Greece III - Close encounters of various kinds

Up and down, I wandered... Up... and down... all through the Zagora mountains. I went up to a little chapel dedicated to St Nicholas (as he is Amsterdam's patron saint, I thought I shouldn't miss him...), hidden in the woods on top of a hill – the church bell hanging from a tree nearby...

I met some very nasty mosquitoes on my way, and a herd of curious goats, they, too hidden amongst the trees. There were many more encounters to follow, with goats (and sheep, and cattle, and even horses). And with shepherds. Every morning, they lead their herds into the mountains, every evening, they lead them back “home”, wherever home may be. Next to one of those pretty, steep and narrow “bridges of Zagora county”, I saw a camp of gypsies, as I first thought – but no, this was a camps of modern shepherds, who follow their animals in their four-wheel drive, live in mobile homes, and dress temporary enclosures for the goats and sheep to pass the night in (for there might be bears around, and other predators, human mainly, I should think...).

But the little old man who led his goats up the mountain near the village of Tsepolovo, was of the traditional kind. In his broken German he told me he had worked in Dortmund, and in Wuppertal, in a big factory - but then, after a few years, came back to Greece, to his wife and kids. Now, he was herding his 100 goats. He wrote the figure down, scratched it, rather, on a rock, together with his age (76), and mine (66) – for yes, the Lonely Planet is right: people over here ask you right away for the most intimate details of your life (age, kids, why are you travelling alone, married?)... and don't hesitate telling about theirs. I took a picture of him, and of some of his goats. Then he came a bit too close for comfort, and I pretended not to understand a word of what he was suggesting... ;-) So I drove away, up the mountain, while he climbed effortlessly on...

The place I wanted to reach was the Beloi Outlook, one of those spots where you can oversee the Vikos Gorge. It was, as predicted, a long and winding road... as if it was never to end, one hairpin after another. But I did get there, although – with all my wandering around – this was the very end of the afternoon. As I set out to walk to the Outlook point itself – still at least half an hour away, according to the signs, though actually closer to an hour – I met a couple coming from there. So I asked them about the walk. And the woman – pretty, Italian Isabella, as it appeared – told me they had gone only half way 'because it may seem silly, but I am really afraid of bears...' I said I didn't fear them too much and would sing the “Teddy Bears' Picnic” if I came across one... She then asked me if they might join me, if she wasn't alone, she wouldn't be afraid... Alone? With Pierre, that immensely tall Belgian husband of hers? Did she think this little grandma would be an easy prey for the bear, who would then leave her alone? I will never know.

Anyhow, there we went, the three of us, and I was quite happy with their company too, because you never know what may happen when you're on you own. We walked, and we walked, and we walked, Pierre with his long legs leading the way, even finding the time to take pictures, the woman chatting, about bears, about life in Italy, in Belgium, in Holland... I told them about a nice English family I met back in Monodendri, who did make it all the way down to the Gorge (and back...). They had discussed, jokingly, what they would do if a bear came on their path: Jeff (the son-in-law) would take care of the beast, so his wife Karen and father-in-law David would have time to get away... Isabella, then, in her most dramatic voice: “Pierre, would you do that?Would you sacrifice yourself for me?”“Ehm... Do you have another question?” Pierre replied.

The view was breathtaking at times, you could see the whole valley, the sun slowly going down behind the mountains. The trail was OK – though at the very end, it became very steep and I didn't go any further, while Isabella and Pierre went all the way down to the outlook point. Isabella, apparently, had lost her fear for bears by now. Or she had forgotten about it.

The walk back to where we left the cars was uneventful. Still no bears in sight. We took leave as the dusk was setting in.

It was a long drive back to Monodendri. One hairpin after another, and the night getting darker and darker... I was exhausted when I arrived, parked the car... and decided it wasn't parked well enough. I was so tired I couldn't tell one foot from another – literally – so why I didn't leave the car just where it was, I don't know. Maybe it was just because I was so tired. And hungry. And about to have a hypoglycaemia. Anyway, I thought I'd advance the car just a tiny little bit by loosening the handbrake... and then I didn't pull it fast enough. And bumped right into the Ford Fiesta in front of me.

The whole village, it seems, was watching me. The shop owner from across the street – whose Ford Fiesta it was I had bumped into – came running towards me, gesticulating, shouting. I drove the car back, got out of it and told her how sorry I was, that the insurance would take care of everything, etc etc. She didn't get a word of it, as I didn't understand her. But she didn't find anything wrong with her car, so she finally said: “OK, no problem, OK.” I was most relieved, but then I hadn't counted with her husband. He insisted on inspecting the car thoroughly, again and again.... and yes, he found a tiny little scratch. So... “Police!” Police? A young man offered himself as an interpreter. “We need police to say what has happened, so insurance can pay.” OK then, but can't it be done tomorrow? “No, we have to wait for police, but you not to worry. Go and have dinner, and when police is here, we will call you.” So I ordered dinner... and was called away just as my pasta were put on the table. Still starving, and, worse, still on the border of a hypoglycaemia, I joined the little company. The policeman had arrived in his big Jeep, lit a cigarette, and started discussing the case. In Greek. The woman kept saying: “OK, no problem, OK.” The husband said a lot of things in Greek. The policeman took out a form and started to fill it in. But copying my driver's licence, even with the help of our “interpreter” appeared to be extremely difficult. He persistently mixed up my place of birth and surname, wanted to know my father's first name (“But he's been dead for over 40 years!” I protested, in vain) and couldn't make out the name of the company that rented the car. “Rented cars have good insurance”, our interpreter explained. Aha. That might explain a few things.

