Ooops!

MUST run. Will post later today. 

Greek honey and South African tea

STOP platzing about the filly and get round to loving the neighbourhood.

That’s the advice from a friend in Grahamstown, South Africa.

Yes, good idea.

Thanks, Cam.

You’ve always been able to rely on her for pertinent advice.

She and her partner of many decades, the Pharmacist, are stalwart friends from 19 voetsek.

They always care! For you! Oh, the enduring love!

Then, the Newspaperman writes too, from Johannesburg.

He says the business paper where he works has a rather dishy young intern (dishy in a nerdish kind of way), called Perry.

He overheard him talking on the telephone.

I think it was Greek, he writes. He must be a Pericles. So we have them in Jhb too. (Gorgeous Greeks, that is.)

Unrequited … but is it love? 

The story so far

THIS morning your trolley, with your laptop fastened to it, rattles behind you as it lurches over the cobbles and bricks embedded in concrete.

It’s the one you bought last week, at Oliver Tambo International, in Johannesburg, South Africa.

You get it to put your cabin bags on, and to secure them there, together.

Beats carrying the darn things. And boy, it makes a big difference; it lightens the load.

Today, the walruses of Eressos Square turn to see what the hell’s happening.

They’re used to guys driving around in bakkies shouting things over loudspeakers, from about 8.30am every day.

But a little trolley rattling down the road? No!

You doff your white Panama hat, and they chorus: Yasou!

You smile, and look down. Thank God you’re not limping.

They don’t say yassas — that’s a more formal, respectful greeting, the one you utter in response to their friendly greeting.

You’re on your way to Portakali, as usual, at this time of the day.

When you get there, Alexandra (the Great) plumps cushions around you so you can sit comfortably on a director’s chair that’s too low for the round table. It has a top of blue and terracotta tiles arranged in circular patterns.

Your body clock has kicked in, so you’ve been awake since about 6.30am.

It’s already hot when you get out of bed. The sun kisses the top of the mountain.

You load the washing machine, twice. You do some hand washing.

You make your bed.

You admire your orderliness: the clean dishes, sparkling glasses, the mugs and pots spread out on the sides of the double sink.

Yes, you’re settling in. Nice.

You’ve made tables to stack your papers on, the ones you sent over from South Africa in two boxes.

Your job, for June and July, is to type in these words. 

It’s a task that’s going to take you back, very far back. It’s all the words you write in pre-computer days.

That’s why there’s this blog, to keep a bit of you in the present, in the gift of now.

You can’t let the distraction of desire scuttle your plans.

No.

You don’t need to push a river, she says ….

You hold back. No conquest here, no conquering. No silly little love songs.

You are present, she is present. What more can you want?

Your papers, for one, at her place. You’re ready for them, now.

She looks after you, her way.
She pays the rent for you, to I Did It My Way, with the money you sent from South Africa.
She takes you to buy slip-slops, goggles and a snorkel.

You want to explore the harbour mole of antiquity, at Skala Eressos; the harbour wall that was built around the time of Sappho, before Christ.
She introduces you to shopkeepers, and it is she who finds the house for you.
Enjoy your creativity, she says, and goes her own way.
You walk on the mountain with one of your neighbours and his dog.

He speaks Greek to you. You understand only when you walk back alone.

You must close the gate with a flat piece of wood; you prop up a rusty old bit of fencing, to keep the sheep in.

There’s a snake in the grass, a reddish-brown one.
It whips itself away, el pronto. You pick some wild fennel, to calm yourself. Your camera sways in fright.
You take photos in the fading light; the flowers bright in their exquisite beauty; the houses capture, embrace colour; they radiate warmth.
Shy little girls shout: Hellow. How arrr yew? Then run away, giggling. They look over their shoulders at you. They smile.
Little boys kick soccer balls in your path. You steady yourself. You can kick too, you know!
Today, it’s seven sleeps since you’ve been in Greece, in Skala Eressos, and Eressos, on the island of Lesbos.
It is wonderful.
I’ve not had this before, she says.
What it is, she won’t say.
You keep quiet too. Sometimes words cloud the sky.
(ends)

Surrender … to the scorpions

SO! You’ve settled into your house and slept on the best bed, ever.

You sleep a deep, deep sleep and when you wake, you feel raw, tender.

Tearful.

You look at the pictures of your home in Joburg; your beautiful, soulful home and garden.

