It's for you, that I'm playing
Grand-father, it's for you...
Exiled from Corfu or from Constantinople
Ulysse who never turned back on your steps
I'm from your land, poet as you were
A child from the child that gave you Penelope...
G. Moustaki
March, the 21st, 2011
Bari harbour (Italia / Puglia), that rainy monday evening.
Funny, to see the seabirds flying aroud under the rain, they aren't used it. We left yesterday evening from Rome with the “camper” (a Mercedes Sprinter, 2.9L ! it's swallowing nicely down the kilometers !), we rested this morning in Foggia, limits of the Molise and Puglia's regions, and we went down the rest of Adriatic's coast under this shitty weather. It's among vans and trucks, on the port of call, that I remind me Bari's sun, sitting here under the seagulls' shoutings. Around, bulgarian, italian, slovakian, bulgarian vans. Bulgarians are famous for private cabs, from coast to coast. And Bari, from coast to coast, I hope soon see there a few friends again, an old story, this cactus' capital and I. At the check-in, I'm told there isn't any news for my way back yet. A one-way ticket to Corfu, so. Yeah. This is also gonzo journalism.
From the deck lounge, after, in the end, having had a nice supper[1], we see from the ship's windows the harbor's night beginning to move, corresponding so to the deaf motor's ronron : we're leaving, good bye, Continent ! Not even one minute later, a cigarette is lighted, in broad of the restaurant, then another one, then ten other ones. From around forty people in it, about fifteen are still dining, nevertheless, nobody seems to argue. My friend gets me into the confidence : “This is really the 'greek touch'. You see the captain arriving hands in the pocket and smoking, quarreling with his friends, all smoking too. Over there, everybody smokes, everywhere, on busses, in bars, at university... In Norway [where she works and lives, because she's slovakian and it's better paid there under the polar circle], you already would see people creating a riot !”
A widget has calmly rose, simultaneously to the smoke. It's the “koboloi”, sort of little bracelet with a tassel, made from pearls or precious stones, that the Greek, apparently happy, hands up and down, hop, as if he'd invite us to the rythm of his humour. Little perpetual movement, for me the sign of a deep boring, I just can't help imagining they're not so stressed people. It's in that mood, resolutely hellenic, that I'm percieiving it has to be Greece, I'm leaving for, so slightly: No doubt, for once, I don't recognize anything.
Corfu, this island, at the sunny waking up, seems me indeed nothing else than a dream's outway, populated by its so different realities.
March, the 22nd
The “Olympus London” ferryboat opens its deck and puts near the coast, pouring its trucks and ours among them. Cops let flow the Sprinter who makes it quick to take its place into Corfu's traffic, Kerkeira city[2]. Umbrella pines, hundreds of cypresses, but above all a vegetal beauties luxury of a rare richness haloes the happy napolitanoid mess of “colonial style” houses, simple white wall buildings and these more or less chic hotels, in a relief of overbushy hills. Here, it's obvious, spring did not get late, and seems here at home from any eternity, even if the wintery lemon trees are full. In the bakground, the larger and severe moutains of the albanian coast, not even further than a few miles away : Italy is now far away. In first plan : Greece. Its two alphabets signposts, its brown hair shoppers with that lovely incomprehensible language, its insulary cars in every angle... that up to here aren't burning. It's pretty, Greece, mix of balkanic dreams and italian south, it seems joyful, and proud. We're heading up to find back the way to our friends, at the Eleia squat[3], who have, with others and since last year, opened another one (the Drakka), in broad downtown, this time, two passes away from the local police office. They tell us they're quite in good terms with each other... On such a little island's scale, it is a nice job. There would be around 120 empty houses in Corfu, they would only lack in estate agents... or motivated people.
