Instalment 2: In Mr. Bean's Footsteps – Part Two (Mount Athos) London to Thessaloniki (or Vice Versa)

Instalment 2 of 7

At the bus station, the comfort of strangers and Friar Tuck

 From last week:

I now leisurely make my way back to the bus station. I am in a state of Grace. I do not question or ask myself why I have chosen to go to the station and not to return to the hostel. I guess I thought I might find my luggage there, even the skateboarder waiting for me, though somehow I doubted the latter. But surely if he was true, he would have at least left my luggage with the station master. After all I was his companion in protest and he owed me that consideration........ 

Now read on:

All these thoughts, no doubt, ran across my forehead, but what, 17 years later, I am still absolutely sure of, is, that come rain or high water I was still going to Mt Athos. Hope is the last thing to die and I was damned if I was going to give up. I retained the sacred paper in my pocket did I not? It was all I had left  in the world and it would be enough. Somehow in my mind I was going to catch that bus. How I would get back to Malta and how I would cope financially that could all wait.  For now it was mission: locate bus station

What was alien, damp, disorienting and slightly sinister in the dark proved to be a piece of cake in the sunshine.  Where my skateboarder friend had taken a right, I had turned left, the neon light advertising the bus station had been there all along. In the surging panic I had completely missed it.

Sadly there is no suitcase waiting for me, but because I have to speak slowly and loudly at the left luggage section, often repeating parts of my story, the 12 or so people waiting to catch the next bus involuntarily overhear my tale of how I came to be separated from my luggage.

I wave my paper ‘visa’ in the air like a flag over my head. Besides the clothes I am wearing, it is my only possession. Fifteen minutes later someone has brought me a coffee, and I find myself on the bus going to where I want to go. I do not know if the station master or bus driver has waived my fare or someone has paid my ticket in an outburst of compassion, or hoping to gain some brownie points at heaven’s gate (having assisted a pilgrim in his hour of need). Whatever, I am the distraction of the hour and I am eagerly questioned, “why am I going there? , why is it so important for me to go there?” The fact that I am not Greek Orthodox piques their curiosity. En route I am asked to describe my country and I relate snippets of history. Bread and cheese is shared with me and I am offered fresh figs and pears. The trip is a blur, but I do recall how beautiful the passing scenery was. The real Greece, mainland Greece. Not a Ministry of Tourism brochure collection of the usual suspects: the Acropolis, a Santorini sunset, a Mykonos windmill. This feels like home. I’m happy, the kindness of strangers, my head leaning out of the bus window, rolling hills, cypress trees, sleepy villages, cornflower blue, blue skies and always the promise of the Mediterranean in the distance.

I find I am seated next to a doctor. He is intrigued by my journey. If I do not locate my luggage, If I require any help to get home, if a thousand ills befall me, I am invited to call on him and stay at his house. Several other people nod and echo the same. Half way through our trip, the greater part of the bus passengers descend at the doctor’s village. He points out a large stone fountain in the middle of the little square. This is apparently the bus stop. “Just come back here and ask for the giatrós (γιατρός/doctor)” he offers reassuringly “You are my guest”.  I’ve got a plan B.

I’m over the moon, Mt .Athos is closer, but I am momentarily discomfited to see this new found family disappear. They have been my security blanket for the past couple of hours, but now left to my ruminations, I begin to doubt my friend’s intentions again. Where was my luggage? Why hadn’t he left it at the station? Had he caught the first bus or had he like me, missed that too? Anyhow, one thing at a time. I had got this far and this was luck indeed I knew that the monks on the rock offered their hospitality without expecting immediate remuneration. The pittance of a fee (minus a hefty ministerial ‘handling’ cut )that we had just shelled out for the visa, would eventually find its way back to the monastery, payment in lieu for the free lodging and food afforded to visitors, most of it going towards the maintenance and upkeep of the medieval wooden edifices.