You see pictures of your dogs, the flowers, the trees, the shady forest where you sometimes sit.

And think.

Living in an ancient old country is not for sissies, even if it is the source of our dubious western civilisation.

You feel as if you’re a sissie today.

A crying, vulnerable sissie. You’re wondering, WTF?

Where am I? Why?

The task you have set yourself: to collate and make a commodity of your life’s work, it seems impossible.

Futile.

But now your body’s moving to the music in Portakali, a cafe that your landlord, I Did It My Way, said you ought to go to, to write.

You don’t have internet at home, to post your blog.

The music provides a compelling beat. Your spirits lift, a little.

There’s a counter culture, everywhere, and in Eressos, it’s at Portakali.

It means orange, Madame X says, via Facebook.

Google tells you it’s a Turkish word. It’s also French for kangaroo court!

Today, Eressos Square is full, and noisy.

It’s mainly portly old men who occupy the chairs on the tavernas’ verandas; portly old men, their faces full of stories.

They’ve got big bellies, and they sit and stare into space, or they play backgammon, the younger ones, at any rate.

The ancients lean on the crooks of their walking sticks, two hands over the top of them.

But today, the walruses of Eressos Square have some competition.

There are children running around.

There’s a sprinkling of women too, for a change.

The music at Portakali sort of moves you.

You almost get up and dance. In fact, good grief, you do.

Spontaneously. For a second or two.

You clap your hands. God, you did that?

Yesterday, the landlord phoned, from London, on Madame X’s phone.

And, after a deft movement of her thin, long fingers, the loudspeaker brings I Did It My Way into the room.

She guides you through where’s this, where’s that. And then it’s the subject of scorpions.

You must spray, she says. You are sceptical, so you ask what will happen if a scorpion bites?

It’s like a thousand nails hitting into you, she says.

That’s why there are syringes and needles and scorpion muthi in a kitchen drawer.

You have to inject yourself.

It’s easy, she says. I jabbed myself in the bum.

The prophylactics have expired. You have to take the boxes to the shop and change them.

You think, crumbs, if the scorpions don’t take you out, the old muthi will!

Madame X is very efficient with her little book, the one that she writes things in, when she’s settling in a client.

In this case, it is you.

You’re very good at your job, you tell her.

Well, I’ve been doing it since I was 18 years old, she says, and raises her eyebrows.

She tilts her head slightly, and purses her lips a bit.

But her eyes don’t leave the page where she’s writing out how much you have paid, and what you still have to pay.

She tears it off, in a perfect line. No ragged edges here.

Then she leaves. Her house is closeby.

You spend the afternoon unpacking and opening and closing cupboard doors, to make sense of your environment.

Your writing room is beautiful: light and sunny.

But this morning you spill a cup of coffee on the table, on your papers, on the floor, as you open your laptop.

Everything’s sticky and wet. Papers are glued together in a soggy mess. You want to get back into bed.

Instead, you make a delicious breakfast, and you tell yourself, remember your mission, your goal.

Okaaaaaaaaay.

You put on your takkies, the ones that go over the ankles.

Your right ankle is swollen, it needs the support. When you wear your takkies you don’t limp.

There’s nothing sexy about a limp!

Imagine Afrodykie limping across Eressos Square!

The woman at Portakali takes one look at your swollen eyes, and tells you you need tea, with honey in it.

It’s a big cup. Generous and open-faced.

It warms you, soothes you with its tender sweetness.

Still, you long for the dark and quiet of your bedroom. The silence, nothing.

You want it to envelop you.

An accepting silence … it asks nothing of you.

It comforts you. It must comfort you. It must ease you through this profound and damning insecurity.

Please.

Perhaps you’re homesick. Can it be?

Yesterday you tell Madame X you feel as if you could stay here, and never leave.

She turns and looks at you.

That’s what happened to me, she says.

I came with one suitcase and stayed forever.

(ends)

ps: a power failure has delayed the posting of this blog today

Jesu Maria

THE day dawns, as you expect it will, shall, and can.

You wake up with a smile on your face, a mood swing if ever there was one.

You’re happy. Yes. You jump out of bed and stretch away outside. You breathe and move in time to the erratic cock-a-doodle-dos; even your feathered friends are late risers. Nothing much happens here, not before 9am, at least.

But today you move to the edge of the village, to your refuge and sanctuary, your work house, on the mountain of Eressos.

