Lonely Monks and the Rise and Fall of Greek Cuisine

Before leaving the boat, everyone made sure that they were respectfully attired. This meant, despite the heat, wearing long trousers, shirts and closed shoes. It proved almost disastrous in the case of my feet, who still don’t forgive me for the Spanish tortures I put them through. But, there was a higher power commanding our dress code– we were to visit a 13th century monastery, and to this day, only the shoehorn of God can force my wild extremities into prisons of leather and rubber.

A half-mile across the water was the island of Stamfani, the larger of the two Strophades Islands. Almost abandoned by the mainland altogether, these two rocks are anchored in an isolated time warp at least a day’s journey from anywhere on a sane map. Both Stamfani and its smaller cousin, Arpia, have been all but reclaimed by low-lying forest; the type of dense pine that hits the ground like a screaming toddler and refuses to be picked up by parental sea winds.

Stamfani’s pockets of humanity constituted the monastery, a small farm, a chapel and, on the opposite side of the island, an automated lighthouse and abandoned shack. Long ago the monastery had housed a flourishing community of scholastic priests, a stout breed of Greek whose anti-Turkish stubbornness is commemorated by a monument on the island. Now, however, their numbers have dropped to one.

“The poor man,” Simone said, wrapping a towel around her bikinied body, “he must have been scandalised, watching all of us swimming in almost nothing.”

At first glance Simone was right. The monk, traumatised by the sinful sight of bare, female flesh, must have locked himself in a pit beneath the monastery, refusing to stop whipping his scarred back until the devil-worshippers had left his sight.

So, we took our time exploring the otherwise uninhabited island.

There was an eerie air over the land. It was enhanced by the large numbers of birds, squawking and pecking everywhere, as if they’d overthrown their human masters in a swift “chicken coup”. Dad and I split off from the group, making our way overland towards the distant lighthouse. Our passage was halted a few times by tree walls and sea cliffs, but finally we found a track through the forest. The heat and sounds of the island instantly vanished, inhaled and held by the tree lungs around us. We followed the twisting path for quite a way, falling deeper and deeper into the romance of this abandoned island.

Our efforts in finding it were to such a level that the lighthouse itself proved to be a disappointing reward. A derelict house sat at its base, and the lighthouse was boarded up: solar panels and light sensors now controlled its nocturnal duties.

My disappointment was further fuelled when, reuniting with the others, we learnt that the monk had made an appearance.

Long years of isolation had eroded his strict, Orthodox tenets and, more tragically, his mind. Rather than the pious hermit we’d expected, the monk of Stamfani was an old man, closing the gates on his nineties, and unable to symmetrically trim his beard.

He was also more naked than any of us had imagined, only wearing a pair of dirty underwear to protect his dignity.

Not really wanting to talk, the monk barked at Paolo “Italiano!”, before retreating into his shed behind the monastery.

Curses! I had traded away the sight of a senile, indiscreet monk in exchange for an old building in a forest. So much for Frost’s road less travelled.

That night we slept in shallow waters just off the shore of Arpia Island. Some strange creature, most likely a flesh-eating bird, tormented us from the darkness with a call that sounded like a helium-high child choking on coagulated phlegm. Though we found nothing the next day, I can assure you all that these monsters are the reason why the Strophades are uninhabited, save for an old man who probably thinks that he’s a bird anyway.

From the fierce shores of Strophades, we came to the mainland Peloponnese, and found ourselves under the stern watch of the “eyes of the Serene Republic”. Back in the 15th century, the twin ports of Methoni and Koroni were important stop over points for pilgrims and traders making their way to and from the Holy Lands. The Venetians, who’d provided a lot of the transport for Crusaders, had claimed a healthy chunk of the Eastern Mediterranean for their spoils, extending their republic and monopolising the lucrative Medieval tourist market. Situated as they are on either side of the first finger of the Peloponnese, the fortresses of both Methoni and Koroni were perfect sites from which the Venetians could keep track of all naval movement through their waters.

After saying goodbye to Simone in Methoni, we sailed around to Koroni, passing an isolated midway beach that, due to its large population of nudist tourists, probably has the Republic in a constant state of cross-eyed lechery.