At the fishing village of Ouranoupoli, It is my turn to alight from the bus. With a mixture of apprehension, elation and excitement I jump off, get my bearings and make for the jetty. I start to slow my pace, I want to cling on to hope and to trust and to believe that all will be well.  It is late afternoon. I do not want to have come so far and be turned back. I will for there to be a boat. I am only allotted four days on Mt Athos and three quarters of my first day has fizzled out. Plus I have nowhere to sleep tonight. There are a few deserted cafes by the water’s edge, all rough and ready, and half a dozen dilapidated and rusty ‘rooms to let signs’ dangling in the breeze,  but my pockets are empty. There is no one on the small beach, save for a few rednecks leaning against the quay wall smoking; men in blue overalls and heavy boots, with thick unkempt beards and unruly wild hair washed by the sea spray. They are morose and uncommunicative. Their eyes do not meet mine and after several attempts at conversation, I give up wanly. Either they don’t understand English, or my accent (I do also try to throw in the odd Greek greeting) or they are plain surly and rude. One of them, as if shooing me away, does point a finger to a café cum ticket booth and then with a slow shake of his head (implying I am a lost cause), ignores my thank you and looks away as if fatigued and terribly bored by the effort

There insouciantly askew, lying in the middle of the empty room, like the holy grail is my luggage. A gasp, a gawp, a  sharp intake of breath, I can hardly believe it. I want to get down on my knees and pray to the Madonna and to all the saints in the sky. Hot tears of gratitude, dot my eyes and I blink them away ashamed that I ever doubted. I rummage through the zips and locate my money, my passport. Nothing is amiss. In a way it is my thank you for believing in the process, for making my way down to this threshold to Mt Athos, as If I had any other choice. There is another human being in the café behind the ticket booth. He seems surprised to see me. I gable and babble my queries. Apparently the suitcase was left by my skateboarder friend. Impossible to mistake him (all the clerk has to do is point to imaginary blonde thatch).

Although Mount Athos is a peninsula and not an Island, it is cut off from the mainland by a thick and dense, no man’s land, forest, demarking an established border. The official route there is by sea.

I find out that there is one last boat leaving for Mt. Athos today, but it is not for pilgrims. I beg puurleaase!!!.I literally get down on my knees (again) and clasp my hands in supplication. I have to get on that boat. I wave my wallet around. I wave my paper permission in the air (again).

An hour later I’m on a boat to Dhafni, the main port of Athos squeezed between two horses and the dirty dozen, kerchiefed and impregnable with their silence.  I’m ignored but I’m in heaven. I’ve made it! The two hour boat ride there hugs a cliff of dark impenetrable forest and foliage that tumbles into the sea. It feels as though we have left civilisation. There are no traces of mankind, just patches of indigo and olive green. The coastline is pure, untouched, virgin. Finally, appearing magically and incongruous after all the lush, stark, vegetation, human endeavour makes an appearance. We pass four monasteries, each conjured up by a children’s fairytale book illustrator.  

Towering crenellated and bespired, labyrinth complexes, built on rocky outcrops or precipices, with rambling, wooden covered balconies and ramparts, each one a little town with its outhouses, terraced gardens, vineyards tumbling down to meet mini harbours below. Stone fortified walls and arches, several stories high, sweep up to meet terracotta tiled eaves or green and golden onion shaped domes, as in the case of the Russian Orthodox monastery ‘Ayios Pantelimon’
.

Each breathtaking vision takes a curtain call and disappears as fast it has been summoned, receding, fading into the forest, and the setting sun. The monasteries are humongous and eerie sentinels to a bygone age. The upkeep must be enormous and never ending.

My well travelled guide book informs me that in its 18^th century heyday, the population of Mount Athos numbered 20,000 monks, living in some twenty monasteries, smaller dependencies and hermitages. Even from a distance the decay and neglect is apparent. Huge sections of these monasteries seem shut up and derelict, with boarded windows, peeling, sun bleached paint, crumbling masonry and ramshackle unhinged shutters and balconies. The current population is estimated at 1,700. The Monks must have a lot of work on their hands.

