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Manolis is around eighty years old, a score or more years older than I am. He is a gentle man with good manners A kind man with a sense of humour, well thought of by the villagers

He comes from a good family, they say.

His great pleasure is his family, particularly his grand daughter and that is how we became friends. I am an amateur photographer. One Easter I took some black and white photographs of a young girl on her way to the village dance, so proud in her festive clothes, so full of life. I developed, printed and enlarged them. They looked good. I was pleased and showed them to Anna in the cafeneion.

Manolis she said. To engoni tou Manolis. It is the grandchild of Manolis.

He was sitting outside, so I gave them to him. He wanted to pay. I said no. He asked me to sit with him, then insisted. He offered me an ouzo and we became friends. Manolis learnt the trade of boot maker many years ago. Boot making is not an old profession here. It dates back only to the end of the nineteenth century, so it is just possible that Manolis was taught by the first boot maker on the island. The boots are of soft leather with hard soles. They reach up to, just below the knee and are perfect for walking on the thorn and scrub covered hillsides. The cultural traditions here strongly intertwine the music, clothes, food and social mores. That’s what the songs are about and the poetry and stories. Boot makers have status. They are thought to be wise. Manolis is wise. .

I have always been a confident person, always assumed that I know a lot. But in our first conversation Manolis shocked me. made me understand that I had not even scratched the surface of this small village which is my home.

You are not the first tourist that came here. He told me

I know that.

Kevy was here. Kevy Andrew.

Who?

Kevy. He used to sit there. In that place where you are sitting now. Kevy Andrew. O Kevis. An American.

And then I realise he is talking about Kevin Andrews, author of Flight of Ikaros. I had read this book several times. It tells the story of the young Kevin walking through the wild places of Greece during the Civil War. It is beautifully written, by a man who clearly loved the Greek people. It is a very moving book and taught me a great deal.

He was here? Kevin Andrews came to Diafani? You knew him?

And the story came out. Kevin Andrews came to the island several times in the sixties and early seventies. He stayed in this village, made friends with these people. He was here before the roads came and before the harbour was built. Sometimes he came by ferry boat, sometimes by caique. Often he was alone, but he also came with his daughter, He spoke perfect Greek, so good that he could write mantinades, the rhyming couplets that are still composed here for name days, celebrations and festivals. Each line has fifteen syllables, the rules are strict and a good mantinada is passed down by word of mouth from generation to generation. I know of some that are nearly one hundred years old. Mantinada can be spontaneous or composed in advance. If they are long and are sung for a special occasion, such as the celebration of someone’s life, they are composed in advance and written down. Often they are collective efforts, the first line suggested by one of a company and the rest coming from the others. Manolis wrote down this creation by Kevin. Later that night another friend, in another bar told me how it was written

We were there in the cafeneion trying to help him choose the right words and then suddenly they came and we had a new mantinada

twra to apofasisa na ginw Olymbitis
dioti emai sidero, kai o topos sas magnitis

I have decided to be Olymbitic
Because I am iron and your place magnetic

Now, a couplet which praises this place cannot go wrong, the people here are proud of their life and of their traditions. But it takes more than that for an old man to remember a poem from four decades ago and to write it down without hesitation. The poem is good, the endings Olymbitic and magnetic have just the right resonance and dissonance in Greek.

Olymbitis….magnitis.

Kevin Andrews was a prolific walker, covered all the footpaths. There were many more in those days. Some fanning out from just east of Olymbos down to the beaches along the East coast, others down the valley and up and over the ridge to Avlona and beyond. Tristomo, Vrakounda, Steno all had their paths, some paved and dating from Minoan times. Some have been destroyed, for the people here have little respect for the historic landscape and others have fallen into disuse and are overgrown by bushes, shrubs and trees. They are lonely places now. If you go off the two or three routes that the tourists know about you are unlikely to meet anyone. But in Kevin’s time these footpaths were the thoroughfares, lifelines for these remote communities. Donkeys, goats, mule, sheep and people moving up and down, east and west, north and south. A shepherd with a flock, an old lady with fuel for the fire, children walking back and forth to the school in Olymbos six miles each way. Kevin Andrews preferred walking alone, but he would have relished the company of these country people as he strode along before leaving them behind. He had a pair of boots made for him by Manolis. Of course, when I heard this I had to have a pair too

Just like Kevy? Asked Manolis

Yes, just like Kevy.

They are soft yellow suede boots hand sewn with thick soles. I wear them when I go to Saria, they protect my legs from the low lying scrub on the rocky hillsides, but I don’t really use them for walking. I use them when working with my bees. Now, these lovely little creatures like to walk up hill, so if they are on the ground, and if they are by your feet they climb up your shoes and then up your leg. If your trouser legs are not tucked inside boots they climb up the inside of the trousers and this can be painful, or embarrassing, or both. So I wear my boots when I work with my bees and I tuck my trouser legs inside and this separates the bees from the parts of a man where a bee should not go. My boots are strong round the ankle and the soles are made from the rubber tyres of an old truck. They will last me out.

