Chaos in Siros

A half true story of humour and disaster while holidaying on the island of Crete.

 

Chaos in Siros

 

By Rick Lowe

 

For the occasional foreigner who takes a wrong turn while sight-seeing in their hired Renault and suddenly finds themselves in the sleepy, sun-baked village of Siros nestled high on the boulder strewn slopes of western Crete, their automatic impulse is to seek the quickest possible exit out of the place.  

But for me, a travel weary back-packer whose fatigued body begged for a break from the suicidal Greek traffic, fume belching buses, not to mention the sardine-packed beaches and overpriced hotels. Little lost Siros looked to be a refuge of peace and tranquility. Little did I know?

After six days of boisterous taverns and crowded café that all gorged greedily off the prosperous droppings of the mostly pale and generally bloated but well-heeded holidaymaker from Western Europe. The village of Siros appeared to me as a peaceful, old isolated village with cheap Tavern’s overnight rates, far from the maddening crowds.   

The heartbeat of the village revolved around its large plaza and all meandering lanes and bumpy roads led to this central square. It was sheltered on all sides by the traditional stone and wood structures to daily life. Two smoky but well patronized taverns were situated on the northern and lower southern sides facing each other across this steeply sloped, cobble-stoned plaza.

Other structures included a faded blue and white painted police station, a small newsagent next to a busy bakery and wedged tightly between the local undertaker's who also dealt in 'Quality' Headstones and 'Professional Weddings Photos', was an incredibly narrow barber's shop.

The most dominating structure over all others, was the village’s grand quintessential Greek Orthodox Church in its entire whitewashed splendor.

It was set slightly back from the high curb on the plaza’s western boundary and glowed like a sacred pearly gate in the midday sun. Opposite this grand temple to the Gods, across the large square on the raised eastern boundary was a lovely vine-terraced sidewalk café.

 I was sitting under this cool and shady canopy, protected from the afternoon’s hungry sun while nibbling from a generous dish of spongy feta and oil inflated olives and trying to come to grips with a small white china cup of the gritty, bittersweet Greek coffee.

It was here that I first met Petros, the village Headman.

He was a man of long thin bones and vintage years shrouded in a sheath of parched and tarnished skin. A pair of old ‘John Lennon’ wire-framed spectacles clung precariously to his long tomahawk nose magnifying black eyes with milky orbs laced with miniature red roads veins. His was a face sculptured and honed by the elements of time, nature and worldly experiences.

I was pleased to learn Petros was a retired English teaching, School Master who processed the probing and inquisitive nature of a stubborn television detective. Never the less, I found him a most intriguing and amusing character with an enthusiastic and adventuress spirit.

Upon learning of my Australian nationality, he insisted that I share his rather large pitcher of red wine. Never wishing to offend I happily agreed. 

Under the influence of the greasy marinated olives and this rather robust but congenial drop of locally brewed vino, I was given many a colorful account of his daring war years as a young Greek partisan. He clearly recalled his virile and younger days when he fought shoulder to shoulder with brave Australian soldiers in the rugged regional mountains of Crete against Hitler's hated Nazis.    

 

 

I spent the rest of the afternoon merrily savoring the local vintage and tasty appetizers with that fascinating old-timer, during this time we both worked on solving the world’s greatest problems and recounted to each other alcoholic embellished tales of our different lifestyles and wild escapades we had both had the pleasure to encounter in our pass life.      

We arranged to meet again the next morning for breakfast at that same table where he once again resumed my entertainment and local education with more lessons of the islands wild and turbulent history.

 "But these days, nothing ever happens in our little village of Siros", Petros finally muttered with a sigh of utter boredom and obvious disappointment before slowly mustering his spirit to conclude,

"However, today is our monthly market so people come in from the farms all around the area to buy, sell or trade their wares. As you can see, my young friend".                        

We were both seated comfortably over-looking the village square on old deck-chairs while contentedly sipping our potent black coffee from miniature cups, beneath the cool shade of the aged and twisted grape-vine that grew overhead along a rusty steel trellis.

