again. So he stayed there and did his pipi from where he was sitting."

"Yuuuuuuuuuuuck," said my daughter, "that sounds disgusting."

"What about the others below him?" asked my son. "Did he pee on them?"

"Yep, both thick and thin**!" their dad laughed. "So he stayed up there the whole day and didn't come down until the late evening, until the coast was clear. He knew he was in for it if he came down earlier." The children weren't laughing; they couldn't see the humour in this. Had they had the chance to meet their grandad, they might have sided with him. they might have even heard the story straight from him.

"Is that tree still in the field, Dad?" Maybe my son was wondering if he would find any fossilised remains of a previous round of fertilisation.

"No, no...," their father's voice trailed off. "You see... I cut it down when your grandfather was still alive, well before you were born, because I felt the orange trees surrounding it weren't getting enough sunlight. The fig tree was so tall that it was suffocating the other trees. Dad didn't talk to me for a week after that. It was his favorite tree, you see."

Nostalgia was beginning to bite.



"Is that a cave?" I pointed out something in the far distance to the children, something I wish they had seen themselves before I spotted it, just to give me the confidence to believe that they were developing good observational skills, something lacking in the instant gratification culture that the second millennium generation is growing up in.

"It's a bridge," they both agreed.

"How can you be so sure?" I pushed them harder.

"It looks like a tunnel," said one. Whatever it was, we did not have time to explore it, but it looked quite interesting, like a secret passage leading to another side of this unknown territory, a memory of a bygone era.



The iconostasis is a common sight on Greek roads, a reminder of danger, as it nearly always involves a road accident. These boxes are usually built on the side of the road, close to where the accident took place, and dedicated to a saint, after the name of a person who died at the scene. In Central Greece, they get much bigger than a box - some are as big as bus shelters, looking as though they do both jobs. There is usually an icon - or more, according to the size of the iconostasis - with some old brown roses (looking very much dead) hanging over the icon, often accompanied by an unlit oil lamp, and a few filthy old plastic water bottles filled with rancid oil. It provides a desolate view for the passersby. The wick in the old glass sits on a sticky mass of grease, often unlit. This comes as no surprise to the traveller to these areas, who will often find himself alone on the road: who is there to pass by frequently from these parts to keep the lamp burning?



The desolation reaches a climax as the same road where the iconostasis is found also includes a sign denoting the existence of a school. The sign had rusted over time, and was never replaced, no doubt because it was forgotten, after the school had closed down, and the children had grown up and left the area before they had their own children. The basketball court is barely visible from the tall dry grasses smothering the playground, their baskets protruding like triffids lying in wait, having turned into feral cats after living in isolation for so long. 



The sun was setting and it would soon be dark. The landscape took on a lunar look: round patches like crop circles dotted the surrounding hills of the countryside, which was showing signs of hair loss on a balding middle-aged man. The sight eventually gave way to a fertile plain, patch-worked with fields in varying shades of green and brown. The horizon stretched out for miles, where a misty view of a mountain seemed to rise to the sky. The mountains of Greece mark the farmer's boundaries, setting natural limits to the agricultural production capabilities; they are both a curse and a blessing.



The scenery was changing again. We came across a recently excavated region, where the ravaged hills had a stark brown look. Parts of them were missing, so that they resembled half-eaten apples, scraped away to their core, and left to rot. Mining dust had covered the grasses and surrounding vegetation, choking any hint of verdant foliage out of them. The road looked as though it was under construction. The noise of machinery could be heard coming from a work site. A prefab building stood at the entrance, filled with lorry trailers and bordered by iron railings. A man was standing outside the prefab, our first human sighting since we left the main road at Xiniada.

"Are we heading the right way for Makrakomi?" we asked him, remembering Hrisida's words. He looked tired, as workers do at the end of a long working day in the hot Greek summer, when they have been over-exposed to the elements, with no refuge available to offer a shady respite. He was wearing a cap that covered his head to just above his eyebrows which were thick and white, making it hard to tell if they were covered in dust or if he had simply aged prematurely.

