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Dimitri the Greek
It would be hard to imagine what Nicos must think of modern-day tourism, Nikos being the father of Nikos who owns the Nikos accommodation complex (we think they are called studio rooms) in which we were housed during our holiday in Alikes. There is speculation that Nikos senior is aged anywhere between 81 and 91 depending on which authoritative account you believe and his wife some four years younger. Neither can speak English but they and a single cleaner appear to run the place in the absence of Nicos junior who is there sometimes but who is mainly occupied doing his compulsory military training somewhere else.
For Nicos senior and his wife (we did not learn her name), the contrast brought about through tourism must be both profound and bewildering. They look to have lived a simple life, probably in a subsistence way tending to grapes and a few animals, but now have foist upon them package tourism which in itself is a curious phenomenon. On Thursday each week during the season an existing establishment of tourists are packed out and an entire new lot are packed in for the next week. Mostly they are British, from the north, and while some like the Greek experience, for most it is somewhere to have a British experience but in a warmer climate. Nicos’s wife spends the first part of each morning cooking sausages and baked beans on toast and, from mid morning, Nicos pours pints of beer in nicely chilled handles while the guests lounge around the swimming pool, interrupted occasionally to turn over, dive in the pool, or snarl at their children. Then, one evening a week, the Thomas Cook rep turns up in civvies to lead the Karaoke and sell more package day trips.
Kaelene did a little research on the internet and found a debate about the overall quality at Nicos, and probably all sides of the argument were right. There is no doubt the accommodation was pretty basic and the cleanliness a little wanting, but equally the Nicos seniors worked hard to provide genuinely nice, if not confused, hospitality much of it achieved through sign language and gesticulation. What we learned later gave it some meaning, that Thomas Cook screw these people to the limit, paying them only 8 Euro (about $NZ17) a night for a studio that can sleep three people. It is a Catch-22 situation: property owners have the choice of high turnover at a very low rate or trying to survive independently on an island where tourism is the domain of the package tour operators. At the rates paid by Thomas Cook it is little wonder there is little left to reinvest in improving the standard of accommodation.
What we also learned through our own meticulous investigation is that the locals are laid back and extremely hospitable. We pondered the menu one evening outside the Asteria, a beachside restaurant, and were persuaded to go in by convincing patter about the cooking and the promise of a free carafe of wine. This was another family run place; the grandmother cooked and a perfectly formed granddaughter seemed to lead the waiting staff most of whom, she told us, returned year after year. Like the previously mentioned Apollo restaurant, the food was sublime (calamari and prawns again) and then after dinner, while chatting to a couple at a neighbouring table, the granddaughter returned with a complimentary cocktail and then later with a grass of wine each. One other evening, back at the Asteria (where Marty had the house special, a flambé lamb as his main and Kaelene the Greek yoghurt with sour cherry dessert), Vladimir, the young man who had initially lured us in, joined us at the table. He was Albanian and had returned each year for the last five years and took huge pride in his treatment of guests, both at the restaurant and on the beach where he doubles hiring out deck chains and umbrellas.
But Zyknthos was not all wine and food, we hired a car and explored. Twice down to Gerakas at the southern tip of the island where an endangered species of turtles lay their eggs (most of the beach is off limits for fear of disturbing the nests), a boat trip through the azure waters to the Keri sea caves and on to an island for a swim, a look at a few other beaches and churches, then to the main tourist area of Laganas with its Australian and other themed bars, strip joints and nightclubs, and another look at Zykanthos town. In particular, we went into the Cathedral (Greek Orthodox) and found yet again another example of how no expense and attention to detail is spared by the religious in adorning their shrines. The entire ceiling and upper walls were completely covered in murals depicting biblical scenes and, below, alters and adornments all decorated in gold.
The speed limit on the island appears to be only 60 kph, going any faster would be positively dangerous as most roads are narrow and rough, and many have treacherous ditches either side. We drove for miles, at times almost getting deliberately lost just to experience the landscape: the olive groves which go for miles (the harvest is due to start), the vineyards (each vine is free-standing like a bush), little villages, and the churches whose spires reach into blue, cloudless skies.
It was only right that our farewell evening nightcap (after Kaelene’s lobster dinner) was with Dimitri, the barman at the Apollo. He was, it would be fair to say, despondent when we arrived, his hotel having gambled against a Thomas Cook contract and lost. It was dead quiet with only a couple of shady ex-pats drinking when we turned up. That soon changed with the arrival of our new friends from Lancashire and then the two young women from Halifax. After a few wines sophistically served from a plastic coke bottle, Dimitri came alive, turned up the soundtrack to Zorba the Greek and, accompanied by the young women, gave a display of Greek dancing by the pool complete with the throwing of handfuls of serviettes in the air. The arrival of “Mad George”, another Greek, spurred the competition, the shots of Ouzo poured in a circuit along the bar without pausing between glasses, and free rounds of beer and wine, was topped by the final round of dancing, complete this time with the smashing of crockery plates. This was the real deal, the impromptu Greek night without a single tour operator or Thomas Cook rep in sight. Wonderful.