Political dingle dangles

In our house, we love looking at maps, just as much as the Brits love birdwatching. My favorite map is one I picked up on the Kings Road in London from one of those shops where people pay a lot of money for a not-so-useful-but-very-artistic gift to impress their friends, and then they ask the shop assistant to wrap it up for them in some expensive wrapping paper, in this case, the map. Three pounds for a piece of paper with an old European map printed on it, showing the state of Europe in 1897, from the perspective of the USA.

In 1897, Finland did not exist, nor did Poland. Ireland was not a divided country, while Romania was a third of its present size. Austria was Hungary and Hungary was Austria, while Germany and Turkey both claimed to be empires. Serbia and Bosnia were separate countries, as they are now after the killings and destruction that Yugoslavia underwent to get back to the state it was in over 100 years ago.

The Century Atlas Map of Europe, 1897

100 years ago, no one knew where Macedonia was, but every one knew Constantinople. Now, you can choose the kind of Macedonia you want to go to (but not on a Greek map), whereas no one can go to Constantinople any more (you've got to go to Istanbul). Uskup was a relatively insignificant part of the Turkish empire. Now, with a slight change of name (Skopje), it's a relatively insignificant part of Europe. Greece was about as big as two Sicilies stuck one on top of each other, and it reached as far as Larissa. Crete was still considered part of the Turkish empire and it had no sure name - it was also labelled Candia. In 1897, Candia - or Crete, as I now know my beloved homeland - had only just managed to free itself from hanging off the dingle-dangles of the Turkish empire.

I stuck my purchase up on the kitchen wall when we returned home from our trip. My husband thought it inappropriate.

"This map only confuses me, Maria, I can't find my bearings." People believe in labels. He couldn't see the ones he expected on this old 1897 version of Europe. I bought him an updated map of the continent as we know it, produced in Greece, and labelled in the politically appropriate manner as such. He was delighted.

"Now we can take the old one down," he said.

I protested. "Let's keep it there for comparison reasons."

Modern Europe, 2006 (Greek edition by Loukopoulos Bros)

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He was staring intently at this modern map the other day.

"One look at this map and its obvious what they want to do."

"Who?" I asked. I eventually worked out who he meant by they. You will too.

"The gas pipeline presently runs from Russia, through the Ukraine, and onto some other European nations, eventually arriving in Greece.

The present gas pipeline (approximately)

"The Russians are sick and tired of playing games with bad debtors who hang off they's dingle-dangles, so they want to build another gas pipeline running through politically friendlier countries.

The future gas pipeline (approximately).

"But they says that's not necessary, because they wants to build its own pipeline running from Kazakhstan, whose resources they uses, running through Turkey, which would then pass it on to Greece. Which all means, of course, that if we decide to use gas from they's new proposed pipeline, we'd be hanging off both they's and Turkey's dingle-dangles. And they hopes we're going to agree. Paparia!"

They would prefer it if Greece used this gas pipeline instead

*** *** ***

Politics. We've had enough of both politics and politicians as of late. Politics and politicians get involved in so much of the daily life of Greece, that Greeks simply cannot progress, and all because we allow ourselves to hang off the own dingle-dangles of our politicos. I wonder what would happen if we were simply to ignore them, and carry on with our daily business, as if they simply did not exist.

A charming middle-aged Englishman once told me on a double-decker bus in Londond that my kids are destined for the stage...

Take the Vasilopita cutting function for the Chess Academy of Chania that I attended last weekend with my children. The event was supposed to start at 6.30pm. I should have known this would have meant 'Greek time', in other words, at least 3/4 of an hour late. The only reason why we went was because my son had won third prize in an in-house tournament, and he was going to be awarded his medal on this night. The event was held at the reception area of a hotel. The admission price was 5 euro per person, sweets and drinks included, raffle tickets excluded (2 euro each). I couldn't work out why the event couldn't start on time: was it because of the strict adherence by Greeks to Greek time, or was it because all the politicians who were invited to give out the awards were adhering strictly to Greek time, hence our hanging off their dingle-dangles, in order to achieve the purpose we were there for?

The array of politicians was wide. I have never, ever, in my whole life, had the chance to see the people who run both my town and country from up so close. (And neither do I wish to have to do this again so quickly.) I was lucky (in that double sense) to be sitting near the door and could take in their individual entrances. I had my camera with me, but since none of these people had the Tsipras factor, it never occurred to me to take photos of these important gents as they arrived at this auspicious occasion, "η κοπή της Βασιλόπιτας", the cutting of the New Year's cake for the Chess Academy of Chania, an event held any time in January by all clubs and organisations, usually a social occasion to wish the members good luck. Many Members of Parliament were invited, but funnily enough, no priests, hinting that chess is a political rather than religious game.

The first politico to arrive was from the old school of politicians, Mr Skoulakis (a fellow blogger, would you believe). He has the classic Cretan looks with a thick moustache; he looks very much like my dad. His serious but homely manner reminds one of Venizelos, the famous Cretan politician who became the Prime Minister of Greece. Skoulakis entered the room like a gentleman who didn't need any introductions, taking it for granted that everyone knew him, and they did, because he's been in politics longer than I have been alive.



