Kasos

Its first inhabitants are thought to have been the Phoenicians. Homer mentions it in his catalogue of the Greek cities that took part in the Trojan War (1193-1184BCE).
Kasos is a mountainous island with a steep, rocky coastline and few beaches. In the 18th century, Kasos established its own merchant fleet and grew rich from trade. It played an active role in the Greek War of Independence of 1821, earning the revenge of the TurkoEgyptian armada, which set fire to the island in May 1824 and subsequently slaughtered its inhabitants. Only a few survived. Present population about 1200. 

 The night before I left Karpathos for Kasos I slept on the beach in my bag as usual but stayed fully dressed and even with a blistered toe I kept my boots on. I was determined not to miss that 5am boat. And when the friendly chimes brought me back to consciousness, my eyes slowly opened to the wonderful misty silver smile of the joyful Milky Way. The twinkling constellations of  our hemisphere, a vast ever-flowing river. What could I do but wave and smile back? Down on the quay there was already a queue of trucks surrounded by people milling about - some with luggage and parcels and some on their way to bed after the discos. But we have always done this - we who wander - we're a constant transient tribe - searching, visiting, wandering and grasping for something or other, and even the vast 27 nautical miles to the island felt like I was still coming out of Africa.

Back at the beginning of this trip, on the boat from Rhodes, I'd made a friend of a German girl, Jutta, and met her several times in Pigadia. When she heard I was planning on this trip to Kasos, she presented me with a cassette of some music she said would change my soul. I'd forgotten all about it until then, standing in the half dawn, and it seemed like a good way to pass the time. At first there was no sound, nothing, and I thought something must be wrong with the tape but then I began to hear a distant, ghostly wail, gradually growing louder. It was the sound of despair and at first I thought it must be coming from the crowd but it was definitely the cassette. The voice seemed so desperate I was transfixed and actually gasped. This was the opening to 'Rembetiko'. There on the crowded quayside, at the point of departure, the music of rembetika was in my head for the very first time and I've loved it ever since - in fact, I am playing that very tape as I write. With this soulful companion I stood and watched the ferry easing forward from the horizon, sensuously, persistent, just like the singer on the tape and as she cruised closer and you could feel the swelling anticipation of the passengers just waiting to explode.

Once on board I wasted no time in finding somewhere to make base. I found an empty seat amongst three travelling musicians, whispered 'Kalimera' and quietly established my bag. The atmosphere below decks was stifling and smelled of sweaty human bodies and spices. It is possible that our boat had come all the way from Piraeus. I tried to read but my throat was like parchment. I saw the closed sign on the bar and took a stroll. I smiled at a discarded Nero bottle and before I could think, I'd opened it and taken a long, long draught. Not particularly tasty when warm but thirst-quenching nevertheless. Over the sea an orange sun was tinting the purple sky and the crescent moon looked small and insignificant. A good omen. I found my comfy seat again and soon my head was nodding in time with the others and there I was again - living, doing, in my dreams, in another world then back again, bleary in my seat.

I was awakened by the usual cursing and shouting and protestations from every member of the passengers and crew who thought they had a better idea for how to dock the huge Apollon Express against the tiny Phry fishing quay than the captain.

The fishing boats and skiffs looked on, shook their bows and whispered. But the sailors managed it - as they always do - and the on-loading of incredulous travellers began; the nomads: the students; the vagabond bands; the trucks carrying furniture and bedding; motor bikes and cars; a small, two-tiered ute' with at least fifty horned goats squashed on board; and, of course, the parcels and cardboard boxes; all manner of cargo to be carried forward on a choppy sea to next stop Kriti. I walked up the slipway and turned to watch the mayhem in that wonderful entertainment. Then my ship sailed away and suddenly it felt I really was alone in Kasos. The day was already hot, dusty and dry and under that sun the colours fade from everything.

                                                                                                           

The harbour front of this old pirate's nest seemed to consist of a house, a steepled church and the Kafeneion Mathaios. I flopped into a chair there and stashed my baggage under a big round table before ordering a revitalising coffee - it had the consistency of toothpaste! - in the company of about forty men, loud in talk and loud in Tabla. I asked the mamma if she would allow me to leave my backpack while I went for a walk. She shrugged and went back to her crocheting.