We dock at Dhafni and I am left to my own devices. I spring out of the boat before the bow bumps against the fenders tied to the jetty. I am in a hurry. There are horses, tethered to the ‘customs’ house. I make no headway whatsoever in my enquiries as to forms of transport to the nearest monastery. A quick inspection reveals no carts or carriage, no escort, no guide and definitely no travel information. Once more I find myself unprepared. Concentrating on getting here, I have neglected to bring a map. My queries are waved away, pointing to the direction I must walk. Up the hill apparently. I get a move on. Suddenly the sunset, romantic a minute ago, becomes my adversary. There appears to be some sort of building atop the hillside. But it seems a long, long way away from where I’m standing and I have the disadvantage of lugging baggage. There are no taxis to hail, no buses to catch. Mount Athos is stuck in 800 AD. Time has stood still here. Only one monastery has some form of electricity. This is one of its alluring charms. There is no running hot water (not a charm) and you eat from stone and pewter plates by candlelight. To travel from one monastery to another you must traverse ancient paths through thick forests or else grab a horse. There are no grocery stores, cars or televisions. Monks spend their day fishing, painting icons, maintaining the monasteries and greeting guests. They work for eight hours, pray for eight hours and I guess sleep and study for eight hours although their repose is broken up into slots and 3am chanting in the chapel.

The Athonite day begins at sunset, when most clocks read twelve o’clock, and the peninsula is literally 13 days (and several centuries) behind the outside world, observing as it does, the Julian Calendar. All of this precipitates the onset of my anxiety. I feel as though I’m a character in a Dracula movie racing against sunset. The sun is hovering over the horizon, with less than 20 minutes to go before it is swallowed by the sea. At sundown, one lone monk will light a candle in a niche above the monastery’s front door, warding off evil spirits. The gates will be shut and no guests are admitted when darkness falls on the land. The heat is on and I’m in a rush against time. I keep looking over my shoulder, nervously, at the horizon, willing the sun to stay put. I trundle up the hill with my suitcase. Dashing in spurts and then  puffing and sweating with exertion. Karies the main town is an hour’s walk away. I am supposed to register with the police there and finally present my permit to the Epistasia (ecclesiastical authorities), who will then issue me with one more official document the ‘Dhiamonitrion’, enabling me to stay at any monastery for the night. Frankly I do not have the luxury of time for any more red tape. I am a Malteser, I am not familiar with forests, I do not have a camp, or a sleeping bag on me and I’m losing my battle with the sun. I have no idea if there are any wild animals in these forests. There must be; foxes? bears?  snakes? My imagination begins to run riot. I wish I had done more homework on the flora and fauna front. I resign myself to the prospect of a sleepless night, perched uncomfortably in some tree.

None of the monasteries in the rudimentary ‘map’ in my guidebook look very near except for possibly Xeropatamou, the last monastic complex, passed by on the boat. I quicken my pace. However I am not sure I’m on the right path. I come to a fork in the road and take left because to my mind left is closer to coast. Dusk descends faster than I can sprint (if I could). A tree branch for my bed tonight. At least I am on Mt. Athos. Sleeping alone, in an ancient forest shall be an experience, exciting even, I mean how medieval can you get? Yet, if I’m honest a creeping sense of dread and trepidation also accompanies the impending scenario.

I walk on a bit. Suddenly a hooded apparition crosses the track ahead of me. I rummage in my backpack for my guidebook. This is my first chance to practise the ‘standard wayside greeting’ on Mt. Athos and despite the circumstances, I’m nerd enough to want to give it a go. Besides, the Monk might lead me to a monastery. “Where is the darn ‘useful phrases’ section when you need it now?” “Evloyite” (your blessing), I cry out, almost plaintively, shuffling up to the Monk, but still a way away. He turns round, looks up briefly and smiles. ‘O Kyrios’ ( the Lord’s blessing on you) he replies nodding, but immediately swivelling round and shifting his gaze downwards. I must have interrupted some deep contemplation or meditation and probably these Monks, eager to distance themselves from the outside world (otherwise why would they be here?) have to contend with pesky ‘tourists’ interrupting their reveries on a daily basis. Bashful, but desperate, I decide to follow him. After all,  a Monastery, a cave dwelling and a safe place to sleep might be just around the corner. The monk might have assumed that that is where I was headed even if I wasn’t exactly invited. He must have seen my suitcase and given the time of day guessed my predicament. This logical line of thought was reassuring and I hurried on ahead keeping a respectable non-intrusive distance behind my monk but careful not to let him trail on out of sight.

