It's Enough: Simply Symi Island, Greece

CONCLUSION

ONE

INTRODUCTION - ‘HEY, I’M ESCAPING’

‘I’m escaping,’ I said to family and friends, ‘leaving the old routines to live for six months on a sunny, carefree Greek island.’ With wide eyes, broad grins and ironic envy they replied, ‘you must be mad!’ Unlike Shirley Valentine escaping a sombre marriage, my skies in Perth, Western Australia, are mostly intense blue and my life satisfying. Having been married, and then, as a sole parent, nurtured my three children, I had now been single for some time. With a patchwork of terrific friends colouring my life and being equally stroked to stand on ancient Portuguese battlements, as sit solitary in my Australian garden drinking black coffee or sipping a chilled chardonnay while watching bees burying themselves in pollen-chocked sunflowers, I am lucky.

Now however, I had been grabbed by the Greek island dream - experience an idyllic escapade and prove to myself I could live alone within another culture. I was inspired to have a simple existence — to write, contemplate life with non-English speaking people, to learn about old Greek customs and history while trying to live on little.

An old hand at travelling, having wandered through Europe’s cathedrals and colosseums, tramped dusty African plains, seen Canada and America’s startling beauty, swum in turquoise water around various Pacific Islands and visited Asia’s exotic jumble, I have generally only stayed a few weeks. My experiences ranged from posh accommodation through to backpacker shared male and female dormitories – mostly, though not always, with separate ablutions! In Australia, apart from living in Perth, Adelaide, Melbourne and Sydney, I have snorkelled the Great Barrier Reef many times, driven across the Nullarbor Plain several times and in my fly-in/fly-out role as a Human Resources Superintendent lived for over five years at a gold mining camp, on the edge of the Great Victoria desert in basic ‘donga’ accommodation.

Now though, the time was right. Like Ms Valentine’s, my children are independent. Unlike Ms Valentine’s, mine are quite accustomed to their mother tackling strange and impressive adventures — sailing Turkey’s Turquoise Coast, travelling by coach through numerous European countries including the Czech Republic, Venice, Hungary, Switzerland, Austria, backpacking along deserted Irish roads, catching local Turkish buses — with such adventures eliciting nothing more than, ‘Oh Mum’s off to...’ and often with the announcement, ‘Good I’ll come with you!’

Destination Greek Island began. In Gerald Durrell’s book My Family and other Animals, his idea and departure to Corfu appeared almost simultaneous. For me though, to take off for six months, involved planning, persistence and desperate cleaning to leave my house ready to rent (which due to a shonky real estate agent, did not eventuate). We all worked like Trojans, the citizens of Troy who being besieged by Greeks, (seems appropriate), had a reputation for industrious, hard work. My daughters, Jo and Kristy, together with my dear old cleaning lady Betty, who refused to accept any money, cleaned the house inside and out – every cupboard, floor, window, wall, paving and the garden area. I needed to arrange to pay accounts in my absence and hoping I could work for some of the time I was away, calculate how much money I would need.

First stop, London, to stay with my old friend Jean. Feeling travel termites twisting and turning, I finally flew from Perth to Singapore. At Changi Airport, incongruously I thought, an electric piano belted out The Entertainer and I watched a young girl, travelling with her mum, eat a healthy wedge of watermelon then a slab of black forest cake crammed with cream. Inwardly my stomach turned over as I pondered the cattle-class airline food ahead. From Singapore to London, Heathrow, it is approximately 10850 km, flying over the awesome Arabian Sea, Dubai, Shar Jar, the Persian Gulf and on over desolate barren salt lakes that look like a rugged, jumbled moonscape artfully chiselled into pink marble peaks. Way below sat the exotic cities of Cairo, Lahore, Kuwait, Baghdad, Amman, Tehran, Mecca and Jeddah then from Iran, on another 4500 km to London, flying at an altitude of 10,700 metres, and the outside temperature -50˚.

Heathrow at last and travel frustrations began when I discovered my £10 BT phone card had expired. Finally telephoned my friend Jean and despite me giving her the wrong arrival date she was home so I caught the tube to her house in East Finchley, London. Even after the long flight, I began to slip into the travel experience and became amused by tube passengers. A young girl with a King Kong sized stuffed green Kermit frog complete with crown and cape; a spiky haired youth with monster silver skeleton toes, the usual open-mouthed snorers.

I had met Jean years before when she was on holidays with a bunch of her UK friends and I was sailing the Turkish Coast with my youngest daughter Kristy. At that time, Jean, who is a gregarious character, tough as a marshmallow, was working in a home for young kids whose lives were as jagged as the tempers they displayed. Her nose broken, verbally abused and witnessing an attempted suicide, she was ready for a break, although she would return to the same caustic actions and attitudes. Keeping in touch before email, Jean had invited me to stay with her in London when my other daughter Jo and I were visiting the UK on an extended trip. Jo found work in Oxford and I stayed for long periods with Jean when sharing the same madcap sense of humour we enjoyed many crazy escapades.