"Yes, yes" he said, showing signs of hesitation in his voice. "It really isn't far from here, it's just...," he pointed to the distance with one hand, shading his eyes over his forehead with the other. He continued to explain that the area was signposted and we should find it easily.

"Thank you," I said, putting the motor into first gear. But the man continued to talk, reassuring us that we wouldn't get lost, trying his hardest to make us feel comfortable on this desolate strip of road. Not that there was any other road to take; this was the only one that was tarmacked. We let him continue talking; it only felt right to talk to the locals as we spotted them, since there were not so many, and they seemed to need the company. But maybe they did not really care for it anyway, maybe they liked being alone out here, away from the rat race, far from the murmurs of discontent whose wails have been echoing in our minds since the crisis took hold of the nation. What meaning did Athens' cries have here?



The barren landscape continued to chase us hauntingly as we passed a roundabout junction carved in the middle of the road, all routes coming off it seemingly ending up going in the same direction. The bare earth eventually gave way to a more verdant region with a housing settlement. A non-descript village sprouted out of the soil. This served as a sign that we were nearing a larger town or the main road: inhabited villages are often connected to them. Three old men were sitting out on the plateia of the village, in front of a kafeneio next to the village church. The scene looked like a still life on an artist's canvas, as the men were not talking to each other, just sitting on the plateia's only bench, huddled together, waiting for darkness to fall, after which they would take their walking canes and head back home. Such is the sweet village life of Greece: church, kafeneio and plateia, the mainstays of a community, classic village symbols that have withstood the test of time, and look set to continue with renewed interest when they are taken over by the former urbanites who are now dragging themselves back to their roots, looking for shelter and compassion, away from the ills of unemployment that their adopted environment was now promising them.



Sure enough, the main road came into view only a few metres away from the village with the still life scene, just as the sun was setting. The scenery had lost its glow, and we now needed to turn on the car lights. We could still discern the pistachio trees lining a roadside plantation, with their fruits hanging like bunches of grapes on the branches. We were approaching Makrakomi, the main town in the area, sandwiched between Lamia and Karpenisi. After so many hours of being isolated from the masses, the sight of the cafes and tavernas mingling with the congestion and rowdiness of a busy town almost felt like a consolation. It reminded us of what we were going back home to.

We stopped off at Makrakomi for a souvlaki and an ice-cream, which always tastes great in this part of the country because meat raised in these areas is very tasty. Souvlaki can be filled with any meat of the customer's choice: pork, beef, chicken, meat pattie (bifteki), sausage, kebab (doner) or skewered meat (souvlaki xilaki). The souvlatzidiko was next door to a butcher whose wares were displayed in their unprocessed state in the window. The carcasses are much much larger than what we are used to seeing in Hania.

Rural isolation is a thing of the past; nowadays, all roads lead to an urban environment. You're never really alone.

* Throughout our summer road trip in Greece, we were paying an average of €1.70 per litre of petrol - car fuel is expensive all over Greece.
** thin and thick - number 1s and number 2s in pipi language.

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It hasn't all come to a complete end; now it's time to get back to the kitchen and try some new recipes - autumn has set in for good now, and the best place to be is in the kitchen...

©All Rights Reserved/Organically cooked. No part of this blog may be reproduced and/or copied by any means without prior consent from Maria Verivaki.

Ancestral land (Πατρικά εδάφη)

Tune in every second day this week to see how we spent our family holiday in Central/Northern Greece. 

Evritania is the most mountainous region in Greece. It remains the least accessible for this reason, but at the same time, it also contains some of the most dramatic landscapes you will encounter in the country: tall peaks with sudden drops in altitude, dense forests with rivers gushing their waters even in summertime, alpine landscapes blessed with Mediterranean sunshine. It also possesses some of the least explored Greek countryside, given its difficult driving conditions. The weather is very changeable in this region, so that at many times, you might experience the four seasons all on the same day; if you don't know the roads of the region very well, you could end up rolling the car into a ditch and getting stuck for hours before anyone comes along to help.

