Beheld By Rebellious Mythos: The Peloponnese

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Down the cliff, a night-lit city spread before us. Above in the star-studded sky, bats swept through the spotlights. Within, there were only three of us, travelers raiding a silent fortress. We crept about the shadows, discovering the silence of an overcome fortress, and when daylight rose, we left toward a theatre; one of the largest, most grandiose and well preserved of the antiquities. Upon the very top of its limestone steps, the singular pluck of a violin reached our ears soundly while various tongues bellowed in a one-minute fame of limelight.
With the days to come, we furthered ourselves across this mythical landscape of Greece’s southern terrace, hitchhiking into an ancient Byzantium civilization where they once held their last output of wealth. Here, along the road, idle for a ride, we picked bags full of fresh grapes, round pink pomegranates and oozing-ripe figs until another day found us, hailed by a lone old Grecian woman. She bade us to come help and collect for ourselves a sack of figs, dried by the sun god, Helios. But before we were granted our leave, a donkey ride and a thorough wash of our hands from her well was a customary necessity.
The Peloponnese showed us myth, gave us a greeting of Greek hospitality as well as the spartan ways of a people living from the yoke of history. Discipline and stealth brought us back to the rich beauty of a culture preserved in its land.

Where We Become Kings & Queens

Within Athens Backpackers, I was enjoying a complimentary breakfast. Toast and—lets say—a pound of Nutella had filled my belly. That was eight slices of bread later, for being on a budget and with the option of free food presenting itself, I know full well how to reap the benefits. Albeit, hours later, my stomach and head were on their limits as I came down from a sugar high. And thereon, at the Terminal A bus station outside Athens, I searched for my transportation, humming around the terminal where I met two companions.
“Nafplio?” I asked.
They nodded, yet I already knew.
Her name was Jenny from White Salmon, Washington. She was traveling with Josh; a brother and sister duo. Previously, I had only met her. They stayed at the hostel back where I loaded my three mornings’ filling of carbohydrates and sugar, and it was there I learned of her and her brother’s journey southward into the Peloponnese after three nights in Athens. Likewise, my two nights and three days had laid out the city like the back of my hand. I was ready to move on. The city of Nafplio with hourly bus departures from Terminal A sounded like a pleasing option.
Crossing the Corinthian Canal into the Peloponnese, the countryside spread wide. Buildings disappeared. The air cleansed into an original blue. Asphalt became less prevalent. Roads turned to dirt. It was the idyllic Grecian bucolic setting where gentle hills rose up and down. Few were patterned with wine vines while the others were consumed by the region’s olive and citrus groves. Slowly, the bus came upon the minor peninsular town of Nafplio.
Having been Greece’s first capital after its independence, Nafplio is a preserved town of Venetian homes and quaint shops leading to a quayside boardwalk painted with the elegance of modern furnishing cafes. Though the years have been graceful. It was 1827 when Nafplio reached its height as capital, and seven years later when the Prince of Bavaria, 17 year-old Otto, moved it to Athens in 1834. So one could say Nafplio was spared, given over to the boutique industry, café dwindling and a small layout of Venetian homes and mansions of the neoclassical era. All lay quietly beneath the mighty Palamidi Fortress and the lesser impressive Akronafplia Fortress. From our room, Jenny, Josh and I set upon the town like a crafty wind sent to pirating thieves with eyes emblazoned on a child’s cookie jar.

