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)

 

 

Just do it

YES. A whim of want gets you packing your suitcase and the next thing you know, you’re up all night to get lucky!

The flight from Joburg to Paris dragged on, and on … for nearly 11 hours.

You watch films, you nod off and get a sore neck and then it’s 6am and your’re rushing to get your 7.20 flight to Athens.

CDG airport is humungus, so to get anywhere is a concerted schlepp. You move, fast.

You do not want to miss your flight to Athens.

Not when you’ve been counting sleeps for weeks!

You crane your neck to peer through the aeroplane window. The sight of the mainland and the islands soothes you

They all wave at you.

A little spark sputters in your heart but oh, your body screams for sleep.

At the airport, strangers help you at the check-in machine.

You pay E25 for one suitcase too many.

You have lunch.

And you’re so tired you could almost burst into tears.

You wait for the next plane, the third in 24 hours. 

It’s taking you to Mytiline, the capital of Lesbos.

It’s taking you back again, back to the future!

(ends)

 

That’s it

NO more sleeps.

Two people will meet you tomorrow when your plane lands at the airport in Mytiline, Lesbos.

They represent the past, and the future.

Somewhere in between, in the present, in yourself, you will find the truth.

Maybe love will smile, its pretty face a sunshine glow, its eyes, deep pools for you to drown in.

You’re centred, yes, but … uhoh, your knees rattle and shake. What’s that sound?

It’s the drumbeat of your heart, dear, racing to crescendo.

Every step is closer to a beginning. Every step is closer to an end.

Bon Voyage, Afrodykie!

(ends)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, so close
SWEET sleep unravels itself from your warm body. It’s reluctant to let go.
Its smell is yours now.
You watch the sheet curl, and fold into rolling furrows and hills. It whispers night’s secrets, so shy in the day.
Your feet press into a plush carpet, soft landing.
WHHAAAAT???!!
One more sleep? One. More. Sleep.
Oh no. Noooooooooooo!
Your hands clutch your head. You roll back into your cocoon.
There’s perfect bliss; you’re safe, warm in the arms of your darling, your beloved and devoted duvet.
You linger there, in that soft private spot, where everything is sure.
The city’s sounds, this morning, are a soothing symphony, a tender caress.
You savour it, the melody that’s your home.
60 minutes pass in seconds, then it’s coffee time.
It’s get ready and go time.
There’s quite a bit still to do.
Anticipation simmers.
ps: Lesbos beckons.
No, oh my god, she’s winking at me!
(ends)

Wheel-spin

WHAT? Two more sleeps?

The city’s surging into its morning growl, and all you can think of is …. no, no,no, not England.

Your mind’s already traversed Africa to settle in Skala Eressos/Eressos, two villages with the sum total of about well, not many people, even in summer.

You’re thinking of the engaging Madame X, and the bicycle that’s propped up against a wall at the flat of Miss Muscles.

You’ll have to pedal, she says.

You anticipate the Kouitou Hotel’s quaint and quirky charm, and wonder what new art Alex Shine Martinez has sprayed onto the walls.

And floors.

You should be focusing on going to the bank and getting your tax completed.

You need to post the papers to Elize in East London, a palm-tree town in the Eastern Cape, one of the poorest and most blighted provinces of South Africa.

Elize told you, years ago — last century: Declare everything and don’t sell anything.

It was the best advice. You’ve stuck with her. You stick with all the women who help you.

She and — since you got to Joburg in 2005 — your hairdresser, Liezl, they are your enduring service providers, oh, and your therapist, Kantha, and beautician (yes, you gotta believe it), Jane.

Not to mention your helper at home, Nomusa and, how can you forget, your yoga teacher Champa.

Ah, and Gwyn, the general factotum and holder of the reigns when you’re away.

These seven women, your support group, you say au revoir, gracias to your security blanket!

You swear to not cut your hair until you see Liezl again. She laughs.

Snip. Snip. There’s hair on the floor.

(ends)

 

 

 

 

 

Jozi

YES! Three more … sleeps.

Your bed feels as if it’s the best bed in the world. You draw your duvet around your shoulders and snuggle into your pillow.

Yes, the best bed, ever.

Even so, sleep is served in intense bursts of shut-eye: six hours of a dreamless blank.

You become aware, slowly, of the sounds that indicate the time; it’s still dark and quiet – about 4.30am.

Perfect. The night stretches into a reluctant dawn. It curls its toes into the morning.

The guts of the city starts its restless rumbling. It seems very far away, at first.

Growling car engines and impatient hooters, they stretch and reach into the approaching light, stretch and reach out, again.

You can hear the stirrings of the city, your city, your Joburg, Jozi  —  a brazen hussy, with a heart of gold.

She swishes her skirts at the traffic lights.

They wink back at her. Wink wink.

The blood of her being moves on, pulses through the streets; relentless pursuit spills onto sidewalks.

The cloth of Africa unfurls into a palette of a brash continent.

But there’s much more to Joburg than its vibrant and rejuvenating inner city, 7km from where you live.

You love its open spaces and trees; millions of them, the biggest urban forest on the planet.

You enjoy your community, and low-key neighbourhood activities. You breathe. You live.

Jozi offers a spectrum of possibilities and glittering options.

They can dazzle and destroy, if you let them.

(ends)