      Behind the port lay a modest village of, perhaps, five dozen whitewashed houses. I walked to the right through romantic passages between romantic houses, between some old and dilapidated houses of wood and mud. So incredibly beautiful. Some were completely charming with little kitchens, fire place rooms, wood storage rooms, courtyards with pebble mosaics in abstract flower designs; ancient gnarled trees still flowering bright crimson and deep blue. I walked high to an old windmill then down to an old fallen tree where I sat and let my thoughts of past and future fade away. Time fell still, or I fell out of time. I could hear the constant wash of the waves and feel the breeze on my face in the continuity of the living moment. Then a shout, a single word, from down in the passageways and I was back; I saw a dead, new-born kitten, trails of giant ants, fright-filled cats, ducks, chickens, cocks simply meandering at eight in the severe heat between the graveyard of dead houses. Closer to the port there was a little more life. Shiny tiled kitchens, white lace curtains that flapped in the meltemi and kept away the flies, the smell of cleaning fluids and gentle early morning music.

I came to an older ruined house, full of character and mystery, and thought that as long as I was discreet, it might make the perfect place to sleep. In this village, it seems to be a character of two-story houses that the staircase to the second level is often on the outside of the building so after a quick look round to make sure I wasn't drawing attention to myself, I climbed the crumbling stone steps to see what I could find. One large room with just enough sound flooring left to sleep on and although it looked safer than the steps outside, I decided it might be more sensible to make my base at street level. Then just as I was cautiously making my way down the steps to the lane, I made eye contact with an elderly man squatting amongst the rocks and thistles with his trousers round his ankles attending to his morning duties. With a weak smile of acknowledgement, I whispered "Signomi", and suddenly I knew, that there was probably not the best place to sleep after all.

Thirsty and hungry I decide to find a room for the three nights I'd be there. I just had to eat and my throat was drier than the land beneath my boots. Around I wandered very aware of hunger spasms now and unable to find a single 'Rent Rooms' sign. Phry was a Mexican village - no shadows, few people, the occasional donkey, mountains on three sides, no trees, people moving slowly and always the intense dry heat. I went back to the Olympic office, changed some money and asked a young guy about Saturday's ferry. "It leaves around 12pm."

I asked him if the next village was far and his wife said, "Too hot and two hours!" "Might you know of a place I could sleep in the village?" And the man nodded, "Of course."

He took me to what appeared to be a hotel under construction with only the top half habitable. I would have walked straight past. On the stairway leading to the second floor door sat a man, smoking and coughing, and a boy idly staring into space. Once the man knew I was looking for a room he leapt into action, all smiles and apologies and showed me a very pleasant, clean, bright, room that was very cheap. I asked no questions and moved right in. I unpacked by bag into drawers and immediately felt at home.

I lay down and slept for about an hour then went out for a frappe but the heat zapped me indoors again to read and to get more rest. It is the hottest I have ever known Greece. I slowly showered, shaved, trimmed nails and hair. Friend Bee, once warned me of dirty fingernails and head lice being constant threats to health when you're an independent traveller, I've never forgotten his advice about personal cleanliness. I decided to take those three days out of my journeying and treat myself to a little luxury because once I returned to Karpathos I would be living on the beach again.  

The next morning was Thursday. I was woken by a rooster crowing from the top of its lungs and seemingly from my window sill. 

I felt very, very weak and when I coughed my kidneys ached. Decision time! I decided to cut down on my drinking and stop smoking forever. I'd just eat more. And also the time had come to have my own space. So when I returned to the UK I'd find my own large room or at least a change of accommodation which would remove the negative atmosphere and then I could arrange my life more positively, maybe even get back to yoga.

It's was just before sunset and I was sitting in blissful solitude high above the town on a hill overlooking the blue Aegean. I sat on my petrified tree and fed my senses. Somewhere on the island was an ancient Minoan site but I couldn't trace it anywhere. I'd have to make enquiries, tomorrow. It was very calm there on the old scrubby hill and far from the noisy town down below with its cement mixers and rattling machinery and whatever they use to fill in part of the sea and build a new harbour. It was like a building site that day with no respite and the hottest I'd ever known in Greece but that evening, with the sun below the horizon, it had grown  cool and there was a general sense of relief about everything. Time to go down and see if the ouzeri had opened for my dinner. I passed a Pomegranite tree flourishing with bold fawn fruit and then a crisi, a sort of fig tree, giving off a fragrance that would guide you to safety even with your eyes closed.