Sure enough, just as it was becoming difficult to see clearly into the distance, we turned round a bend in the road and a low, lying stone building came into view. It looked startlingly ‘modern’ if I could use that word, in comparison to the other monasteries, even though part of the structure appeared to be older than the rest. The building was quite squat with no towers and mostly one storey high, built very much in the Spanish hacienda style, (well not really), but that is what sprung to mind at the time. My Monk however did not stop. He did, nevertheless slow his steps and hail another monk, who was standing at the entrance, one hand on the metal grille of the gate, and the other holding a candle. Greeting dispensed with, he walked on, disappearing into the dusk. I had stopped in my tracks, quickly calculating my options. There was no guarantee, if I followed the first monk, that I would find a place to sleep or be welcomed there. It was possible that this monk was a solitary hermit or had planned on a night’s vigil in the forest or a moonlight pilgrimage up Mount Athos.

Here was a monastery or something like it. Here was a monk with a lamp in his hand. I knew what that meant. I would not get another chance tonight. This was the signal. Therefore I decided to approach this burly Friar Tuck, who was definitely horizontally challenged when compared with the other monk. “Evloyite!” I shouted out. The monk had already lit the candle, and as I didn’t seem to be on his radar, was already pulling the gate shut. “Evloyite!” , I repeated, “Evloyite!”. It may have been the undertones of panic in my voice, but finally my presence was registered. “O Kyrios” came the reply and a smile. “Wait, wait..wait!!” I ran towards Friar Tuck who had continued to close the gate. “Please wait, is this a monastery, can I sleep the night?” The monk stopped for a second and looked at me quizzically, shaking his head. This wouldn’t do. I placed one hand on the gate as if to keep him from shutting me out and stretched my other hand towards the bag as if it could speak for itself, a signifier of the need for shelter. “Please, I need a place to sleep, I just caught the boat, I’m lost, it’s sunset (pointing up at sky and to candle) can I stay here…wait..wait…(rummage in breast pocket and produce permit), look I can stay can’t I? I have this…pleaaze?” Another shake of the head, and the monk points towards where I have come from. “No, no..it’s sunset, I don’t know where to go, please help me.  This is a monastery, isn’t it?.” Once more a negative shake of the head. Oh dear. “ B..but I’m from Malta, I’ve come all this way..” I trailed off, and I must have looked a sorry sight, bedraggled, dusty and despondent. I have no idea why I mentioned Malta, but I was feeling hard done by and this Mount Athos was proving to be a tough ride. However something I’ve said piques Friar Tuck’s curiosity, prompting him to say “I no speak the English good, sorrry, where Malta?” “Oh, Malta is a small island, (I draw a jagged circle in the air), in the middle of the Mediterranean (I gesticulate widely here, as if the Med is a big basin, the width of my arms and Malta just a dot in mid air, in the middle of my circle), I’m Maltese (stating the obvious)”, I grin enthusiastically, enormously glad and grateful to have had any feedback at all. Suddenly, as if I have uttered the magic words “Open sesame!”, the monk pushes the gate ajar. He squeezes through the gap and before I know it my feet have left the ground and I am enveloped in a giant bear hug. “Island, island like me, Mediterranean, good, good, Malta, Malta..we like Malta, Malta like Greece..” and I am freed and deposited back on the  ground. Phew, thank God for that.  I wonder to myself, if I had said that I came from the UK or Netherlands, would he have closed the gates on me?. “Follow me, kalós írthate (welcome), I ask if you stay.” He thumps my back with his giant paw, and simultaneously encircles my shoulders with his arm and gives me another squeeze. He obviously feels some kinship with Islanders. With that, and disengaging himself after a final pat on my head,  a chuckling Friar Tuck scoops up my luggage and takes off, beckoning me to follow him down a dim hall. At the far end he points to an old oak bench and I must sit down. Palm outwards in a universal stop gesture, and I’m given to understand that I must wait here.

To be continued....