Home from ten days in Greece, a defiant indulgence in the face of my own turbulent finances, and my fourth trip to the country, the first I ever visited in continental Europe. A three month stay during the first Gulf War resulted in a sequence of prose poems; two trips in the noughties with my then-partner produced a stormy DIY arthouse video and a three generation family holiday. For me the blue waters of Greece are emotional reservoir and creative wellspring. With their secluded beaches and balmy climate, blazing bourgenvilla and silvery olive groves, kids zooming about like fireflies as their parents welcome artists, writers, history and sun seekers, if you’ve got a little spare cash the islands offer intense beauty, and the timeless illusion of freedom. But what I’ve also always loved about the country is its sense of political urgency, born perhaps of its place in the crosscurrents of continents. I first came to Athens to stay with anarchists, and when those relations proved combustive, was befriended by a South African anti-apartheid activist who, with her Palestinian husband, nurtured the seeds of my own anti-Zionism. Now, of course, as Greeks pull Syrian refugees from the waves, Alex Tsipras and Syriza are, with Spain’s Podemos, leading the fight against European neo-liberalism, a struggle we all need to win.
Not that I was going to throw stones at American Express. This visit was a reading and walking holiday, time to relax and recuperate from a spring filled with work deadlines. And apart from a few political posters in Corfu Town no crisis was in evidence in Corfu or Paxos – no queues at banks (not that we saw many banks), no demonstrations, the hotel we stayed in the first night fully booked. Paxos especially is insulated by its summer Med Set clientele – though our small village had resisted the cruise ships, the beach taverna had served Kate and Wills on their honeymoon, sending the food out to the royal yacht on a dinghy – but of course the economic meltdown was on people’s minds. A taxi driver liked Tsipras for being on the Left and standing up to the EU; our young cocktail bartender said she was planning to work in London; but the best conversation I had about the situation was with a older gent with the most fabulous fleecy white moustaches, who arrived on a small boat with his two grandchildren as I was swimming on an isolated beach. He said the country’s economic problems stemmed in part from irresponsible lending – retired now, when he was working he had been coldcalled every five days with offers of collateral-free loans of up to 50,000 euros. It was the same in Ireland, I replied – an Irish friend’s builder was constantly getting phone calls from the banks; he could take the train from Dublin and by the time he got to Kildare be 100,000 euros richer. But while the banks are ‘too big to fail’, and bailed out to the tune of over a trillion pounds, Greece is insulted, raged at, and made to beg for, in comparision, a meagre £7 billion. What price not only an entire country, but the dream of a real European Union?
My bewhiskered Poseidon asked me to tell people to keep coming – the last things Greeks need now is a wash-out summer season, and as long as you bring enough euros with you, even a run on the banks won’t affect your holiday. The biggest disturbance in Loggos was the bull carcass that washed up on the beach one day, front legs bound and smelling to high heaven. I recalled the myth of Europa, kidnapped by Zeus in the form of a bull, who swam with her away from Crete. Europe now seems to be dumping Zeus, and the situation stinks. Rich nations shouldn’t be punishing Greece, or any poorer countries. Europe has got a chance here to live up to its ideals, and though I don’t hold out much hope of the IMF waving the flag of economic equality, perhaps the threat of Putin profiting from Syriza’s rebellion will be enough to force a deal. Yesterday’s concessionary funds suggest a game of brinkmanship that may yet keep a Grexit at bay.
What’s really needed, though, is a new sense of being in this crisis together – a green social democracy that empowers the disenfranchised and forces the wealthy to, as Pope Francis has just decreed, take responsibility for healing the earth. It’s still hard to see how our how current political system will deliver this, but it was good to come back to the news that Jeremy Corbyn has entered the Labour leadership contest. Personally, I can only live in a way that honours my radical politics, spirituality and creativity. I read Zorba the Greek on that beach, and while my friend Glen on FB – one of the true male feminists I am fortunate to know – bemoaned the hero’s atrocious behavior toward women during the war, to me it seemed Zorba learned a profound lesson from his violent past:
‘My country, you say? . . . You believe all the rubbish your books tell you? Well, I’m the one you should believe. As long as there are countries man will stay an animal, a ferocious animal . . . But I am delivered from that, God be praised! It’s finished for me! [. . .] That miracle over there, boss, that moving blue, what do they call it? Sea? Sea? And what’s that wearing a flowered green apron? Earth? Who was the artist who did it? It’s the first time I’ve seen that, boss, I swear!’
His eyes were brimming over.
‘Zorba!’ I cried. ‘Have you gone off your head?’
‘What are you laughing at? Don’t you see? There’s magic behind all that, boss.’
He rushed outside, began dancing and rolling in the grass like a foal in spring.
The sun appeared and I held out my palms to the warmth. Rising sap . . . the swelling breast . . .
and the soul also blossoming like a tree; you could feel that body and soul were kneaded from the same material.
– Zorba the Greek, Nicos Kazantzakis (Faber, p245-6)
The book is very much about patriarchy, and though the depictions of women are often problematic – a figure of fun, a nameless victim of lust and murder – Zorba himself evolves from rapacious soldier to anarchist pagan, and his appreciation of older women’s sexuality is rare to see in literature. I could forgive much though, for in their striving for fulfillment and transcendence, Zorba and the narrator, the ‘boss’ on his Buddhist writerly quest, embody the Greece that keeps pulling me back to its wild warm shores – to drink wine from tin carafes, flirt, read, swim, sketch the cliffs and the sea, recharge for the challenges ahead . . . its going to be an interesting summer, but for now, I’m still basking in my Grecian urnings, so more on future plans anon!