It’s not far from the centre of the village.

It’s wilderness where you are, at the foot of this big berg, and the road leads to …. you don’t know where.

You’re going to have to walk it, to find out. The thought of it makes your heart race.

It’s as if your life is in acute focus. Your raison d’etre has come into view.

You’re doing what you came here to do: work!

You want to leave with a product; a coherent package of writing you trust people will buy.

Three little piggies went to market, but this one’s going to Amazon, an appropriate publisher for Afrodykie, if ever there was one.

Yes!

In the meantime, you’ll wander around the mountain, your finger contemplatively stroking your chin.

Perhaps Sappho stubbed her toe on a rock here? She was born in the village, they say.

She walked from there, to jump to her death from the rock at the end of the beach at Skala, four kilometres away.

That’s what dating a Mytiline boatman makes you do.

 The rock throws back its face, and screams, even today; loudest at sunset.

That hetero-normative narrative belies the one you like to perpetuate: something like, oh she sidled up to a BC chick to sigh and lean against a volcanic boulder.

She cuddled her wonderful, her winsome one.

Maybe they stared at the sky. An eagle flew by. It’s eye glints, a diamond in the sky.

Maybe she whispered homo-erotic stanzas into an elegant ear that quivered in rapture and awe; an ear that blushed, that shivered to receive these lascivious tunes.

Maybe a heart made a bumpity-bumpity, under a sheer tunic. There was a kiss. Or two. Or…?

You’ll never know.

All you know is experience, and sometimes it makes you laugh, even if it’s made you cry.

Take last night.

You’re still not used to the fact that in Greece, when people amble their way to a deal, you wait. And wait. For an answer.

It’s of no consequence to them that you’re keen to get packed, sorted, and to know what time to get the cab to Eressos.

You don’t know if they can imagine a sense of urgency.

You think not.

For, to secure a rental, it takes more than three days, and nearly three hours, until 1am today — between three women each hellbent on hearing themselves speak — to quieten and agree.

The landlord, Miss I Did It My Way, chimes in at full volume from London.

Her voice is dominant in the finalisation of the on-off, on again rental agreement.

One minute the house is yours, the next minute it isn’t. Then it is again.

Three telephones, three women talking, shouting, accusing, laughing, agreeing — all at once!

If you’re a foreigner it’s drama, if you’re Greek, well, it’s life!

 Whatever, it worked. And Miss I Did It My Way phones you directly, not once, but three times.

Thank God. Thank anybody, anything who facilitates these things.

Then she drops a bombshell.

There are lots of scorpions in Eressos, she says, in her deep smokey voice.

They’re like cockroaches there, she says. Cocroaches (laughs nervously).

No problemo.

You are told to buy a spray bottle and to fill it with the scorpion killer muthi and well, then, you must spray wherever a scorpion will dare to tread.

Another thing, you may not light candles taller than 1cm, and while she’s about it, she informs you that she cooked an egg in January, just before she left Eressos, to return to London.

You have to clean the stove, she says, where it congealed.

You look at your tired face in the mirror of your hotel room.

That’s Elbow Greece, you guess. 

A smile can’t help itself. It tickles your face into a bunch of wry creases.

Oh, and also, buy some cat food, and feed the (stray) cats. There are a lot around there, she says.

Madame X retires to her boudoir, but she phones. Don’t get any ideas, she says. I’m not your lover.

Yeah. So what?

You must go now, and pack. And call the cab. By lunchtime you will be in the house.

I Did It My Way will phone when she gets back from a medical check-up.

She will walk you through the switch-ons, where the scorpions lurk.

She will hold your hand through the gas and water instructions.

But it’s Madame X who holds the key to the broken front door.

(ends)

Reality

IT kicks in, harshly.

You can’t speak Greek, and the joy of getting your Greek telephone number is swamped by a terrible sadness — the person who asked you to get one — I can’t reach you when I want to, she says — but she doesn’t  answer when you ring!

Not only that, you’re meant to be moving into a house tomorrow, in Eressos, and this person won’t confirm!

They can’t confirm, because they don’t answer their phone.

You’re left bewildered because you don’t know whether you must pack, to move from the hotel, the Kouitou Hotel.

Last night she points at the mark that her lipstick makes on a cute little glass. You can write about that, she says.

And squints her eyes at you.