No! The ouzeri was closed so I crossed the road to a small taverna that overlooked the sea and the sunset and there I sipped an ouzo and its companion, nero. Yes, the sunsets from Kasos are definitely spectacular with such a flawless penumbra drifting from blue to orange that you feel life is happily unfolding just as it should and that there's absolutely nothing to worry about at all. I sat watching a spider weave its web and it appeared to be walking on air. Maybe there's a moral there. Positively, I must get my own simple space. I could not think of a better explanation at that moment and it wasn't that I didn't appreciate the flavour from my friend for letting me a room in his flat, it was just that I wanted more self-expression in choice of surroundings and now I knew this would happen when I got back. I'd even give up working at the art college if I could find another source of income but siga-siga, it will all come slowly. It's 5 past 11pm - swollen belly.

Mother of Zeus, what a marvellous day it is now - warm, slight breeze, the fragrance of cinnamon in the air and baking smells too. After a hot and humid night, what a feeling to shower it all away this morning, then to climb the hill and sit on my old tree in the early morning sun. I think I'll have another coffee and fade into the background. Oh yes. Last night's dinner was in the ouzeri after all. At one point as I was eating and feeding a scrawny white kitten, when a family and a couple arrived and two tables were placed in the street even though there was plenty of room inside. It was interesting to watch their evening. The mother talked incessantly. The father looked on silently, having come to terms with this scenario years ago. The sister of the mother nodded and added fuel to the boiler with the odd criticism. The husband sighed and studied the sea or the cats. The three children wore glasses like the mother's and their aunt. That evening Valeria was dressed in a crimson jumpsuit and at one point leaned towards me and breathed, "Woo yoo like a raki?" She told me the drink, raki, is made from the Olympic flame and tastes of fire. Valeria is proud of Kasos and so she told me of the earliest Minoans, the Telchines, and was able to direct me to their site. It is called Panagia. I was delighted with this information and took my time strolling home in the pretty night, under a starlit sky, through the narrow streets ready for bed. When I opened the door, I could hear the jolly fridge humming away and knew it was chilling my water and juice for the night's dry heat and for quenching at breakfast.

That morning I met the Athenian architect, Nikos, who lived in Paris. He was in Phry presenting a series of talks on the redevelopment of the harbour. Since I was passing his house, he invited me in to meet his wife but she had gone swimming so instead he showed me round. We had lemon tea and talked in English and Greek. On one wall he proudly displayed a large painting of his wife that he had made himself. - "I have never been so afraid", and he even looked scared. He was very funny.

At 4.15 that afternoon I passed Valeria and she's remembered there are captains chapels, graves and maybe a half a windmill at the ancient site. Then suggested I postpone my walk till five at least or I would burn up on the climb to Panagia. But, as usual, I didn't listen though I wished I had because after almost two hours of steady climbing in the heat and without shade, I was almost fainting when I got there, and immediately had to steady my dizziness by sitting in the doorway of an old dilapidated house. Even the old sleepy donkey I met inside could hardly waft at the flies with his tail. Dust, flies, birds and a strangeness came over me - like watching myself from a distance. I found the six captains' six chapels which, to my surprise, are joined like a row of terraced houses. I can't remember the names of them all but the first three are Agias. Yiannis, Ag. Barbara and Ag. Antonis.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

I tried each door in turn, hoping to get out of the heat but they were all locked. I felt surprisingly jaded and disappointed but I pushed on and tried to find Valeria's shaft graves and yet again was met with disappointment. The pain of that anti-climax was bruising and tiring. Right then I seriously needed some shade from the heat. 

 Then I remembered her phrase, "'alf a windmill", and over to the right and behind the chapels is a decaying half a windmill. I could hardly believe it. Sitting on its threshold, I looked around yet still no graves, just some handmade dry stone lava walls dividing the terraces. Along the track, an old widow lady was slowly making her way accompanied by what might have been her pet turkey. I wished her good evening and wondered where the graves were. She returned my greeting with a wide smile and as I watched her move away, my gaze caught sight of a perfect right-angle cut into the lava face on my right. I went over and there was a definite man-made slice in the rock.

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Down at ground level two openings each about one metre across and arched to a height of about a half a metre. They seemed to recede for about five feet at most. Inside rubble and cobwebs were all I could see. I took numerous photos then sat down in what shade I could find to soak up a little of the peace and stillness that was so palpable and maybe make some notes, but it almost felt disrespectful. Without any further attempt at writing I decided to get out of the heat and get something to eat. There appeared to be a short cut on my left that should lead back and down to the town but I'd only gone ten paces when something told me to go back to the shaft graves. When I arrived at the space in front of the shafts, pottery shards covered ground and if these were early Minoan they must be from at least 1500BCE.   I gathered some just to touch, and to think of the hands that made them, and then that person seemed so near. That's when, raising my eyes, I realised I was standing in a stone circle about fifteen feet or five metres in diameter. I had to sit and be still just to close my eyes and be amongst it all.

