Chapter 15

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Australia must be the best part of 10,000 kilometers away from the Greek Island of Ios. So imagine my surprise when the first ten or so accents that I hear at the port of Ios are all Australian.

I have always wondered what other nationalities think about the Australian accent. I imagine that the English outside of London still find it a little novel and endearing, but those in London are so over it due to over exposure. I imagine that South Africans believe it makes Australians sound at least little stupid. I think one reason for this is that the South African accent is the polar opposite of the Australian: they hit their consonants very hard while Australians roll over theirs. Which is odd in one way, in that a very soft South African accent sounds very much like a very harsh New Zealand accent and it can be quite difficult to pick a Kiwi accent from an Australian one. Though it must be said that a harsh Kiwi accent is easily differentiated from a harsh Australian accent. My favourite English speaking accent is Welsh, but the English don't seem fond of it at all. Most people I have encountered who originate from English speaking countries nominate Irish as their favourite accent, but I have never been overly fond of it. This is also an over exposure issue, I think.

From an American point of view, as best I can tell, there are only two accents - American and not. I can't tell you how many Americans have asked me what part of England I am from. South, I tell them. Deep, deep south. And my accent is as broadly Australian as a non-Strine Australian accent comes. There is probably an opportunity for some social commentary here around the domestic-centric nature of American media, but this is no social commentary piece. But there is a reason I have spent so long on the topic of accents.

For all my supposition about what other nationalities think about the Australian accent, it occurs to me that many Australians are not particularly fond of the Australian accent themselves. It does not have the sophistication of the middle-class English accent nor the clarity of the American accent (yes, there are many American accents, but it could be argued that, for example, both the drawl of a Texan and the tightness of a Boston accent are both more intelligible than an Australian one). It does not have the lilt of the Irish, nor the character of the Scottish. Nobody personifies the problem that Australians might have with their own accent abroad than former Prime Minister, Bob Hawke.

Bob Hawke, in my view, was a seminal Australian leader. He brought about massive economic and legislative reforms that resonate today. He brought unionism under some sort of control through arbitration, rather than Thatcher-style obstinance (though, it must be said that it could be argued that Thatcher was rather more effective at reducing unionism influence than Hawke - a union man himself - was). He was clearly a very intelligent man, if his Rhodes Scholarship is any measure. But his accent was very much blue collar Australian. So for all of this, if Hawke were to be judged on his speech alone, I believe it would be far easier to identify him as the man who had, at one time in his life, held the Guinness World Record for drinking a yard glass of beer than one of the greatest leaders Australia has had. And I think that many Australians feel this way, too. No matter what their achievements, that they will be judged by their accent. They feel that their accent is immediately associated with the simple things in life, like BBQs, camping, alcohol and sport rather than anything remotely cerebral. It is when Australians are abroad that these feelings are most obvious, because this vocal contrast is most evident. Bob Hawke's successor, Paul Keating, called this the Cultural Cringe. 10,000 odd kilometres away from Australia, the Cultural Cringe is what I was experiencing.

It is not the Australian tourists that were causing my cringe - that was to follow - it was the sprukers offering accommodation. If you are looking for an exotic holiday experience the last thing you want to hear, as an Australian, is an Australian calling for more Australians to stay with them.

The other accent I heard a lot of was American. It must have been holiday time in The States. With all of these Australians and Americans I could not help but wonder whether Ios was the new Bali. Not that there is anything wrong with Bali. I love Bali. But much of Bali, with its pandering to the tourist trade, could not be called exotic. At least, not any more.

Not surprisingly, we did not take up the offer of our countrymen to stay with them. Instead, we took the public bus into Ios town to seek accommodation. The last time I was in Ios, I had a devil of a time trying to find accommodation. I went from place to place only to be told that they had no accommodation for me. At one point, I stumbled across an establishment that catered to the Nordic crowd. In particular, it seemed to appeal to Swedes. Swede women. Swede women not wearing any tops. By the pool. Playing pool, water and miscellaneous ball games by the pool. With each other. I know this sounds overtly stereotypical, but this is what I saw. I went to the counter - which was also manned by a person who also appeared Swedish- and asked for a room. He asked me hoy many people it was for. I told him I was alone but I was happy to pay for a two berth. He responded that he had no rooms. I looked back to the semi-naked frivolity of the pool. I was prepared to pay for a birth room, I told him. He responded, again, that he had no rooms. I went all the way up to offering to pay for an eight birth room for little old me but his response did not change. Sunken, I trudged off to find alternate accommodation. Make no mistake, if I could only have remembered the name of this place, I would have made a bee line for it on this trip. Mel would have had here want of a pool met and I would have had my want of staring at bare chested Scandinavian women playing with each other by the pool met and everybody would have been happy. Really happy. Obscenely happy. Right ... where was I ...