That night in Koroni we talked about the flux in food quality on our travels. My experience of Greece so far has demonstrated that food does not change too much from region to region: you will find the same meals of Greek salad, tzatziki and mousaka no matter where you go. However, what does change is the quality and appearance of the food. For example, I’m a big fan of taramasalata, the fish roe dip, and I’ve now had it in varying shades from blood pink to cream and sometimes mixed with potato instead of yoghurt.

Such a concentrated education in Greek cuisine means that, after a short period of time, you become very sick of pedestrian food, and will only stomach that last piece of feta if it’s actually of decent quality. It’s a shame to become so picky, but the sad truth is that a lot of restaurants in this part of the world (to be fair, this happens all over the world, but I’m limiting my observations for this point) are catering more to the romance of the history and culture, rather than providing good quality meals.

So, when you’re in a tourist-rich town, such as Koroni, you have to be very careful where you go to eat. If you’re surrounded by Greek tourists, then you’re in a pretty safe spot, but if all you can hear is German and English, then you’re in trouble. The mousaka on your plate will be filled with overly rich béchamel sauce, the feta will be too dry, and the mussels will be from New Zealand.

The only place where this rule-of-thumb doesn’t hold sway is the Strophades. There’s a good chance that the last monk was eaten by the mad, naked imposter we met, and any culinary experience under those circumstances is going to be one filled with blood, terror and questionable cuts of meat.

No bad feta though – be thankful for small blessings.

Flash

“4...3...2...1...Let’s go!”

Rocket-propelled, our taxi shot onto the opposite side of the road, overtaking the ambling SUV ahead of us as houses and trees blurred into streaks. Simone and I had sold our souls to the devil in the hope of finding internet access at Laganas, the party capital of Zakynthos.

Free flesh, flashing lights, touts and drink coupons are all that this part of the world produces. The language of choice is English, followed closely by German, but everyone fits a standardised model of debauchery; bikinis worn at night, strip shows next to tour boat offices and drinking until your words slur and shift into someone else’s mouth. Don’t even think of going to a club before midnight, because it’s still asleep. The main strip is a nursery – screaming infants wail their dance beats and flash UV light, all the same except for name and the colour of the door girl’s hair.

Across the salty water floats Marathonisi Island. Serene and dark, its turtle shape matches the form of its inhabitants, the endangered loggerhead turtles that lay their eggs on its soft, white beach. Sixty days later hatchlings pop their heads out and follow the glowing mask of the full moon to plunge safely into sea waters.

And then Laganas awoke and exploded a constant stream of bright light from the opposite direction. In droves, baby turtles now follow the footsteps of British youth and party to death upon the shore.

“Yeah, it’s a shame, but the turtles are alright y’know, people are looking after them. Sometimes you gotta think, maybe people care more about the turtles than the rest of us,” Dave, a barman from Coventry, told me.

This is the literal line in the sand here in Laganas. Local tourism wants to claim the same level of party dollars as the other big, fat, Greek islands in the Aegean, but they’re facing stiff competition from the turtles, whose advocates are now taking the issue of their protection to the European Court of Justice.

My vote is for the turtles.

Laganas and its plastic atmosphere were a far cry from our previous anchorage in Porto Vromi. Hidden away in the rough heights of north-western Zakynthos, Vromi is a tiny bay packed with local tour boats. These boats are run by family enterprises that take tourists to see the Navagio shipwreck, as well as a few caves, before enticing customers back to their taverna for the evening meal.

While we had already seen the shipwreck, we were all famished, so Daniela waved down a passing boat to inquire about food options in the area. This whimsical moment brought two elements into our life. Firstly, we were introduced to Yiannis, a member of the extensive family associated with Alexandra’s Taverna. Second, and more importantly, we met Nikolas the Don of Porto Vromi.

Nikolas is a compact man, shorter than most, but with sinewy muscles and an impressively tanned chest that is always on display. His face is like a squashed cousin of Ian Holm’s, and his eyes constantly scan the waters around him – he appeared to be Porto Vromi’s lifeguard.