But I was losing energy so made my way back to the old windmill and even then, saw yet another man-made slice out of the lava face. The very, most spiritual place I have ever been in Greece. On the way back I lost my way after taking the short cut which I should have ignored after my first hint to retrace my steps but eventually, after quite a hike, I found the oasis ouzeri of Valeria and Pano. A happy ouzo and an ancient sunset over a wobbly table.

My last evening in Kasos was most bizarre in that the restaurant I'd chosen was just like a stage set and I found myself seated on a veranda observing what might easily have been a selection of clips from forthcoming sit-coms.

It was at the "Estiatorio Kasos" and overall, you might be forgiven for thinking the restaurant had a sparkling air of panic, more like a Mexican Cantina than a Greek restaurant. Inside, I could see the white-walled kitchen, the neon strips fiercely lighting the preparation area, the stove and the ovens. Outside, my table, one of four, was illuminated from the glare inside. It was fun.

 On my left, steps led down to a sort of toy-town square where there were a dozen or so more tables. There was a definite sense of being in a cabaret club. I could smell paraffin. From my seat I could see the barbecue being lit in the corner of the square below. Relayed from a run down cassette floated forties Greek music and this happily mingled with the smoke from the barbecue and the fragrant herbs hanging in baskets all around. The kitchen temperament was loud and spiky as were the naked light bulbs - it was all so typically chaotic and, as a cook myself, I couldn't wish for a more perfect revenge. Over the town square area, a wooden framed canopy had been erected and covered with bamboo to lend a rustic effect. Unfortunately, the senior citizens behind me on my left were rather upset and very concerned about something and were raising their voices in waves. Suddenly, they fell into a hush and became very serious. The music stopped. Suddenly an incredibly thin guy appears. The one who was most concerned went to meet him. The thin guy was a doctor, a stethoscope was produced, the doctor disappeared, then reappeared with that bag. A syringe was seen. The one who went inside returned all smiles. The music should come back on any second. And it does.

The kids at the tables in the square were oblivious to it all. And I'd found a bottle of Retsina on my table. At home Retsina tastes a little like turpentine but in Greece it tastes like Greece. Then a tractor and trailer rumbled past and I was the only one who seemed surprised. It must have been late but I was in my favourite place - which is any where but England on a night as hot as that with the sea in my eyes, the stars in the skies and the moon a fading fingernail on my right. You know it's the height of summer when, no matter how careful you are, you look in your glass and there's something swimming round, and usually on a li-lo. I thought about next day, in Karpathos, if bi-sexual Antonis propositioned me again - even after my explaining that I prefer ladies - I was going to find somewhere else to sleep other than on his beach beds. Maybe nearer the taverna or even ask Ari if I could sleep on the roof of his hotel. Just then I was distracted by a motorbike and side-car make a hill start. The senior citizens returned to their seats but with reinforcements and of course I had to pretend I'd noticed nothing.

It was time for sleep so I ordered one a last Metaxa. I love gingham table cloths at that time of night when I feel a little squiffy in Greece on a warm summer's night and long haired women who are my age and, though now grey, look as interesting as ever and are wearing silver. In the morning I would swim, have coffee, walk and hopefully.

One of the long-haired ladies passed my table in returning to the square. I focussed and smiled, remembering the painting, "Hello, today I met your husband." - referring to Nikos. She looked straight into my eyes. "I have no husband!!!" She was cross and swept away before I could say any more, but then she came back and, smiling said, "I'm sorry. You must mean Nikos, the architect. I have often been told I look like his wife, thank you, it's a great compliment to be told I look like a woman I admire." She returned to her seat from where she kept a taxi waiting whilst finishing her dessert, and I mean by biting into her ice cream, definitely a woman in charge of herself.

At that time in the evening, to my great surprise, the restaurant was becoming a little affected like those around the harbour of night time St. Tropez - the correct watch, the correct sandals, the correct coloured partner and probably the correct Bosnian guest. And then the Athenian smoothies arrived looking just like any other designer smoothies. I had to be careful. My mouth had got me in trouble before - often. And it is strange watching farmers acting like waiters. "One more Metaxa, sir?" Yes please, after all it was Kasos, but it would soon be Agia Galini if they weren't careful. We tourists will destroy its normality - we're good at that.

