The earth moves but you’re asleep
PHEW. It’s not even 9am and it’s sweat-hot.

Vento and you walk up to the sheep shed in the mountain.

You have lots of company: any manner of insect, butterfly, ant and bird swarms around you — yes, there are even some persistent little critters that stick to your arms.

And then you stop in your tracks.

A trail of ants carries pieces of beige-white grass husk 10 times bigger than themselves, and they’re not mini ants. They’re big and robust. Shiny black, busy blighters.

They scurry, this way and that.

They make a pretty picture in the sparkling morning light.

The textures and colours of the blonde grasses, and the spruced up look of polished ebonite, they are too beautiful.

Magic moves on a pallet of grey volcanic rock, and speckled bits of coarse earth.

It reminds you of the long line of sheep you saw on the hill, opposite your terrace, on the other side of the village.

You are standing there, staring (it’s infectious around here, this staring).

You’re contemplating the wonder of the olive trees climbing to the top of the hill.

Then you notice movement.

Good grief! It’s a line of sheep snaking its way to supper. No, not your supper, their supper.

It is that time of the day. Dusk. They are in a hurry to feed.

You can see, even from a distance, that they are plump and bent on reaching their destination, so determined and dogged are they.

It’s single-minded, single-file endeavour.
The train of sheep, all dressed up in its light-coloured wool, brings a sigh of relief to the hill, and its dark moody green of Eressos, Greece.

Your Sunday morning today is as you like it. You’re in the zone.

It’s 9.30am and the fisherman is doing his rounds, an hour later today, than other days.

How different it is, compared to last night.

Miss Muscles’ farewell party in Skala made you feel on edge.

You don’t know what to say to strangers

You blurt out all sorts of inappropriate things.

Madame X looks at you and shakes her head. That’s not very clever, she says.

She’s resplendent, of course, in flamboyant attire. You rate her F for fabulous.

Miss Allergies, who makes a lot of money writing pulp, as she calls it, says she can’t talk when you ask her how much?

Her throat is sore, she says, and distractadly claws at the bottom of her throat.

It’s so bad, she says, it feels as if she’s got cats scratching around in her chest.

Miss Moneybags, who took you on quick trip to Mytiline and Thermi, is also the worse for wear. She wraps her throat in some big garment — no doubt a pukkah German thing — and sits inside.

General consensus is that the cause of their afflictions could be the olive tree flowers, or even a bug. Who knows. Something is going around.

But the topic that gets everyone goggle-eyed is the earthquake!

It’s even more compelling than the usual gossip.

Stories change according to who is telling them.

This one is true.

Yes. Early on Saturday, they say. So-and-so said the stock fell off her shelves.

I ran outside, says the Kaftan One. That’s what I’ve been told to do when there’s an earthquake.

Oh, my chair shook, says another woman, and rocks on her stool.

Everyone felt the earth move, but you.

You get advice from The Barehead, the woman with tattoos on her scalp.

She’s rummaging in the fridge just as you and Madame X are about to leave.

Madame X mind you, who’s told you to buck up she’s going, is now going around kissing everyone goodbye.

I give up, you say. All I can do is submit.

The Barehead smiles, a knowing smile.

Yes, in Eressos that is what you have to do, she says. To survive.

(ends)

Mohair and cotton

IT GOES together, like cashmere and silk.

You scratch your head. Hmmm….

Better not tell her that!

So, you keep it to yourself and watch. Quietly. Quietness works for you. Stillness.

You like to feel what words cannot say. You like to let resonance manifest, without the clutter and noise of words.

Ironic, yes, because you are a writer.

But it is so. Their is truth in silence, for then, the heart speaks. Loudly.

You listen what it says, and let it talk. It’s a universal language.

One that you understand. And revel in.

It feels good, where you want to be; where you are, with spaghetti boiling on the stove and the little dog farting next to you.

So real, and familiar, isn’t it? A fart? Kinda like home! No more pretence.