March, the 23rd
Adriatic's sea water is beautiful, clear, but cold. I have to listen again to Moustaki's song Les eaux de mars (March's waters). The “calanque” [in french, typical mediterranean bay, TN] where we lay our explorating asses is very delightful, savage pine areas falling down along the rocky hill's ocres to dive from the azure blue into the deeper blue and green waters[4]. I have to mention here that even a daltonian under cannabis is able to distinguish both poles of the turquese chromatic (hey, another greek term, not “turquese”, but “chroma”... it will be one of my favourite games, for all the week. About Turkish, even through the “national” day, reminding Greece's victory on them, we won't hear even one comment, about Turks, and that so-called dispise, from one youngster to the other : nationalism is really a bullshit for old assholes).
Tonight, we're greeting my friend's birthday. Arabs and Greeks will love us a little bit more, and reciproqually. In the meantime, helios (the sun), kanis (the dog), poseidon (a mountain bike's brand), and above all : malaka (fuck, shithead) and AN-ARKHIA (without commanding)[5].
In the evenning, it's all nicely sound and light, at Eleia. Because it's dress rehearsal of a students' group for a dance “performance”, on this coming weekend. We're asked to film it, and I film, follow, shoot, stabilize, zoom and diszoom those seven charming young squatgirls... And no : this will never be voyeurism. Even though... it's true they are pretty. Especially one, it seems.
March, the 24th
Birthday time in cheerfullness, and a new sunbathing breakfast in this huge flowered garden, between antique, quite buried, therms ruins, where the dogs love it, to run and seek for the balls we throw them. Excursions plans for the day after. A little greek lesson (see below the Lexikon). Good shop-lifting day, anyway. If scandinavian countries are really the best for beginners' lesson # 1, Italy seems ex-aequo to Greece, for the lesson # 2, at the international shop-lifting contest...
And at night, fiesta and barbecue[6].
It's a tiny world, it seems. Or chance still has some work, to finish : one of the friends of the troop, a skipper, was one of the six captains who led the “Flotillia”, that left with foods, goods and civical resources for Palestine, last spring, just before getting from Tsahal a big punch on the nose. He still carries the wound a shotgun's butt left behind his ear. I'm telling him the Monde Diplomatique, this month, justly showed an ad, in front page, promoting a book upon their so combattive pacific trip. He asks me who the autor is. A certain Thomas S.-H.[7] “Ah, Thomas, he says, yes, he's a friend... he was on my boat”. He's kind, and he's corfiote, from everywhere.
March, the 25th
So, excursion. We're starting by van, landing in the very northern Corfu, one hour away from Kerkeira city. I notice the island is much than bigger I thought, still never having considerated one map a little seriously. Little mountains, we're leaving the sea's level singing southern french punk, crossing even a pizzeria “Mare e monti”. Pertinent. The mare e monti is made from half the pizza paste turned back on itself (on the calzone way) and refilled with ham, mushrooms, tomato... tomato that you find again poured on the top of the outside part, and the other half pizza covered with sea food. So you indeed seem to eat poetically some beach and some moutain. Yummi.
Three cars, we're thirteen, among that four girls and their four boys, plus two dogs, mad all fifteen of us. Start. The Periphia village is adorned with some ruins changed into taverns. Few tourists, apart of us, it's not the season yet. One church, its two bells with the flat “belltower”, in front. Two churches. At the third church into 500 meters, blunt pause. The dogs aren't even thirsty, we aren't even hurt. Thousands of little blue and white flowers and four blunts further, such as a few big fat riddles, we restart. We still believe 500 more meters in our trip, on a path really far away from the GR 20, (“High Excursion path # 20”, in France, Corsica, one of the most famous and difficult paths ever), because very flat and easy to walk, seeing these promissing rocky hills and further, overspread with olive trees and goats. But 505 meters later, we notice behind one of those hills... the ruined village, the first church... and the cars. End of the ballad. 1005 meters, an excursion à la grecque. We're a bit disappointed, on our trip appetite. So our friends bring us a little further, Yannis even tells “You have to see this” in a shakespearian greek. We park the cars a little below, on another hill, all terraced in a chic and classique stone that enjoy here the local bourgeois. Yellow stones, but espacially smooth. Antique sauce, in one word.