Given Over to the Throne

Night had settled. We were throughout the town, finding its alleys and its thoroughfares. It was only 8:30. Above us, according to Lonely Planet’s various estimates, 999 steps ascended to the illuminated Palamidi Fortress. It stared down at us. It beckoned our boredom. Only the adventure in our eyes as we glanced at one another told of our intent.
Nafplio by night. We bypassed the heat. We bypassed the need for jugs of water and wallets. Slipping over the wall, 999 or so steps later, the shadows of Palamidi called us. Bastions led to tunnels. Tunnels led to dank rooms below ground, rotting in a still air as the smell of urine and feces permeated clasped noses. Worn steps crept to outcroppings with a drop of over 216 meters down into the Argolic Gulf. Empty prison cells, high guard stands and narrow slits of bow and arrow positioning stirred an Indiana Jones feeling among this Venetian military defensive. The three of us were forced to seek our passages by darkness, therein exploring the arches and crannies thoroughly for a way in, or a way out. Hours passed. The Palamidi Fortress was ours.
Built between the years 1711 and 1714, the fortress is known to be a military masterpiece. Housed on an outcrop on the peninsula sticking into the Argolic Gulf, the garrison commander could take only a few steps from his home to peruse the panorama from north and back around to the north again. It’s strategic positioning allowed us to sit upon the walls and have a vista that few other travelers can relish.
Upon the Agio Andreas Bastion, feet dangled and flopped to the gusts coming up below us. The winds hit the wall we sat upon and rushed up to out feet, wrapping our legs until tossing our hair. We sat there, overlooking the city of Nafplio and gazing out to the city of Argos, 12 km in a northwesterly direction. The bay was calm except for a few wind-willows that ruffled the night’s lights’ reflections. There, alone, within an ancient Venetian fortress, we shared stories and told of our families back home.

To the Theatre, Please

Dawn greeted us as we reveled in our nightly excursion. Hard to image and slap into our consciousness; having a fortress all to ourselves with hours of exploration for free fare. With the fresh concept of adventure, Jenny, Josh and I—three Washingtonians out to discover the world—caught a bus to Epidavros.
Renowned across the Mediterranean for its healing properties, the once-institution of Epidavros brought ancient civilization to its knees as one of the first “spas” of the world. With plentiful herbs sprouting from its hillsides, rejuvenating with lush pines and shrubbery, the sanctuary was dedicated beginning in the 4th century BC to Asclepius, son of Apollo. Believed to have been born at the site of Epidavros, Asclepius was the god of medicine, and with no ailments to cure among us, the grounds felt uninspiring as jumbles of stone and marble scattered the barren surfaces. This wouldn’t get us down, though. Something had to come about. We continued to explore, not necessarily searching for anything, but remaining open, ready.
As we neared the outskirts of the sanctuary, tucked back in the brush and out-of-view, it was only the old stones and us. But something caught Josh’s eye. From out of the brown earth, glistening in the heat, a collection of pebbles sunk in an orderly mass beneath the ground. He grabbed a stick and started to dig.
It was hard to imagine, but it was out of the way. The little mosaic that Josh found as we unearthed it was of a parrot. Colorful stones created its image, dirtied and dusted from the centuries of soil upon soil. Once fully excavated, we stood back and there it was, a parrot.
Two European tourists came upon us as we were admiring our own excavation, laughing, commenting how the government should now finance the rest of our Grecian adventures. They looked down. They looked back up. We pointed down and nodded. They looked back down in awe.
“How did you know?” the man asked.
We shrugged our shoulders. “We just knew,” was my response, while Jenny and Josh agreed. “It was there, waiting.”
We showed the image to the tourists, instructed them on positioning to take the best photograph, and like ghosts, we were off, disappearing into the ruins.
More ruins, more of the same, and no more luck with our excavations. Beyond the sanctuary lied the theatre.
One of the best preserved and virtuous in its acoustic excellency, the theatre of Epidavros fits in to the healing benefits of its adjacent sanctuary. Limestone steps with a capacity of 14,000 attendants, and on our tickets only a minute collection of visitors dotted the seats. Above, at the top of the theatre we sat. Below, a young girl from Australia stepped into the center and tuned her instrument. In her hands, she plucked her violin strings. The sound, clear and unfettered by the absorption from surrounding materials, traveled to our ears with superior quality. And bent over on our knees as we watched down at this young musician play, our attentions were engrossed as she played to a silenced audience. Hair rose on my forearms and neck and turning over to her mother seated beside us, I could see tears forming. She blinked. The liquid rolled down her cheek.
Turning back to the musician on center stage, I was overcome with the notes and various words ingrained within the stands. The energy pulsed with this vibrancy of the arts, that passion for life. It was fossilized with performances from over 2,000 years ago when every four years the Epidavros sanctuary celebrated the Festival of Asclepieia. Music, drama and athletic competitions held them captive.
Inspired by this air, persons approached the center and bellowed. They sung in French, German, Greek and Italian. Their words were of well-known traditions where fellow countrymen joined them in the stands. A Grecian man recited lines of Homer’s The Odyssey, quoting Ulysses on his plagued journey to Ithaca from Troy. Another woman rose with the crowd’s encouragement to sing a five-minute opera. And as the young Australian girl bowed to take her seat, cheers, shouts and calls of “Bravo! Bravo!” filled the theatre’s previous silence. I imagined petals, garlands and twigs of olives flying from the full seats as the musician, dressed in classic elegance, received the praises with a godly appreciation.
The young girl took her seat among the roar. We stood up, risen by our hair, and clapped alongside her mother, adding to the shouts of “Bravo! Bravo!”

