According to Weaving and Knitting and Time: A Creative Non-Fiction Piece and a Poem
A Creative Non-Fiction Work
"A Journey Through Greece"
by Ben Bussewitz
In the summer of 2011, I spent three weeks with an undergraduate course traveling through Greece and then a month by myself, backpacking for three weeks on Crete and living for one week in Athens. With the class, I traveled to Delphi, Chios, Mycenae, Epidavros, Monemvasia, and Kythira, and then when they left, I embarked on my expedition with no plan except to take a ferry from Athens to Crete.
That's what I did, playing and beating
an Iranian who was about my age in chess on the overnight traversal of the
South Aegean Sea.
I arrived in a small city called
Heraklion and I didn’t quite know what to do or where to go. Panic and
second-guessing ensued. I considered returning home.
Fortunately, a friend in the U.S.
answered my phone call, did some surveying, and told me that there was a hostel
I could go to in another city called Rethymno, west of the ferry’s landing.
Before departing Heraklion I spent the
bulk of the day moseying through the Palace of Knossos. It was really a blur; I
didn’t know how to process my sensory and conceptual input, but looking back at
it way down the line, it is as if I could unconsciously apprehend that the site
was laden with spirits, a sensation that was vaguely palpable.
I journeyed west and met a German who
was also staying in the hostel. He was a Ph.D. student specializing in
Chaos Theory. The two of us headed to Chania and then traveled onward through
the Samaria Gorge arriving at the southern tier of the island.
When I was on the northern coast I had
wanted to swim, but the water was too polluted. The water in the Mediterranean
Sea was pristine.
We had crossed the gorge at a swift
pace, rendering diving in such a rewarding relief. I started doing laps as if I
were in a pool. Every day for the next two weeks of traveling along the shore,
I exercised in that fashion.
We started taking boats from one small
village to the next, heading eastward. By that point, the German and I had
joined paths with a guy from France who caricatured traditional representations
of his nationality. My wine was not good enough for him and he did not want to
spend the night under the stars.
Again just the two of us, we settled
bivouac in ancient ruins. That was the first time I had slept in ancient ruins.
They departed en route to the mainland
the next day and I continued traveling east, from town to town.
I stumbled upon an empty hidden
littoral cascade-sedimentary tucked behind cliffs—it was very beautiful—and
passed the afternoon there. Four college students from Chania descended the
precarious terrace-walkway later that day and greeted me on the beach. We all
wound up spending three days and nights in the secluded cove and then, once
again, I was eastward bound.
But I had reached the end of the
vessel-circuit so the only way to proceed was to follow a road that ran along
the coastline.
When I was in the U.S., I thought it’d
be relatively easy to procure hitchhikes. I was wrong. There were hardly any
cars and they streaked by me as if I weren’t even there.
Once again I found myself in a general
state of cluelessness regarding what I should do. I had found out there was a
music festival slated four days down the road in a somewhat legendary town, the
same one that Joni Mitchell spent a lot of time in, but it was about 80 miles
away and there seemed hardly a likelihood I’d make it there on time.
After walking for about five hours
beneath the pounding summer sky, someone stopped his car. Out came the
strongest person I had ever seen. He seemed quite friendly and I got in. I was
pretty apprehensive about the entire situation; it was my first time doing
this. I told him I was headed east, not really knowing why I was headed east,
and we drove.
Suddenly he pulled over the car and got
out. I made a jump and my hand dashed toward the door handle out of reflex.
Simultaneously my faculties of reason were processing what the meaning of the
divergence was and calculated that there was no significant need for concern.
Nikos put a few gallon-containers of
gasoline in the back of his truck, repositioned himself behind the wheel,
looked at me, chuckled, and then imitated my flurry. I didn’t chuckle back
because, in general, I was demoralized and astray.
We continued driving for about fifteen
minutes and converged upon Frangokastello, a small town with a humble Venetian
castle that for centuries eminently forbade enemies from invading.
It was a little awkward when he stopped
the car this time. Of course, he assumed I’d get out and keep walking east. I
asked him if I could pitch my tent where he lived instead. He seemed surprised
and assented.