Just below us was a growing hive of motion and clamor as a collection of merchants unloaded their varied goods and produce for sale. A skeleton of steel poles was quickly laced together with old twine and used wire then blanketed over with tattered canvas or blue plastic sheeting to form a long shelter for a dozen stall holders and their booty.

Folding tables and temporary benches were quickly setup and laden with musty books, secondhand cassettes and a huge assortment of porcelain statues, flower vases and bric-a-brac of little value and not much worth, until they strained under the weight.

Steel stacks of pots and pans rose in tall shiny columns behind 'Made in China' cups and saucers, cheap Italian glassware and locally fired pottery. Overhead a vast assortment of metal cooking utensils hung from wire hooks to rattled and jangled in the early morning breeze like rowdy bunch of inharmonious wind chimes. Tottery steel racks and strung cord lines displayed a vast variety of very dark and conservative new and used clothes. Slippers, sandals, shoes and work-boots stood polished, sized and graded in neat uniform ranks below like soldiers on parade.   

Nearby, sun-blemished farmers with skin as rough and dry as a basket weavers’ thumb, assembled pyramids of juicy apples, pears, oranges and grapefruit, smartly decorated around their base with crisp green garden vegetables while just behind them caged poultry and penned piglets clucked and squealed their innocence with increasing alarm to the whole world.

To our right a tight cluster of old widows clad completely in the traditional black of their dearly departed ‘love ones’. They had assembled a long wood bench on 'A' frame supports. They then produced large steel trays of sticky-sweet baklava and dripping honey rolls beside platters of sugar-coated biscuits and custard filled tarts. An irresistible temptation to anyone who passed by.

In amongst this early morning bustle bare-footed children ran, screamed and cavorted in unrestrained delight with each other while village elders congregated in huddled groups on wooden benches beneath the canopy of a giant Mulberry tree that grew smack bang in the middle of the large square. Here they performed the daily rituals of circulating and dissecting the latest village gossip while slowly rotating their worry beads and par-taking the double pleasures of bitter coffee and sweet ouzo mixed together in over-generous size cups.

The whole scene must have been typical of many a village market on the island of Crete, so I sat back in drowsy comfort with my own inky concoction to enjoy the interesting goings on, never suspecting in my wildest dreams what was about to eventuate.   

Theo, the lanky teenage son of Nickolas the cafe proprietor was perched on a stand-ladder to our right pruning back all the overgrown and loose tentacles of the overhead grapevine. A small heap of cuttings laid scattered around the base of his ladder. Meanwhile, slowly struggling her way up the steep path from the valley below was an old woman of many winters. She was clad in torn and tatty rags that looked as though they had been pilfered from the inside of a dog's kennel. A very stained and spotted poncho hung over her humped shoulders, beneath it, she was wrapped in what appeared to be several grubby skirts of unidentifiable colors, tied around her mid-rift by an old-school tie. Mud-caked black gumboots peeked out from beneath the heavily soiled hems.

She possesses a full head of what looked like tangled steel wool. A tightly wrapped green scarf that tied under a pointed bristly chin, failed in its attempt to contain this dusty and hostile briar bush from trying to escape in tuffs and clumps of snarled dreadlocks. With one wizen hand, she worked a long knotty olive staff to pod her way up the cobbled hill, in the other she dragged on a leather reign attached to the bridle a huge, mange-inflicted donkey that was snorting and laboring under the substantial weight of two Hessian sacks full of large golden pumpkins. Attached to the back of the saddle-pack were three long cords that towed along a very recalcitrant, fiery young Billy and two skittish she-goats. 

Every so often the overloaded donkey would throw back its ugly head in a stubborn teeth-baring howl of protest and dig in its front hoofs, causing the goats to be spooked and abruptly jump and jerk in different directions. Each time this happened, the old hag would swiftly wheel around and soundly wallop the cantankerous old beast across his ample rump with her thick staff and scream at the goats in some obscene dialect to restore some sort of order before continuing the journey on up the hill and into the busy square.

She eventually came to a halt right in front of our café hitching the donkey's lead to the steel trellis before she turned and sternly grunted some unintelligible jargon to her charges which I took as a guess, to translate something like;

 "Stay right here. Don’t move an inch or you'll all dead meat".

