Writing for Fun
Sleeping under Olives - Vivian Burdon
June 2014
Chris strode towards me crunching angrily across the gravel margin between prickly scrub and melting tarmac. Her expression, a cross between disappointment and exasperation, is a gift from our mum. 'It's no good, we're stuck here! You try, I'm fed up, tired and it's too hot.'
I didn't say a word. I had known ages ago we stood no chance of reaching Stoupa tonight but she wouldn't listen. I remained sitting on the hot ground, knees tucked under my chin, melting in the Hades heat. I pretended I hadn't heard her and bobbed my head in time to 'We are Devo' on my Walkman. She pinched the fleshy bit on the back of my arm . . . Another, more peevish, gift from our mum. 'Jesus, Chris that bloody hurts!'
I stood up and unhooked my headphones and clicked off the cassette. 'OK . . . what do you want to do? We could either walk back to a cockroach hotel in Kalamata or get a drink over there?' I nodded toward a delightful, if deserted, taverna hidden beneath a riot of colour.
Time had not diminished the sheer joy I got from the exotic colours and heady scents of the Mediterranean. The vivid vibrancy of bougainvillea and oleander, the wondrous profusion of ripening figs and olives and that delightful evening trace of lemon as shop owners hosed down the days dust and agitated the scented leaves of pelargonium.
'Well that's easy,' she said happily. 'Come on there's a cold Amstel with my name on.' Chris strode off hefting her heavy backpack onto her shoulder. My backpack was considerably lighter these days. After months of travelling around the Peloponnese I had shed all but the essentials. I ticked off my possessions as I followed my big sister. One sleeping bag, one towel, one bikini, one pair of shorts, one sarong, one passport, one body belt, two T shirts, two pairs of knickers, three tapes: 'Blood on the Tracks', 'Stranger in Town' and 'We are Devo', and a years' supply of contraceptive pills. Several pairs of shoes, a duffle-coat, a pair of Levis, mangled cassette tapes and other city girl ephemera had long since been discarded into Greek bins along the roads from Corinth to Sparta.
When we left England in March, Labour was still in power and it was snowing. The cold hand of Thatcher now held our nation but we were embraced in warmth. Optimistically we had flown to Israel with the hope of building friendships and experience on a kibbutz and use it as a launch pad for more glamorous adventures around the world. I had hated it, the tension and strife and the tedium of kibbutz work meant I left after a few months. Chris's interest on the other hand was prolonged with the help of a handsome Kibbutznik. She saw me off on a ferry from Haifa, I had 50p! Months later I was at Pireas waiting for her. Information about her arrival hurriedly scribbled on an aerogram retrieved from the Poste Restante in Syntagma Square.
We had sat in a café in the Plaka under the gaze of the Parthenon pondering our next move. I had quite a bit of money after months of lucrative apricot picking. She had a bit saved too. She was wound up and tired; I was chilled to a standstill. We couldn't even think of options let alone decide on one. 'Listen; let's not stay in Athens anymore than we have to. I know of this unbelievable village where we can sleep on the beach, wash in a freshwater spring on the headland and just chill out on next to nothing drinking retsina and eating souvlaki and feta. I'll show you the sights of Greece after we have had enough of doing sweet FA.'
Chris grinned at me. 'Is it far?' Poor girl, it was at least two days of hitch hiking and one night sleeping rough but I knew it would be worth it. After two days and five lifts we had nearly made it . . . but not quite. We had run out of day for the last leg down the Marni. No wonder she was pissed off and if the truth be known a bit sceptical about my promise of Nirvana by the sea.
I found her slumped in a wicker chair under a pergola festooned with vines and fairy lights wiping her face with a wet wipe. I signalled to the waiter watching the TV inside that we wanted, 'Dhio birres parakalo.' The shoulder shrug indicated it may be some time. 'No rush,' I added politely. The last few months had shown me that the word 'manyana' portrayed too great a sense of urgency for the Greeks! I settled myself by putting a towel on the seat of my chair . . . I had also learnt after months in shorts that the imprint left in your thighs not only takes forever to fade but hurts like mad. I encouraged Chris to do the same despite the fact she didn't have enough flesh on her thighs to leave an imprint on! I also cadged a wet one.
For some reason we didn't speak again of what we would do that night. Chris was falling into the same state of inertia as me. All we wanted was a cold beer. To feel icy bubbles rasp down a dust parched throat has to be one of the best sensations in the world.
Eventually Spiros (as we later found out) brought us our beers and then with random English words and impossibly ridiculous hand gestures we were informed that there was a wedding party booked in tonight and was that alright? 'Well yes, of course,' we fussed, 'How lovely,' and, 'Did they want us to leave?'
'Okhi. Okhi. Stay. You are good here. Very lively is ok, yes?'
'Yes that's fine. We will be going soon anyway.' Business matters dealt with another beer each appeared. 'Parakalo,' we chimed and chinked the bottles to our own good health and his.
