Monday, October 31, 2011

Shopping in Ikaria


               The business district of Agios, the largest town on Ikaria, consists mostly of small shops run by individual proprietors always eager and willing to serve their hurried customers. Unfortunately modern banking practices have yet to make major inroads with these small shop owners. When one buys an item it is best to have the exact amount as shop owners only keep a limited number of coins in their cash drawers. If change is to be given to a customer, quite often he or she might be given a small token or item in place of change. It is not unusual at the local pharmacy, for example, to be given one or two band-aids or several aspirins as change. I always love going to the pharmacy with great excitement and anticipation wondering what kind of change I’ll get that day, maybe a couple of Ricola cough drops or a tablet or two of Vicadin.
             One of my more puzzling purchases was made at a local hole-in-the- wall hardware stores. I was informed one day by my wife that a new outdoor clothesline was needed to replace the old flimsy and tattered one. She figured about fifteen meters was required. With this information fresh in my mind I hopped on my trusty Vespa and took off for Agios. As I popped into the first hardware store, I promptly spied a large spool of clothesline sitting right there on the counter. Thinking this was going to be a quick and easy transaction I confidently asked the saleslady for fifteen meters of line. She said nothing just looked at me mystified and bewildered. I thought to myself she did not understand me, so I repeated my utilitarian request for fifteen meters of line. Again, only to be met by more flustered looks. Finally, I picked up the spool of line and once again said, “I need fifteen meters of this.” Looking at me like I should know better she calmly explained, “We only sell clothesline by the kilo.” It took about a minute for me to fathom her reply. “You don’t sell by the meter, only by the kilo?” I responded. “Yes, of course only by the kilo” came her curtsied reply. “Ok,” I said “let me just measure out about fifteen meters of line then you can take it and weigh it on your scale, and charge me what its worth.” So, finally with a convergence of two scales of measurement I was able to purchase my fifteen meters of clothesline so our wet bathing suits and towels could hang and dry in the hot Greek sun.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Agios Kirikos


                    
  Agios Kirikos, the capitol of Ikaria, or Agios as locals call it is  for the most part  a sleepy little harbor town, but on at least one occasion it exhibited a rather unique cultural flavor. One morning as I arrived at Agios to do my every-other day shopping, I heard some very faint non-native sounds. In the main square I happened upon a group of Ikarians gathered in a circle. Coming from the center of this crowd I could hear the music and beating of what sounded like Native American drums. Inside this cluster of about fifty or so Ikarians was indeed a dance troupe of four Native American Indians dressed in an eclectic wardrobe of Plains/Woodland Indians. They exuberantly danced around a table waving their fringed tomahawks in the air and yelling war cries to the beat of their drums. The stunned Ikarians looked bewildered and confused, as did I, as to what this dance program was about.
                Upon finishing their dance number the Indians proceeded to pass around a hat for donations. As the hat was circulating among the amused onlookers the performers brought out CD’s of their music to be sold to the locals. Out of curiosity I approached one of the dancers to find out what tribe they were from since I did not recognize the outfits they wore. With a whimsical smile the oldest male dancer said, "We’re not American Indians, we’re from Ecuador. We just put these shows on because Greeks only know about Indians from American western TV shows." So, cultural exchange programs do happen even in remote destinations such as Agios. The question becomes what culture?                                                                                                    

Damnit the sun will melt your wings!

            

    Ikaria, when I mention the name most people will just shrug, then I explain that Ikaria is part of a famous ancient Greek myth. It concerns a father and son who secretly escaped imprisonment from Crete after fashioning wings made from feathers and wax. The fathers’ instructions to his son were not to fly too high or the sun’s rays would melt his wings. The brash son disregarded his father’s advice and the outcome was he crashed into the Aegean Sea, near the island that consequently was named after him, Ikaria.  
                The story is a myth but the island is not. Located in the eastern Aegean, it is a rather long, skinny island with a somewhat dubious history, encompassed in a beautiful and provoking topography. It truly reflects what Lawrence Durrell describes as, “spirit of place”. A peoples’ spirit that evolves from being geographically isolated, politically defaulted, and culturally insulated. A spirit that promotes self-sufficiency, an almost arrogant island view and a watchful and suspicious eye towards outsiders.
                It was on this wayward island that I was born in the middle of the 20th century in a mountain village said to have existed since the Stone Age. Having left this quaint existence at the age of five, I returned many years later to reacclimatize myself to my heritage on this lonely and windy island. During countless summers spent exploring and eventually settling down as a permanent part-time resident, I amassed vivid memories and experiences of the people and places of Ikaria. This shared life compels me to tell the stories of these Ikarians, to illuminate their experiences and provide a viewing window into the human spirits that inhabit this majestically rocky island called Ikaria.