We tumble down the hill, all mad, also because underneath the huge yellow and grey projecting cliff, the shady forest densifies itself into almost a jungle. A few dozens of meters beneath, the leavy trees of that jungle let appear an extraordinary large black mouth, giant cavern with very big stalagtites, which bottom bathes in a fresh obscurity and a cold water, exlusively mineral. We explore, there even are some bone remains, we don't get if from sheep or from Rumanian. We're taking delight of this insolite and vertical landscape... and turn back, to Periphia's taverns.
Welcomed to thirteen by thirteen glasses of a wicked little white thing that is neither raki, nor ouzo, but anyway worth the trip, we don't wait before getting back from all our emotions, and seeing Djamel's face becoming rose again, getting fit[8]. And getting stuffed, up to late night, eating and drinking so much, and so good. Songs, sirtaki, bouzouki, rebetiko... and the stars, everywhere.
March, the 26th
It's my last day. Waking up, mountains, coffee, cigarette, dry sausage. We (hardly, espacially me) slept here. Too fresh, to stretch out the hammock. Covered night, crazy wind, so the morning. We wait for our friends' comeback. 12 o'clock, we're leaving. This time, we want our excursion offroads. I'm mostly a little in hurry, to get back to Kerkeira, to pack my bag, to forget nothing, but above all, to see (again) this dance show, from these six girls and that girl, they played yesterday night and play tonight again. These girls, the darkhairy one looking young but tall, the other darkhairy curlier one with a sober looking, the other darkhairy one with the glasses and the cute bang (Sophia ?), the little excited one who's speaking french (Anthi), the thin blonde one who's making my friend talkative, the stronger and lovely blonde one, and the... the most troubling one. Images of her eyes, of her furtive and penetrating lookings, intimidated and proud, laughing and mysterious, won't leave me for all the excursion. I have to know her name, fuck.
Ok. I'm taking nevertheless advantage of this splendid set valley throat making appear below an all cute ruiny village, this time totally ruiny. It's it, our target. We'll quit the road, to join it. We convince our friends that no blunt-pause until the village should be wise. Greek, slovakian and franco-belgian laughters... such as italian. Lovely old-timer village, or ex. No electrical pylon, people must have moved before the island's elecrification. Instead, six wells, and... two or three churches (we never know...)[9]. A giant beehive, fortunatedly also abandonned. Vassili confesses me the biggest one he ever saw was twice more little. Brrr. Cosy. Nevertheless, my friend's talking about making from the whole village a huge squat. I mostly hope not finding him in a few years as an estate agent for holidayfreaks, but I don't think so. We climb back. We van down, up to the coast, to get some shop-lifted stuff for my way back, and another tavern, lovely polish[10].
And we're back in town. At least.
And it's the white night, beautiful, among every other.
March, the 27th
We changed the time set to summer, so not only that Greece has one more oriental hour, but it's becoming a real mess of calculations not to miss my boat, that early in the morning.
Goodbye, Corfu, very hope to see you soon. Take good care of your migrants, of your 120 empty houses and their squatting peoples, and take care of your dancers.
Bari, so, won't be for now, because from the sun to the rain, my Corfu-Rome has intermediate stop, across all the Adriatic's sea... in Venice. Just to begin it softly, between sea and earth.
A lovely blonde german speaking girl, smiling at me from our waking ups, on the lustrated “Highspeed” “Olimpia palace” ferryboat's carpets. We're arriving in one hour in the venitian lagoon and its misty rainy bay[11]. To begin with summer timeset, what else ?
Epilogue (and last greek dusts)
March, the 28th
Venice. It really is the most beautiful town in the whole world, for whom hasn't seen Los Angeles yet.
