Alice’s Van

Leaving Crete is not easy. But thankfully its au revoir and not adieu: I’ll be back next summer. In the meantime, new adventures beckon, and tomorrow I set off for Bordeaux in a new VW camper van conversion. My home will be chez my friends, the Baudets, at Château Monconseil-Gazin, and my first job will be to get the grape harvest in. More on  www.alicedumaswines.com in due course..

The new VW (OK, its not a luxury motor yacht, but...)

Interior of the van (there's a bottle of Cretan wine in the fridge of course)

Malmsey from Candia

Wine has always been a sign of civilisation. In the 16^th Century, Candia (Crete) was the source of one of the wines with the highest reputation of the day – known to the British as Malmsey. It was sold throughout Europe by the Venetians, who had been granted a preferential tariff by the Byzantine emperor (to the detriment of the Greek traders ironically, who had to pay taxes). The Malmsey was a strong sweet red wine which could withstand a sea voyage – not unlike the wines of Sherry, Port and Madeira which evolved later – and in those times, the best Malmsey reputedly came from Ziros, a village on a 650m high mountain plateau behind Sitia.

Sadly, the Turkish occupation put a halt to the Venetian traders and the Greek wine trade disappeared. It has never recovered – even today it remains a tiny proportion on world markets.  Joining the EU in 1981 opened trade opportunities and provided investment, but perhaps Greek wine still needs the helping hand of natural traders and organisers like the Dutch or Venetians of the past.

When I drive towards the coast from Ziros in the 21^st century, with my ears popping as I descend, I wonder at the voyage made by the Malmsey in centuries past. But what I marvel at most, is that today you can still find this wine – the Malmsey from Candia. The best examples are made by Gianni Ekonomou, who eschews what he calls “technical winemaking” for time-tested methods and traditions. It is made from the indigenous Liatiko grape variety, and Gianni explains that the Liatiko of Sitia behaves and tastes different to the Liatiko grown near Heraklion, the main wine-producing region of Crete, and may even be a completely different and unique grape variety. Unfortunately, here on the edges of the winemaking diaspora, there is little scientific research to be sure.

One thing that is striking is that the Sitia Liatiko is extraordinarily well-adapted to its harsh climate – the high altitude providing cool night temperatures which bring complexity, against a fierce hot Cretan sun by day with seasonal winds which preclude rot. Viticulture is organic by default, and even phylloxera doesn’t thrive easily, meaning that old ungrafted bush vines are largely left to their own devices. Fermentation is carried out by wild yeasts, which naturally achieve high alcohol levels. But given low yields and long ageing in barrels (some kept outside in the sun), the wines have a balancing fullness of on the palate, keen acidity, and a very fine tannic velour. Indeed Gianni finds that the wines are so stable he sometimes doesn’t even need to add SO, making them completely natural wines.

Tiny yields and a small production make this an expensive wine. But the biggest problem is tracking it down in the first place.

http://wineryeconomou.blogspot.com/

Where are you from?

This is the question Greeks ask me most. And once answered, the conversation often ends – curiosity doesn’t stretch very far!

So I’m from Scotland. But every time I say this, I feel a twinge of betrayal for the other half of me: the English half. My father was English and I’ve lived a long time in the South East of England.

I’ve tried saying I’m English. This elicits a very different reaction. Basically: Scottish = thumbs up, English = boo, hiss. The English are the ‘nasty’ race – the supposed suppressors and colonialists with the arrogance and stiff upper lip to match. The cuisine is bad, the beer warm, and the people unpleasant. Hollywood ‘baddies’ are often cast from English (or British) actors, and the export of some our worst drunken behaviour through cheap package holidays doesn’t help.

The Scots make up a tiny population (5m), and historically speaking (let’s face it) we are losers. The upside however is that this makes us a threat to nobody. Then we have some lovable romantic heroes – Bonnie Prince Charlie, William Wallace, Rabbie Burns – and some brilliant figures such as Adam Smith and Alexander Fleming.

But one of the most striking things about Scottish society is how many Scots have chosen to make their lives elsewhere. London, for example, is teeming with ambitious Scots doing very nicely for themselves, and the UK Government has more than its fair share of north-of-the-border talent. Personally, I’ve found English society welcoming and open. My ideas are encouraged, and I’m not given disapproving looks by would-be Calvinists who would have me keep to my station in life. Indeed, my “Scottishness” is seen a positive attribute. “There are few more impressive sights in the world than a Scotsman on the make,” to quote author J M Barrie.