Oh, that's right, what's-her-name and I, sorry - Mel and I, were looking for accommodation. As it turns out, we had arrived at Ios right at the end of their tourist season. Some restaurants and bars had already closed for the year. We headed up a rather steep hill toward a large, modern establishment called the Lofos Village right at the end of the road up the hill. It had a nice pool, too. I sent Mel to inquire at the reception counter while I checked out a seemingly more dubious establishment a little further on. Returning to meet up with Mel, she told me that they had a room for €80. Good enough for me. We met up with the girl Mel had met at the reception counter - an Australian, of course, who took us to our rooms. The rooms were not wonderful, but they were not too bad either. Certainly, we had been in worse on this trip. Bags dumped, we headed for the beach.

I do not know why we thought it was a good idea to walk to the beach. It really is slightly further than a comfortable walk. And we made a wrong turn along the way, further lengthening our trek. At about the half way mark, we desperately needed some liquid. It was quite a warm day. We stopped off at a convenience store which was staffed by its elderly owners. On my previous trip to Ios, I felt that the business proprietors did not exactly exude that they wanted tourists there. But at this pitstop, they were more than friendly. They were warm. Charming, even. Certainly, my 'Yasou' concluding our transaction was heart felt. Importantly, theirs seemed to be too.

When we did finally arrive at our destination, one things was obvious - the main beach at Ios is really quite nice. The sand is white and the water, for all the petrol fueled water sports going on, was clear. We made for one of the busier sections of the beach - Mel and I like to people watch. Soon the reason for the crowding in this particular section of the beach became clear. We inquired at a counter offering water sports and sun lounges in the vicinity about the price of renting a sun lounge and umbrella and the proprietor who served us - another Australian - told us they were being offered for free. Her logic was that it was probably their last week of operation for that holiday season and if she had to choose between squeezing a little extra money out of the remaining tourists on the island - as the other proprietors on the beach evidently were attempting - or having an energetic vibe with the same remaining tourists then she would choose the latter. I found that sentiment rather endearing.

We picked a couple of sun lounges in the middle of a group of Australians and Americans. It was difficult to choose otherwise. I had a bit of a wade in the water and found that because it was a very shallow for a long, long way out the water was very warm. Again, there were loads of those little fish that we had seen at every other island, bar Paros. Hardy buggers, these fish. At one point during my wade I came upon an empty yogurt container that some inconsiderate traveler had thrown into the water. Yet, the container was swarming with the little fish much like a sunken boat that would otherwise be considered debris forms a reef that marine life transform into a ecosystem. To take a line from Jurassic Park, life finds a way.

Returning to the sun lounge to read a little more Bill and eavesdrop on my fellow sun loungers' conversation, I saw a man walking the beach with his donkey. Not the kind of thing you see every day. At least not the kind of thing I see every day. He was selling home grown grapes and, as it turned out, home made wine made from the home grown grapes. Something told me that his enterprise had less to do with making money than the pride of selling his own product. Unfortunately, his packaging left something to be desired. However good his wine might have been, it was stored in recycled soft drink bottles around 1 litre in capacity. Recycled soft drink bottles would have to hold a position several rungs below the wine cask in the pecking order of wine presentation. I did not dare contemplate a purchase. Some braver Australian girls adjacent to Mel and I did take a sample from a lid of one of the bottles, though. They were not compelled to purchase, though, and the man and his donkey went on their way. At about that point, the donkey half of the man and donkey grape and wine selling conglomeration decided to take a piss. A massive piss. Right on the rather clean, white sands of the main Ios beach. In the midst of everybody. Gladly, the donkey did not give anybody a spray. And it is not like I took offense. I mean, the donkey was only doing what donkeys do. But should you ever find yourself at the man beach on Ios, I recommend that you take a good, hard look at the sand before you put your towel down on it.

That part of the day felt way to short. The next thing we knew we were back in the hotel having our afternoon kip in preparation for the evening to come.

And what an evening we had.