Then crabbing her way up the stone steps and onto the shady veranda she flopped wearily down into an empty chair and began to scratch out the makings of a roll-your-own cigarette from a greasy tobacco pouch she had plucked from under her crusty poncho.

Almost immediately a very generous shot of ouzo was place at her right elbow by Nick the proprietor, without a word being spoken. She threw this down in one swift, almighty gulp then slammed the glass down hard on a table where it was once again filled to the brim by Nick who then left the bottle on a small table, before he returned to his kitchen. Meanwhile the old woman began to furiously hawk, hack and spit while attempting with an old Zippo, to suck a spark of life lighter into the limp coffin nail hanging between her gaunt lips.

Out front, after several minutes of settling and regaining its breath the big jackass, unfortunately decided to sample the fresh vine-leaf cuttings that had fallen to the ground near his front hoofs. He lowered his thick neck and big head to sniff and nudge a leaf before biting it off and slowly munching it down. He must have found the taste to his liking because he continued to chomp merrily away on more fallen vine leaf, while all around the market the competitive bargaining and aroused haggling over goods and produce continued merrily on.

Now it was really most regrettable that a Mediterranean Scorpion wasp had chosen to attach its nest to one of those particular vine stems. Theo, lost in his drowsy tedium had failed to notice the fat mud-dried nest adhered to a twig he had just snipped off and dropped to the ground. The rough handling and crashing impact on its un-hatched babies must have inflamed the bright black and yellow striped wasp into an enraged frenzy. Squeezing its way out from under a dense layer of vine leaves and burning with a fanatical vendetta to seek revenge, it was suddenly confronted by two huge, damp, round and twitching nostrils on the end of a hairy, probing snout. A strong snorting intake of breath at that precise moment by the ignorant jackass, plucked that angry wasp right off his spindly six legs straight up and deep into the damp, left flared nostril cavity as if he was a fluffy piece of lint captured by the powerful suction of a vacuum cleaner.  

At first, the only reaction from the donkey was a slightly puzzled and twitching of his hairy snout while the wasp tries to regained its balance and senses to retaliated.    

Over the next few seconds all hell broke loose. The jackass's whole body went into a rigid spasm and then shuddered as if touched by an electric cattle prod on it highest setting. Next both eyeballs seem to bulge forward and cross in their sockets before rolling completely back to reveal only bloated, blood-laced milky orbs. And then he bucked, high on his hind legs with both front hooves clawing madly at the air like some totally berserk or fiendish stallion and began bellowing at the top of his lungs. 

HEEEEEEEE HAWWWWWW, HHHEEEE HAWWWWW, he brayed, with such an intense force the whole market, suddenly hushed. When as his front hooves slammed back on the cobblestones, both rear fetlocks kicked violently up and out, splitting the hessian sacks and sending pumpkins flying.

HHEEEEEEE HHAWWWWWWW, HHEEEEE HAWWWWWW, it screamed even louder, as pumpkins rained down upon the astounded Billy goat and terrified nannies. The savage jerking was too just much for the old leather reins and thin goat tethers. Both snapped easily.

Suddenly liberated from its restraints and weighty load, the stung jackass launched into a, bucking and braying frenzy. Up and down the narrow roadway he bounced like some huge, insane, white-eyed, epileptic beast on steel pogo springs.

Beach ball size pumpkins spilled out the split sacks to thunder off down the slope like a herd of stampeding tenpin bowls. Strike one, was scored against the wonky leg of the table stacked with gleaming pots and pans. The tall steel columns of pots scattered like a banana-leaf out-house in a tropical cyclone. Shattering glassware and crockery exploded and joined the clamorous avalanche tumbling down the paving-stones with a loud reverberating racket that could easily have awaken the dead.          

Infuriated by the whole affair, the young Billy turned and charged the nearest bouncing saucepan. Shocked and startled shoppers scattered from its path and rage as the pots and pans merchant wailed in despair.

The petrified nannies, whose lead ropes had somehow become fouled together bolted for their lives straight through the center of the market, felling tall terra cotta jars and flowery pot plants like toy skittles, knocking over meshed chooks cages and tripping up everyone in-between until becoming tangled around a clothing rack which they dragged off down a small side lane together. Shirts, dresses and long-johns were scattered along its tornado like path.