While we were in the region, we decided that it wouldn't have been worthwhile if we didn't explore all those difficult-to-access places, because if we didn't make an effort to get to them now, just think how likely it would be for us to get to them at a later time, when we wouldn't be touring the same region and the austerity measures began to hit us hard.

"You're setting yourself a difficult task," Hrisida exclaimed when we told her we wanted to visit Limni Plastira (Plastiras Lake). "It looks like its directly north from Karpenisi, but there is no direct arterial route to get there. If you choose the road via Fourna village, you'll need at least two and a half hours to get to your final destination, and you'll be driving along very narrow windy unmarked roads, I wouldn't do it with two children in tow."

"Are you worried we will see ghosts like the time we visited Kremasta Lake?", I enquired sarcastically. Maybe she was trying to scare us into not going.

"Don't be silly," she laughed me off. "This lake doesn't have drowned villages lying on its bed. It's just got an airfield." Once Plastiras Lake was built in 1959, it turned the mountain villages into lakeside resorts.

"Sounds good to me," I said. "How long will it take us if we stick to the main roads instead?" This meant that we would be driving more kilometres, but the route was easier because we would be sticking to the national highways.

Lake Plastiras is not labelled on this map; view directly north from Karpenisi in the South.

"Oh, about two hours," she replied, "or so," she added as a mumbled afterthought. We figured it would take us the same amount of time any which road we took. So we decided to do the long and winding scenic road first and return via the easier route. Remember Cavafy when he tells you to pray that the journey to Ithaca is long, and full of adventure?

"OK," she waved us off, "have fun, it's a nice day for it," she cheered us on, "and take care on the road. Driving conditions are good until Fourna, and after that, just be careful: remember, we don't drive more than 50km/h on those roads." We thanked her and set off, lunches packed, and water bottles empty - there would be plenty of clean ice-cold water en route through this mountainous region sandwiched between Agrafa and Farsala, some of the most famous landmark villages of the area.

At the village of Timfristos, we realised we should have topped up our petrol tank, so we stopped at the main square to ask the old people gathered at a cafe there where the nearest service station was.

"Which direction are you driving in?" they all asked at once, showing great interest in the destination of strangers in their parts, with their out-of-town licence plates, maps in hand and cameras swinging from their necks.We stuck out like sore thumbs.

"We're heading towards Plastiras Lake," I replied.

"PLAS-TI-RAS?!" an old man cried. "You're going the wrong way!"

"When did you last go to Plastira, Cosma?" the other men in the parea groaned.

"Take the road to Redina," another one quipped.

"Don't go from there!" one more cried. No one had, as yet, told me where to fill up on petrol.

"Stop talking all at once," said a middle-aged woman dressed in tidy village garb, carrying a black handbag, who was sitting on a bench near the main square, looking as though she was waiting for the next bus to pass. This had an immediate effect on all of them: they shut up immediately.

I asked the group if the road to Kleitso was good enough for a small family car like ours. They all rolled their eyes.

"Oh, you don't want to go from Kleitso, dear," one man said. "You need to take the road to Redina." But I had studied the map quite well the night before. Going through Redina would mean taking a detour and the drive would take longer. I was sure there was a road going from Kleitso to Plastiras Lake. I didn't recall my friend mentioning the village of Redina, only Fourna.

"Why can't I go through Kleitso and then on to Neraida?" I asked, showing him the map.

"Kleitso!" he exclaimed in horror. "Don't even think about it!" he said. he waved his hand in the air. "I can't see that," he said, pointing to the map, "I haven't got my reading glasses with me. But I know that that road is full of nasty turns and bends, so it'll take a long time to get to the lake from there, and I can't recommend that it's in good condition." He looked at my car. "Don't think you'll get far with that out there," he chuckled. How strange, I thought, wouldn't my friend have told me that before I started out? I asked him once more where I should go to find a petrol station.