You sleep well, relaxed, after the late and unexpected invitation to dinner.

 You’re settled, after the storm, and a day of tears in the sand, and tea — thank God — with the Kaftan One.

You went there after your tearful trip to the beach.

The London psychologist asks you to please not say anymore.

She opens her book, and leans back, naked.

I’m a therapist, she says. But I’m on a week’s holiday.

You’ve poured out the pain, the confusion and hurt, to a stranger lying next to the Kaftan One’s beach nest.

It’s a coincidence, is it?

It happens like this, she says. You nod your head. Yes, angels are everywhere.

You’re at the Women’s Beach. The shrink has two towels laid out side by side.

You bury your face in the sand and wryly think of the toe jam of the ancients!

A weird thought but really, just imagine who has walked on the sand at Skala Eressos over the centuries.

Your tears dry up when the therapist’s partner bustles in with an attitude: no open arms here!

She literally turns her back on you!

But you feel much better, much calmer.

You’ve said what you’ve had to say, and cried what you’ve had to cry.

You feel grounded, whole and enjoy a coke at the Flamingo Bar.

Then you go to the Kaftan One’s cottage, Sappho Cottage.

She gives your organic Earl Grey tea, and some Norwegian biscuits, rye ones, with a Dutch cheese.

It’s mature, she says, when you comment on the flavour.

Yes, it’s intense yet subtle.

Maturity, like that delightful cheese, is the consolidation of one’s essence. 

You feel you are mature, and at last, you’re comfy in your boots again.

It’s not easy settling in. And your life needs structure, apart from the writing you are doing.

You decide to volunteer your services once a week, on Wednesdays.

You will go to Gaga Animal Care every week, and do what has to be done.

This mission is prompted by Vento, who is at your side again, and this time, you keep her on a short leash.

She’s getting used to you, she seems to like you a lot.

But, these rescue animals, these traumatised dogs don’t trust, at first.

They are a handful.

I know all about that, says Gerbien, who looks after the 30-or so dogs at Gaga, never mind the cats and horses under her wing.

This next week, on May 30, the vets from Austria are coming, again.

They’re on a neutering mission,and Vento is on the list.

She will also need her tick and flea treatment, deworming, and her innoculations, says Gerbien.

Yes, ma’am.

You will talk about dogs tonight, at Miss Muscles’ farewell party.

She’s leaving for home, for Norway, where she will spend the summer on her boat.

She does that, every year, and entertains the stars.

(ends)

Horseplay

THE Filly is more nay than yay.

But you’re getting a kick out of doing silly things that shall remain anonymous until further notice; silly little things that only a love-struck dolt could do.

They give you great pleasure, these banal goings on. They make you smile, at your honey sweetness; your child-like outpourings of what? Notice me? Love me?

Oh well, you don’t dwell on this too much … for today is the first day since you got here that you feel vaguely like somebody you know.

It’s nearly two weeks since you landed at Mytiline airport.

You stayed at the Kouitou Hotel and now you’re ensconced in a veritable palace. Grand, ek se!

You put in a load of washing this morning; sheets you know, and towels. It’s so hot here there are not many clothes spinning around in the fancy pantsy machine.

Twirly whirly working hard.

You feel normal today. You feel as if you’re you again. Calm and grounded, BUT there’s a frill of thrill dancing around you, enlivening your every cell. Good heavens. You’re so alive.

At last.

The dinner party turned into a rioutous assembly, of note.

We were kids again, reckless in a way. Yesterday we were all wide-eyed from lack of sleep and too much wine.

Organic wine, mind you. From the guy down the road.

The Norwegians brought it, more specifically Miss Muscles. She has a real penchant for the fruit of the vine.

She does not drink water!

No, no, no, she says, when you meet them at the beach yesterday, the women’s beach, where everyone lies around kaalgat.

The Kaftan One has her camp laid out, shaded by a big umbrella,.

