A Day Out. A story of tourists encountering the real Crete.

Cretan Lyra player

Although the names are the same, the Helen in this story is not me and the Christos is not "my" Christos!!

 I began to chat with some tourists who were laughing over the adventure that they had experienced the previous day.

As they told their story I realized that I knew the man involved. He lived in the next village along to Kalamitsi and I had heard similar tales of him before and I had met him several times in the village kafenion. 

It was a beautiful sunny day; the tourists were sitting at the taverna at Kalivaki beach, drinking iced coffee and enjoying the sunshine. They were a middle aged couple and it was the first time they had visited Crete.

“This is the life,” sighed Helen,  a sun hat protecting her bobbed hair, “I wish we could stay more than two weeks.”

“Don’t start already” replied John, “we only arrived yesterday. Let’s just enjoy each day as it comes.” He was shorter than his wife, with sandy hair and a tan from many hours working in his garden at home. They sat in companionable silence soaking up the sunshine, looking at the azure blue of the sea.

“It would be nice to see the real place” remarked Helen taking a sip of her coffee, “I mean the places off the beaten track, where the Cretans live, not just the places for tourists” John put down his newspaper and looked at her,

“I know what you mean” he agreed, “but it’s not that easy unless you know someone to take you.” Suddenly they heard a rattling sound, a sound like that of a giant lawnmower. Turning to face the road they saw an elderly white- haired man driving an old three-wheeler cart down the lane towards them. He stopped and jumped down from the drivers’ seat. The cart was driven by what seemed to be a rotovator engine and had steering something like a motor bike.

“That’s what I mean” said Helen, “you don’t see things like that on the streets of London!”

“Just as well’ retorted John. By this time the man had entered the café to be greeted by the waiter. He was obviously well known. He had with him a large basket full of okra which he was selling to the proprietor. He was in his late sixties wearing scruffy, but not dirty, clothes and was unshaven.

“I didn’t know that they grew okra here.” exclaimed Helen “I always thought that it was more an Indian vegetable,”

“That’s because the only time you see them is as part of a take away” John was standing up, “Would you like another drink?”

“Not coffee, I’m awash. Perhaps I’ll have a Metaxa and lemonade, after all we are on holiday” John went up to the bar to order the drinks.

“English?” asked the man with the okra,

“Yes” John replied.

“Me Christopher Columbus,” was the next surprising statement... At this moment the drinks arrived and John took them back to the table.

“He just told me that he is Christopher Columbus!” he laughed as he placed the drinks on the table and settled down again. “Seems like quite a character.” Helen was turning her head for a better look. The man caught her eye and started to approach their table.

“You’ve done it now,” warned John, “he’s coming over.”

 “Frau?” Inquired Christopher Columbus. Apparently his grasp of English was slightly suspect, but he seemed to want to try to have a conversation using whatever words he knew, even if it was a mish mash of different languages. He sat down beside them. “Bamies”, he said. John and Helen looked at each other in bewilderment. The man pointed to the basket.“He must mean the Okra,” said Helen “Yes, very good.” she continued, addressing the man

“Me Columbus” he repeated. At this point the waiter came to the table “Is he annoying you?” he asked Helen,

“Not at all”,

“Well if he does, just tell me.” The waiter picked up the empty coffee glasses as he continued “He is really called Christos, but tells everyone he’s Christopher Columbus. Don’t worry he’s fairly harmless, but can become a little annoying sometimes”

“Penis?” said Christos suddenly looking directly at Helen. She spluttered into her drink and John gave him a sharp look.

“NO!” said the waiter “It’s not what you are thinking” he grinned, “In Greece this is a way of asking you if you are drinking something.”

“Mighty funny word to use if you ask me”, muttered John, as Helen tried to control her giggles

“I’ll have to use it next time we’re in the pub” She whispered

“Don’t you dare.” John was calming down by now but the man looked bemused by the merriment he had caused.

“Yes, drink.” Helen felt sorry for him. He jumped up and soon returned with a tray of Metaxas. “Oh he’s bought us a drink, how sweet.” “Styn igeia sas” –Good health- toasted Columbus. “Cheers” responded John and Helen in unison. They clinked their glasses together, the couple reflecting on the vagaries of the Greek language.

“Volta?” asked Christos pointing to his machine.

“I think he wants to take us for a ride.” John was looking askance at the rickety vehicle.

“Well we were just saying we wanted to see the real Crete,” smiled Helen, “here’s our chance.”

“Ok I’m up for it.’ agreed John, nodding at Columbus.

Barbar Manolis

“My house, food,” Columbus gestured, “We go!” They climbed up onto the bench-like seat beside the driver and sat three in a row. “Hold on tight,” ordered John.“There are no sides on this thing.” They bumped and rattled out of Georgioupolis and up and around the many hairpin bends that threaded up the side of the mountain.