"Ai-yioryi," he replied. Short for Agios Georgios; it was on our map. That would involve a much smaller detour than the proposed route from Redina. I thanked him and got back into the car. Close by to Ai-yioryi, we came upon a road sign showing the distances to all the surrounding area. Kleitsos was mentioned; Redina wasn't. We took the road for Kleitsos.

*** *** ***

Driving through the mountainous regions of Evritania, we were quite surprised to find so many people on the road. We had been warned that the route we had chosen was considered remote, but that did not seem to be the case at all! Apart from simple cars like our own, there were pick-up trucks, whose drivers seemed to be local people getting their agricultural tasks done; then there were the service vehicles - DEH was quite busy today giving taxpayers their money's worth; the narrow winding roads, lined on both sides by dense forests, were also being used by large lorries. The road was tarmacked, with obvious signs of recent renovation; it felt quite safe, and the stream of traffic was a sign of development. The road was also a shortcut to the longer route used in former times before the road was renovated, a sign of progress and development, whose existence had not yet been disseminated very thoroughly. That is to the off-the-beaten-track traveller's advantage; being one of the few to know this is a triumphant feeling - we were not being harassed by too many other drivers on the road.

But there were a number of sights on that road that reminded me of its remoteness to the modern world, signs of former times when people were were cut off from each other and communication would have been hampered by the peaks and waterways that Euritania is so well known for, exactly that which gives her a feeling of inaccessibility. Just past the village of Fourna, we were reminded of the enemy with the presence of a rusty WW2 road roller, and a little further on, a wooden bridge. The Nazis wanted roadways running through Greece to make it easier to conquer the country, just like the modern German tourists who want good driving conditions during their holidays, so they bought their technology with them to accomplish the task. Who knows what the condition of the road at this point might have been, had the area not been given a head start in the 1940s?

Tiny villages with roughly built houses, functional buildings and flowering gardens, grape vines covering the yards with people sitting under their shade; these people looked more than pleased to be tucked away from the main drag on a remote patch of land. Despite the forests and hills that kept the locals of the area well separate - and well protected - from the perils of the rat race, it was clear that life was running through the veins of these sparsely populated areas. The public rubbish bins were being emptied as we passed through the area, a modern sign of people's mark in an area. These people must be doing something here that enables them to live far away from the urban world; a vegetable garden, some animals, cheese-making, some beans for the winter and corn for the summer were probably sustaining them, providing them them a reason not to leave their ancestral lands. Crisis? What crisis? If you have land, you have food; if you have food, you don't starve. The forests shade them from the heat in the summer, and provide them with firewood for the winter. What else is necessary? Contrary to what we are being led to believe, these people like the way they live.

Agia Anna, between Kleitso and Mavrologgo, Evritania

An hour into our journey, we had just passed the village of Kleitso, when we began to drive on what felt like a particularly long stretch of empty road. Up to that point, there had been the odd village or two emerging after every few minutes or so of driving, where human existence was visible. But at this point, out of nowhere, the road suddenly gave way to a clearing where a number of roads met up, with a children's playground situated across from a church, a spring and what looked like a house. Near the playground was a picnic area. There could not have been a more perfect place for us to rest our car and refresh ourselves with a picnic. Was this the middle of nowhere? It did not concern us - at that moment, it felt like the best place to be on earth.

A hunter's/climber's/walker's lodge is built here on the same spot that the famous hero of the Greek revolution George  Karaiskakis fought off the Turks in 1824. The spring is named after him. The church honours St Anna.