The best way I could describe his abode
to you is to say it is a stalwart, dome-like structure comprised of large
concrete cubes melded with mortar and molded into smooth curves occupying
approximately 30 square meters with its peak about three feet taller than me
with an interior divided into two quarters, a narrow kitchen which runs along a
half-moon of the outer perimeter and a bedroom which occupies the predominant
area of the dwelling, partitioned from the kitchen by means of a large draped
wool blanket. I don’t really know what the bedroom was like. I caught a few
glimpses when he’d go in or out. All I could really make out in it was a large
mattress on the floor, the mattress where he’d rest after long, hard days out
at sea spearfishing to come home and cozy up to read the great epics of his
ancient heritage in the rippling light of a lantern.
I found a home there over the course of
the next five days.
When Nikos was a young student enrolled
in the public schools on the mainland he was an outlier of sorts. It’s not that
he wasn’t amiable or didn’t make an effort to get along with the other kids.
Most of the people in his schools were instructed by their parents not to
engage in relations with him, due to the fact he was outspoken regarding his
dream to grow up and be a fisherman. The parents didn’t want Nikos to influence
their children to be likeminded, because conventional career paths where Nikos
grew up were generally much more conducive to garnering substantial salaries.
Nikos just has a small plot of land but
he puts it all to great use. There is a hammock, upon which I swayed, day after
day. There is also a coop with a good number of chickens. Three goats lived
there. And a dog. The dog and I would do a lot of running along the beach. The
dog is very fast. Very, very fast. Muscular too.
On the first day I was there, Nikos led
one of his goats to the sea to wash her and the dog came along too, gracing us
with his presence.
After washing the goat, Nikos began
playing with his dog. I wrote a poem about that beautiful experience. One of
the lines goes something like, “as Nikos inspires his Weimaraner with most
loving company I stand in awe.” The dog is a mix breed, but Weimaraner is the
breed I know of that most closely resembles him.
There is a huge boulder jutting out of
the water at knee-deep level—something of a cliff. Nikos carried the dog into
the sea, climbed to the top, and chucked the dog in. The dog seemed to like it
so I followed in suit. After that, I started to feel very self-conscious
because it occurred to me it might not have been polite to pick up the dog and
throw him into the water right after having met Nikos and right after having
met the dog. I still can’t decide if I made the right decision or not. Nikos
didn’t chastise me or anything so it probably was okay.
We decided it was time to go swimming.
Nikos bolted out front crawl farther than I’d ever seen anyone swim into waves.
And, my gosh—were there waves. The reason we weren’t out spearfishing was
because the water was tempestuous that day.
Every other day I was in Frangokastello
the sea was completely calm. Well, not completely, but you know what I mean.
Three of us moseyed through the village
to return to Nikos’ abode and the dog ran in circles around us as we went.
Nikos attended to his garden of tomatoes, green onions, and cucumbers. There
was a full irrigation system that Nikos put together. Envision a cosine curve.
The curve dipping below the x-axis corresponds to a channel in the soil through
which water would flow. And the crops rise out of the ground surrounding the
area above the y-axis where the curve peaks. It is an incredibly beautiful
garden. A miniature farm is another way to look at it.
Early that evening, I ate the best meal
I’ve ever eaten in my life. Nikos and I collected hundreds and hundreds of
twigs and then he smoked a fish and also served a salad with tomatoes,
cucumbers, and—so many green onions you wouldn’t believe it. Covered in feta
cheese and tossed with olive oil, both of which were produced by his neighbor.
Nikos and his neighbor trade their respective foodstuffs. I am telling you,
those green onions were so good.
We ate the salad every day, but we only
consumed fish on that first evening I arrived. He rarely eats his catches
because those fish constitute his sole source of income. He sells them to the
restaurants in the village.
Nikos told me that he is the only
remaining person in the Mediterranean to garner his entire income from
spearfishing. I think I believe him.
He expressed great frustration over the
propagation of net-fishing. It disrupts the ecosystem. Makes his job much
harder.
Every day, he and I would venture out
on his vessel, which is constructed of various parts of two different boats.
Both boats were beat up and broken down so he put them together to make one
extra special fishing vessel. He’d put on his black, skin-tight spearfishing
gear and we’d go out to sea, me with my ukulele.