Next in was Mr Markoyiannakis. Why he's known better as Markoyiannis, without the Cretan name suffix -akis, as one would expect of a Cretan (have you ever noticed my own name?), might have something to do with his blond looks - he definitely doesn't look like my dad. He entered the room shiftily, his furtive gaze showing on his mafia-like fatsa as his eyes darted quickly from one side of the room to the other. He was flanked by two slight looking gentlemen who, despite their short stature, were probably undercover cops with pistols hidden in the right places to be brought out as needed. Mr Markoyiannakis never actually looked at anyone, just straight through them. The icing on the cake was when he excused himself for having to leave the event early. In his own words; "There are a lot of Vasilopites to cut this evening." Shucks man, that guy works so hard.



Along comes Karagiozis in the form of Voloudakis. His eyes were large and bright, just like a college freshman's; he's new to the job. It's clearly obvious by the way he kept his hands raised waving to everyone; he looked as though he didn't know anyone in there in the first place. He waved as he entered with his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets, just like a Kewpie doll. He looked like my dad - the young version, of course, minus the moustache; let's face it, it's not so fashionable these days. He carried on like this until the end of his stay at the awards ceremony, exiting in exactly the same fashion as he entered, his hands flapping wildly.

What kind of Vasilopita ceremony would it be if we didn't have Santa Claus himself making an appearance? Enter Mr Nikiforakis, Santa Claus minus the podge. He had a jolly look about him; he couldn't stop smiling and laughing. His humour was contagious - we ended up laughing with him too. He kept confusing the derivatives of the word 'skaki' (σκάκι), the Greek word for 'chess', with the word 'skase' (σκάσε), the Greek word for 'shut up'. This guy also looked like my dad (albeit after he had lost a lot of weight due to illness), and yes, he had a moustache. At one point he couldn't stop laughing when he corrected himself after saying 'skaSisitiki' (which meant "something to do with shutting up") when he should have said skaKisitiki (which means "something to do with chess"), which prompted my 8-year-old son to ask me: "Καλά, τρελός είναι αυτός ο άνθρωπος και γελάει τόσο πολύ;" (which basically translates to "Hey, why is that man laughing so much? Is he crazy?"). It is said that if you want the truth, you should ask a child.

What's that Greek saying about the roosters?

Οπου λαλούν πολλά κοκκόρια, αργεί να ξημερώσει.
"Wherever a lot of roosters crow, sunrise is delayed."

The higher the chess award, the more VIP the politician was who handed it out, and the earlier in the evening it was presented. We got our award nearly two hours after we arrived. It was presented to my son by an insignificant local councillor. At this point, both my children had developed scratchy bums from sitting too long in a chair, and we had to leave. We couldn't wait for the κοπή της Βασιλόπιτας, the intended purpose of the evening, and neither could we hang around to find out if we were a lucky winner of a man's tie, a lady's pair of gloves, faux bijoux, a keyboard (without a computer), and some other prizes, kindly donated by local businesses.

Being a mother is very hard work - I've got at least a dozen more years of this keep-up-the-appearances business to go...

*** *** ***

"The Greek map," you ask me. "Shouldn't you have one of those hanging on the wall?"

Yes, don't worry, we've got one of those too. We live in Greece, remember?
And it's still a country.
By sheer luck.

Oh, the food. I almost forgot. Before I go, here's the recipe for dingle dangles. All food photos kindly donated by karvouna.

©All Rights Reserved/Organically cooked. No part of this blog may be reproduced and/or copied by any means without prior consent from Maria Verivaki.

ABC Wednesday: H for hotel

It's ABC Wednesday again, and H is for hotel.

The most popular hotels in the central town of Hania, a Mediterranean summer resort town in the biggest Greek island, are the ones that go by the name of 'pension', a French term used for small rooms in the style of the English bed and breakfast.

All the three-story buildings seen around the port are hotels, while the ground floor operates as some kind of business associated with the tourist trade, eg cafe, bar, restaurant, souvenir shop.

Here's a sampling of the more picturesque, quainter hotels lining the narrow streets in the old town by the old port.

What I like most about them is their names, which usually show the foreign influences. Casa del Amore, Castello and Villa Venezia clearly attest to the Venetian origins of the town, while Lena and Irini are probably the Greek names of former or present owners. Soultana (the name of a restaurant) comes from the 'sultan', a Turkish chief; the Ottomans (Turks) dwelled in the town for four centuries.

There are also other more traditional styles of hotels with large dining areas and swimming pools, but not in the old town, as the streets are too narrow; they're found outside the ancient walls of the old town in the more modern parts of Hania. Not as picturesque, but probably more functional.

Stalos beach

When you look at a photo of a beach that looks like this (blue sea below a blue sky, calm crystal waters, sunny skies, warm weather), the first thing you are probably going to think is "I wish I were there."