You hate rejection, especially when you can’t understand it; especially when you’ve gone out of your way to get that fucking Greek number.

What’s the reason for cutting me off?

It’s horrible. And you wish you were at home.

The dogs would jump all over you, and love you. They know they can trust you. They know you’re theirs, and they’re yours.

The sun sets on your dreams tonight; even the swallows and swifts don’t sound happy tonight.

But you had a nice day, going with a German woman to Kalloni, to get a new computer cable.

You buy your Greek number in Mytiline, and Miss Moneybags gets an option for you at Vodafone: E6 a month.

She tells you it takes years in Greece to find these type deals, simply because you don’t speak Greek.

I paid E80 a month for years, she says.

We go to Thermi, the hot springs, just outside Mytiline.

39.5 deg C — heat from 2500 metres into the earth.

You float around in a pool where this earth water pours in; in torrents.

You put your back to the gargoyle spout and let the water massage your shoulders.

Then you go and lie on a bed at the edge of the sea water, metres from the pool.

You almost fall asleep.

Then it’s time to go.

You look forward to phoning Madame X. You tell her you’re still on the road.

She’s short with you, very short. You wonder why.

Last night she tells you she loves you!

It’s too awful. You don’t know what’s going on.

She shows you a house, yesterday, near hers. We can have our space and be near each other, she says.

You look forward to unpacking the work you’ve brought to do; to starting your mission to make a product of your work.You decide to have a dinner together, the first night in the house.

You agree.

And now. You don’t know if you must pack. You don’t know what’s going on anymore.

Your papers are at her place, and so is the money you sent over.

Now there is silence. There is no way of knowing if you will ever get your house, your papers, or the money you put into her account.

You phone, and phone. You write on Facebook.

There is nothing. You concede, there is nothing you can do. You write, to try and make sense of it.

Tomorrow is a beautiful day. 

Your heart beats. You love. You live.

You realise: hope is a boat for losers.

(ends)

On your bike, then

ONE day of wild wind, a restless roiling sea, sleeping and reading in bed, then you’re ready for supper with friends.

The sun goes down late here so you go out at about half past nine, pm.

And there they are, two of the Norwegian women you met last year: Miss Muscles and The Librarian.

You take gifts for them: kaftans from the African market in Rosebank, Johannesburg, and a hippopotamus key ring, made of beads, from the bead-makers in Melville. You can get just about anything in the Big Smoke, South Africa.

But for now, you’re in Pizzeria Vento, Skala Eressos eating a delicious salad.

The food here is excellent, anywhere you choose to eat.

It’s an exciting and interesting mix of indigenous and world tastes thrown in to the Skala mix.

It’s served in the style to which you become accustomed, to which you submit with a sigh and a smile.

It’s nice and easy, nice and slow. Fresh. Your palate zooms into its seventh heaven.

Even Soulatso gives you free Greek desserts, the night before, you and Madame X eat Greek.

Big Time.

Too delicious!

This morning you wake up.

You know today why you are here: to be happy, to be you. To flourish.

You feel a bit like a flower in bud, ready to bloom. You wonder … will you?

Ha ha. You’ll see. Of course, Time will tell. She always does.

The morning sun warms you.

You’re stretching this way and that, outside your room, on your little patio.

You’re trying to remember the yoga poses Champa showed you in those 90-minute classes in Joburg.

Twice a week it was, with the Hindi women and their lazy soft smiles.

Then you get on the bike, and ride into the Kampos, a rural area that starts about 100m from the Kouitou Hotel.

The gravel road draws you further and further into the world of bleating sheep, and goats that have a lot to say too.

It’s your first day though, on the bike, and boy, you don’t want saddle sores ….

You turn around and change gears to go up a little hill, back to the hotel.

Ah, the Kouitou (kwee-TWO) Hotel. Vasi and Alex.

The wire for your computer is kaput but Vasi says she’ll drive you to Eressos, to Antonius.

Twenty minutes, she says. And laughs. It’s coffee time now, and that’s gossiping time, she says.

Twenty minutes? You’re a fast learner.

You know, time is of no consequence here in the Eresosses.

You tell her yes, 20 minutes to two days.

How the cars and motorbikes and bicycles don’t crash on the narrow road to Eressos, Sappho alone knows.

But alas, Antonius can’t oblige today. 

He holds the computer lead and examines the broken part.

He shakes his head. Kalloni it is, the nearest bigger village.