It occurs to me that whether you have a good time or not is largely dependent on your point of view. At the age of 26 when I had last visited Ios, getting very drunk, getting the attention of as many women as possible and loads of loud music appealed to me. I had heard that Ios might satiate these interests. Unfortunately, I found Ios over the top in all of these areas. Just too much of a good thing. Like eating too much chocolate, it can make you sick.

At the age of 33, my interests centred on different things. Certainly, I am more ... well ... seasoned. I still enjoy good music - who doesn't. But I like rock, not dance so much now. I like a drink, but I don't like getting drunk so much now. But I do enjoy a chat as much now as I did when I was 26 and this is where Tracey comes in.

Tracey was a waitress at the Lord Byron Restaurant, which we came upon after a bit of a walk around the Chora. And can I say, the chora of Ios is one of the better ones. Along the way I stopped inside a convenience store. There was a guy there playing what looked to be something akin to Kino. He was having terrible luck, so he asked us to pick his numbers. Now, remember, that I had just come off the ferry reading the Greek Island Hopping Guide siting issues of male rape on this island. I also had thoughts of my previous trip, where I really did not care for the attitude shown by the locals shown toward visitors. So I was mindful that this might be part of a scam. Maybe I would select the numbers and then he would demand money from me. I don't know - my mind just kind of works that way. Nevertheless, he was quite insistent, so I chose some numbers for him. He thanked me. We left the shop. That was it. No scam. Rather, an interaction of note with one of the locals, which is always one of the things I cherish on my holidays. But we need to get back to the Lord Byron.

We picked this restaurant because it had some outside seating that seems like it shouldn't be there, but was all the better for it. It was almost part of an underpass. It was perfectly lit - not too bright. I was not convinced, though, as it broke my first rule of restaurants - there have to me people eating there, otherwise, it might be a sign of a less than average establishment. But I was more hungry than choosy right then, so we took a seat. Tracey came out quite promptly. She was English, originally from Portsmouth. I tried to start a conversation with her by talking up her soccer team, which had been surprising everybody by their success in the Premier League at the time. She did not really have an interest in that. Luckily for us, the conversation between Mel, Tracey and me did not have to depend on the grand game of soccer. Tracey liked a chat. She really liked a chat. This is not a snide, cheap shot. I like a chat, too. I really like a chat. I really liked Tracey. So did Mel. Every time Tracey would come out, we would have a chat. A good chat. Tracey had been on Ios for 18 years. Even now I find that quite staggering. Portsmouth is no London, but from my point of view Ios is no Portsmouth. I considered that the men of Ios might have similar skills to the men of Folegandros. The islands were, after all, neighbours. No; as best I could ascertain Tracey was single. A very old man came to have a chat to Tracey and the owner of the Lord Byron. He was carrying an impressively sized pumpkin, though very little of the conversation seemed to focus on it. It was a nice interaction between somebody who was most likely born on this island and the relative new comers. It was friendly and neighbourly. It made a statement: this was a community. I would never have thought that about Ios.

Tracey explained this man was 80 years old and lived down toward the port. Every day he walks up the long and windy road to the chora, lugging a pumpkin at least the equal of the one we had seen on that night. I can't remember whether he gave them or sold them to the restaurant, I was probably enjoying the beer I was having at the time too much to make a note of it. It probably doesn't matter. What was important is that there was a bond between these people and that Tracey glowed in conveying it.

Tracey went on to tell us a great many things that night. About three years prior to our visit, it snowed there. Who could imagine! And when the snow melted, it caused floods that removed virtually all of the sand from the beaches. What a disaster that would have been for the tourist trade. She told us that the restaurant would probably only be open for another week, at which point all of the remaining food stores would be cooked and the locals would be invited for a party. This is what happened every year, she told us. Tracey reminisced about the Halloween parties the restaurant would hold for the locals and how much fun they were. Despite her focus on the fun, I could not help but think about her buddy the 80 year old man struggling to meet the demand for pumpkins and trudging up the hill from the port to the Chora more often than an 80 year old man ought to. I hope they kept something special aside for him.

Clearly, Tracey had fallen in love with this place. While I can't understand what would keep a foreigner there for 18 years, I most certainly understand her happiness and contentedness - she had found her home.