Kevin was a proud, strong, athletic man. Very handsome with broad shoulders a strong face and an easy smile. A palikari the people, tell me. A warrior. But he was also epileptic. Towards the end of his life he suffered very badly, having five or more minor fits a day. Here it was different. He fought his illness, tried to ignore it, gave it no quarter. The consequences, were bad, but could have been disastrous. Several times villagers came across his inert or shaking body by the side of a path. Not understanding the problem, they tried to comfort him. They ignored the mess, put their arms around him, brought him round with water, lifted him to his feet and brought him slowly back to the village. Kevin must have been devastated by this, the shame, the lack of control, the embarrassment, the gossip.

He suffered terribly. They tell me. Terribly.

So I began to research Kevin Andrews life. I wanted to write a story, the story became two, then three. …. Now I have 60,000 words and the stories are becoming a book. The book will be Stories in Search of an Author. The Life of Kevin Andrews.

It is not easy to research Kevin’s life. He was well liked and his friends and family are protective. He was born in Peking in 1924. His mother, a fascinating woman, was Yvette Borup, sister of George Borup the Arctic explorer. She was married to Roy Chapman Andrews the explorer and adventurer, but RCA is unlikely to have been Kevin’s father. Yvette left Roy and travelled to England with her two children. They came by the Trans Siberian Express. In the 50’s Kevin met Nancy Thayer, the daughter of ee cummings. She was married to, Kevin’s friend Willard Roosevelt at the time. Kevin and Nancy married and had two children. They moved to Greece. Kevin wrote the Flight of Ikaros. At the age of thirty he had been told that Roy Chapman Andrews was not his father. He rewrote Flight of Ikaros. The marriage with Nancy broke up, but they never divorced.

The Colonels seized power in Greece and Kevin was part of the resistance. His book, Greece in the Dark tells of those times. He was beaten up by the police during the occupation of the Polytechnic. Later he was to renounce his American passport and became a Greek citizen. Kevin Andrews found it difficult to come to terms with what he called his murky past. He was a troubled and difficult man.

Kevin died in disputed circumstances in 1989. He drowned off the island of Kythira, swimming in a wild sea.

The search for the man who was Kevin Andrews continues. If any readers have tales to tell please contact me. He was a fascinating man and deserves to have his life recorded.

Going to the Doctors

Going to the doctors in the west, is a private, secret, lonely affair. You catch a bus or drive alone, enter a waiting room, quietly talk to the receptionist, trying to keep your name a secret and take a seat as far away from everybody else as you can. Your name is called. Surrounded by stainless steel, enamel and machines you complete your business with the doctor and you leave as discretely as possible. You may never see that doctor again, in street or surgery.

Here it is different. To start with, everybody knows your name, and pretty soon they will know why you are there.

Yati esai edw? Why are you here? What’s wrong with you?

And you have to explain. Be it haemorrhoid, verruka or cancer of the colon, they want to know. Even if, at first, you avoid explaining exactly what is the problem they will press you until they know all the painful and gory details. They are not being rude or nosy. As fellow villagers they feel they have a right to know your ailment in much the same way that they have a right to know your income, or how much rent you pay. The conversation always ends with them saying that with gods help you will be ok. And they can’t say that if they don’t know what’s wrong with you.

Then, there is the sharing of the gifts. It is normal, here in the village, to take a small gift when you visit the doctor. Not to gain special advantage, but as a sign of respect for a learned profession. Nothing expensive; some lemons from your tree, artichokes perhaps, figs or something freshly baked. And because you are all together, perhaps five or six of you in a space with room for only three or four you are soon chatting and sharing your gifts. There is Anastasia, 92 and sprightly as a spring lamb. Her eyes are a bright, baby blue and dancing around as she asks how you are. Her hands are bent and crippled with arthritis, but she drags her goats here and there and carries their food up and down the steep mountainsides around the village and in Saria. Last night she was in my yard trailing two baby goats, looking for their mother. She tells me where she found the mother and laughs, but her dialect, without t’s, d’s, g’s, or seemingly any recognisable consonant is difficult to follow. Then she reaches into the folds of her apron and hands me three lemons. She will be killing goats soon, she says, so if I need any kind of meat associated with a goat then she will find me some.

Now comes my neighbour Calliopi. Her friend is with her, a woman known to me only as thea (aunty). These are big women, very big women, they have trouble with diabetes caused by lack of exercise. They live in little houses side by side at the bottom of the steps leading to my house. All day they sit on the steps in the shade gossiping and doing crochet work for some niece or granddaughter’s wedding. They are so big that they have to turn aside to let me pass and sometimes I have fantasies of rolling them back together again to block the path against passing marauders. They are like the mythical black rocks that Seferis wrote about, tis sumplugades petres, that closed behind the ancient ships that sailed between them. When they are sitting at the bottom of my steps I know that nobody will bother me.

They give me koulouri, the hard bread, round like a doughnut, that is so good in the summer when dampened with water, dipped in olive oil and eaten with olives or salty cheese. Of course, taken together with ouzo. The thea has been ferreting around too in her apron and finds me fresh walnuts. This could be a successful morning. They ask me why I am here, sympathise by saying it will get better and tell me a little of their ailments. I do not probe too far.