The English are easy-going and generous. They make remarkably little fuss about the so-called ‘Lothian question’ whereby Scottish MPs may vote on English issues, but not vice versa; and the fact that the Scottish economy benefits from the receipts of English taxpayers is something that generates few column inches in the newspapers. In addition, the English generally do support the Scottish football and rugby teams abroad – unlike the Scots, who will do anything to preserve the myth of the ‘auld enemy’.

I know it’s silly to generalise, but sitting on the little yacht Nautilos in southern Crete transporting tourists to Chrissi Island, the temptation gets too much. The Italians may be the most beautiful, and the Greeks wear the biggest, blingy-est sunglasses, but let’s just hear it for the English for once. The cuisine’s pretty sharp these days, and on a typical cloudy cold English afternoon what could be better than half a pint of lukewarmish/coolish bitter?

Diving and Opera

Captain Gorgeous has been holding forth on how one should be able to release an anchor stuck on a rock if one needs to. Not to mention various other routine jobs such as checking on the progress of the limpet population on the vital parts (propellers, rudder), then scraping them off, etc.

At first I thought it was another ploy to delegate more jobs to Navti (me), and I ignored the skulking feeling of inadequacy. Then the “what if” began to gnaw. We normally anchor in 4-6 metres of water, but sometimes it can go to 10 metres. 10 metres!!! Currently, I can’t even dive to 1 metre unless I screw up my face, hold my nose and jump feet first off the boat…

Getting the flippers on is the nice bit – they make me feel powerful enough to take on a speedboat. Then the mask: Michalis has the latest design, hi-tech, anti-allergy, total-comfort diving mask. Unfortunately, and despite its many very expensive attributes, it still pulls and breaks my hair (as if the sun and wind hadn’t done enough already), and trying to get on the snorkeler bit (what is that air tube called?) without the whole contraption leaking water up my nose is a near impossibility.

Slip into the sea and paddle around a bit to see how it feels. Hm, quite pleasant, actually. Paddle further to check out the anchor and take a guess that it’s about 4 metres down. Might as well be four miles down. Full fathom five.

Time to try a dive or two. I put my fingers in my ears to stop them getting water in (last year I got an ear infection from the sea) and I screw up my face in the hope of clearing my ears. I kick the flippers like hell to get down a couple of metres, then speed to the surface to recover with massive gulps of air and lots of spluttering.  Good! I must be managing all of 8 seconds.

A few more attempts and a couple of coaching sessions from O Kapetanos get me down to 4 metres without too much discomfort. Touch the anchor, and even lift the chain a few centimetres, and soon I’m popping under the boat like a trained dolphin.

But the best dive was the one when I imagined I was taking a breath to sing an opera aria with one of those murderously long phrases with a long held top A at the very end. Thus equipped with enough oxygen for more than half a glimpse at the fishes, I relaxed and had time for a little look around. No need for Jacques Cousteau! Here I was, and with the music in my ears to match. Is it time to buy a wetsuit?

Michalis rising

Advice

I went to see the maverick Greek winemaker up in the wilds of the Cretan hills yesterday, and as we tried to repair his car (I hammered the wheel shaft), we discussed the state of the nation. I went with a list of viticultural questions and of course he answered none of them (directly, at least), but he’s still the most interesting winemaker I know. Later, clinging to the top of a 20ft high vat in the middle of his yard dangling a light inside and grappling with pumping over the fermenting must, he told me in more polite words that I should get my ass back to Northern Europe because the Greeks are not to be trusted in business. I suppose he knows what he’s talking about – he worked in Germany for 10 years making what he calls “technical wines”, and then at famous wineries France and Italy, before making the decision to return to his family business. As for me, I didn’t need his advice – I’d already worked out the Greeks are too clever.

Greek Efficiency

The old rusting heap of a pontoon moored in Ierapetra harbour finally had to go: it was becoming an electrolysis hazard to the other boats. The Port Police had issued edict, and that was that.

On the appointed hour a team was assembled to tow the pontoon to its new mooring place just outside the main harbour.

In the UK, generally speaking, such a team would get together first, take some time to discuss the situation, make a plan, allocate responsibilities, and then execute. Whoever is in charge (the paymaster, or appointee thereof) gives orders, and everyone else pretty much falls into line. This is the northern European, ordered mind at work.