Jean related stories from her work about kids with hearts, spirits and homes broken — though mostly we cackled like old crones, cracking up when relating stories such as when Jean’s friend Madeline’s four year old grand-daughter Lucy, on hearing that Jean and I had gone to the pub one time, said, ‘That’s very disturbing.’

London’s spring colours daubed the usual grey backdrop, tulips erupted like fireworks, creamy jonquils, daffodils nodded knee-high heads of sunshine amongst hyacinths the colour of deep space. Aged elms and acorn trees had started to speckle green but I was excited to escape. Break away from London’s crowded tubes, the grime, graffiti, beggars and hordes streaming solemn faced from buses and trains; away from rows of parade-ground houses with vacant-eyed protruding windows, their chimneys strict sentinels standing to attention before miniature front gardens; leave the colourless monotony that was only briefly relieved by spring.

Apart from nature’s dazzle, flashes of Royal blue dropped like Indian ink, as the country mourned the death of the Queen Mum. Royal pomp and pageantry showcases English tradition to the world and now, gold and burgundy heraldic banners, guards’ uniforms emblazoned with braid,piping and regal feathers rubbed shoulders with jackets and jeans, in mutual sorrow, as the ragged, uncomplaining crowds waited to pay their respects. A simpering sun battled the murky gloom; however, ceremonial London remained listless. People appeared disheartened in a manner unrelated to mourning. Perhaps their jubilation is solely for football matches. Reasonably warm (London warm) the city’s attractions could not sway me. I needed a Greek Odyssey and yearned for eye-hurting sunshine and an intense blue canopy.

But which Greek Island? Originally, I had chosen Crete because a few years back when Greek island hopping with Kristy, we had inadvertently taken an extended ‘scenic’ ferry route. After Mỷkonos, Santorini, Paros, Naxos and Ios we were heading to Turkey via Rhodes (Rodos) but accidentally hopped on the wrong lumbering giant that transported us the long way round via Crete. This 18-hour rolling ferry ride took as long as flying from Australia to the UK. On that ferry, we talked with a citizen from Crete and it became apparent memories were long, very long. This man talked about World War II as though it was recent, despite having ended many decades before. With characteristically long memories, he talked warmly of all that Australians had done for Crete during the war and concluded with the words, ‘We never forget.’ Feeling patriotic and pleased to be allied with Greece, his words still chilled me. Past battles, generated hates, passed from one generation to the next, also not forgotten.

With this positive attitude to Australians, Crete seemed the place for a lone Australian female looking for a temporary home. I could just imagine the way strewn with rose petals, my thirst slaked with drinks of the alcoholic variety offered at every turn, sweet, succulent figs picked from laden trees and sun warmed grapes, peeled no doubt, together with a big, wide Greek welcome.

I was however, to receive this overwhelming big, fat, unconditional Greek welcome not on Crete but on Symi Island, after seeing a life-changing picture of Symi in a travel magazine. As simple as that, I made the decision. The photograph showed Symi’s harbour bathed in pastels, tumbledown houses hazily merging with stately mansions as they spilt down the hillside to greet fishing boats sitting in the harbour’s curve. Like the mariners in Greek mythology lured onto the rocks by the Sirens songs, I too was hooked.

Symi has a long and interesting history. According to Greek mythology, the island is reputed to be the birthplace of the Three Graces and named after the nymph Syme although another myth has the island named after King Ialissos’ daughter Symi who was kidnapped, or enticed, by the god, Glafkos and transported from Rhodes to the rocky little island. Yet another version claims it came from the word scimmia meaning a monkey. It is a confusing monkey of a business how the island was named.

Symi, I learnt, was a small island of approximately 58 km² — 13 km long and 9.5 m at its widest point — part of the Dodecanese island chain in the South Aegean, 41 km north north-west of Rhodes and close to the coast of Turkey. Once renowned for its boat building, sponge fishing, winemaking, wood-carvers and icon-painters, an interesting history and a little off the tourist track, Symi looked perfect.

Greece was once renowned for its boat-building, sponge-fishing, winemaking, wood-carvers and icon-painters. A little off the tourist track with an interesting history for me to investigate, Symi looked perfect.

I would also discover Symi’s simple lifestyle. Although my path was not scattered with rose petals, fragrant roses did scramble over walls as they revelled in the sun. Drinks of the alcoholic variety were indeed offered at every turn and wild sweet figs, though tempting to be taken, in reality were tiny, as the trees on arid Symi, desperate for water, produced scarce apologies for what I consider heavenly fruit. Figs aside, Symi offered me other food delights, plus tranquillity, spellbinding scenery, a sweat inducing heat and improbably affable hospitality. I learnt something of the island’s harsh history, met many people and learnt about their philosophies and lives while I lived a simple life on this stunning Greek island.

TWO

OFF, OFF AND AWAY - 10 APRIL

After spending hours searching the Internet for a cheap charter flight from London, Gatwick to Rhodes, I was finally on my way to Symi. From Rhodes it is a ferry trip on Symi 1 or Symi 11 to the island where I was hoping Greek women will harangue me, as happened previously when visiting the Greek islands, with offers for a reasonably priced bed.