We’d usually stay out there for several
hours, Nikos executing dive after dive, in precious moments breaking surface
with a catch. And I sang and wrote songs.
It was fun to play him the songs I
wrote during dinnertime after a long days out on the boat.
One went:
Nikos knows every single person who
lives there. We would have went but we couldn’t afford enough fuel to make it.
It was really fun when Nikos and I made
nightly excursions to the only village bar to sip on rum and chew sunflower
seeds while Nikos voiced his loud opinions which the other villagers were
somewhat quick to dismiss. He had very loud opinions. The village people
discussed politics and soccer each night.
Nikos and I bought ourselves a pizza
one afternoon and split it.
I was terrified the night I was laying
in my tent next to Nikos’ abode and started hearing guns go off in the
distance, first slowly, and then with accelerated frequency. It was the one
night Nikos wasn’t with me, well after dusk.
The slightly irrational thought
occurred that people might be out to get me for some reason, even though there
was no reason to be worried about this. For a minute or so I just continued to
lay there, frozen. Then I got up and decided I should hide.
I tried to conceal myself beneath the
shrubbery that encircles one of the lodges about midway from Nikos’ dwelling
and the beach. But I was well exposed.
Heart thumping, partially panicked, I
hastened toward the beach trying to find somewhere I could take cover but there
was nowhere that appeared effective. I resolved to lay face-down on the beach
to blend in with the plethora of flatness and darkness.
But that wasn’t sufficient either.
Dizzy, I continued to wander the village until I settled it might be prudent to
hide in Nikos’ shelter and prepare to defend myself if need be. I sat in the
darkness of the dome in that state until the fear started to wear off. I slowly
returned to reason. Why would persistent gunfire off in the distance have
anything to do with me, I asked myself.
I returned to the tent and the gunfire
ceased about twenty minutes later.
The next day Nikos asked me if the
gunfire scared me and I nodded my head as if it was an obvious yes.
He chuckled and told me he should have
told me that’d occur, as it was a Cretian tradition to discharge gunfire to
celebrate baptisms.
This time I chuckled too and expressed
my agreement that he should have told me.
Parting Nikos’ territory was a sad
parting for both of us. We had grown attached. As he drove me to a bus station
he told me the names of a few American poets he enjoys. I followed the
timetables north and returned to Rethymno. That seemed to make the most sense
because the only hostel I knew of on Crete was there.
I spent a few days in the city and made
some friends. I accompanied a very talented Hungarian guitarist with my ukulele
as we serenaded the passerbys on the promenade. Eventually, I got to know two
Austrians, and together we went to Athens, where I lived during the last week I
was in Greece.
I left Crete, Athens-bound, while
traveling with two Austrians I had just gotten to know who could stand on their
hands and juggle. When we departed the overnight ferry, they led me from the
harbor to the subway to Syntagma Square to a man named Zeus.
Zeus is a very nice French fellow and I
got to know him pretty well. He led me and a few others on a tour of the
National Garden and when we'd encounter monuments, he would tell long stories
about their histories. It was amazing how much knowledge he commanded, but what
was even more impressive was that he spoke eight languages fluently, including
ancient Greek. There were people from all around the world in Syntagma Square
and he conversed with each person he met in their native language. When we were
in the National Garden, he dove into a fountain. I dove into the fountain a few
seconds later and then a refugee from Libya became so inspired that he jumped
in too, but he didn't know how to swim, so Zeus and I had to rescue him.
One afternoon, Zeus led me across the
city to a small shop and told me I should buy an amulet of Athena. He told me
that it would give me very good luck, but that eventually I would lose the
amulet and have very bad luck for a little while, and that all wound up being
true. The next day he informed me I should purchase an amulet of Zeus, but I
declined because I could not afford another amulet. This made him very angry.
I hung out with a few Palestinian
refugees a couple of the nights I was there, one day I spent with a girl from
Japan who was traveling in Greece, and one evening with a few Africans who I
jammed with to Bob Marley and Radiohead. Other than that, I spent my time
mostly with Greeks.
My three closest friends there were all
from Athens. Two of them were girls whose names I don’t remember. My memory of
the time I spent in Athens is partially repressed. In particular, the 48-hour
strike that occurred from June 28-29, 2011 during which more than 500,000
Athenian citizens took to the streets. I had already experienced the fumes of
the long-expired (making it extra potent), military-grade tear gas on the
square before that, though.
