Chapter 10
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The year is 303 A.D. and the Emperor Diocletian prohibits everybody and anybody from possessing the Scriptures - as in bible scriptures - in what I can only assume was an attempt to halt the spread of Christianity. Despite this, a woman and devout Christian by the name of Irene Chrysovalantou was found in possession of said scriptures. This crime, along with refusing to deny the Christian faith, put her in a spot of bother with the local authorities.
As punishment, the local governor had her sent to a bordello. A house of prostitution, if you will. Not satisified with that, the governor insists that she spends her time there naked and has her chained up so that every young dumb and full of ... trouble ... lad and every scab ridden sailor could take advantage of her with a minimum of fuss.
But a funny thing happened. Not a soul laid a hand on our Irene, despite the ease of access and government encouragement to do so. Rather miffed, the governor had her put to death either by being burned to death or shooting an arrow through her throat or both, depending on who is telling the story.
Now, from where I sit at my kitchen table, there are three possible reasons as to why nobody touched Irene during her time of incarceration. One, is that the good lord rewarded her years of devout Christian faith by protecting her from the intentions of the local lads. The second was that those who knew Irene as a good sort - as in a good woman, not one to sleep with - protected her from the intentions of the local lads. The third possibility is that Irene was a thoroughly unattractive woman. The christian orthodox church chose to settle on option number one and made her a saint.
Saint Irene is the namesake of the Greek island of Santorini.
But Santorini was not the original name this island. The original name was Thira. I have no idea as to the significance of the name Thira and struggle to find references to it in the New World Encyclopedia, otherwise known as the World Wide Web.
I mention all of this for two reasons. The first is that the Greek government is in the process of officially reverting Santorini to its original name of Thira. For me, I feel a little saddened by this as all of my memories here are gathered under the name of Santorini and I will have one less story to tell at dinner parties - the story of Saint Irene. The second is that today - in the scheme of telling my Greek Island hopping story - was day-trip-on-a-boat day and on that day we were going to Santorini's live volcano, Io and Thirassia - or little Thira.
First thing in the morning we headed down to The Old Port, as opposed to The New Port where we had first arrived, via a cable car. In sharp contrast to The New Port, which is busy, crowded, noisy, smelly and generally not a great place to be, The Old Port has its charm. It is small,unfussed and perhaps even a little picturesque. We were running a little late so we hopped on the boat quickly and were on our way to see the volcano.
Of course, when you think of volcanoes you think of hot, running lava, steam shooting up from the earth, and maybe the odd geiser. At least, that is what I think of. There is none of that going on at the Volcano of Santorini (or, Thira, if you must). Here is the odd plume of steam - if you look closely enough - coming from cracks in the ground. There is volcanic rock everywhere. And, you know, I am as excited by rock as much as the next man. As long as that next man is not a geologist. It is baron, almost martian. The odd place smells like sulfur, but then again so does the bathroom after Mel has a decent session on the toilet. But I paid my €1 admission fee to the volcano and got to tick that box, so that was that.
The boat then headed off to one of the hot pools in the area. They are hot because of the volcanic activity in the area. As we approached the hot pool, we could identify them by the discolouration of the water. About 25 metres from shore the boat turned around so that the stern faced the hot pool and dropped anchor. In a flash Mel had stripped down to her bikini and looked at me to do the same. Not that I was wearing a bikini, but you get the idea. And this is where I need to digress.
I remember being a six year old boy in Grade One at St Albans East Primary School going to swimming lessons and rather enjoying the learning of the skill of swimming. I might have enjoyed it, but my Physical Education teachers did not because I had a habit of swallowing what must have been litres of the chlorinated, people infused water. There are, of course, many jokes to be had about my inability to keep my mouth shut, even at that early age, but I would ask that you keep your mind on the story at hand.