The sun's rays were beating down on us, but we did not feel the heat. A cool breeze was blowing, which made us return to the car to get our jackets. Unbeknownst to us at the time, we had reached 1200m above sea level, and the place where we had parked our car was a very significant historical site. Not that it would have meant much to us at that moment: we felt like we were the first to find it, since we were alone up here, all by ourselves, enjoying one of the most magnificent views. A packed lunch, ample supplies of refreshing spring water, the clear view and the clean mountain air made us feel like the luckiest people on earth. Who could afford such a view? Who could afford such a clean environment? How many people were in that fortunate position to be able to enjoy this moment at least once in their life? We felt utterly thrilled to have got this far. Hooray for our old car that never let us down, hooray for our good fortune to take this route, hooray to us, for there could not have been luckier people in the world enjoying a moment like this one than ourselves.

We ate slowly, but we got through it all: sandwiches, boiled eggs, graviera, tomato and cheese salad which we ate with the gritty corn bread (that was something new to us) and the soft white rolls we had bought from the bakery in Karpenisi that morning. The fresh crisp mountain air whets your apetite. We kept filling our water bottles with the refreshing icy cold water from the spring. And when the picnic was over, we began to pack up our bags, making sure that we left no rubbish behind. We wanted to treat our host with the respect that our host had shown to us.

It was at this moment that the old man appeared. I had just packed up the last of our picnic utensils and was shaking the crumbs out of the plastic bags onto the ground to make a worm's or bird's dinner. The children had gone to the swings to amuse themselves before we left the area. The man was walking very slowly towards us, emerging from the steep hill that we had driven up. He had a thin wiry body, probably from the amount of walking that he did in these remote parts of the mountains; this could not have been his first time up here on foot. He looked well kept for an old man: his clothes were clean and tidy, his face was shaved, and his boots seemed sturdy.  He was carrying something: an old sardine can, which was filled with what looked like a dry grassy weed. Before we had the chance to ask him what he was carrying, he walked in our direction and greeted us.

"Kalimera," he said, smiling, showing his toothless mouth, a sign of the bad dental health typical of this man's age group. It's usually a sign of the sacrifices these people have made to raise their families, not a sign of a lack of available care. The old man did not take a seat on the picnic bench, nor did he seem tired.

"Kalimera," we all replied, wary that we were strangers to his part of Greece and not wishing to make any wrong move that may offend.

"You're not from here, are you?" he guessed correctly. We told him we were Cretans taking our holidays here.

"Oh, Crete, it's nice down there, isn't it?"

"Have you ever visited?" my husband asked.

"No, no, I've just seen pictures on television." This old man looked as though he had never left the area. Now there was a split second of silence, like the moment when you want to ask a million questions but you don't know which one to ask first, the moment you want to start a long conversation but you know you don't have this luxury.

"Are you from the area?" my husband asked the man.

"Yes," he replied, "I live in the neighbouring village." He mentioned the name but we didn't catch it. It did not sound like one of the villages I could recall passing."Been here since I got married. I'm from another village, just further along this road," he said, pointing to one of the roads in the junction near the church, "You're just passing through, I suppose."

"Yes, we're on our way to the lake."

"Oh, the lake, I went there once, a long time ago, when it was first filled." He paused for a moment. "Lots of people go there on a trip."

"Yes," my husband nodded. But we were curious. "And er... what are you doing walking up here alone?" my husband asked him.

"Oh, I live here in the summer, near my sheep". He pointed to the road behind him. "I've got a small hut here where I rest and sleep. I usually stay here all the summer."

"Oh... it's beautiful up here."

"Yes," the man said slowly, in a neutral voice, neither agreeing or disagreeing. "It's good up here." He stopped and looked around the area, his eyes gazing at the mountain face covered in fir trees. "Life's dealing us hard blows these days," he continued. "I like to get away from it all up here, it feels better to be far away from the madness," he laughed, sounding quite youthful, despite his old-age croaky voice. "It's sometimes better to get away, but it's not an easy life wherever you are, and it doesn't seem to be getting easier, either way." The men discussed the economic crisis and its consequences on our lives. During this discussion, the old man revealed to us that his wife lived in the village and he had two sons, one living in the large urban area of Lamia, while the other was aborad (he didn't specify where). They were both married with families of their own. I wondered when the last time was that his grandchildren had seen him.

