The Garbage Truck

    The rumors ran rampant, did Agios and the surrounding villages really get a garbage truck? Would our garbage really be picked up biweekly? If this was true that meant no longer having to burn our trash on calm windless days, or having to dig a hole and bury it, or sneaking our garbage  to Agios and depositing it in the trash barrels of local businesses. Sure enough one quiet summer morning the ominous rumblings of a large vehicle could be heard in the far distance. As the noise drew closer I looked out my screen door to see a bright, new, orange and chrome Mercedes-Benz garbage truck, the Aegean sun bouncing off its polished veneer, slowly snaking its way down our narrow village streets... That’s when I noticed a solitary figure sitting or rather straddling freestyle on top of this huge colossus of a truck. In his hands he held a large, menacing looking chainsaw, the kind you expect to see in one of those chainsaw horror movies. As the truck lumbered forward he would yell instructions to the driver to stop, thus allowing him to cut away any unsuspecting tree branches that would dare wreak havoc on the finish of the new Mercedes-Benz garbage truck. Yes, twice a week the roar of the garbage truck, sans scratches, could be heard as it made its way down our road picking up our trash, gnawing and grinding it to bits. To my amusement I would tell, like a proud father, to my friends back in the States that our little village not only has a garbage truck, but a brand new, sweet ass Mercedes-Benz garbage truck.

    It didn’t take long for the fascination of the new garbage truck to catch on, but its regular schedule route seemed to be in jeopardy because of logistic and parking concerns. Parking on the village’s two streets is always a baffling and dauntless experience. Any car can easily block the minuscule roads if it is not properly parked and oriented in just the right angle and distance from the road.  When this happens the garbage truck becomes blocked and can’t proceed to make its pick ups. The result of this impasse would be a very long and loud horn blast from the truck informing those whose vehicles were blocking the street to make haste and quickly move their offending cars.

    A cautionary example of such a scene was played out one afternoon as I was returning home following our Mercedes-Benz garbage truck up one of the narrow and winding roads. Stopping suddenly, the truck was halted by an incorrectly parked car. The car was like a clog in the drain, the truck could not squeeze past the vehicle without falling off the road into the bramble below. The perpetrating auto did not have the two necessary tires parked on the sidewalk, so as to allow adequate space for the passage of other vehicles. Within seconds a host of cars, trucks, and three wheelers quickly jammed up behind us, horns blasting constantly in hopes of alleviating the traffic grid lock, but to no avail. The delinquent operator was no where to be seen. In a fit of desperate frustration the garbage truck driver and his helper emerged from the cab of the truck and looked around for some able bodied men. Their glance caught my eye and my two fellow passengers. With a swift and determined downward wave of the drivers’ hand, he signaled for our arguable assistance. Waiting for us at the illegally parked car, the garbage truck driver motioned for us to take a position behind the car, while he and his beefy helper would take care of the front of the vehicle. Upon the driver’s command the five of us in unison lifted the vehicle as one lifts a pillow, and seamlessly moved it about a meter, depositing it next to an adjoining wall. With the road now clear, our entourage led by the magnificent and glowing Mercedes-Benz garbage truck continued on its’ appointed route.

Really?!

  As usual, things are not what they seem to be on Ikaria. There are even times when your eyes or other senses just can’t logically be trusted to interpret the reality of a situation. We even joke about it saying “Don’t believe anything you hear and only half of what you see.” A situation that best illustrates this point happened when an American family was visiting us one summer a few years ago...

  The family consisted of mom, dad and two kids, a girl around ten and her brother who had just turned five. Soon after they arrived at our house the young lad came down with a sore throat and a fever. Getting sick in Greece is a constant worry for travelers and locals alike. The socialized model of Greek medicine has its many benefits, but hospitals are sparse and vary in degree of medical care, and physician competency sometimes is questionable. After much family discussion it was decided that I should accompany the father and ill boy to our small hospital, as I was the host and the ever present translator. As it happened our hospital did have a pediatrician on staff, and as we registered the young patient, I requested an appointment with him. Since our American guests were not Greek citizens, or registered under the socialized medical umbrella, we were informed by the receptionist that they would have to pay cash to see the physician. She also indicated it would be over a thousand drachmas to see the doctor. With a strong dollar that summer the doctor bill came out to an astonishing $6.50. Being paying customers our wait was relatively short, and we were quickly ushered into the pediatrician’s office.