By now, the excited Billy highly aroused from having just head-butted a large flashing saucepan into a dull and dented mess, turned his attention and charged towards the vehemently squawking chooks and squealing piglets. Wooden crates shattered and wire cages split open as the Billy ran amuck amongst the poultry and pig stalls. Terrorized piglets scurried like desperate rats for any available cover. Hollering farmers grabbed wildly for the bolting animals, colliding hard in their attempts with unstable stalls of produce.

Small mountains of polished apples, waxed oranges and grape-fruits collapsed to the ground and started rolling off down the hill in a colorful cascade of red, green and yellow orbs. Freaked-out chickens took immediately to the wing to seek sanctuary in the old Mulberry tree's upper limbs. There they huddled in anxious clucking rows to empty their distressed bowels over the heads and shoulders of the stunned Matriarchs who huddled below, all standing on wooden benches.

HEEEEEE HAWWWWW, HEEEEE HAWWWW, the distraught jackass bawled on and on, bulging eyes ablaze with agony, creamy froth bubbling from snapping jaws and snorting nostrils as it continued to spring hap-hazily amongst the growing rumpus.

As people scrambled for their safety and traders clawed their hair in anguish, the old hag had stumbled down the steps brandishing the olive staff over her head, screaming profanities at the top of her lungs like a fanatical samurai warrior charging into battle. Fearlessly she waded into the mayhem, swinging the heavy stave with a mighty sweep at the Jacka*s's bucking backside. Missing only by inches, the long staff swung on in a wide uncontrolled arch to shatter a delicate display of free-range hen and duck’s eggs, stacked high in orderly heaps on a nearby table. The result was a messy explosion of flying shell and gooey yellow slime that splattered several horrified onlookers who had sought refuge behind that table from the riotous behavior of these beasts from hell.

At that moment, a short, plump and very foolhardy boy darted forward and grabbed the trailing rope hanging from the Billy's neck in a bravado attempt to end its annihilation of the now mostly empty chook cages. The sharp tug wrenched the Billy's head up from his carnage of the wire cages.  Suddenly, it spun around with its front legs spread wide, twisted horns at the ready while glazed and blood-flecked eyes sought the source of this new torment.    

A maniacal hint of delight seemed to flash across those demented eyes as it spotted this inviting new target at the end of its rope. Backing up a few steps, he lowered his twisted horns still further then grunted in glee and charged. Suddenly realizing his awesome mistake, fat boy dropped the rope turned and bolted up the hill as fast as his stubby legs could carry him, wailing like a siren all the way in horror as the power-crazed Billy thundered close behind, only inches from his wide, quaking backside.

Meanwhile the crashing and screaming turmoil of these events had rudely awoken the local village police sergeant from his peaceful, ouzo induced siesta, inside his tiny office. Stumbling out onto the road still buttoning his vest to investigate the source of these irritating disturbances, he came to a complete halt, utterly flabbergasted by the chaos and panic unfolding around his normally dull village square.

Crying men, frantic women and delighted children were jumping and diving for cover as a berserk jackass bounced crazily round the market, Hee haww-ing violently like some fatally cut banshee from the deepest pits of hell. Stalls and displays toppled along its path as an absurd, old hunched-backed crone pursued it recklessly whirling a thick stick and hurling a torrent of obscenities at the demented beast while irate, fist-waving merchants, bellowed in vein-popping anguish at the destruction left by both their passing.                       

Crockery shattered, pots clattered and fruit tumbled off en masse down the road as befuddled piglets shrieked like silly young schoolgirls and darted about to become tangled in singlets and brassiere's from fallen clothes racks. Overhead, desperate chickens and frantic hens hurled themselves in madly flapping, feathery lumps across the sky seeking refuge in the high branches of the only tree in the village square. There they huddled in tight, jostling columns to cackle and cluck vigorously with each other over the astounding incidents happening below.

Lurching towards him through all this turmoil of noise, dust and feathers was a big blubbering boy being pursued by a demotic goat. This was all too much for the still groggy sergeant who in a state of utter panic, fumbled urgently for his holstered police revolver, finally wrestling it from the leather pouch at his side, he aimed it over his head and fired off, three ear-shattering shots.