"What can they do?" he said. "There are no jobs here even if they wanted to stay. There's no life these days as a farmer here, what with the loneliness and when winter sets in. There's no money, either."

At this point, I felt saddened that we had eaten everything in our picnic, except the apples, and we could not offer the man anything, but then again, he wouldn't have been able to chew on the apples, what with no teeth. Then I remembered the biscuits we had left behind at the hotel room, which could be dunked in milk or water and softened enough to become easy to digest. I had been toying with the idea of taking them with us, and left them in the room at the last minute.

"Does it snow here in the winter?" one of my children asked the man.

"Oh, it snows a lot here," he replied, "all the trees get covered in snow in the winter, and the road is cut off until the snow plough comes along to clear it. It doesn't snow so much in Crete, does it?" he asked us.

This man had probably been born and lived within a radius of 20-25 kilometres all his life. He might have travelled as far as Athens, maybe even Thessaloniki, but not much farther. A feeling of loneliness crept upon me as I watched him, but at the same time, I knew that this man's whole world had always consisted of these mountains and a flock of sheep; he has known no other world. I thought about my mother in law who lives in the same building as us, and tried to put the thought out of my mind that this man could have an accident here and not be found until it was too late.

"Do you per chance have a cigarette?" he asked us.

"Oh, you got us there," my husband chuckled, "we are both non-smokers." At that moment, our souls were crushed, our hearts were broken and our minds were fraught with guilt. We had nothing to offer this man, not even a cigarette. The size of his pension was not a question: he could probably afford a cigarette, but there was nowhere to buy it here.

"Well, I'd better be off now, I suppose," he said. "It's been nice meeting you." He shook my husband's hand. "I hope you enjoy yourselves here. The lake shouldn't be too far away from here." As he walked off down the path he had indicated where his sheep were waiting for him, we got back into the car and drove away, feeling quite devastated. We had been given the opportunity to take in everything that the area offered to us, but we could not offer anything in return. By this chance encounter, we had caught a glimpse of life in the middle of nowhere, where you could feel nameless and your existence could be forgotten, even though you yourself would carry on living, without ever questioning if life was actually worth living. When all you have is a piece of ancestral land, you live off that. You don't expect much more to life, that's the farmer's lot. Your main hope is to go through the cycle of life without burdening anyone along the way.

*** *** ***

We continued on to Limni Plastira where we saw the dam that saved the whole region from serious drought, but throughout the journey, we were haunted by the image of the old man.

I wonder what he's doing now, a month after we came across him. It's probably cold up at St Anna's church, and the snow will soon start falling. Pretty soon, he will be leaving the area with his sheep (that is, if he has not already left), in search of warmer climes in the lower regions. Most likely he will be thinking about summertime, in the hope of returning to his hut. I think I'll buy a packet of cigarettes and leave it in the storage drawer of the car, just in case.

©All Rights Reserved/Organically cooked. No part of this blog may be reproduced and/or copied by any means without prior consent from Maria Verivaki.

The road to Proussos (Ο δρόμος για τον Προυσσό)

Tune in every second day this week to see how we spent our family holiday in Central/Northern Greece.

The town of Karpenisi is a nice quiet place to overnight, to see how the locals live and entertain themselves at an altitude of 1000 metres above sea level, but you need to travel to the outlying regions to find a bit more amusement to sustain a longer visit. A car is essential on such a journey. The village of Proussos is the main attraction point in the area, due to a monastery located here, dedicated to the Virgin Mary of Proussos (Mary from Proussos, or Proussiotisa, as she is known in the region). The journey is only thirty kilometres away from Karpenisi, and the road offers relatively good driving conditions. What most people don't realise about this simple journey is that this route is lined with some of the most stunning scenery in Evritania, concealing a number of the most picturesque villages and landscapes in the region.