In Greece, it’s different. Forget the discussion: only idiots need a plan. And everyone’s the boss. 

Luckily for us, the appointed hour fell as we had just moored for the evening, so we relaxed and put our feet up to watch the show.

With all the Indians Chiefs, there was lots of shouting. Ropes were hurled here and there. The tug-caique changed tactics half a dozen times, using anything in its path as a bumper.  There were disagreements, pouting breasts, and a few “malakka’s” (well, actually, a lot of malakka’s; not to mention other expressions I wouldn’t dare repeat). It was a quality performance – if disappointingly short.

The required result was of course achieved. And whilst I’m naturally more comfortable with the northern European orderly efficiency, I have to admit that the Greek approach was every bit as efficient, and much more fun to watch.

The old pontoon, moored outside the port of Ierapetra

Plane Crash at Chrissi Island

I hope that yesterday was the closest I will ever be again to a plane crash. The weather was bad and we were sheltering in a calm south westerly spot behind Chrissi. Around 2pm, I plopped into the water for my daily constitutional, and had swum about 100 metres from the boat when I looked up. Westwards, high in the sky, bright as a burning planet, I saw a flare. It was so bright and strange, with its smoke trail like a Chinese dragon, it transfixed me for a moment – I watched it, scarcely believing what it was, then suddenly pulled myself together and screamed at Michalis on the boat. We must have been one of the closest boats to it. I swam like hell. 

Back on the boat, we sped westwards and Michalis started to get some information through on the mobile and on the VHS. Two flares had been spotted 10-15 miles west of Chrissi. Soon we saw a helicopter in the distance, then planes searching. The coastguard sped ahead of us.

Two military planes had crashed and three pilots were missing. The VHS call went out to all boats in the area to join the search. Even the three large Chrissi ferry boats were called in, and after an hour or so the sea was littered with boats searching for the pilots and debris.

We got news of two pilots found alive, but a third still missing.  Despite the winds, the smell of burnt diesel in the air was acrid – then we spotted a large metal object bobbing up and down in the waves. It was part of the wing of an aeroplane – about 4×1 metres – and one of the large ferries was despatched to recover it.

We searched on and on. We saw a glove in the water, twice, but lost it. News reports started coming in of body parts being found. I think the poor bugger must have been blown to pieces and scattered over the Libyan sea. Later we wondered if there was still a hand inside the glove. Then we recovered a notebook from the water – the first page that flipped open was entitled “emergency procedures” (as if they had the time).  I scanned through the book and saw Greek writing sketching out the exercise they were undertaking – the pilots must have been Greek, not American.

The sea was getting rougher, but we searched and searched, until eventually we were given permission to leave. When we got back to Chrissi Island, over 1000 people were lined up on the tiny pier at Chrissi Island, wondering what was going on, despondently awaiting the returning ferries.

Approaching Ierapetra in the darkness, I saw a helicopter flying off above the town. Later I found out that both living pilots had been transferred to the Hospital at Heraklion by helicopter. As I write now, one pilot is injured but not seriously. The other is fighting for his life with a pierced lung and head injuries. I hope he makes it.

The small port of Ierapetra was thronging with people when we moored. TV cameras tailed strutting journalists seeking direct news reports. Our local coastguard boat was ignominiously parked outside the port to make way for the more important coastguard vessel called in for the emergency.

Today the accident is all over the national news, and questions are being asked as to whether it was caused by human error, a technical fault or poor planning and management.  Personally, I think Michalis and I feel quite mixed up emotionally having been so close to it.  We did what we could – but it wasn’t much in the end.

Helicopter, plane debris and notebook

Hunger Strike

In 2004 the Ierapetra town council decided that something had to be done about the shanty life on Chrissi Island. Giorgos, the island’s most illustrious and charming squatter (see blogposts below), was given notice to evacuate his “paranga” so it could be pulled down.

Naturally Giorgos, having lived peacefully in his shanty-hut bothering no-one at Chrissi for over 20 years, was very upset. Unfortunately he had no rights, as his paranga was built without planning permission on land belonging to the state, completely illegally, although admittedly without much in the way of facilities. In fact, without any facilities at all… no electricity, no refuse collection, no water meter… Not even a free boat-pass to the mainland to do his shopping every week.

Giorgos of Chrissi

So Giorgos took the last step open to him – pitched his tent in front of the town hall, and went on hunger strike.

The newspapers came, then he was on TV. And down in the new celebrity’s tent it became a regular party… The town council held out for five days before they put out the white flag.