The deafening explosion of a 38-caliber magnum going off, in the small enclosed village square was enormous. Every chicken and hen nervously watching from high in the Mulberry tree erupted as one in a startled white mass, flying high into the air with a frenzied burst of flapping wings and terrified squawking.

Fat Albert in his dire scramble to flee the grievous horns of the demented beast at his back-side abruptly leapt high as if struck by fork lightning. Bouncing off a full sack of potatoes like an Olympic hurdler, he sailed through the air to land flat-footed with all his considerable weight on the end of the black widow's sweets and cakes bench. The immense downward impact of his significant weight on the planks-end catapulted the trays of baklava and honey rolls at the opposite end like sticky grapple fired from a huge pirate's cannon. It rocketed high and majestically across the road in a lumpy, gooey clump to strike and splatter the dumbfounded sergeant full in the face and upper chest, slamming him backwards over a table loaded with open bags of ground millet, corn flour and cooking spices. There he jerked, kicked and screamed in stunned confusion, covered in a tacky, dribbling layer of golden treacle, powdery white flour and red-hot chili powder.

George Karamanlis, I later learnt, grew the biggest and sweetest watermelons in the entire district. And his late arrival that particular morning due to an inauspicious flat tire on his battered old truck was to be the grand finale to this incredible theatre of chaos.

Excessively overloaded with plump green watermelons and traveling at a speed not highly recommended for slippery cobbled roads, he roared over the northern top crest with an awesome teeth-grinding change of gears and thundered on down the hill towards the plaza dispensing a solid smoke-screen from the billowing exhaust pipe that could quite easily have concealed a whole platoon of Greek infantry on maneuvers.

It was at this precise point, that the police sergeant had blundered out onto the road and in confused stupidity drew the pistol and fired it off into the air. Being a highly devout God-fearing man and upon suddenly encountering the Devil's mischief that littered the road ahead Georegio immediately crossed himself to ward off any sorcery afoot and screamed "HOLY MARY, MOTHER OF JESUS" in a frantic attempt to evoke the Angle of Mercy urgently to his side. The melon-man then threw his whole 22 stone of flesh and bone hard onto the brake pedal causing the rarely serviced vehicle to lockup in a piercing, tire-screaming skid.

This heart-stopping screech of protest from the huge and over-laden truck sliding down the hill brought all the other actions to a complete halt. Every head turned as one towards the truck and froze into expressions of horror at the sight. Ruffled chickens and hens hanging from power poles and store guttering ceased their incessant cackle to gawk at this new intimidating monstrosity entering the village plaza. Both the Billy and Jacka*s finally exhausted from their tantrums turned to feebly to face this giant, smoke-farting, green-backed monster screeching straight towards them.

Riding the brake pedal with all his weight and fighting to control the skidding load, Georgio gaped in utter disbelief and despair at the cluttered road of overturned stalls, scattered produce and the bewildered expressions of a big mangy donkey and wild-eyed Billy which stood gasping and heaving in his path. An empty gap between rows of collapsed stalls to the sharp right suddenly caught his eye. Without thinking, he wrenched down hard with all his might on the steering wheel towards it.

Every man, woman, child and animal watched in dumbstruck awe as the truck lurched hard for the gap. It came around in slow motion with a shuddering grind of rasping metal and the wailing pitch of scalded rubber but in its valiant efforts to avoid catastrophe, unfortunately the front right wheel rode up onto a steep curb-side gutter, tilting the vehicle sharply up and onto both its left-side wheels.

For a few incredible seconds it hung there, critically pitched and teetering but suspended in almost prefect equilibrium. Not a single melon shifted on the load, it was as if they had been mortared, wedged and locked together like green bricks. Just as it seemed it was about to return to an even keel and all would be well, the front left-hand tire blew.  

 It went off like a shotgun, shattering the hushed atmosphere and causing several chickens to fall out of the Mulberry tree in a dead faint while the rest, rocketed once more skyward in a shrilling cloud of feathers and freshly discharged chicken-s**t.    