  The first indication that something was not quiet right occurred immediately as we walked through the office door, and the odor of tobacco invaded our olfactory sense. As we took our seats in front of the doctor’s desk, a desk filled and overflowing with patient charts, papers and other medical paraphernalia, we spotted a large dinner plate size ashtray brimming with half smoked cigarettes. A couple cigs were still smoldering, their light blue smoke slowly making the journey upward to the smoke tinged ceiling. Within minutes entered this young but serious looking doctor with a recently lit cigarette dangling precariously from his lips. Introductions were quickly made and symptoms of the illness discussed and diagnosed. During this brief dialogue none of us could take our eyes off the lit cigarette still well balanced and firmly attached to the young doctor’s lips, as if an appendage was somehow permanently planted on the right side of his mouth.

  Eventually the doctor had to physically examine the young

patients’ mouth, throat and take his temperature, and as duty called he did remove the half smoked cigarette from his mouth and deposit it on the ever growing Vesuvius mound of stale and smoldering tobacco. The nefarious strep throat was immediately diagnosed by the pediatrician, and a prescription for penicillin quickly written for the patient. As we headed for the pharmacy the conversation promptly revolved around the callous smoking behavior of this Greek doctor. Granted Greeks are the number one smokers in the EU, but one would assume that Greek medical practitioners, particularly ones that deal with children, acknowledge the health hazards and pitfalls of cigarette smoking. They should be promoting healthy life style choices and practices, but this being Ikaria, really, one shouldn’t believe anything they hear and only half of what they see.

Beer Run

    It’s no secret to anyone who knows me, that like many men, I enjoy a cold frosty beer on a hot day, and certainly there are plenty of hot days during the scorching summer months in Ikaria. The problem arises, as it does everywhere, when the beer runs out. This of course means that someone has to make the all important beer run. In Ikaria, as in most parts of Greece, acquiring alcohol is as easy as buying a can of Coke. This is because of Greece’s favorable and tolerant drinking laws. For a long time at our seaside village, the only places to buy beer were the kafenios, our diminutive grocery store or the one man bakery that sold three items, bread, beer and tiropites. The closest of the three sites to our house was the bakery, about a half kilometer away. However, it meant taking the rocky foot path, past the sweet smelling bushes full of bees, avoiding the ever present goats that often blocked the path and traversing around the noisy and odorous chicken coops.

   This daunting but essential undertaking was always hotly contested by everyone, because it meant a fairly arduous uphill walk to the bakery and back again carrying multiple bottles of cold beer. The task was usually assigned to one of the younger members of my family, either my son, Alex, or my daughter Andrea. Since Andrea was the younger of the two, her brother somehow mysteriously conned her, along with lucrative bribes from me, into taking the trek up to the bakery. This brave six year old would take her little pink backpack and start her odyssey hoping to avoid the many perils along the way. Under ideal conditions we could expect her back in about half an hour with her bag full of liquid refreshments. This common practice of allowing minors to purchase beer for their parents fit perfectly into the lifestyle of the island. My wife and I certainly had no qualms about sending our children on these quests for beer that is until we returned to the States.

   Back in the States one of the most popular classroom activities for first graders was the weekly show and tell, not only for the students but also for teachers. Six year old Andrea, having traveled to Ikaria three times in her short life, always had plenty to show and tell about life on the island, especially one week when the topic was farm animals. When it was Andrea’s turn to tell about animals in her life she stood up with bravado to explain to her fellow classmates and her teacher, how she had to take these dangerous journeys to the village bakery in order to bring back beer for her thirsty parents. She described in vivid detail how she had to circumnavigate the bee bushes so as not to disturb the bees, and how she had to out maneuver the intimidating and stubborn goats, and how she had to hold her breath as she quickly passed the smelly chicken coop. The toughest part of her odyssey she explained to her class, was carrying those heavy chilled bottles of beer in her little pink Barbie back pack. The weight of the hefty bottles often threw her off balance landing her in the thicket and brush resulting in scratches or bruises, as she made her descent from the bakery along the uneven rocky foot path.

   When Andrea came home from school that afternoon she told us about her school day and the electrifying story she told during show and tell. My wife and I immediately knew and understood the predicament we were in. Did her teacher believe her?  Or maybe she thought Andrea made up the story? Would her teacher call Child Protective Services on us for child abuse, negligence or endangerment? Luckily no authorities came knocking on our door, no phone calls asking if we’d be available for a home visit. However, at parent-teacher conferences later that year I couldn’t help but notice a certain amount of probing and suspicious looks from Andrea’s teacher. The looks that mean: “I’m not quite sure what is going on with your strange and unusual family, but if Andrea comes to school with beer breath I have Protective Services on speed dial.”