Yes, why not. Now put yourself in the barefoot camerawoman's feet (and bikini), and turn around to see what's on the other side:

A main road, situated on a dangerous bend (this particular point on the road is also called 'the dangerous Stalos bend' by the locals), with a steady stream of traffic all heading to the same or similar places on the western coastal road out of the main town of Hania. There are also pipes for the water supply trailing down the hillside, and a shop that sells fireplaces and brick barbecues, which is sited in the hollow carved out of the hill to make way for commercial activities.

The scenery gets worse:

... a hilltop hotel with a grotesque unseemly design; nothing in its facade attracts clients, except perhaps the 'magnificent view of the beach' (imagine the climb up to it after your swim). It is exposed to the sun all day, hence the garish A/C boxes above each and every single French window. A few hastily constructed unfinished rooms (with an empty open-air restaurant below one) are strewn haphazardly across the face of the hill, a dirty grey garage shed, and a mound of rubbish under the trees.

The coastal roads did not even have a name for the beaches that were located on them before the advent of tourism. They were simply known as 'yialo', the seashore; the name of the village located above the beach was used to signify the part of the 'yialo' referred to. They were once considered the most desolate places to live, mainly because the land immediately before the beach was thought of as infertile, the salty soil incapable of nurturing anything edible on it. In fact, most of the uninhabited coast was sectioned off in plots and given by the state as a gift to the Asia Minor refugees who came to live in Greece after being expelled from the former Ottoman Empire (now Turkey). When I first came to Crete nearly two decades ago, I clearly remember sheep grazing on some fields in front of the sea, and there were also two brick-making factories located here. The land has now all been turned into hotels, shops, restaurants and other businesses catering to the tourist trade.

You might wonder why we came out here as a family, when we have the choice of so many other places to go for a swim. It's actually quite close to where we live, and the waters are extremely clear. There are no beach umbrellas on this particular site (although there are a little way towards the left), but that should serve as a warning: the area is known for its dangerous riptides, pulling you back into the sea when there is a strong current, rather than pushing you out to the shore. About forty years ago, seven army cadets drowned here, and countless tourists' bodies have been washed ashore over the years. That's not including the road accidents that have caused fatal injuries. You can see a little white rusty iconostasis with a tiny cross between the tamarisk trees and the flax bushes, which is a sure sign that someone has died on this spot; when we left the beach, I noticed that fresh flowers had been laid in it, as well as on other points on the same side of the road, which means that the deceased's families are maintaining the sites where their loved ones left their last breath.

In amongst the horrors of the location, we found that we did enjoy our swim here. The water was cool, fresh and clean. I do recommend you come to Stalos beach too, but just be careful of your steps (and strokes). We also found some dried branches of the flax flower, which make a marvellous back-scratcher...

as well as reindeer horns!

Award winning beach???

Agious Apostolous Beach hosts children's swimming lessons in the sea every summer. One would assume that it must be kept clean and family oriented. There is even a sign that attests to its award winning status as a beach.



I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say the opposite is true. The sand has been washed away towards the wall, forming a ridge over the fallen branches - they were obviously never cleared away before the summer season started - of a variety of the tamarisk tree, known locally as 'almiriki', which is found all over the island, prospering in sandy areas.



Beach umbrellas and deckchairs (you pay to rent them) line most of the area, which becomes very stony as it stretches out westwards (and changes its name to Kalamaki Beach), so that very few people actually come here any more (this was our favorite haunt last summer). The only parts of the beach which are cleared of washed-up debris (and this year, there has been more than the usual amount) are those where major hotel chains and restaurants are located, which is understandable.

The good thing about this beach, despite the state that it is now in, is that it's close to where I live, and I can enjoy the sea (and take interesting photos) whenever I want.

SkyWatch Friday: cloudy weather

This photo was taken in early March. The island in the distance is a protected wildlife refuge (Thodorou Island - my father used to swim out to it) and the beach is in the area of Gerani, near a popular seaside resort village for Northern Europeans, called Platanias, close to the village where my father was born. Right behind the spot where I took the photo is a plush hotel where the inter-regional school chess competition took place this year.

The beach is deserted and a little untidy, nothing like what you might remember of the idyllic Greek island holiday you may have recently been on. The clouds are very uncharacteristic of our skies at the moment, all sunny, blue and bright. This is what life is like two months before the tourist season starts: cool quiet weather, just perfect for taking in the stormy sky above, while you're wearing boots and wrapped up in a warm winter coat.

SkyWatch Friday: Sunrise over the old harbour

Sometimes you can't take the photo you want to take as beautiful as you want it to be. This shot comes from the webcam overlooking the beautiful harbour (courtesy of Leandros). The former mosque is right below the sun, which has just risen in this early morning shot.

ABC Wednesday: Street sweeper

It's ABC Wednesday again, and S is for street sweeper.

I admire the patience of this immigrant to my town, taking on the job of sweeping the main street right in front of the Agora clean for the benefit of the locals and tourists alike. He didn't bat an eyelid when he saw me photographing him; he just proudly carried on with his work. Notice how he's tied a few blue bin liners behind him; he's just doing his job.