You’re going to have to get there. Sometime.

For now, and for however long it takes to get the cable fixed, you’re at the Sappho Hotel writing your blog.

The sea is crashing into the shore not even 20m away.

It’s sunny. Two women you recognise from last year are sitting on either side of you.

The world comes to Skala Eressos, time and again.

It’s that sort of place.

(ends)

The owners give the three of you cherry liqueur, on the house, and pretty branded key rings.

It feels good.

Everything’s good. 

Miss Muscles and The Librarian have a bicycle for you.

Marja’s bike. She died last year, after 27 years with the The Librarian. She misses her so.

The bike’s rusty. It needs oil, and cleaning, some serious TLC.

Seriaaaaas

SNIP. Antonius frees the three-prong plug from its cable. He puts it in an ashtray on his desk in a shop on a steep incline. You don’t notice this shop, at first, not until Madame X realises she’s passed the place, and needs to turn around.

Antonius doesn’t speak English but he knows what I mean. He shows me a Greek plug, a little thing, white, with two prongs.

I nod. And make cutting gestures.

My right index finger and the middle finger go up and down.

Antonius is adept. In seconds, the job is done. E1.30.

You look at the plug, helpless on its back. Goodbye South Africa it says, its three legs rigid in the air.

Manos at the supermarket in Skala Eressos tells you about Antonius.

He remembers you, from last year, when you’d buy stuff there for lunch on the beach.

You shake hands and laugh together.

Welcome, again, he says, his hand firmly in yours over the till in his shop.

It’s a good day.

You have your first swim, your first lie down on the beach. There are not many people there yet.

The bare bodies are still pale, prostate on the sand.

You meet Madame X for lunch, and sit on the edge of a deck that’s rooted in the sand, centimetres from the sea.

It’s like being on a ship, she says.

Yes. We’re drifting on an ocean of promise, the possible depth of it scares you.

Just a little. For it’s thrilling to stare into the eyes of the future.

There’s no turning back. The plug’s been pulled.

You’re on the brink of you don’t know what. You go forward, sure to meet it, comfy in your boots.

Whatever it is, you’re ready. You can’t stop now.

(ends) 

Here I am

IN Greece, at the Kouitou Hotel, in Skala Eressos, Lesbos. 

A home from home, if ever there was one.

It’s colourful, relaxed, and in the throes of emerging from its winter slumber into a fabulous summer retreat.

Vassilki and Alex are busying themselves sweeping and setting out chairs and tables in the courtyard, bar area, and the lovely terrace with a sea view.

The book shelf there still has the plastic cover over it but soon, its eclectic content of books — in a number of languages — will reveal themselves.

You can lie on the day beds there, in the shade of a palm tree roof, and read to your hearts content. Bliss!

Yesterday, the Aegean Airlines air hostesses wore sleeveless dresses.

Their attire was a portent of the things to come: it is hot when you land at Mytiline airport.

A childhood friend meets you, and then, there she is.

Talking!

Talking to a woman from India -who is going to the Osho Afroz Centre in the Eressos/Skala Eressos area called Kampos, a rural area of smallholdings and farms.

It’s an in situ centre with various types of accommodation, and lots of esoteric stuff going on.

She’s going to give massages and massage training there.

The drive to Eressos — that road again, hairpin bends and so steep in some places — it’s a wonderland of vivid colours and fragrant flowers. The roses are beautiful, and big.

On the way, you stop at Kalloni beach: you take your shoes off and step into the tickling lace on the edge of the bay.

It’s a gulf, she says, and pronounces it goolf. You look around, and she’s smiling, watching you.

We get to the Afroz centre and women literally pour out of the bushes; on their way to a meeting; you don’t ask.

But everyone clings to each other in a joyous embrace. If you want lots of hugs, Osho’s your man!

You decide you will go for a massage there, soon.

Then it’s time to check in at the hotel, take a quick peek at the beach at Skala — oh, the sea, it’s surly winter mood still rattles and tugs at the pending calm of summer. It’s frothing and feeling its way into the deep. It doesn’t want to let go, that winter sea, and surges once more to make its point.

Supper at Sam’s in the inland village. The men play backgammon on the stoep, and you, you eat sardines, of course, and salads.

You take a taxi from the pretty centre of Eressos, to your hotel in Skala Eressos. You shower. And sleep. 

And sleep again. 

(ends)