Margaretha Western – Greek Island Gods: Santorini

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The plane to Santorini, was packed with revelers. A wedding party surrounded us. Bride and blushing groom (!) seemed too young to fly on their own, let alone marry! Both were undeveloped slim kids.

He was pallid as a lily with dark curly locks tumbling over his shoulders, she had straight dark blonde long hair. His wrists were circled by masses of chiming silver bracelets, right up to his elbows. They were set with pink and black coral. A jeweler’s shop-full of rings graced his long thin fingers. His T-shirt was artfully ripped at the neckline to show off the heavy silver chains resting on his hairless flat chest. Across the front of his T-shirt, four rows of childishly-drawn gingerbread men danced downwards to his exposed navel. Tighter than tight jeans assured him of impotency sooner than later, but he valiantly poured Bourbon and an energy mix down his swanlike throat. His full and feminine sensual lips regularly stretched like an elephant's trunk across the aisle to his beloved, blocking the walkway as they sucked face.

His bride-to-be wore a black, man's singlet and jeans that only just managed to conceal some of her shapely butt! On her no jewelry, apart from a large chunky ring.

She drank beer! Both wore ankle boots with such pointed toes, they reminded me of the pictures in my children’s book of The Pied Piper of Hamlet.

Behind me the wedding party loudly and in a state of total alcohol-induced inebriation, created their own boozy clouds to float on towards the Cycladic island of Santorini, guzzling champagne by the crates.

When we landed, there it was, a stark rock, covered in blindingly-white cubes, decorated mainly with primary blue. Thousands of them! It was an almost naked rock. Not many trees or green softened the landscape, the scorching hot sun burning everything a warm ochre. We were picked up by a small courtesy bus and said goodbye to the wedding revelers staggering around aimlessly in circles in the heat and alcohol fumes.

 
SANTORINI or Thira, one of the Greek Cyclades islands, is anchored in the Aegean Sea. It lies within a group of volcanic islands and every Greek I have ever spoken to in New Zealand, has told me to go to Santorini, as it is so beautiful. This island and Mykanos, are both famous tourist resorts. Santorini was the site of one of the largest volcanic eruptions around 1500, which sank the centre of the islands. It virtually destroyed the Minoan civilisation and the legend was born of Atlantis. The last eruption in 1956 devastated half of Thira and the people of Santorini live precariously in their white homes that cling to the edge of the caldera, on a slow-burning bomb. The volcano is still active today!

We settled-in at the Sunrise Hotel, in the main road of Fira, very close to all the action. Balconies overlooked an atrium overflowing with magenta Bougainvillea. Two scrawny cats, covered in sores lay stretched out in the sun beside the pool. With surprise I saw that one had some cellotape attached to his bald tail. It looked as if he had been trying to gnaw it off as  an ugly sore festered directly beside it. A large internet café was immediately beside our hotel, very handy!

We wandered around the corner and straight into the narrow and crammed tourist shop alleys. At the supermarket, a tiny, chocolate brown donkey patiently waited for its owner by the door. His ears poked through two holes in the large straw hat perched on his head. A bunch of bobbing flowers gaily trembled on top. Five minutes later, a short, bent man, hair sprouting from under his hat, out of his ears and nose, filled the two baskets on each side of the donkey and I was surprised at the ease with which he hopped onto his conveyance.

I was told that nearby, the Museum of Prehistoric Thira, showed statues of some Greek Gods. Well, those Gods must have been well endowed if the peculiar erotic statues displayed were a true a representation of the inhabitants of godly heaven! Certainly nothing was left to the imagination! I wondered if the locals send their kids along to learn about the birds and the bees?

Hundreds of steps led down from Thira to the water’s edge. a sign with a happy donkey‘s head indicating the donkeys path. Long donkey trains trudge up and down all day in the soaring heat, heads drooping. Some people,  enormously obese, should have ridden an elephant instead of the small velvety donkeys! I felt sorry for the small and cuddly beasts of burden. They had the most lovely long ears and soulful dark liquid eyes. An alternative mode of transport was a cable car that smoothly glided up and down. We took a cable car down to the edge of the harbour. Some people chose to walk the hundreds of steps, but only managed to fertilize their shoes and often their butts when they slipped in the gooey donkey pancakes!

At the sea edge of the shattered and black Caldera wall, donkey trains waited to take us back up. The owners each had several donkeys. I was allocated a mule, rather than a fuzzy donkey. I pointed to a small brown, velvet-coated one, his head decorated with a beaded muzzle and indicated that I wanted that one. To me, this one was special, his large intelligent eyes looked at me with interest, he held-up his head proudly and stood perfectly still while I climbed on. A small fox terrier-cross, raced up the steps alongside me, huffing and puffing, his tongue hanging far from his mouth. When he reached the top, his boss, an enormous man, bellowed at him and pointed a sausage-like finger towards the entrance of his shop. The dog wisely stayed out of reach and blissfully followed the donkeys down again. It was wonderful to see this small creature amusing himself so thoroughly and I suspected that his boss played his part also for the benefit of the tourists.