Amongst our discussions, though, I did find one thing just slightly odd about our Tracey. She had been to Australia three times. That is more than almost any Pom I have come across. But she always went to the same place. And that place was not Sydney or Melbourne, or any other capital city. Nor was it Ayres Rock or Broken Hill or some other far away place, which I would kind of understand as well. It was Rye, a coastal town on the Mornington Peninsula in Victoria. Rye is about one and a half hours drive from Melbourne and is a weekend get away place. People have holiday homes there. The population swells inordinately around holiday time. It has a very strong Italian element there, probably because the next town along is named Sorrento. There is nothing wrong with Rye. I have great memories of Rye as a teenager. I visit fiends a family there still and I still like it a lot. But if I were in Victoria and it took me 22 odd hours and £1000 odd to get there I do not think Rye would be the first place on my agenda. It would not be the tenth. And even if it were, the Mornington Peninsula is such a great area for touring, I would have a look around. There are the Red Hill wineries, that not only make a good drop but cook up a storm as well. And the scenery in that region is ... well ... I love it. There is Arthur's Seat which looks out over the sea. There is the Portsea pub which, while expensive, is a great place to meet up with friends and have a drink and a beverage. And, again, Melbourne is only an hours drive a away. In Melbourne, you can catch a game of Australian Rules Football during the winter or catch a game of cricket during the summer, both at the famous MCG. You could go to The Melbourne Cup or the Grand Prix. You can eat at some fine restaurants and drink at some fine bars. Alternatively, you could hop on the ferry from Portsea and get off on the other side of Port Phillip Bay, the Ballarine Penninsula. There you could take a look at the Otway Ranges, or surf at Bells Beach. Or you could drive down the Great Ocean Road, one of the world's great drives.

Or you could just stay in Rye, which is what Tracey had done. On three occasions. The only equivalent I can think of is flying 22 hours from Melbourne to Heathrow and then heading straight out to Brighton and staying there. And only there. Don't go to London. Don't go to The Cotswolds. Don't go to The Lakes. On three separate occasions.

But I say this sincerely - it is very difficult for any one person to assess why any other person does anything, really. We can guess, but we would probably be wrong. Moreover, none of this matters. We had a great time at the Lord Byron and Tracey was a big part of that. For this, both Mel and I are truly grateful.

Another reason we had such a god time was that the food was really good. I had not expected that. Ios was the party Island, so imagined that food would only be seen as a necessary evil, a lining of the stomach, something to regurgitate later in the evening. Not at this restaurant. Again, I must have been enjoying the beer and the conversation a little too much as I did not make a note of what Mel and I had ordered. But I do remember having enjoyed it immensely, as had Mel.

In between chats with Tracey we had chats with Julie and Andrew from Seattle. They were really nice and for all my subtle (and not so subtle) digs at Americans I must say that as a general rule I find Americans to be engaging, entertaining and friendly, almost to the point of being warm. There is a familiarity in conversation that is reminiscent of having conversations with Australians. They just let you in faster than, say, London-ites. There are fewer barriers to earnest conversation.

For all that, though, my recollection of our conversation is painfully patchy. As was my way during this trip, I made a few notes so that I might recall it at a later point, but looking at my notes I can see that Tracey had a penchant for good wine and Andrew ... well, all I have there is something about McGuyver, construction via Happy Days (what the hell does that mean!) and ... oh, I think he might be a snowboard instructor. We spoke about their work a bit, but I am a little scared to be too detailed in my recollection of our chat for fear of getting them in trouble. Suffice it to say that I have always maintained that Melbourne, Australia is a great place to buy a coffee. The southern European influence there has brought with it great coffee makers. Lovers of coffee. These coffee lovers don't set up coffee chains, they set up coffee shops. As with many places in the world, there is a prevalence of coffee chains in Melbourne that makes many uncomfortable. Unlike many places in the world, London amongst them, you can buy really good coffee in Melbourne from a coffee shop. So is there a market for coffee chains in Melbourne? Or has it been more difficult for the chains to get a foot hold in Melbourne. Maybe. At least, this is what I think we were talking about. I would like to be more specific, but I have to be mindful that these people were on holidays and, well, that will do on this topic.

It must have been getting on by now and I wanted to get back to the room for a sleep. I was not eager to frequent a bar because the last time I was in Ios I had not enjoyed that experience at all. But I felt I had an obligation to Mel to at least have one drink at one bar. That bar - Mel's selection - was The Orange Bar.

The Orange Bar was empty when we got there and that suited me just fine. I was seeking a fairly quiet end to my surprisingly enjoyable evening. Mel had chosen this place for the shots on its drinks menu, which were concocted to taste like popular chocolate bars. There was shots based on Toblerone, Mars bars, Bounty bars ... and so on and so forth. I could do this, I thought. One shot, one beer, Mel's happy and back to bed.