Flying to Ikaria

Flying to Ikaria is a relatively short trip, about half an hour or so from Athens. The modest twin engine turbo-prop flies in low, lands, drops off its’ passengers, picks up another group of passengers and returns to the mainland. Such is the normal mundane routine of flying in and out of Ikaria, or so it seemed when my wife and I escorted our son to the airport for his flight back to Athens. The Olympic Airlines plane arrived on time, that is Greek time, about twenty minutes late. The passengers disembarked full of laughter with the anticipation of spending time on this idyllic Aegean island. The departing passengers slowly made their way through passport control, then security clearance and trudged out to the tarmac to board the vintage plane. Once the travelers boarded the plane, the airport staff seemed to disappear most likely to go out to lunch, take an afternoon nap or hit the beaches.

 This time my wife and I decided to stay and watch the plane carrying our son take off. Since the airport only has one runway, the plane must turn around, taxi down to one end hidden behind a hill, rev up its’ engines, race down the runway and take off. Several long minutes went by as we patiently stood under the hot Aegean sun waiting for the plane to emerge from behind the hill, when suddenly all sorts of sirens went off. Out of the airport two firemen came dashing out, boarded their fire truck with lights flashing and sirens whining, they made a beeline towards the plane. Immediately confusion, fear and a troubling sensation shook my body. Running back into the airport to ask what is going on, I found it deserted! The only person still around was the cashier at a small café cleaning tables. Anxiously I approached her about the ominous excursion of the fire truck. “Oh, that” she replied, “the fire truck is chasing the goats off the runway so the plane can take off, it happens quite often.” Relieved that our son’s plane was not on fire, but rather under siege by Ikarian goats, I relayed the bizarre news to my worried wife.

 Ikaria, it seems, has a sizable number of wild goats that roam and graze in the mountains above the

airport, and often meander down to the airstrip looking for a morsel or two. Their omnivorous habits endanger the plane during its’ arrivals and departures. So, if you are fortunate enough to fly in or out of Ikaria, look out your window and you might see those hungry Ikarian goats scavenging around the airfield looking for that last morsel of food. If you are luckier yet, you may see the fire truck cruising down the runway scaring off the hazardous goats.

The Lottery

Ikaria has always been considered by other Greeks as an island outpost, somewhat backwards and full of loveable but eccentric locals. Ikarians certainly do not see themselves described in such unflattering and uncouth terms. They see themselves rather as proud, independent and creative individuals. The creative theme struck a cord with me one day in Agios. While returning to my car I was hastily approached by one of our amiable local farmers. This particular farmer decided a few years ago to relocate to a miniscule trailer that he set up in a middle of a deep ravine, a ravine that during the rainy winter months would cascade tons of rainwater down to the Aegean. Nevertheless, he settled into this risky nook amidst the boulders, cacti and the torrential rains. He was even able to somehow gather and herd several farm animals around his little trailer.

 As this whimsical and robust stranger approached me I spotted him holding in one hand a gigantic

roll of paper. At first I thought it was a roll of industrial size toilet paper, and this was one of those bodily function emergencies, but as I looked closer I realized it was a large roll of register tape. He quickly cornered me and dove into his animated scheme describing how I could win his highly prized mule in a lottery he was conducting. The cost of a lottery ticket was a mere Euro. It turned out he had written double numbers on the roll of register tape, and as a contestant purchased a number he would tear off the duplicate number and deposit it in his goat skin sack along with the other purchased numbers. Eventually when he figured he had sold a sufficient number of tickets to make a handsome profit on his prized mule, he would draw the winning number from his sack.

Realizing that this was the only way I would ever be a mule owner, and not thinking of the

consequences and responsibilities of owning the animal, I immediately bought five tickets. Driving home that afternoon in a justifiable daze with the five tickets tucked in my pocket, I was seeing myself naming my mule some kind of studly name, and picturing myself triumphantly galloping into Agios on the back of my speedy hybrid. A couple of weeks later I found myself one evening at our local kafenion, when suddenly I thought of the lottery. Curiously I asked around if anyone heard who won the mule sweepstakes. “The old farmer drew a number just a few days ago,” said one of the regulars, “a cousin of his won.” In one quick blow, my dreams of being a mule driver crashed but I smiled thinking about how many others had also invested their Euros in this lucrative mule lottery.