Most tiny shops were overflowing with reasonably-priced tourists gifts. Steep, cobbled alleyways wound their way around the outside of the soaring mountain to suddenly reveal the most astonishing sight of a row of “brand” boutiques, in the middle of small eateries and icecream cafes. The windows were ablaze with gold jewelry. Precious stones, sparkling crystal chandeliers and stunning glassware, vied for the tourist dollars.  Even here, we were pestered by touting owners trying to tempt us inside.

As we climbed higher and higher, sensational views opened up, framed by the pure white walls of a church, topped with a hard blue cupola. Other times, we looked through ornately crafted wrought-iron gates, hung with metal bunches of grapes. In a small courtyard, an olive tree grew, tucked in a corner. Rioting Bougainvillea and terra cotta steps, on which vast stone amphora led to a gaily painted door into someone’s home.

A surprise awaited us around every corner of this harsh, rocky island. An old dinghy, the oars till in-place, was artistically perched on top of a flat roof, hundreds of meters above the sea!

Next morning, my friend had an upset tummy from the dinner she had bought at a roadside cafe. Later in the day, when she was fit enough to go sight-seeing, she was attacked by mosquitoes. Her eyes were swollen closed and she had lumpy bites on her shoulder. It looked as if I had socked her one! As I sleep extremely lightly, I had whipped my sheets over my head, the minute I heard the buzzing of the small bloodsuckers.

We hired a manual Peugeot and I drove to Ia, a delightful fishing village at the other side of the island.  We had to get out of the car and walk, the alleys being too narrow to let our car pass through. Driving further along, the volcanic sandy beach was black and blistering hot! I had a terrible job putting the Peugeot into reverse, but finally figured it out after totally blocking the road at the no-exit, sight-seeing cliff edge! By then, we were so hysterical with laughter that I had to stop to recover.

The volcanic black soil is extremely fertile and Santorini produces a lovely dry white wine, which is a perfect partner to the squid, that hangs drying in-front of the doors on strings, as well as the many exotic dishes available in the countless restaurants.

The weather was pleasantly warm at 25C degrees and brilliantly sunny. Kamira, was flatter, with gravel beaches, more peaceful and very pleasant to sit under the huge palm frond umbrellas. It had lost its native character and was totally tourist-geared. Paying eight Euros (NZ$16!) for a chair each, we had a long cool drink and watched the surf roll in as bathers burned themselves to crispy crackle. A brown bread-roll, smothered with Tzaziki and liberally decked with thick slices of ham and cheese, followed by a Greek cake, dripping with clear honey, kept us from going hungry.

There are large homes built on the flat land here.

On the way back, the picture postcard views took our breath away. Small shops displayed some great paintings on old wooden doors and farm fences.  And the hand-blown glass! The magnificent pieces made me regret that this was the start of our trip and not the end.

Our side of the island was steep and houses clung precariously to the lava rock walls or were cave houses, built in the towering cliffs. Excellent in this climate, as they were very cool. Narrow cobbled alleys dipped up and down like a roller coaster. In the evenings, thousands of tourists slowly wind their way upwards, to admire the stunning sunset over the sea. The Greek islanders sold “Sunset tours”, but I can assure you that the sunset looked just as spectacular from the cobbled path we were standing on – for free!

Luxurious passenger liners, anchored on huge buoys floated in the deep, deep, dark blue crystal clear sea. It is too dangerous to swim here. This is where a large liner turned over during 2007 and sank, resulting in many deaths. The seas are barren apart from tiny fish and octopi.

Looking back upwards, we saw the village high above tumbling over the impressive cliff edges. They clung onto part of the exposed, devastated crater. Many looked like hobbit houses with their tiny window and door openings. The land is barren lava rock. The traditional bunker-type houses are almost all whitewashed. They are saved from extreme ugliness by arches and touches of pastel or bright blue.

 
Most properties were badly maintained and rubbish was thrown everywhere along the streets or at the sides of the houses. I spotted a tiny Labrador pup that lived in amongst the rubbish that was strewn alongside the road in front of a car rental company. Every time he saw me he went berserk as I fed him every day. He then danced all around me, ears flopping and tail wagging furiously. He was gorgeous.

Our "patron" was a grouchy man who complained that he only could manage to create one miserable daughter! Women and donkeys work here and the men sit in the bistros all day, smoking, complaining, arguing, drinking and playing cards. The Greek food was great and the olives as large as bantam eggs. My favourite, a Greek salad, invariably had a slab of delicious feta cheese on top, as thick as my wrist!

A throbbing mass of tourists pushed their way from one end of the popular district to the other and we were pleased that we had arrived early in the season! On the gravel beaches we had to pay a small fortune to be allowed a chair! The whole island was totally tourist-geared. The tiny alleys, running up and down the hillsides, studded with tiny boutiques, were are a great attraction. The large granite cobbles had been outlined with white paint, the surface looked like a crazy jig-saw. Scarlet, magenta and white Bougainvillea were in-flower and tumbled riotously all over the place. Huge cacti were blooming with big pure-white bell shaped flowers and there were donkeys everywhere making a discordant racket. Thank goodness for the flowers. They softened the barren landscape.

One of the greatest Greek keyboardists and composers, Yanni, is known for his best compositions "Santorini." Listening, you can picture his longing.

The ambience and the renowned Greek wines from the Santorini vineyards, combined with the authentic Greek food, left us with some wonderful memories.