All Along the Road

Three nights in Nafplio with afternoon thunderstorms brought appreciated rest. We played cards, read, wrote, shared more stories and ideas like old couples before a teetering coffee table. But the air was fresh, filled with the scent of rain until the wind broke the storm. Allowing us the furthering exploration of town and its rounding bluff, we exited the indoors and found pathways along the sea. Relaxation between the adventures enabled us for the discipline lying ahead.
The next destination brought us to Sparta and the ancient Byzantine civilization of Mystras. From the bus station in Sparta, we embarked upon another six-wheeler heading for the town of Mystras, 6 km west. Along the way was to be our home, Camping Paleologio Mystras.
Jenny and Josh had hoped for the best. They carried no tent, but assumed by the fact of Greece coming into its off-season tents would be available for rent. There were none. It didn’t stop them. We gave the owner our passports, informed him of our one-night stand and picked a soft, grassy location. Putting down our bags, we hit the road, thumbs raised with the hope of meeting the famed Greek hospitality.
It was a warm day. We had about three kilometers ahead of us along a country road to reach ancient Mystras. Our thumbs stood tall and our hopes were high. The cars surely came. They came without pressing the brake. Each vehicle, some quite full, others empty and inviting, only gassed the throttle a little harder as it passed our trio of thumbs. Yet our walk continued and our amusement was kept steady.
As though we were aware of some hidden frustration, drivers of each car made a signal to us. Some stuck their thumbs up back at us. Others gave us the peace sign. Along the road, many gave us their palm up, as though speaking to an invisible passenger about our plight, while few furiously pointed down at their cars like madmen having wet their pants. “You need this! You need this!” we improvised. “Get a car!” Laughs arose with each passing and subsequent fail, and before we knew it, our three kilometers were up after having our picture taken out of a passing motorhome.
Ruins? Interesting. More old buildings. More plaques with details. More stone, rubble, rock and scaffolding. And it wouldn’t be ancient Greece without more steps. But what was most exciting was immediately leaving the ancient city of Mystras; the first passing car picked us up.
Inside were a man and his girlfriend. They were moving to the countryside from the city of Athens and Sparta. He was going to start a tattoo parlor, which was made obvious as we glanced at the intricate design circumnavigating the whole of his scalp. His arms were likewise dressed in ink and his personality was colorful.
“People around here, they won’t pick you up if they don’t know you. But if they do, they invite you in, feed you, pick you up and take you anywhere.”
The man and his girlfriend had just purchased their home up in the hills and were out driving the area.
“I think for Sparta,” he said, “tattooing will be interesting. They will have to get use to it.”
I wondered how many hitchhikers had come through the area, and suspected few. To see three kids with their thumbs out was blasphemy in a culture still deep in tradition. But with a new generation, times changed quicker. More and more mobile phones erupted from pockets and purses, ringing a flamboyant mechanical tone. Both men and women dressed in the latest fashion and outwardly they showed each other’s affection as young kids loitered in the evening around plazas and squares, chasing, flirting and bringing a new era to the past.
At the campsite, the car pulled over and we were let out. “Enjoy life!” were the last words we heard from the man’s mouth as he clasped his hands in prayer and bowed gently. Indeed, a new Greek I had never seen.
Despite the hospitality we were granted by this passing couple, the road had its share. Starving, having walked and wandered for over three hours, stomachs rumbled in search of food. Without stopping, as the car pulled away we kept onward toward the nearest market, but contrarily, our bags were full before reaching it.
Along the road, ripe with a country abundance, figs, grapevines and pomegranate trees hung on the wayside. We picked to our heart’s content and feasted like the gods in the sweet juices. It tasted better, better than ever. Free food, a free ride, company and more adventure. We were in heaven.