The next problem was to find the insurance papers of the “victim”. Her husband showed the policeman one paper after another, but none seemed to satisfy him. Our interpreter had left. I was more and more starving. Meanwhile, the woman kept saying, “OK. No problem. OK!” Eventually, the policeman told me, with gestures, to go back to my dinner; he would then come and bring me the form, signed by the two parties. So he did. And took leave with a firm handshake.

The next morning, I decided to go into the shop and restore relations with the shop owner. She said: “Hi”, and smiled broadly, repeated “OK, no problem” and made clear that it was really, really a very little scratch. “No problem.” I have a feeling that, had it been up to her, she would have left it at that, without all the insurance-fuss. I bought a few things, then we left as the best of friends.

See my pictures of the Zagora Horia

Greece II-Zagora

See also my earlier blogs about Greece, "Preveza" and "Ioannina - and more"

Greece II - Ioannina - and more

“Do one thing a day that scares you”, says my Lulu Lemon Bag. Well, I did. Today and yesterday. Not entirely on purpose – but I did. And on the whole, it worked out well.

Yesterday, I made a walk in the dark. I didn't intend to do so – I just walked up a path in the woods on The Island (Ionnina's island that has no name) above the monastery that I was going to see. The path was tempting, and it was large, and easy. So I followed it. But then, dusk set in, and I forgot how short the twilight is in these regions... However large the path may have been, I couldn't make out where it was. I walked down, and saw the road below. But how to reach it? The closer it seemed, the steeper was the slope between the road and me. In the end, as it became really dark, I sat down on the slope and slid down. I reached the road unharmed, except for a few scratches on my arms. But my shorts were all mucky – and I went on the ferry, back to town, trying to hide my behind... and walking in the shade as much as possible. When I got to the hotel and took my pants off, I saw that it was even worse than I had imagined. Oh well. I did it – but wouldn't for the world repeat it.

Today, it was something else. On my way to the mountain village Mondodendri, in the Zagora mountains, I came across Perama and decided to visit the famous cave in this village. So I did – in the company of a group of young Germans, and a young Dutch family (with a kid of about 3, and the mother expecting another one), and a lot of young AND old Greeks – some with walking sticks. I mention all this, because in order to admire the huge “rooms” and all the stalagtites and -mites, we had to climb – and to descend – an impressive amount of steps. And there wasn't always a railing. At times, I had to overcome my claustrophobia as well as my vertigo... There seemed no end to this “mega” cave as the Dutch woman said. But I looked at the old man with the walking stick, or at the little boy – who kept asking his mother where the elves were - and decided I could do it too.

The funny thing about this cave was its location in the middle of a village. There was a large banner across the street to attract the attention of the visitors. You might have missed it otherwise. And people missed it for centuries, even for millions of years (have there been humans that long?). It was discovered by accident when the villagers looked for shelter during the bombings in WWII; and after the war, a couple of speleologists laid out the map of the cave and prepared it for visitors like us. I have seen quite a few caves, some with a lake inside (this cave had a lake, too) but hardly any as vast as this one. Amazing.

Once outside again, a path led along the mountainside back to the village. Along this path, a woman sat on her veranda, addressing the passers-by and trying to sell jewellery and other souvenirs to them. Or at least a cup of coffee. No such luck – until she found me. I was good bait.

I wouldn't mind a cup of tea, I said. So she made me herbal tea with camomile from the mountain, and we chatted. That is, she told me her story. Today, she said, was her 42nd wedding anniversary (she married at 18, she added). She showed pictures of her son and daughter and her three grandsons. Her daughter would have liked a girl for a second child, but no, “You not buy them in supermarket.”

And then she started, in her broken German, to tell me about her husband. He had been a silver smith, apparently, making the jewellery she sold (and there were some beautiful pieces). But now, he had stopped working, as he had a pension, and he was very ill (from what she told, he must have bowel cancer), but he kept on drinking. He drank and he drank and he drank, she said, and when he ran out of beer (she showed me the empty bottles), he went to town to drink more. (I think that is where he was right then, on their wedding anniversary.)

What to do? she complained. “Doctor says, he should not drink.” But he did. And he had made debts, she went on. She had worked hard all her life, cleaning other people's houses, for little money (“Men, they make good money. Women, they work hard, but no money.”).

Of course, having listened to a story like hers, I didn't have the heart not to buy at least one of the silver objects on offer. I even felt guilty afterwards for having moaned about the price, so she lowered it. And she gave me a little extra, a nice key latch – and she wanted no money for that cup of tea.

We embraced when I left. She then gave me directions, and warned me against the Albanians (we are close to the Albanian border here). “Greek people good. Albanians no good.” They still remember Ali Pasha here, the Albanian ruler who once was the cruel master of this Greek province, Epiros, until the Turks had him killed. But by then (in 1821) he was 82...

'See you next year”, the woman said. “See you next year”, I echoed her, before walking down the path and out of her life.

Read also my other blogs on Greece, "Preveza", "Close encounters of various kinds"