I say appear, because the folk of Porto Vromi were not isolated to single occupations. Yiannis, who drove tourists around the sights, also made olive oil and wine, while his nephew, Dionysus, operated a similar tour service when not working as a waiter in his parent’s taverna. Yiannis drove me up to his sister’s taverna on our first night in Vromi and we chatted in a halting fashion, neither really knowing anything in the other’s language. Even so, we quickly found common ground.

“You from Sydney? You know Mary Quill?” Yiannis asked.

“No, I don’t, sorry. Who is she?” I replied, confused.

“What? You don’t know? Mary Quill! Mary Quill! Big street!”

A gear ticked over.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHH, you mean Marrickville, yes?” I asked.

“Yes! Yes! Marrickville, I was born twenty years when I visit there. My father’s brother, he lives there!”

I told Yiannis that it was a very small world, because Marrickville – the one thing he knew about Sydney – was the suburb where I’d lived until just recently. However, Yiannis didn’t understand what I meant by “small world”, and the conversation ended there.

So, let’s return to Nikolas. When not saving lives, Nikolas would ferry folk from boat to shore at Vromi. He did this completely for free, refusing tips and repaying gifts with shouted beers and food at the cantina on the beach. Over the two days we spent moored here, Nikolas became a surrogate part of Felicite and showed us around the amazing sea grottoes that honeycomb the cliffs of this island.

One cave in particular is a big favourite in these parts. Called Poseidon’s Face, it is a cave where a collection of eroded stalactites form the face of a man when viewed from a certain angle. Nikolas presented us with some snapshots of him staring at the face, which appeared to be wearing Oakley sunglasses. He was very proud of this piece of trick photography, and copies could be purchased at the cantina.

On our last day in Vromi, Simone and I took another physical challenge and walked seven kilometres from this cantina to Alexandra’s Taverna. Nikolas, having seen us trek off in nothing more than thongs (flip-flops for any Northern Hemisphere folk reading this), summoned a dark Mercedes to offer us a lift. We explained that we were actually enjoying the walk and the car drove off.

Further ahead, we stopped in at another taverna for a drink of water. The owner, who Dionysus would tell us was an enemy of his family, was equally bemused to hear about our intentions of walking, and offered us the use of his car. Again we refused, and continued along the steep, snaking roads through olive groves and goat paddocks.

Nikolas was our guest of honour that night. Earlier in the day, Dad had leant over to me and whispered, “I wonder what this guy’s angle is, being so helpful to us?” Daniela had insisted that we were all being too cynical and that this part of the world was just genuinely generous. For the record, Daniela is mostly correct.

Though he didn’t eat anything, Nikolas joined our table and communicated through his broken English/Italian that he wanted to share some photos with us. These, he explained, were a gift from some tourists. It became apparent quite quickly, however, that the tourists in the photos did not have Nikolas in mind when they took them; random photos of faces, places and events far removed from Vromi flashed across the computer screen. When pushed, Nikolas admitted that these photos were “left behind” more than they were “given”.

Changing the mood with a hand clap, Nikolas produced a new collection of photos, which he insisted were his. As he ordered and consumed more and more wine, Nikolas pointed to the slide show of artistic trees and sparkling coves, saying “Porto Vromi” to indicate where they were taken and then “Nikolas” to suggest that he was the photographer.

The slide show wound on, occasionally presenting an interesting photo, but our eyes started to glaze over.

And then we saw buttocks.

So began a parade of voyeuristic photos, capturing unaware Europeans in various states of undress , and all to the excited tune of “Porto Vromi! Nikolas!” Apparently, Nikolas felt that now was the perfect time to expose us to his very private collection.

By the end of the night, all fleshed out, we returned to Felicite. Along the way Nikolas pointed out what appeared to be a kid’s treehouse, built beside where the tour boats were moored. He tapped his chest and said, “Casa Nikolas”, before inviting Paolo up to spend the night with him. His generous offer was politely turned down.

Though Nikolas returned to say goodbye to us the next morning, I was downstairs, so my final sight of the Don of Porto Vromi was as a silhouette, sitting by his window with candle light and mournful Greek music drifting out across still waters toward our boat.

Someone should have told him that brighter lights may have attracted more flesh to Vromi. Or at least a pet turtle to keep him company.