Enlarge the map to see the villages that lie between Karpenisi and Proussos

There is something for everyone here in this short-distance trip: local food delights, religious travel, nature hikes, sightseeing, traditional architecture, as well as children's activities and places to chill out in true Greek style. Few of the magnificent sights pictured below are visible from the main road. These sights of interest have not been developed into tourist attractions: they are simply 'there', waiting to be discovered by the lucky traveller: you really need to know where you are going, as not everything is sign-posted. I was provided with a text message of the route from my friend in the area, and followed it as well as I could, which turned this half-hour journey into an eight-hour day-trip. There were so many delights to take in off the main road, that we didn't manage to fit them all into the one day that we had to complete this trip in. Had I not been given these directions, I would not have known what there was to see and do off the main route; we would simply have gone to the main tourist destination (the monastery), and then returned to our hotel.

In just 30 kilometres... 

"Just a few minutes out of Karpenisi, there is the picturesque village of Koryschades, an architecturally protected area with a traditional feel to it... 

Buildings in Koryschades are protected by law, so that all constructions keep in line with the general traditional style.

... In the village of Voutyro, apart from a nice cafe near the village church, there is a wildlife breeding centre, where wild species are bred (mainly birds and deer), which are later released in the wild.

My husband was quite surprised to learn that some of the partridges he has hunted during the game season in the past might have been bred here.

Near the turn-off for the village of Nostimo, there's a clearing on the road, which leads to the river Karpenisiotis running beside it. It's a nice place to take a river walk as far as the water will let you...

 The flora of the area was very interesting, with intense colours; at one point, we came across a whole lot of tomato plants growing happily in the rocks over the riverbed!

... Further down the road is a small but interesting cluster of villages: Megalo Horio (= the Big Village) has quite a good taverna before the village with an open green space for the children to play in, but you might like to go to Mikro Horio (= the Small Village), which is opposite Megalo Horio, where there is also a good taverna...  

It wasn't lunch time yet (our picnic lunches were more than enough), so we simply toured these villages, stopping off at various points on the road to enjoy the views. It's quite a treat to come across natural waterfalls, rock pools, winter preparations, quaint houses and wood art.

... Follow the road from Mikro Horio to Palio Mikro Horio (= the Old Small Village)...

Palio Mikro Horio has a very beautiful square, decorated with plants growing inside logs. The waiter brings you a glass of icy cold water straight from the spring (where the watermelons have been placed to keep them cold), and you sit under a very old plane tree, which provides a great deal of shade, keeping you cool under the hot summer sun.

... for the best view of the valley and Velouchi...

Just a few metres away from the cafe at Palio Mikro Horio is a road leading to the church of Agios Sostis (the Saviour), from where you can see the whole valley and the Velouchi ski resort.

... Coming back on to the main route, you will pass a narrow strip of road running by the river Karpenisiotis, which was carved out of the mountain rock...

This narrow gorge seemed to spring out of nowhere.

... Eventually you will come across a bridge where three rivers meet: Karpenisiotis, Trikeriotis and Krikelopotamos... 

Rivers and bridges are landmark sites in this part of the country, Greece's most mountainous region. This old bridge looks rather desecrated with the more modern concrete tarmac on the top - it is no longer used, as another bridge has been built in its place (the one we were driving on, where this photo was taken). If you take the river route, you will come across one of the most amazing views of villages nestled in the mountains - apparently, the road was so narrow that not even donkeys could pass through here, and a new-born donkey had to be carried into the area by a villager in his arms, so that the village could have their first working animal.

... A little after that, the Proussiotissa monastery will come into view. From this vantage point, you get amazing views of the valley... 