“Are you alright?” John shouted over the sound of the engine.

“My bum’s numb!” was Helen’s reply. “Yes, I’m ok. I wonder how far he’s taking us.’

After a little while they reached the small village of Exopoli and stopped outside a tiny stone cottage.

“This must be hundreds of years old.” John was helping Helen down onto terra firma.

“It certainly looks it!” she stretched her legs “Probably from the time of the Turkish occupation.” Christos led the way into a small enclosed courtyard. Producing an enormous key he opened the door...

They entered a small room, dark and cool, light entering by just one tiny window. The floor was bare, the stones worn down by generations of feet. There was one bare light bulb in the middle of the room. Helen looked around her. At one end was a raised gallery with a bed and, under this, was what appeared to be a store room. The room was very stark, a few sepia photographs on the wall of stern looking men the only adornment. Christos gestured for them to sit. There was an old wooden table and the inevitable rickety, rush- bottomed chairs. As they sat, Christos made himself busy, vanishing into his store room and reappearing with a bottle of wine which he placed in front of them, soon followed by bread, cheese, and olives. “Looks like we’re eating whether we want to or not” commented John. They watched as their host went over to a small gas ring with a saucepan on it and turned it on to heat.

“I wonder what he’s been cooking.” Helen leaned over to her husband, “We’ll have to eat it, we mustn’t offend him,” she whispered, “I hope it’s edible." By this time Columbus was returning to the table with steaming plates

“Smells good anyway” replied John.

“Sheep,” said Christos. “Piccolo.”

“I think he means lamb” translated Helen “It seems to be a creamy sauce rather than tomato based. Well here goes” she gingerly dipped her fork into the sauce and tasted. “Absolutely delicious” was the verdict as she helped herself to another larger piece of meat and dipped a slice of bread in the sauce.

The wine flowed, the food was wonderful and even though conversation was somewhat stilted nobody minded, least of all their host who was in his element. They lingered a while over their wine.

“I don’t think that I could move an inch,” said Helen “I hope we have time to digest our lunch before we go back on his machine.”

After some time John looked at his watch “Did you realize that it’s four o’clock?” he asked Helen who was by now feeling more comfortable. “Good job we’ve got no arrangements made for this evening.”

“All the same if we did” she replied “we’re stuck until he decides to take us home.”

Shortly after Christos stood up “Music!” He mimed the playing of a guitar and pointed to his cart

“Where to now?’ wondered John aloud.

“Let’s go with the flow.” Helen was getting up from the chair, “No point in worrying about it. I wonder if he’s got a loo.”

“Who’s for a game of charades?” quipped John “This should be interesting.”

After some minor hilarity Helen managed to make her meaning clear and was escorted out of the door and pointed in the direction of a small hut.

“Well?” asked John on her return his eyebrows raised.

“Don’t even ask.” she said as she walked towards their chariot.

Their next journey took them away from the village, through several olive groves, over a river and up a steep incline on the other side of the valley.

“Any idea where we are?” asked Helen looking a little worried,

“No idea whatsoever,” replied John blithely.

After a while they found themselves entering a small hamlet. A donkey was tethered on one side of the track and a herd of goats grazing on the other. The door of a carefully tended cottage opened and a black clad old crone appeared. Christos jumped down and held a conversation, the woman smiled and vanished inside.

“Looks like the wicked witch of the west.” John dug his wife in the ribs.

“Come. Come!” Christos beckoned his guests down off the cart.

“Come on, Gretel," John said, “let’s see if the house is made of gingerbread.”

“Don’t be so silly” was the sharp reply “she looks very friendly.”

There was a table outside the door its bright plastic covering looking rather incongruous in this rural setting, as they sat down an old man came out of the door carrying a small stringed instrument that was unfamiliar to them both. “Vangelis!” shouted Christos embracing his friend “English!” he announced pointing at the couple.Vangelis produced an old and battered photograph from his pocket and handed it to them “Must be him during the war,” guessed John “with the resistance by the look of it.”

Helen perused the photo. “He was very good looking as a young man” she commented, handing the picture back to him.

“Vangelis, musika.” announced Columbus. The old man began to play. He played the old traditional tunes of Crete, its eastern roots sounding very strange to the visitors’ ears. The instrument, they discovered later, was the Cretan Lyra.

The wine as usual began to flow and the old lady brought out homemade sweetmeats in syrup, nuts and fruit. Eventually at about eleven, they climbed tiredly back into the old machine and rattled their way back to the village where they were staying. Christopher Columbus bade them a cheery farewell and rattled off into the night.

“What were you saying this morning?” inquired John of his wife. “I think we’ve seen a bit of Crete today that few tourists get to see.”

“It’s been a wonderful day” she replied “I’ll never forget it.”

“I think we’re going to need a couple of days to recover.” John was unlocking the room to their door, “These folks certainly have a lot of stamina.”…

Peeling potatoes