A Spartiate? No Thanks

As all know, heaven is short, especially when you revel in it. Like a snapped walking cane that has been leaned on too heavily, it brakes and sends you right back where you came from.
Well, our circumstances weren’t that dramatic. We had feasted on fresh fruit like pigs. It was delicious, filling our bellies with the abundance of wild fruits, but as night fell, the situation changed from the joy and comfort of heaven to that of pain. We were near Sparta, and like Spartiates living a spartan life, we were bound to turn over onto the rigid discipline of this ancient civilization.
Lonely Planet portrays the contrary of a sweet Spartiate. The guidebook’s history tells us that Spartans use to throw the young, those ill equipped for military perfection, into holes, wells, off cliffs or leave them on mountains to die. They were to begin training at the earliest of ages, creating a regimented society of strict rule and military dominance. Each citizen was a soldier, dedicated to service until 60, living in barracks until 30. The motto, “Return with your shield or on it” was ingrained in the fear of surrounding civilizations, for they were Spartiates—brave, fearless, determined and again, more fearlessness.
Outside of Sparta, night came to our campsite and I offered my two-person tent to the three of us. We covered the bags in an emergency blanket and with no lights to accompany any nighttime activities, we fell into the tent with only two blankets to share and the grass beneath us for padding. Temperatures dropped. The hours ticked on like dead weight.
I lost count of how many times I turned over after one limb or another fell asleep. The blankets were discombobulated and it wasn’t getting any warmer. Incessantly, we kneed each other from behind, spooning like rapid animals out to feast. Though each of us shivered, and little did we think about the fruit that went in us and was quickly on its way out. Sustaining food would have been nice fuel for an inner inferno. But this was Sparta, and we were determined. We came for Greece; new, ancient and used. And so we got Greece in each category. Sparta was discipline, tucked three of us in a two-person tent with two blankets and no padding.
Dawn rose laughing at us as we crawled out, cracked our various bones back into alignment, packed and caught the first bus out of town.

Olives, Figs & One Donkey

Athens to Nafplio, Epidavros to Sparta and Mystras, and then off to Kalamata for some olives with a bound destination for Mavromati. Known as Ancient Messini, the town is unyielding on its claim to have been the birthplace of Zeus. They flush the island of Crete to the side with a swat of the hand and believe he was born in the hills, then bathed in the divine spring that flows through the center of town. The spring itself gave the town its name, mavro mati, or black eye.
Arriving after four bus fares, we sipped from the spring water and refreshed our spirits. The night had been arduous and the bus rides long. It was in the afternoon. All we could envision was a real bed and with quick pursuance in a small town, Jenny, Josh and I secured a room with three sets of all amenities. Falling down, we forgot to rise until sleep overcame us.
The weather was fine, warm where those distant Nafplian storms seemed like a mirage. Outside, the town of Mavromati was quiet, and upon the deck as I looked out down onto the Messinia plain, an lone old Grecian woman sat on the dirt. In black dress, she was shoveling through a pile of what looked to be bundles and bundles of mushrooms. She organized and discarded them like stones within baskets of grain with a disregard to time.
She looked up. She must have felt my stare.
I waved.
She waved, smiled from afar and started hollering at me. With a happy wave of the arm as she continued to sort, her gesticulation was that of welcome. Through the rapid-fire Greek ululating, I translated her call. “Come, come! Bring your friends!”
“You got it!”
We filed up the hillside and into her gate. Once we reached her, there, spread out underneath the sun was an endless array of dried figs. Tan, wrinkly, the little fruits smelled of dank sweetness carried up from the ground by the heat. Smiles spread our faces as she continued to kindly wail at us. We were to sit, sit like chiefs among a council of figs. We were to sit and sort out the good from the bad, stuff our own sack, and when finished, continue to help this old gentle woman with her afternoon activity.
And that was our initiation into Mavromati. We spent an hour with this woman, picking out the edible leathery figs. Ants had discovered the lot of them, eating their way into the skin in order to feast upon the sweet jelly within. Tossing these holly figs to the side, she indicted their fate, pointing to her sheep. Two of them grazed behind the rusted fence. For days they smelled this wafting sun air, tasting the little delicacies beyond their reach. As we shuffled and sifted, their anxiety brought them closer to the perimeter braying with desire. The bad to the side. The good in the woman’s large potato sack. Our own was soon full.
Misvoola was her name, and upon finishing a good hour’s worth of work, she wouldn’t let us depart without a seat upon her golden throne. Treating us like any good tour guide to a group of patient tourists, Misvoola thought a saddle on her donkey would satisfy us. She removed her apron, laid it upon her donkey’s back, and we each took our turn to hop abroad, riding the steed of Alexander the Great. Photos taken, laughs, smiles, Greek sentences beckoning us to do one thing and then the next, and finally a wash of our hands. Not just once, but twice as she pointed out the dirt and grime beneath my fingernails. Prepared, I expected a shower from the way I appeared.