The effect of swallowing so much pool water was that it would cause me to vomit. On the bus on the way back to school. Hence, my P.E. teachers' reticence to take me on swimming lessons. This reticence eventually turned into omitting me from swimming lessons altogether and the legacy of this remains: I can't swim. Well, at least not in any meaningful way. I could probably keep my head above water for a minute, maybe a minute-and-a-half. I can swim, maybe, 25 metres. Maybe. And, by my reckoning, it was about 25-30 metres from the stern of the boat to the hot pool by the shore.
Clearly, I am not shy about telling the story behind my inability to swim. As an extension of this, you should assume that I had told Mel about it. I can add that I have probably done so on several occasions. Yet, there we were on a glass bottomed boat (oh ... did I mention our boat had a glass bottom?) in the middle of the Mediterranean with a hot pool 25-30 metres away that we are supposed to swim to and Mel is looking up at me like a Golden Retriever looks up at its owner just after the owner picks up the dog's lead in preparation for taking it on a walk through the park. Suffice it to say that I had to send Mel off on her was on her own and I played the role of bag-man.
Oddly, this was not to be the last time that Mel - to my bemusement- was of the thought that I had, over the 5 years we have known each other, somehow overstated my lack of swimming ability. But for now, back to the glass bottomed boat.
With Mel safely back on board and with me safely handing her bag back to her we made our way to Thirassia. Mel and I chose the front of the boat as our vantage point and I must say that I enjoyed myself thoroughly. It was not a perfect day, climatically speaking, but it was a good one - perhaps 25-27 degrees Celsius - and there was only the odd cloud in the sky. The spray made by the boat surging through the water would occasionally treat the bow dwellers to a cool and refreshing spray. The water was clear. The view up from the Caldera of the sheer faces of the islands was, if not quite breathtaking, certainly inspiring. Which made me all the more angry to see a man to the starboard side of the boat flicking his cigarette butt into the majestic Mediterranean.
I have referred previously to the Greeks' love of smoking. I have also previously mentioned my genuine belief that as travelers to a foreign land that we can not expect the locals to hold the same beliefs as we do. If the Greeks want to smoke, let them smoke. If they want large billboards up in their cities encouraging more people to smoke, let them have large billboards. If they want to sell cigarettes to young people ... and I understand if you feel this point is arguable, it certainly makes me a little uncomfortable ... then who are we to say otherwise? And if these people want to smoke in a restaurant - an enclosed,indoor restaurant - well then, as visitors to a foreign land, we just have to suck it up (pun not intended). But it is beyond me how any self respecting human being can look the natural beauty mother nature has to offer right in the eye and then throw litter into it. This is probably the mentality that turned Piraeus into the cesspool that it is today and I think the Greek government should legislate in this area to protect its environment. In other words, I think this knob who doesn't know any better than to throw his cigarette butt into the jewel that is the Mediterranean should be fined to such an extent and with such regularity that he soon learns that such an action is not acceptable.
It is with some surprise then that I say that the waters around Thirassia, and most of the Greek Islands we went to visit, are really quite clear. And there are fish that come right up the shore in search of food. Nature, it seems, can be quite robust.
Our guide book said that only fisherman and sailors frequented Thirassia and that tourism did not have a great impact here, so I was not expecting much. I was pleasantly surprised. The port is OK in that it is fairly clean and not too busy. Some of the people from our boat tour had decided their experience of Thirassia would be to wade in the shallow, clear waters and I get that: this would be very relaxing and we did not have the time on Thirassia to do much else. Mel and I, though, thought that we might take a quick look at the main village of Horio, which like Fira on Santorini, is at the top of a sheer cliff face. Unlike at Fira, Mel and I thought that we would walk there, up the zig-zagging path that was much like the zig-zagging road the bus from the Old Port of Santorini took to get us to Fira. This path, though, was a pedestrian only affair. Pedestrian and donkeys, as it turned out.
