Tuesday-Wednesday,
July 9/10-2013—Diafani, Karpathos, Greece
Back in Diafani. This
is one of the odder places I've been to in Greece, which is part of the reason
I made sure revisit this place this time around—even though it disturbs me in certain ways I'd really like
to figure this region out. I'm not sure overall how much I like it here, by
which I mean northern Karpathos. A part of me is drawn to this place, while
another part of me feels a bit trapped once I'm here; it feels like a place
ruled by the past, a past that hasn't served it all that well then or now, and
when I'm here I feel partially forced into this past. OK, I realize that what
I've just said might seem more than a little bit cryptic (and tangled grammatically).
Let me see if I can explain what I'm trying to get at …
Karpathos is a pretty big island, but I think what
determines certain aspects of it culturally is not its size but its shape: it's
a long island, with a wide southern end that more or less tapers after a
certain point as one gets farther north and then starts to widen again at the
top; it's a bit like a vase with a fairly fat base and a bell top. The southern
half has always been more open to the rest of the world, whereas the north has,
until relatively recently, been cut off from, well, most things; the road that
now runs north south has only been completely in the last several years, and
I'm not sure if it is yet completely paved. The people up here are different
from those I've met anywhere else in Greece. The local dialect is different
(I'm told it still contains remnants of ancient Doric Greek, but I know nowhere
near enough Greek to know if this is true, though the way people speak up here
does seem to have a different flavor than in any places I've been in this
country). People dress differently here as well, in that, with the older women
at least, the old-fashioned country dress of black dresses and head scarfs accompanied
by more colorful embroidery is still quite common. This is no quaint backwater,
though, as the tourist guides say—there's a darkness here, which is connected
to the people's past, as symbolized by these types of traditions. The trouble I
have is putting my finger exactly on what this darkness is—it comes to me thru
a vague, yet complex set of feelings that I can't quite account for materially.
First off, northern Karpathos is a wild place: big rough
pine-covered mountains meet the sea with coastlines of few beaches, let alone
much in the way of substantial inlets or safe harbors: the mountains generally
just disappear under the sea. Traditionally it's been a place for farmers and
fishermen. Both are still here, but trips into the hills reveal how much of the
land has been abandoned—miles of old field terraces dominate whole valleys,
which are now home to little besides the inevitable goat flocks (wild goats too
are found in the high hills, living a life that's so much more beautiful and
I'd argue worthily than that of their domesticated lowland cousins). Now this
describes a lot of Greece I've seen and even more that I've read about, and it
alone cannot account for what I see and feel with the people here, the
vibrations I've run into here and nowhere else in this country . There's a loneliness
I've felt while hiking the mountains of this part of the island, a loneliness
which seems to have seeped into the villages, like the mist that sweeps across
the mountains even during the warmest months. It's more than loneliness,
though. There's an undercurrent (at times slight, but always present) of
hostility here, maybe even contempt. There are far fewer of the warm smiles
here that I routinely encounter in other parts of Greece, the open-hearted
curiosity that seems to be a general hallmark of being Greek seems to have been
stunted and replaced with a suspicion that I hate to say seems to dovetail all
too easily into a kind of dull meanness, into a stultified clannishness. What
this all comes down to, I suppose, is that the people I meet here, the locals,
as a group, seem very unhappy.
I can't say why this is for sure, but it's as
if their exposure to the outside world has left them in a cultural no-man's
land. By this I mean, knowledge of what's out there, coming back here from
people who have emigrated to America and other places and brought in by the
relatively small numbers of travelers who find their way up here, has left the
old ways exposed and vulnerable to the new ideas coming in. But the people have
neither taken up the new ideas in force, integrated them into what's best of
the traditional ways to create a vibrant hybrid (which is what I've run into in
other formerly isolated places in Greece) nor have they rejected them to
celebrate what they have always been …
I
just read over what I've written. Intellectually I can tell that it's too harsh
and sweeping; I know I haven't been here long enough and certainly don't have
the information to make such big damning pronouncements. But on the other hand
I feel no need or desire to take back anything I've said. What I'm working with
are my feelings—everywhere here all I've said seems to come at me, thru the
people's faces and actions, thru the general vibe that runs thru the culture,
that seems to hang in the air even when there are no people around. Over my
life I've learned to trust my feelings—I'm generally perceptive and I tend not
to react to that which I don't at first understand. Because of this, I know
that my what I'm feeling is fundamentally correct—there is a darkens here,
something very unhealthy underpinning this place culturally. There's something going on here that just
ain't right …
That said (like I can just walk away from such
statements) … Why am I here? I'm not sure. Like I've said, I feel drawn to this
place: there is something fascinating about northern Karpathos, even if many
aspects of the place trouble me. Since I've arrived I've most been getting into
the backcountry; there's is some of the best hiking in Greece here (or at least
the parts I've been to). I've also met a lot of people here, returning locals
and travelers, I really like. Actually that's one of the weird things about
this that fascinates me. Many of the people who come here, both outsiders and
returning Greeks, seem to have an almost religious devotion to this place—I've
met numerous people who have been coming here, sometimes for weeks at a time,
for ten, fifteen, twenty straight years.