But this bar had a couple of stings in its tail. Good ones. Mel chose this bar because of the chocolate bar shots. What she did not know is that this bar was also a rock music bar. I love rock. The UK is almost devoid of good rock music, at least as most of the rest of the world defines rock music. They talk about Brit Rock and so on but for me it is almost all crap. It is diluted. It is self indulgent. The men who sing it sing about why they are sad and you think they might want a cry. They should be singing with an anger that make you want to yell along with them. That is the way Nickelback and Linkin Park do it. And that is how I like it. Or they should sing about loose women like AC/DC and Bon Jovi did it. That's what they had going on at The Orange Bar and that was courtesy of Panos - rock music connoisseur.

Panos was Greek but he was not from Ios. I really liked him. He was friendly and liked a chat (and, as mentioned, lord knows I like a chat). Not only did we speak about our day on Ios and our great meal, we spoke about rock music while he loaded tracks from his CD players. I would express my concerning and belated love of all things Bon Jovi and he would play a track. He would play Killing Joke's Love Like Blood and I told him that it sounded just like the opening to Motley Crew's Dr Feelgood, at which point he popped the latter onto the CD tray and then promptly disagreed (you should check it out ... I am SO right). On revealing my Australian origins he gave the most recent INXS single a spin (could have come straight out of 1988, I swear). There were lists on the walls of the bar: Top Bands; Top Front Men; Best Song. I disagreed with almost all of Panos' selections but I am certain that he knew it did not matter. These lists were discussion starters. And they did.

By now, Mel and I had just about had one shot of each type of shooter in the menu and I had consumed enough beers to start getting that bloated feeling. But we weren't quite done yet. Panos informed us that a Contiki group were due sooner than later and that his other half would soon join him as he required an extra pair of hands. Mel and I saw this as an opportunity not only to catch an eyeful of beer swilling antipodeans but also get to meet Panos' other half.

Wendy was English and had been a holiday worker on Ios before deciding to get into the chocolate-bar-shot-come-rock-bar business. She had been a dental nurse in her 'normal' life and had heard that there was a bar in Ios up for sale. She spoke to the bar owner - Panos - who had purchased the bar three years earlier. Panos had told her that the business was not doing well. This honesty policy was at odds with making a profitable sale but, in spite of this, Wendy bought the bar and spent the first year learning the ropes, with Paros alongside. Five years later, she added the concept of the bar including Mel's new favourite drinks in the world. Somewhere in between, Wendy and Paros must have hooked up. Mel and I were certainly glad they did for despite the Contiki crowd arriving and being far less entertaining than we had hoped, our stint at The Orange Bar capped off what had really been a fabulous day. Many hours later than I had originally anticipated, we headed home for the night.

At 4:30am I was woken by the sound of a tremendous chunder coming from an unidentifiable room from with the hotel. In the morning, Mel told me that she had heard a separate incidence of vomiting, this time enhanced by the sound of vomit hitting toilet bowl water. I took unusual solace in this. Our day had been such a good one I had begun to think that I had made up all of the previously negative feelings I had about that island.

The next day was another clear and warm one. The day before the Australian girl at reception had said, and I quote, 'One of the boys will take you back to the port (in the morning)'. 'One of the boys ...' sounded quintessentially Australian to me. Not in the cultural cringe way, but in that warm, familiar way. Sure enough, the boys did come. Mel and I jumped into the back of their mini-bus with our luggage. Up front was the hotel owner in the passenger seat (who appeared, as an aside, disturbingly young) and yet another Australian in the drivers seat. This guy was from Perth and while I forget the details of our conversation it was the warmth and familiarity in his voice that I remember the most. On reflection, I feel this part of the trip strengthened a thought of mine that I had already held. Sure, Australians as a rule may not be the most polished of people but they have got something about them. Something good. Something I like being around.

Arriving at the port, Mel popped into the post office in the hope of sending off a couple of postcards. The guy behind the counter was really nice in telling us that he had just run out of stamps. During peak season, he told us, we was selling 300 stamps a day. The day before he had sold 180 in two hours. He offered to hold our mail and send it when a new stock of stamps arrived. What a nice guy! We declined, but in this case it really was the thought that counted.

Looking back, there is something to be said for surprises. I expected nothing from Ios. I expected less than nothing. I expected to loathe every minute. And then I found good beaches. Then I found good service. Then I found good food and a good bar. I still cannot say that I would go back to Ios during peak season, but out of season Ios just might have something to offer.

Here is to surprises.