Saturday morning was looking pretty in her gentle golden beauty. I leaned out of my window and took a deep breath. The air was soft and juicy. I packed my stuff, gave my lighter to the man, paid my bill and walked down to the harbour.

  Four mornings ago when I first arrived and sloped out of the Kafeneion Mathaios to have a look around the village, I'd found another workers' bar next to the Olympic office that looked like my kind of place but it wasn't open. It had no name but as I trundled about I began to realise that very few places in Phry had name signs since it was not geared up to tourism - yet. But then, on my last morning, like a farewell gift, the doors were open for business and as soon as I crossed the threshold I was seduced. Some places just have that sort of effect on you - as this did on me. The owner, Nikos, proudly explained that he had left it unchanged since he first got his license in 1950 or 1949.

Blue walls and blue floor. Green window frames overlook the harbour on one side and the sea on the another. It must have been worth quite a tidy sum even then, and yet it probably only took about £40 a day - maybe £45 on a good one. Big enough for 150 people but mainly full of - well not full of - perhaps used by, ten old timers playing tabla. I felt completely at home there - completely comfortable. I only realised it having my breakfast. 

I had tried for food but, "Authentic kafeneia don't sell food," and so I stood to go and then Nikos said, "er...unless you want some yoghurt and honey, my friend." So there we sat, me enjoying my breakfast whilst Nikos showed me old photographs of Kasos and all went well until he placed before me a particularly moving picture showing the Greek flag being raised as the Dodecanese regained its freedom in 1947, with the women of Kasos - in traditional dress - watching, a supreme moment of emotion and relief for the inhabitants. In the photo they are standing next to an old windmill. The '''alf' a windmill" of Palagia. I was so stunned I took off my glasses to take a closer look and placed them in my bowl of yoghurt. But Nikos, ever the gentleman, kept talking and pretended not to notice. I fished them out, licked off the yoghurt and replaced them on my nose. Nikos whispered, "This kafeneion is the spirit of Kasos. See those seven men on the large table? Three were ship's captains when they were young."

The he went and sat with his mates whilst cooling himself with a hand fan. A hand fan!

 I liked the way the telephone was in a window cupboard so when the doors were closed they cut off some of the noise - if any. And like most bars, shops, there were two entrances. I would have gone there that night if I had known it was so real, or rather, if I had stayed. I even had a morning raki with my pastry. Not that the day needed charming but just to be free in Phry.

Actually, I could have stayed if I really wanted to but I felt it was time to visit Mesachoria or somewhere else. And if I want to avoid tourism and what I call 'New Yorkistry' then I will return to Phry some other time and even maybe the extreme south of the island or even the north. So much more happened here in only a few days but now I had my ticket for Karpathos in my wallet and it was time for my last swim. I have a ritual when I take my last plunge in the Aegean, I let it dry naturally - I mean, in the sunshine. The sea was very calm and clear so I would snorkel. I found a diving mask on the sea bed and gave it to Pano and Valeria. I had the sniffles again. My toe looked as though it has been drilled where the blister burst but at least it was clean and healthy.

Nikos

Nikos poured me another Raki and his gentle wife, Savina, joined him at his table by the door. They were in love - they sat so close together. Then, "Here is your boat" from Nikos. So I stood, raised my glass and wished them well - downing the last flames of fire with gusto.

Then, with pack on my back, I rambled down to the quay and took my place in the ebb and flow of transients. I was the only English. Kasos had been a rare and learning adventure but, as usual, before I could really appreciate it, I was standing at the stern of the Apollonia Express skimming along the top of the island eastward back towards the southern tip of Karpathos and the second half or third week of my stay in the Dodecanese.

And on my sandals? Raki stains.

  

 

  

 

 my sandaled feet after wandering the area around Poli

 

 

 

 

 

©2009 - PERMISSION TO COPY. The content of this website is the Copyright of Tony Brown and is protected by international copyright law. You are welcome to copy it for personal or non profit, or educational purposes only and you have my permission to do so, provided it is copied and re-published in it's entirety complete with copyright notice and website address. If you wish to copy it for electronic publication on an intranet, website, blog or Newsletter you may do so provided the article is copied and re-published in it's entirety with all html, copyright information and hyperlinks intact and unaltered in any way with no redirects. If you wish to copy it for any other purpose please contact me for permission first. tony@grecofilia.co.uk