A widow and another 90 year old man, who seems to own half the village arrive. I stand up to give them space and step outside to rest from the constant chatter. Everyone is talking to everyone else, sharing gifts and cursing old age and decrepitude. One by one we are called in to see the doctor.

The village does not do badly by the Greek medical service. Doctors in Greece have to work in a remote place before being given their full licence and being allowed to practice on the mainland and central places. So we have a series of young doctors on a six month or one year placement. This works surprisingly well. There is a lot of mutual respect and the villagers are surprisingly tolerant to whoever is sent to us, be they gay or straight, man or woman. With the three port policemen that are stationed here, the occasional policemen and the young visiting schoolteachers there is plenty of opportunity to form a parea or party every night and our visiting doctors seem to like it here.

Every month a Flying Dolphin hydrofoil comes from Rhodes, with doctors, nurses and paramedics. Then you see a straggle of old people crank their way at different speeds to the end of the harbour, with their corns and coughs and pains and general complaints. The flying dolphin can do x-rays and blood tests and so provides the services of a travelling hospital.

Serious problems have to be dealt with in the south of the island, or they put you on the ferry boat to Rhodes. But he real crunch is this. If you are really ill then a helicopter will come to take you to Athens. So long as you are not too old, say 70 or more. Then they tell you the weather is bad and to hang on a little longer. You can hang on as well as you like, but the weather will not clear. So, no matter how many times I am asked, I never reveal my true age. And my passport is well hidden.

There are many musicians in the village, and the people love music. They love their own more than any other, but their tastes can be eclectic.

In Vasillis’ and Elias’ bars you get anything from local to Egyptian to Greek pop to Dodecanese music. In Gabriella’s’, rembetika to world music via motown, jazz and blues. At the Anixis there is blessed silence.

The people do not play to perform. They play because they have the kefi or feeling for music. They must be in the right mood, or it must be the right day, or the right festivity. Above all they will not play when it is a day for remembering a deceased friend or relative, neither will they play, or dance , or be seen to enjoy themselves within one year of a death in the family, or of a close friend.

You will see several lyres and a lauto in Michali’s place, for he is a great musician and will sometimes play Cretan or local music for his customers. He plays Cretan style, a four stringed lyra with ba long bow without bells. He is at his best when singing sad and ancient ballads of love and loss.

Hanging up in Gabriella’s you may notice a lyra. This belongs to my friend Minas Prearis. He made it. He is of an older generation, a man of hidden, but great depth and he plays beautifully.

Sitting having my morning cafe latte in Gabriella’s and trying to read, I am joined by Agapios a shepherd and painter and decorator, who just happens to be writing a book on the flowers of Karpathos and Saria. He knows them all, and has identified several that are known only in Karpathos and one unknown previously anywhere in the world. Maybe it will be named after him louloudi agapiou. Motown is playing and Gabriella is shouting at her customers as usual. On the hill someone is using a pneumatic drill. Minas Prearis walks in, picks up the lyra that he has not touched for nearly a year and unpurturbed by all the fuss and not noticed by anyone, starts to play beautiful local music. We fall silent. He plays one final tune that I recognise and love, nods to me, puts down the lyra and walks away waving at nobody in particular. It is moments like this that bring us alive.

Another time we had supper with new visitors to the village, professional musicians; Jaap, a Dutch clarinettist and Natasha a guitarist, singer songwriter. Natasha is from Siberia and full of passion.

Georgos and I provided the octopus and Gabriella cooked octopus spaghetti.

Of course, two hours before supper Georgos wanted to go fishing for atherinos the delicious small fish. We threw the nets five times and caught nothing, maybe half a kilo in all. Each time we had to clean the nets and this is boring work and I row the boat and this is tiring work.

We were pissed off.

I shouted in my best Greek.
God is a bastard
I shook my fist at the sky.

We threw the nets one more time.

When we pulled them in they were full of fish. I mean thousands. Maybe tens of thousands, we caught 10 kilos ! Cleaning the nets took three hours.

So I guess God might be a bastard, but she has a sense of humour. Georgos told me to say nothing more.

At least we had fresh fish for meze.

So, Jaap put on one of his CDs and played really sweet clarinet along with the music, while Natasha told me I had soul. She then sang sad Russian music. They are both excellent musicians. Meanwhile Minas Prearis turned up. He had been kind of flirting with Natasha the night before. He sat there looking at her, fluttering his eyelashes 20 years older and half her size. I asked him to play.

No, no, no. The usual stuff.

Natasha wants to hear….

Suddenly, without tuning up or any preparation he has the lyra and is sitting inside Gabriella’s playing beautifully. Feet tapping, head nodding, smiling at Natasha. winking at me. He stuns the company, keeps us in total silence for half an hour, puts down the lyra , smiles and walks off. As if to say;

This is my territory, I play the best music. I am the boss.

And he’’s right.