Sunday 22 May 2016

Finding Kalamitsi - my diary continued. ( Part 6)


….We wound back down the road, continuing on till we came to  the small village of Kalamitsi, dark and silent, the only sound of life coming from the village kafenion.
Kostas parked the car next to several others on the road.
“The cafenion is run by my cousin Petros.” Kostas told me as we went inside.
It had rough whitewashed walls with a grapevine growing around the door and suspended over the courtyard. Several old men were sitting outside playing backgammon and cards. They were rather shabbily dressed on the whole and I could see a twisted old walking stick propped up by the side of one of the tables. Some of them were twirling worry beads ‘Komboloi’ in their gnarled fingers. On the table in front of them I could see small white coffee cups and small glasses of the ubiquitous Raki.
Entering the kafenion I could see the walls were white and bare, the space was mostly empty with only a few wobbly tables and chairs for customers, the floor was concrete and a large old fashioned refrigerator buzzed away at one end of the room. At the other was, rather incongruously, a Pac-man machine where several young boys were taking turns to play, large patches of peeling plaster looming over their heads.
Kostas gestured to a rickety table; I lowered myself carefully onto the creaking chair and relaxed. Petros, the ‘Kafedzis’ quickly arrived with glasses of raki which came complete with a plate of sunflower seeds, still in their shells.
Kostas demonstrated how to nibble these, turning them onto their sides and cracking them with his front teeth, then, and leaving the kernel whole in his mouth he removed the shell. I was not so adept.
‘Obviously an acquired talent’ I thought as I tried to discreetly spit out a mouthful of mangled shells.
“Stin uyia sas” Kostas lifted his glass to mine. “Cheers” We drank.
I was beginning to realize that raki was as varied as wine in its taste. It could be pure firewater or it could be smooth and mellow.
“Never call it ‘raki’” He leaned over close to me speaking quietly. “That’s a Turkish word. Only the tourists use it. Here in Crete we call it ‘tsigouthia.”
There were a few other people in the room and he introduced me to them including his cousin Christos who was planning to open a new kafenion in the village. Christos was a cheerful man, quite short and going thin on top.
Petros brought an apple and a knife and placed it on the table in front of me.
“Peel it!” ordered Kostas. “I hesitated, Should I cut it into portions? Should I cut out the core? And besides I never peeled apples but ate them whole. I saw that Christos had noticed my hesitation from the table where he sat but I took little notice of it then. I peeled and cored the apple and cut it into eight pieces, much to my surprise Petros came over and sprinkled it with powdered cinnamon. Every one took a piece. To my relief I had guessed right.
After a while we moved to sit outside. Several tables were pushed unceremoniously together and everyone gathered round. Village wine was brought out. Salad, fish, and bread soon followed.
“We have no lemons’ announced Soula, Petros wife, appearing from the kitchen of the building next door with a steaming plate in her hand, there being no cooking facilities in the cafenion itself.
“I’ll get some” yelled back Vassilis, yet another cousin of Kostas, aged about 30 he was bespectacled and balding, who had a little white dog with him and turned out to live opposite. I soon discovered that wherever he went ‘Lisa’ was sure to follow.


“These aren’t lemons they’re limes” complained Soula when he returned with his hands full of fruit and handed them to her.
“Sorry. Wrong tree, it’s too dark to see properly.” answered Vassili with a laugh and with a leap he jumped once again over the wall into his garden and began to pick what we all hoped were lemons fresh off the tree.
“I’m pretty sure I got the right tree this time” he chuckled when he returned with his bounty his little dog following closely at his heels wagging her stumpy tail happily.
After a while and more than a little wine the singing began, one man, Manolis, tall, dark and with the traditional moustache, leading the chorus with his very powerful voice. These were songs I had never heard before, strange eastern tones and cadences, telling of revolution, love and loss. They were not like the songs of the other Greek islands; they evoked another era and another life. Apart from Soula I was the only woman there, Kafenia being the male stronghold of the villages, the women rarely venturing in. I seemed to be accepted because I was a foreigner and as is well known foreigners have strange ways!

   I certainly had a lot to tell Chris on the beach the next morning.
The following day at about one o’clock Kostas turned up once again at the beach bar and,told us some news.
“There is a fiesta, this evening near Vrysses” he informed us. “ I'll be going
will you join me?”
When we arrived I could see a dais set up for the band which consisted of rough planks of wood precariously balanced on empty beer crates. Around the courtyard were trestle tables already set with wine and raki. I was pleased to see several familiar faces, some of Kostas family was there already and they called us over to join them. The band clambered up onto their rickety stage and the music began. It was the strange Cretan music that I was becoming familiar with. As the people joined in the dancing Kostas explained to me the meaning of some of the dance steps. All the dances told a story. Kostas rose and began to dance himself, arms held high, swooping to brush his shoe and rising again to spin in time to the music the other men squatting in a circle around him clapping rhythmically in time to the music. I didn’t want the evening to end, sitting there accepted by the villagers I felt warm and welcomed as they encouraged me to join in the dancing and showed me the steps, but I knew that my time was running out.

The day of my return home came all too soon.
At the airport, as I was waiting for my flight to be announced, I heard amongst the throng the now familiar welsh lilt of Roy and Margaret they were seeing some guests off.
“You’ll be back soon.” Margaret stated the obvious kissing me on both cheeks.
“Of course” I replied.



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