London turned on five degrees departing temperature and light rain, of course! Gatwick was crowded with Brits taking their traditional two-week sun holiday to Málaga, Cancún, Larnaca, Miami, Barbados or Barcelona. Though leaving for holidays, few people smiled. Perhaps their gloom resulted from contemplating the proverbial sardine squeeze on charter flights but I was elated and like a little kid anticipating a birthday could not stop smiling. I dozed overnight at the airport to be ready for the flight and imagined my days of wine and roses starting shortly on secluded Symi. In reality more likely retsina, or rosé, (a drink for me, Rosa?), and thyme.

For security reasons boarding was slow causing the plane to be late leaving Gatwick. Every third or fourth passenger was frisked and carry-on bags were thoroughly searched. Not selected for this check I breathed a sigh of relief because having crammed my daypack chock full for my extended time away it would have taken forever, or never, to repack.

Designed to thwart birds living and breeding dangerously near the airport’s mad chaos, where hundreds of planes fly in and out every twenty-four hours, from the plane window I see alongside Gatwick’s runways, red and white metal tags flapping near ponds and waterways like a vast metal floral display.

I was served my vegetarian on-board breakfast, a strange uggy conglomeration, which with enormous imagination could be egg. Cooked quickly, served fast, the remains forever remain on the tray table. Ah, that is why the other passengers looked so gloomy! I close my eyes and practice my Greek. ‘Ya ssas’ (hello), ‘ne’ (yes), ‘ochi’ (no), ‘parakalo’ (please).

Soon Rhodes (Rodos) appeared and the azure water barely rippled under the slowly descending silver bird Airbus. Coming from grey London the sight of chirpy tomato, blue, green and canary yellow striped oil tanks near the landing strip amused me as quirky, designed perhaps, to divert passengers from looking at a plane crashed at the end of the runway! However, we landed safely and the throng unsardined.

Greece at last and soon Symi! I exhaled, almost as though I had held my breath for the whole flight. ‘You ... here!’ and a chunky thumb was waved in my direction. With an Australian passport, mine had to be stamped. The surly Greek, with a cigarette dipping dangerously close to a fat moustache that would surely strain thick soup, stamped my passport with a thump as though killing a cockroach. Dust swirled around my backpack and I asked myself, ‘What am I in for?’

Travel representatives Lois and Anna, from Laskarina Holidays, graciously offered me a ride from the airport to the harbour on the coach provided for their holiday guests, however, I soon asked myself the same question, ‘What am I in for?’ Two officious, black-leathered Rhode’s police hailed, and then boarded the coach that was taking us on the 20-30 minute ride. One policeman stomped down the aisle in high black boots commonly shown in World War II films, each stomp a purposeful goose step as he looked for I knew not what. The other police officer’s menacing sunglasses, round like flies-eyes, reflected the holidaymakers’ amused smiles. The pomposity was like a comic opera as they disdainfully checked whatever they felt like checking — coach papers, driver’s papers, passenger numbers. As one policeman started to count passengers, and I made it one passenger too many, I squinted with interest, yet tried to look nonchalant in case I was tossed off the coach half way between Rhodes (Rodos) Airport and the harbour. Apparently, one guest’s husband had died and on hearing this someone responded, ‘Oh so he’s not coming then.’ Muster passed we were waved off with a sneer. This however, would not be my last encounter with the bureaucratic Greek constabulary.

The coach load of mainly Brits who had booked with Laskarina Holidays, the company of the enticing brochure fame, finally reached Mandriki harbour where we were to leave on Symi 1, together with moustachioed and bearded Greeks, for the two-hour ferry crossing to Symi. This crossing can be either smooth or stomach heaving, however this evening the sea was unruffled and the old faithful ferry surged forward gurgling pale turquoise and white bubbles in its wake. The ferry carried not only holidaymakers but also locals, many smoking, and men constantly clicking worry beads. I talked with the holiday representatives and was somewhat disconcerted to be told that casual work meant seven days a week, possibly a split shift. How would I discover life on this island if I worked seven days a week?

Turkey — scrubby and uninteresting — loomed on one side and on the other, Symi. As I watched a deserted, stark, ragged terrain glide past, murky grey in the evening gloom, again I asked myself that same question. Not the introduction to Symi I imagined. Occasionally the barrenness was relieved by tiny remote white churches that peeped impassively from seemingly inaccessible hilltops. Had my misadventure begun?

Despite having drooled over travel brochures that flaunted Symi and enticed me to travel here, nothing prepared me for my first sight. We rounded the butting, barren headland that looked uninhabitable and there was Symi looking magical. My first entry into Symi Harbour in the mauve evening light is etched in my mind as a vivid image.

From the hilltop village, houses dawdled down the steep hills to the horseshoe-shaped harbour. 19th century neoclassical mansions, some in splendid disintegration, peeped through a blue, grape-jelly dusk. Other 18th century modest, fairytale stone houses, painted pale blue, deep burgundy and warm sandy ochre, appeared to float through the evening’s haze, melded with a jumbled treasure-trove of fairy lights and winked an enchanted kingdom greeting.

Daylight would reveal an artist’s palette dipped in the