Syntagma Square is a historic
city-square that leads up to the Parliament building. It was one of several
occupied squares in Greece, which was one of several countries in Europe on
which citizens occupied squares as a means to base their protests. The protesters
had an acronym for the countries that engaged in what they branded "The
Indignant Movement." PIIGS. Portugal, Ireland, Italy, Greece, and Spain.
My decision to join the two Austrians
in their quest to Athens was rooted in a conversation we had about travel. My
stance on travel had been—"pay attention to the landscape and the
architecture, learn about the history of the country as you travel, be
completely open to new experiences, focus on what you are experiencing and do
not let thoughts of what is happening at home disrupt the immediacy of your
experiences, spend time with the people you meet and revel in that, travel with
people who you find especially interesting, do not pass a stranger who is
walking a dog without asking to pet the dog, and enjoy everything to the
fullest." Their stance on travel was “it is important to get to know the
citizens in order to understand the larger political context of the nation you
are in.” I maintained the stance I had and added their stance as an addendum,
putting it into practice from thereon out as we traveled through
Heraklion—which also contained an occupied square—and as I spent time in
Athens.
The third of my closest Greek friends
and the only one I've remained in touch with is named Alex. In 2011, he was
31-years-old. He is apt to make keen insights and he has a very good sense of
humor. When we were together that summer he was passionately in love with an
Italian woman in a way that I found most endearing. He is devoted to justice
and he loves Greece, even though he had to leave the country because, beginning
that summer, the government withheld his paychecks from his job in the GIS
field.
Alex worked at the translator’s
station, converting articles from Greek into English for the square’s official
website, www.realdemocracy.gr. Occasionally I would edit his translations to
help make them sound more organic in flow.
When I was in Athens, I spent a few
nights at his loft, two nights on the square, a night in the empty National
Garden that the two Austrians and I had to hop an 8-foot fence, which was
tightly cordoned off by the highly militarized Greek police force, in order to
attain entrance to because (supposedly) politicians in Parliament exited
through the garden at night to avoid all the protestors that surrounded the
Parliament building—in reality, though, they went through tunnels that ran
under the National Garden (we knew this prior to entering the garden; the older
of the two Austrians simply wanted a quiet and comfortable place to sleep), one
night at one of the two girl’s apartments. I spent the majority of two days
when I was there overlooking the city limits and alternately meditating and
writing atop a gigantic boulder on the side of the Acropolis, a portion which
you do not have to pay to gain admittance to. I wandered all around Athens most
days. I strolled through the National Garden often. I went to a few museums. I
researched and read in two different libraries. One evening I bought fish at
the market and ate it on a friend’s rooftop terrace upon which we could see
much of Athens and the Acropolis. Mostly I talked to people I met in the square
or on the street, learning about and endeavoring to understand their political
situation.
In essence, I was engaging in
journalistic work. One night when I was staying at Alex’s place, I used his
computer to write a handout regarding the dynamics I had ascertained of the
situation. I printed it at one of the libraries and subsequently handed it out
to travelers who passed by the Square. Here is what it said:
“Complicated and conflicting
explanations about the situation in Syntagma have circulated through the media
and the blogosphere. The intention of this handout is to provide a short and
simple synopsis of why there have been demonstrations in Syntagma, and what the
makeshift community that has continually occupied the square for the past month
or so entails, from the general perspective of an ordinary, peaceful protester.
In order to grasp the situation, one
must recognize that neither the occupation of Syntagma nor the demonstrations
in the square have had any sort of political affiliation, or hierarchical
organization. This has allowed for an authentically democratic movement to
emerge, in which the concerns of all citizens involved are considered and
everyone is invited to contribute their opinions at the assembly meetings that
are held daily. At these meetings, literally anyone, irrespective of
educational, professional or political qualifications, can sign up and be
picked out of a raffle to speak on the podium for one and a half minutes about
an issue that is of concern to the movement. In this way, a diverse, dynamic
and inclusive dialogue has persisted during a difficult and trying period for
Greek citizens.