 As everyone jumped in fright and the truck slumped low in defeat, a collective inhaling gasp of alarm rang out from several nearby people as the top melon, it was Georegio’s hand-raised prize specimen, the size of a very large beach ball. It popped out of its cradle and slowly tumbled down the side to burst with a squashy explosion onto the grey cobblestones in a messy but vibrant abstract of red and green mush, daubed with tiny black freckles.    

This was all it took to swing those delicate scales of balance towards total disaster.

We all gaped in dropped-jawed wonder as the truck gave a loud surrendering groan and crashed right over onto its left side and a hundred or more juicy watermelons spilled out onto the road and rolled down the hill in a solid tumbling green tidal wave.

The bottom melons were soon crushed to a pulp under the overwhelming barrage to form a slippery red river of mashed innards. The Billy and jackass were bowled right off their feet by this massive red and green tsunami sliding, skidding and kicking in a frenzied effort to escape the flow. It surged on through the vegetable section, felling everything left standing from the previous commotions. Crisp lettuce, firm cauliflowers and tight cabbages joined the surge. Cardboard cartons of choice tomatoes, brown onions and rich pomegranates split open to add their support and weight to the flood. Gravel rash pumpkins, bruised apples and split  citrus, all casualties of prior calamities were swept up in this second coming and given a new lease of life by joining this raging torrent of fruit and veg.

I watched in stunned disbelief from the safety of the cafe's high terrace as two struggling animals and half the market's vegetable produce flowed slowly passed me, down the steep road and out of the village square.  

Following close behind it all, slipping and sliding like a one-legged soccer player on a wide slimy trail of vegetable matter, came the haggard old crone. Her scarf had fallen off to release a fierce fuzzy-wuzzy tangle of electrified grey hair. Splattered egg gunk and milled flour covered her from head to foot but she continued her cussing harder than a Chinese shithouse cleaner during a diarrhea epidemic. She slipped and staggered off down the road in grim pursuit of her obstinate and disobedient beasts dragging her menacing staff behind her. 

 From out of the overturned truck's open window, popped the bald plate and slumped shoulders of the Melon-man. Totally aghast and still befuddled by the ways of the Lord, he appraised the river of damage with goggle-eyed horror and cried, "HOLY JESUS, SON OF GOD" then quickly crossed himself, several more times.    

From under crumpled tarps and assorted rubble cautiously crawled the dazed stall owners and their customers. Many wore the drained expressions of a victim of major tragedy. Others, sensing the danger had passed, ranted and raved, waving clenched fists over their heads and bellowing dire consequences for all those responsible. Forgetting the slick condition of the road in their blustering rage, several slipped and skidded off to slam hard into others, only to end up in a messy heap amongst all the other fallen debris.

Under the Mulberry tree, still huddled in tight standing groups on the top of the benches and chairs like a flock of bewildered sheep, the elderly patriarchs clung tightly to each other and vigorously worked through their worry beads in what looked to be a united endeavor to exorcise the dark satanic forces that had just visited their small peaceful village.

Opposite, the old widows in black attire slapped their cheeks and foreheads with open palms and bewailed loudly over their ruined baklava and sweets, all the while cursing the poor local policeman who wore most of their sticky culinary efforts over his entire body dusted with a coating of flour and seed.

 

It took the remainder of the day to clean up the village square from the debacle created that market day by a mad little wasp and a grumpy enraged donkey. I expect the local village Priest had very full congregations for the next month or so to help exorcise and expel the Devil’s mischief from their small village.

The chicken and pork producers of the region spent the next week trying to round up their absconded flock. Some were never to be located, meanwhile several lucky nearby village farmers had hushed banquets of roast pork or fried chicken from gifts found wandering in their vegetable patch.   

 

As for the sleepy little village of Siros where, 'Nothing ever happens'.

It will always remain the highlight of my Greek Adventure....

 

          

 

 

 

Author's Note

ignore grammar problems, what do you think of the dialogue, story etc

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

You are a amazing writer. I liked the story line, the characters and the energy/drive of the words. You brought me in and I wanted to know and read more. I liked the journey. Thank you Richard for sharing the amazing story.
Coyote