Plastic bottles with sand in them keep her beach boat in place. It’s  one of those things you can recline on in the sea, if you want to, but she keeps it moored to the sand.

She likes lying there, and reading.

Otherwise I get bored, she says.

You’re floating around the Aegean singing on the top of your voice.

You’re kicking your legs, and making big splashes, for fun. For life. For everything.

You’re happy. 

Not only because one of the taxi drivers, Dimitria, teaches you to count in Greek, during the 4km trip between Eressos and Skala Eressos, summer’s sweltering Sin Bin.
You’re happy because, well, there’s potential, everywhere.
Or so it seems.
The seaside village is alive. Again. Pulsing.
You’re living in the winter village, where it’s quieter. More sedate.
You like to return there, to the quiet. To your home.
The place is for sale.
Maybe?
(ends)

All cut up

YOUR left thumb is lacerated. You were cutting too fast.

But the food was tasty, they said.

You didn’t eat anything. You’re not hungry for food.

Anyway, you make stuffed calamari; you have to clean it, and everything.

You fill it with traditional feta and dried oreganum, and slowly cook it in a pan that’s drenched in fresh garlic, butter and South African olive oil.

You take two whole fish, gut them, and leave the scales on. 

Inside you put chopped green pepper and onions.

And butter and lemon.

You wrap them in tin foil, and lay them side by side, in the oven.

There’s a green salad too: lettuce, lemon, apple, strawberries, some cherries.

Oh, and tomato. And walnuts.

It looks beautiful. It looks like love.

They eat. They go. And leave a melon gaping on the table.(ends)

Wake-up call

THE wind blows, like a Cape south-easter, but not quite.

You snuggle into your pillow. Good day for a little lie-in.

Fat chance.

The phone rings.

It’s Elizabeth, from one of the mini markets on Eressos Square.

The fish is here, she says.

8.30am.

You get dressed as quickly as you can, you’re in Eressos, so haste is not recommended. No sudden, quick moves.

You walk the couple of metres, about 100m you suppose, to the square.

And there it is; a little truck filled with all sorts of fish, including calamari. Their dead eyes see nothing.

Blobs of ink in cooling flesh. Right!

The sardines are from the Gulf of Kalloni. The best sardines in the world, they say.

You buy some, and calamari and another two fishes that also have a name, but you miss it. This time.

Next minute, there’s Vento.

She ran away last night when you took her for a walk, and then here she is this morning.

Very happy to see you. Drat. She runs away again, after a while, when you’re at home.

This dog. Really! Vento, Wind, it is a good name for her.

You wonder if you will see her again.

She has a brother in Skala, the village down the road. 

They’re feeding him at Parasol, Jill from Ireland tells you.

She’s sitting at a table on the square, also with a dog that was a stray.

You start chatting.

About the dogs, naturally.
You get another phone call. Two in one day, on your Greek telephone number.
Wow! You’re really settling in.
The handyman’s coming to fix the light in your writing room.
And to establish the cause of the strong pertroleum smell.
Ah. A big leak. What you had suspected.
I Did It My Way, the landlord, phones from London. Again.
You appreciate the way she and her agent handle things. Quick. Efficient. No stress for you.
I just want you to be comfortable, she says.
You can hardly be anything else in a home filled with luxurious furnishing, including a fridge the size of the Cango Caves
Yes. Life’s good.
Grisa, from the other mini market, tells you how to prepare the calamari.
You remember the chokka from Port Elizabeth, years ago. White gold, they called it, those fishermen with fingers sliced by their nylon hand lines, even through their rubber protectors.
Friends are coming to dinner this evening.
You’re putting the table on the verandah.
Summer’s asserting herself. The temperature’s rising.
You feel it. You can’t ignore it. No matter how you try.
Things are hotting up. Big time.
Phew.
In more ways than one!
Va-va voom. Bay-beeeee.
(ends)

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)