A consequence of this truly democratic
environment is the difficulty of identifying specific, uniform goals that the
protesters seek to accomplish. Ongoing debates regarding particular issues, as
well as a well-justified and historically rooted disillusionment over the
possibility of an organized governing power to function democratically and in a
life-affirming manner, have prevented a centralized "political party"
or "coalition" from emerging. The fact is, many protesters do not want
the movement to turn political. However, there are several common purposes that
unite the protesters.
For instance, most the protesters,
indeed most Greek citizens, are in fervent opposition to the austerity measures
passed by the Greek government, which raise taxes on many people already unable
to afford basic needs, cut salaries in the public sector, take away the rights
of employees, reduce funding for education and health, and so on. (For a
comprehensive list, check out
http://real-democracy.gr/en/content/done-mnimonio-%E2%80%93-symbasi-daneiakis-dieykolynsis-memorandum-understanding-and-overthrowing-loa)
A misconception that international media has propagated throughout the duration
of this movement, is the belief that while Greek citizens are opposed to the
austerity measures, they are in favor of a second bailout from the European
Commission, European Central Bank, and the International Monetary Fund. This is
simply not the case. The common opinion in Syntagma square is that Greek loans
will inevitably default (it's just a question of when), so the country should
declare bankruptcy sooner than later, rather than mount additional collateral
damage that will result under the conditions of a second bailout. There are
myriad scholarly sources that support the opinion that Greece will not be able
to pay off its loans; here are just a few: http://pragcap.com/greek-default-its-only-a-matter-of-time
http://www.theage.com.au/business/world-business/greece-default-almost-certain-greenspan-says-20110617-1g6px.html
http://www.goldalert.com/2011/06/100-chance-of-greek-default-says-niall-ferguson/
In the face of a corrupt government and
rising police brutality, Syntagma square has maintained a unique, harmonious
community, reflective of the society that many Greek citizens hope to someday
create. There is a food station where volunteers provide free food three times
a day to anyone interested; there is an infirmary, with several doctors always
on duty; there is free wi-fi, a translator's station, a team of lawyers, and,
in general, an inclusive and positive atmosphere. This community has functioned
peacefully for nearly forty days. Indeed, Syntagma Square is a safe haven for
the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe, for the homeless,
the hungry, the tourists and travelers, the middle class, the aging, the
refugees and immigrants—everyone. This movement aims to achieve peace in a
peaceful manner; all outbreaks of violence, whether they are incited by the
police or the radicals, are not supported by the community of Syntagma."
Based on these observations it seems as though, since the Greek populace was, in a sense, coerced into austerity measures by their government and the troika (the European Commission, European Central Bank, and the International Monetary Fund), it is imperative, and morally correct, that their government and the troika buoys up Greece's national economy (which includes restoring the public sector to full functioning, minimizing unemployment, etc) and ensure that Greek loans do not default. These were the terms of the bailouts, and it is a promise the Greek government and the troika must keep, even if that means forgiving much of Greece’s debt.
I stroke her hair and the gulls flap mazes of crystal ripples
- Stumbling upon you was like finding Sphinx eyes in hay
- The manner in which you enchanted me glowed a mirror on my soul
We’ll drown down raki, chew sunflower seeds, and listen to Nikos’
Loud opinions in the only village bar of Frangokastelo, just miles from Gavdos
After we stroll through the National Garden and the quays of Port of Piraeus,
You in your nicest dress; we’ll land a ferry in Heraklion, tour the Palace
Of Knossos, follow timetables to Rethymnon, pitch bivouac in the ancient ruins
Of Fortezza, swill the central farmer’s market, bustling crowds, lighthouse, and colorful abodes
Of Chania, hold each other’s hands on an effusive traversal of the Samarian Gorge,
Drink water of ecstasy in Sfakia, make love on the beach, jubilate in Agia Roumeli,
Vacation a fortnight on the hidden littoral cascade-sedimentary, ascend Nikos’ ship,
Sip Tsoumpraina Mavri; I will sing you love poetry on a hammock softly swaying,
We will lead goats across the sand-pebble terrain to where the waves rush back and fling,
Wash them as Nikos’ inspires his Weimaraner with most loving company,
Live on Nikos’ plot of terrain-terrace for as long as we desire, then take home in the enduring ramparts
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