On our way to the other sights, we passed by the monastery and thought we'd visit it on our way back... but we ran out of time. So we just made the sign of the cross (like most Greeks would do) while we were in the car. The Proussotissa monastery is a significant one in Greek terms; Greeks may not be outwardly religious, but they often ask favours of the Virgin Mary, especially in difficult cases, such as that of infertility - many a Greek will tell you that they came here on a pilgrimage because they couldn't have a child, and after their visit, lo and behold, they begot one.

... Continuing on the road, a little further away, you will come across a sign directing you to an area called Tornos. As you drive along this route, you can visit Mavri Spilia (Μαύρη Σπηλιά = the Black Cave), before you get to Tornos. It takes about 30 minutes to reach the cave from the footpath, where there are pools, bridges and waterfalls.  It is slippery to enter the cave so be careful...

At this point, we were unlucky. The sign pointing out the road to the Black Cave was not visible to us because of roadworks blocking the route at the very point where we were to drive on to see this attraction. The signs diverted us to a dirt track, from where we continued on to the village of Tornos. We missed out on a spectacular nature walk, viewable here in this series of 21 photos.

After your walk in Mavri Spilia, drive on to Tornos, where there is also a nice footpath below the church, with running waters, little bridges, and a water mill, that takes about an hour for a round trip back to the church.

 
It was almost 3pm by the time arrived at Tornos, so we did about half the walk; at least we didn't miss out on this waterfall. We also came across bridges, rivers and rockpools. There were probably fairies flying around the place too...

There's no taverna in Tornos...

There was indeed no taverna at Tornos, but there was a cafe. It was closed, but somewhere nearby I could hear people talking from a television show. I could also see quite clearly through the cafe window. The cafe seemed ready for business: the tables were laid with a clean crisp white tablecloth and a fresh hydrangea in a glass of fresh water, as if the owner was expecting guests...

... But you can also return to the village of Proussos near the monastery, where the taverna is OK...

The return trip meant viewing the landscape from a different angle, and it was quite mesmerising. But the taverna that we wanted to visit at the village of Proussos was closed...

... Or if you prefer, when returning to Karpenisi, you can stop at the village of Gavros, where there is a large square with some tavernas clustered together... 

... so we continued on to Gavros, a small village nestled between two mountain ranges, with the river running beside it.

... There you can have grilled trout at the "Spiti tou Psara"...

We were recommended the taverna "To Spiti tou Psara", which means "The home of the fisherman." Trout was served here, but since we aren't really hot on fresh fish (and possibly our pockets weren't padded well enough), we chose from the more standard range of Greek meals available; the taverna offered a good variety. The total cost of this meal was just 33 euro for the four of us. The most interesting part of the meal was the very kindly taverna owner, a grandmother in her late 50s, who told me how I could replicate her delicious pita in my own home, as well as how to make her very tasty dessert which we were treated to at the end of the meal. The pies were made in typical  Evritanian fashion, the feta was produced locally and the cake - karidopasta - is a specialty of the area. 

... Did you notice the children's adventure park, Saloon, located just three kilometres out of Karpenisi? It offers horse-riding (a little pricey), and it's a nice place to rest and have a drink (not too expensive at all).

 

We didn't need to notice the adventure park; the children did that for us. The price of these rides cost the children's parents just as much as the taverna meal!

This was the only day throughout our whole trip where we did not have to refill the car with petrol (the price of petrol in Central Greece is just as high as it is in Crete, averaging, at the time, about 1.75 euro per litre). All the driving distances were short; we just stopped the car every ten minutes or so, to see something we could not see at all in our own little part of Greece. I regret not being able to get to all the sights, as there is always the fear that we may not be able to come out here again, but we all live in hope that this kind of holiday (a cheap one within one's own country) will be able to be repeated in the future, despite the austerity measures being imposed on us daily.

©All Rights Reserved/Organically cooked. No part of this blog may be reproduced and/or copied by any means without prior consent from Maria Verivaki.