Just as on Santorni, one option of getting up to the town from the port is ride a donkey. The things is that I am not big on riding animals - they have a mind of their own and I would prefer not to be on one if they should suddenly think that they don't particularly like having someone on their back while they are climbing a bunch of steps. So I convinced Mel that the ten minutes we were told it would take to walk up to the town would not only be an adventure, it would also be an opportunity to burn off a small portion of the many meals we ate during the day (holidays being holidays). Now, I am not saying that the walk from the port to the town from the port is any more than ten minute but I can certainly say that it FEELS like it significantly more, especially when a group of smiling, happy fellow tourists atop a pack of donkeys pass you as you sweat, puff, pant and occasionally swear. My tip here is to spend the €4 and to be just a little brave - if donkey riding is not your thing - and get yourself on top of one of these trusty steeds. Should the steed you are upon decide to start break-dancing half way up, just remember that my policy is that of all care, no responsibility.
Mindful of our time restrictions, we only took a brief look around Horio. It is a sleepy place and our walk was only disturbed by a restaurant at the top of our climb who was hawking for business. Tourism here is, no my at least, non-existent. Saying this, I could see myself staying here if I could find a reasonable room at a reasonable rate and a place to eat. I am not certain if such things exists, but I hope that they do. To an extent, it occured to me that the relaxed nature of Horio should be what visiting the Islands is all about. Thankfully, on our trip, we would find such a place. But that would be getting ahead of ourselves.
We returned to the port and had a bite to eat at one of the several cafes there. Mel had a swordfish souvalaki, which she quite enjoyed. The lamb version, which I had, was rather less satisfying. Nevermind; by that time, we had a boat to catch.
Second last stop on the itinerary was to stop over a reef which, of course, plays to the strength of the glass-bottomed boat. This was rather underwhelming as aside from the odd small fish I did see one rather large eel. The most excitement for me occurred when an older lady nuzzled her head between Mel and me to get a look. Personal space for this woman clearly was not an issue, though I took a little pleasure trying to stand closer to Mel, creating a tight grip around this womans neck. I am surprised she got it out when she chose to.
The boat then passed my Io and we had the option of getting out there and making our own way back to Fira. Given our visit to Io that day before, we opted to stay on the boat, which then returned us to the Old Port. And at the Old Port something that surprised me and that was to surprise myself.
Despite my angst about riding animals I decided to join Mel on the adventure of a lunch time that is riding the donkeys back up to the town. Now, there are two ways that I could interpret the donkey ride. One is that the donkeys are damn smart and well trained because with a minimum of fuss and a disturbing lack of interest and intervention from their handlers as they navigated their way up the steps. Sure, they squashed the odd pedestrian against the walls of the path along the way, but that is part of the charm. Sure, when one group of donkeys needs to get passed another group of donkeys heading in the other direction there is a crush and thrust that I can only describe as a rugby-like donkey scrum, but this is part of the adventure.
The other way of interpreting this donkey ride is that I am one hell of a donkey-rider. I am sticking with the latter.
Either way this was just about the best €7 (for both of us) that I spent on the trip. I did, however, have a pang of guilt when I saw one of the donkey operators at our destination treat my trusty steed a little more roughly than I thought he (or she ... I am not an expert and I did not look, to be honest) should have been treated with. It made me think that perhaps the life of a pack donkey was not all it should be.
All in all this had been a good day and we returned to the hotel to prepare for the evening. You will recall that we had to move rooms on each of the two nights we stayed at the Cori Rigas and while that could be viewed as inconvenient, it did give us a chance to have a look at what else the Cori Rigas had to offer on the back of the wonderful room we stayed in the night before. Again, the room was fabulous. It was quite small - certainly smaller than you might think for the price - but the bed at the far end of the room had a window right beside it, from which all you could see was the caldera. It was just like sleeping on a platform that hovered over the mouth of the ancient volcano. I loved it.
That night we ate at Pirea and while the food was only OK the service was good and prompt, the latter we found to be rare in these parts. Over dinner we discussed the only real goal I had for this trip and that was to find an island that I had not been before and was off the well worn path tread by other travelers. This island would be quiet and peaceful and beautiful. It would also have a few eating a drinking options and the people would be friendly, not overly conscious about making a buck a tourist-driven-buck and relaxed. It turned out that we found such an island, but first we had to get there.
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