And
there really isn't all that much to do here, besides hike (like I've said, the
hiking is great, but also very challenging—there's no one some of the older
people who are so enamored with this place can participate to extensively in
this activity). The beaches are small, stony, and windy (with one little
exception, which, for reasons I haven't figured out, few people besides me seem
to bother with) and there's nothing in the way of museums and the like. In
Diafani itself there's really little to do besides sleep late and hang out in
the tavernas. But again people keep coming back. I sense a little why this is,
though I can't really explain it in any reasonable fashion. Basically, northern
Karpathos exudes a kind of narcotic affect. What I mean by this is that there's
something about this place that just captures and holds you, even when your
experience here is troubling—you just can't break away. I've been feeling this.
I know I need to get out, that I have other things I want and need to do more
than hang out here. But a part of me is always manufacturing excuses as to why
I can't yet leave.
OK,
none of this is working: I know I'm not explaining anything about this place
properly. Partially this is because I've left out its lighter side. I've met
some wonderful people here. The beauty of the countryside is staggering. The dark
feelings I get, which, as I've said, seem to come from the land itself, are
definitely not shallow: whatever is going
on here it definitely has meaning. What that meaning is, though, I have no
idea. Maybe I will become one of those people who just keeps coming back. I
feel the pull. I, as of yet, though, do not consider this necessarily to be good
thing …
[Onto
lighter things, stuff I've been doing …]
Yesterday
I took a coastal trail high into the mountains heading north (I did it last
time I was here and was so blown away by it that one of the reasons I came back
was to it again). The trail actually is a huge loop heading inland and then
across the island to its west coast. I did that one last time thru and it took
me like thirteen hours or something. My ankle (though is it improving) won't
let me do that kind of hike right now so I settled for about a six hour
turnaround, which took me thru most of the coastal part of the trail. It was
just as spectacular as I remembered. Being up there on that rugged (but surprisingly
well-marked trail) so high above the ocean below is remarkable. So is the
countryside. This island is so green and piney, which makes it a lot different
from a lot of Greek island hiking. The only negative is that I went down hard
on the trail when I was heading back. I went down a couple times on my first
hikes this summer on Crete, but haven't had it happen since. This one was an
odd one too, not really my fault, I'd say. All of a sudden the trail just
vanished underneath me: a big chunk of it just crumbled away down into a deep
drainage (I was lucky I didn't go at least part way down the drainage with it).
Without warning my feet completely went out from underneath me and I went down
hard on my right side, half into the stones and half into a thorn bush. Though
I’m still pulling out thorns I was actually lucky I landed on them. Even with
the half cushioning (if you can call an armful of little spikes “cushioning”)
of the bush my arm hit the rocks hard and I ended up with a big welt that feels
like it goes all the way to the bone. If I'd landed just on the rocks I might
have broken my arm.
Today
I went inland to the agricultural village of Avlona, which is a truly beautiful
hike, thru surprisingly dense pine forests, which give way to rocky highlands
half shrouded in mist that surround a surprisingly productive little
high-altitude plain. I've been to Avlona before, so I didn't linger there
(there's not much to do there anyway, besides hit one of its two littler
tavernas and be stared at by the locals—few travelers make it up there besides
those brought in on day trips by tourist company out of the south of the island
and those who do are interesting enough to warrant eyes peaking out from behind
curtains, etc.). But instead started back on a slightly different, more rugged
trail that eventually linked back up with the one I'd taken in. The hike took
about six hours and that was all I could handle for the day. It was definitely
a good day on the trail, though …
Tomorrow
I leave, head down on the tourist boat (the one that brings the day-trippers
up). The boat doesn't head out until about four-thirty, though. So I think I'll
beach it in the morning and hang out in a taverna in the afternoon. A part of
me want to stay another day (there's that narcotic affect), but I know it's
time to move on—I'm not going to be sucked any deeper into this place on this
trip: I have too much more of Crete I want to see, too many places that make me
feel lighter (if not better) than I do when I'm here …
Diafani (from the boat)
Trail heading south
Inland into the pines
East coast from the trail
My own private beach
Misty mountain hop