The celebrations had hardly begun when a beaming groom shimmied over to us Zorba style and presented my sister and I with a staggeringly large jug of retsina 'The best wine with the resin of pine from my home village in the mountain, Please . . . be happy,' and off he danced crouching and leaping as if the world had suddenly lost its gravity. Chris looked at me as the waiter patiently brought us two small glasses so we could partake of this generosity. This was the first of several jugs. Then there were the platters of food. It was dark now and the lights shone magically. There was dancing (on tables) and singing and, yes, plate smashing. Different waiters appeared from nowhere. They came across every so often with platters of tomato salata, grilled sardines, fried potatoes, souvlaki and more retsina. Each time the waiter would put the platter carefully onto our groaning table and say, 'This is from the bride's parents,' or 'This is from the Uncle's daughter.' We were quietly getting stuffed and sozzled. Eventually Spiros came smiling towards us with a large bowl of karpouzi and figs. 'This is from the waiters,' he grinned producing two more bottles of Amstel from his pockets.
Oh my!
In the wee hours Chris and I looked at each other and it dawned on us we had nowhere to sleep. If I hadn't been so drunk I would have panicked. Big sister took control. She staggered purposefully to the counter dreading what we would have to pay. I saw Spiros wave her away then call her back. More loud English words and hand gestures.
'Ok that has not cost us a penny and apparently we can sleep in the olive grove behind the taverna'. Oh goody, mosquito time. Boy, I could be an ungrateful brat at times. We shouldered our back packs miraculously without falling on our backs. If you do that you soon know how a beetle feels. Then, after many thank yous, and hugs and hand pumping and smiles and kalinihtas we found ourselves on an overgrown path in the blackest darkness.
'Chris.'
'What?'
'I can't see anything and I feel sick.'
'There's nothing to see apart from tall grass and overhanging trees. Hold onto my back pack.'
'Stop. I am going to be sick!' and I was. I will spare you the details.
'OK, I'm alright now. I think I missed my sandals.'
Chris marched on stoically. Eventually she turned left through a gap . . . God knows how she saw it. Then, low, it came to pass; we were in the short tufty grass typical of olive groves, under a starlit sky.
'This will do,' Chris slurred as she heaved her back pack to the ground. We fumbled with our sleeping bags and slithered in.
'Chris?'
'What?'
'What's that noise?'
'What noise?'
'Shhh!' We listened holding our breath. There was definitely a loud rustling sound.
'Bollocks. What the hell is that?'
'I think they have wild boar round here,' I said helpfully.
'Wait. I think I have a little torch.' Good old Chris.
Through the gloom I could see a faint beam of light scanning about two foot along the ground.
'Chris?'
'What?'
'Can you see anything?'
'Not a sausage . . . No wait. I can see the grass moving over there.' I think the drink had made her bold. She wiggled out of her sleeping bag and crawled in her vest and knickers along the ground.
'Chris.'
'What?'
'Don't go too far.' There was a long silence then I heard her laugh.
'Oh my, that's hilarious,' she giggled. 'Look at you big boys rampaging over the tussocks.'
'Chris who, what, are you talking too?' I needed a drink of water now I was seriously dehydrated and in need of sleep.
'Come and look Viv. There's a horde of maraudering tortoises. Honest!'
'What are they doing?'
'Foraging, having sex, responding to the lure of the wild, how the hell do I know. I do know they won't cause us any grief so I am going to get back in my sack and go to sleep.' She crawled back to her sleeping bag muttering something about wild boars and stupid girls. 'I am going to feel crap in the morning,' she groaned.
'Chris.'
'What?'
'It was a good night though, wasn't it?'
'One of the best little sis.'
'Kalinihta, John Boy.'
'Kalinihta, Jim Bob.'
I had a troubled night, what with rampaging tortoises, Chris's snoring and a thirst so bad my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. Chris felt dreadful the next morning. 'I feel like a reptile,' she moaned waking up to searing heat from the rising sun. All those trees and we didn't pitch up in the shade! I wasn't too bad after I had rehydrated with gallons of water.
I did the mosquito bite count, I had got off lightly! There was one on my bum, two on my shoulder and one pesky one on my knuckle. They obviously couldn't cope with the alcohol in my blood stream ether.
After a late start we finally got a lift to Stoupa. Chris stood, stunned for a moment looking over the scene I had set out gleefully before her, then, dropping her backpack, she galloped fully clothed, whooping and hollering into the glorious Mediterranean waters of Kalogria Bay. A tiny golden beach fringed with pine trees. Oh my, it was as beautiful and unspoilt as I remembered. Chris, splashing and jumping around in the azure blue waters, had a smile so big I thought the top of her head would flip off.
Our second night under the stars was simply stunning, the August sky put on an awesome show of shooting stars. There was so many we ran out of wishes. We were exhausted and deliriously happy. Blissful sleep carried us away. Until . . .
'Chris.'
'What?'
'What's that noise?'
'That's not funny.'
'No seriously . . .' I sat up and there rowing onto the shore in the blackness of night were three small wooden boats. 'Pirates! Look Chris, honestly there be pirates. There's a ship anchored out in the bay with masts and everything! Look!'
Chris groaned and turned over. 'Ignore them, what can they do to us? We've survived wild tortoises.'