Giorgos returned to his comfortable shack (fully equipped with solar panels, stove, fridge, water collection system, etc etc), and life got back to normal.

But whenever I refer to Giorgos’ “hunger strike” there are broad grins all around. Heaven forbid, but could it be that the odd souvlaki was sneaked into the tent during the night?

http://alikisgreeksalad.wordpress.com/2010/07/12/ideal-hut/

http://alikisgreeksalad.wordpress.com/2010/07/04/my-friend-giorgos/

Chip omelette

I once overheard a group of British tourists mocking the Greeks for serving them a “chip omelette” when they had ordered an “omelette”, and I wondered if they had bothered to engage their taste buds at all.

“Chip Omelette”, prepared the Greek way, is delicious. It’s made with freshly chopped potatoes fried in fresh local olive oil until cooked, then the oil is poured off and the eggs poured on. Sometimes I add a bit of chopped ham or cheese for something a bit richer and more exotic, but the basic version alone is as wholesome and appetizing a dish as you can ever eat. Correctly seasoned, it is unbelievably simple, and unbelievably good – and it’s one of our favourite boat lunches.

So looking forward to today’s chip omelette lunch, I swam ashore to see what was going on at Chrissi Island, and was welcomed into the company of Markos and Anna lying on the beach. With my limited lingual skills, conversational topics have to be carefully managed, but one topic where I have an excellent vocabulary is food. This is propitious because if there’s one thing Greeks like to talk about, its food.

Here on Crete, we don’t talk about “lunch”, “supper” or “dinner” (or even “meals”) – we simply have “Fagito!”: Food. And particularly, “kalo fagito”: good food.

A few tiropitas appeared like magic from a piece of tinfoil presented by a friend, and as we nibbled the tasty morsels, Markos started enquiring who did the cooking on the boat (generally me), and what food we (or I) made.

“English food or Cretan food?” he asked suspiciously.

“Cretan food”, I replied. Satisfied grunt and nod of the head.

“What food?” he enquired further. I reeled off a few of the standard things we eat on the boat – fish, calamares, risotto, chickpeas, spaghetti, yiouvetsi, omelette…

“Omeleta?” he interrupted. I confirmed.

Further interrogation: “With potatoes?”

“Of course!”

This clinched it: lunch on Nautilos was clearly “kalo fagito”. I had somehow passed the test, and we could all relax together and contemplate the sea in the knowledge that we knew and understood about the important things in life.

A cat’s life

If I were a cat, I might have debited one of my nine lives yesterday.  At the time, it didn’t seem like a risk (it never does) – we needed to recover a rope tied to a buoy which we had used to steady the boat at anchor, whilst our guests picnicked on board. It was familiar territory, and normally a sheltered spot, but the wind had changed and the waves were rising. We hauled anchor, then Michalis took the boat close to the buoy, cut the engines and I dived in.

Getting the rope wasn’t a problem, but getting back to the boat proved to be tough going. I’m a fairly strong swimmer but the rope drag, current pulls and large waves held me back. Michalis also had to try to get the swimming platform as close to me as possible so I could get back on, but cut the engines in time to avoid any risk of accident – either to me, or of getting the rope enmeshed in the propellers. At the same time the current and winds were pushing the boat landwards.

How it happened I have no idea, but suddenly I found I had missed the swimming platform and was at the side of the boat. There is no way you can climb on board a yacht from the sides; and I was facing the sheer vertical side of 17 tonnes of boat in weather that was pushing it down on me. If I couldn’t get to the front or back quickly, it would take me under, and I’d have to try to swim under the boat to the other side…

Michalis was shouting and trying to get to me. I was making every effort to get back to the rear, but the current, waves and boat were against me. Then just at the point when I realised what a nasty situation I was in, a lifeline appeared from the side of the boat. I lunged, and locked my hands on.

My guardian angel was a boy I’d never met before, Nikos, of some 19 years of age. He hauled up the rope, bearing 54 kilos of dripping me. Somehow I managed to hold on, and Nikos and another man hauled me over the rails. Along with the offending rope.

The scratches and bruises will disappear in a few days, but the vision of the sheer side of the boat bearing down on me will not. And my cat’s life?  Daily press ups meant I could bear my own weight on the rope, but mostly I owe it to Michalis who got the lifeline to me, and to a boy I’ve never met before who hauled me out of the sea.

Nikos, who hauled me out