What hits you, once satisfied your appetite of streets and passages, all called here “rio” or “calle”, diving their centurial facades in a million sea channels, these aquatic paths, alleys and lanes, playing it with the “firm earth” so joyfully between thousand bridges ; what hits the foreign loafer, once repleted with these houses of impeccable Murano's glass windows (one of neighbour island), with those majestical streets of calm Alsace-like[12] colours, here more Renaissance than kitsch ; what hits, as by its own missing, is the silence. Here, car noises have gone away. The channels' quiet clappings replaced them. “Pax tibi marce evangeli stà meus”, says the open book held by the winged lion on Venice's coat-of-arms. I'll ask my latin-italian bilingual friend if I'm right, but this seems to talk about peace, for fucking god's sake. And indeed this is what you find, here, far away from the Lega's scores [Northern League, xenophobic italian secessionist party] in venitian area, number # 1 for little and middle corporations. Cocteau [french poet] may have talked about this town, where pigeons walk on the ground and where lions bear wings, and in an eye wink, you can only believe it. Because between two motorized “vaporetti” bus-cabs, you can clearly hear a piano sonate exercise or a street violonist accompanying you up to a few angles further[13].
And hear, between two fucked up tourist couples from the whole world photographying themselves, immortal romantics of one day, from one bridge to the other with the gondol boats in the background, hear the only bare decent thing, that from one town to the other, inspire us pigeons : to coo.
When I'll be less alone, Venice, oh yes, I'll come to see you again. Because in Corfu's greek, now, I know her name.
SHB
[1] Olympus London supper : bread, Parmiggiano cheese, duck's paste with genievres, rocket salad, smoked Scamorza cheese, Foccaccia with cherry tomatoes. Red wine.
[2] Corfiote breakfast : coffee, long chocolate and sesame bread.
[3] Eleia supper : bread, Scamorza cheese and rocket salad, fresh fried fish with garden lemons. Retsina wine, Ouzo.
[4] Sunny breakfast : dry sausage, chocolate “easter pizza”, coffee, grape-fruit soda, bread, paste, “gipsy” sauce.
[5] Tea-time, and town supper : soufflakis : sort of little kebab-like sandwiches, but the meat is certainly more gyros-like pork. The chili sauce is not Harrissa (tunisian crushed chili paprika) anymore, but Tabasco, and they put some french fries more on tomatoes, onion, salad. And the inimitable, tzataiki-stylee, white sauce. More little than the kebab, but go and get some two-thirds of a kebab, from London to Berlin, for €1.50 up to €2 ! Soufflakis will win.
[6] Homie BBQ : a big carped style fish, little calamaries, bits of one chicken and of half another one. Bread. Aromatised crisps. Wine, lots of.
[7] Th. Sommer-Houdeville, La Flotille, Solidarité internationale et piraterie d'État au large de Gaza, Zones éd., 182p., 12€.
[8] Periphia moutain's Tavern : apples-oranges-rocket salad-grenada fruit salad ; tzatziki plates ; grilled “pleurote” mushrooms with garlic and olive oil ; grilled egg-plants ; french fries ; pork balls ; lamb parts (breast) ; 10 pots of wine, at least half of it offered ; plus the 13 little wicked white things... Djamel is ok now, I also am : all this for 13 = €101. sic.
[9] Abandonned village picnic : breads, Pecorino (sheep) cheese ; “gipsy” sauce, dry sausage and ducks' genievre paste. Water.
[10] Gently polish tavern : bits of chopped pork, grilled lemon chicken, bits of lamb, “greek” salad (tomato, onion, olive, fèta cheese, cucumber), a grilled cheese, bread, fries, and... tzatzikiii !
[11] Olympia Palace (in several times) : bread, tzatziki, apple, feta, dried oily tomatoes, calamaries' salad. Retsina wine and red wine all the way long.
[12] Far eastern french region, mix of classical german and french architectured wooden houses, and often quite... kitsch.
[13] Venice (rainy) breakfast : ending and salutarian red wine, slovaquian dark chocolate and nutty snack.