Poor Zeus & Our Olympian Fate

As three Washingtonians, we ended our adventures together wandering the ruins of Ancient Olympia. It was Josh’s birthday as we sprinted the Olympic track in race. As kindhearted friends, Jenny and I let Josh win.
A week worth of ancient ruins set our minds on fire and gave us the companionship of old friends. Experiences went in their numerous directions unintended, and our minds followed with ease and a sense of newfound culture. But as all good things come, something has to follow to pull our soaring strings back down from the sky.
As we perused the layout of Ancient Olympia, we came upon Pleidias’ workshop where he sculpted the 12-meter statue of Zeus, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Its interior partially roped off, I walked up its steps to discover a pool of rainwater in the center of the fallen walls. “A swimming pool,” I remarked as the day’s rain had saturated the soils. “And a toilet!”
Mankind, both in glory and disgrace, overcame me. Having emerged into the building, my eyes fell upon the large puddle and then expanded round the room. At the far right corner, as though invisible amidst the masses of visitors come to take advantage of the free entrance on World Tourism Day (and Josh’s birthday), a woman was squatting over the remains of a Doric column.
“And a toilet!” My voice startled this woman, who quickly at the turn of my gaze pulled up her pants and hopped the rope, disappearing into her tour group’s crowd. The three of us were shocked and bade her her undeserved privacy until we were sure Thee Who Pees on Zeus was forever gone.
“Wow,” Josh thought dumbstruck. “She just peed where Zeus was built.”
We laughed. We thought of ways to patronize her: Carry a sign behind her over her head with the words Zeus Defiler, follow her with phantasmagoric facial expressions that reveal our knowledge of her sin or make public her shame by sounding an alarm from our lips and pointing feverously at her. In the end, we let it go, sought both glory and acceptance, recognizing the misfortunes of mankind and continued onward.
The Peloponnese, with its magic, mystique, its tragedy and its myth took us, bewitched three Washingtonians, and turned our Greek travels into unrivaled adventure. From silenced fortresses in the calm of night to indulging in the many brief concerts within a theatre of acoustic virtuosity, we filled our journals’ pages. Camping outside Sparta, fresh and dried fruits for free, donkey rides and witnessing the awe in the awful of mankind’s potential, we were grateful for this magic.

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Photos

Center Stage
Epidavros Theatre

Palamidi Ablaze
Nafplio in the Pelopennese

Nightlights
Nafplio

King Agamemnon's Lions
At the ancient site of the Mycenean Palace where King Agamemnon rode his steed out to Troy, and likewise, through which he returned to be murdered by his wife's lover.

Under the Earth
Beneath the Palace of Agamemnon

The Komboloi Palace
Man fiddled them in their hands to alleviate stress like sheep before bundles of dried figs

Mt. Ithomi
Above Mavromati ontop Mt. Ithomi

Watching A Frieze
At the Museum of Ancient Olympia

Seeing Pleidias
Inside Pleidias' workshop

Misvoola's Garden
Dried Figs

Shower Ancient Olympia
The weather has turned from summer to Autumn as thunderstorms rage through the country. Zeus now takes his turn to pee on us.

What DId You Do On Your 22nd?
Josh of Bellingham, Washington

Donkified
Jenny aboard

Comments

[Mimi & BaBa]

Remembrances
Thank you, son, for bringing back memories of our storied time spent in Greece. Albeit, we were a family, but how else would Craig have be there to carry a injured traveler down the side of the mountain from Delphi and then to first aid. (where was the Oracle?) We live again through your mind and your pictures. Stay well and our prayers are with you and your singular friends.