I went to see Maria – and of course she wanted to tell me that Irini needed to talk to me. It was good to see Maria anyway, and as a side benefit I got some fried aubergines and delicious local cheese marinated in red wine – the kind of thing you can only get if you happen to know someone who makes it.
So I went to see Irini the next day in the medical centre, a couple of tiny rooms half-hidden behind the mass of bougainvillaea covering the pergola over the road through the village. It turned out a group of parents, Irini included, were looking for someone to help the kids with their English for the winter, and since I used to teach in a language school in Athens, Dimitris recommended me.
Now more than ever, youngsters need to learn English; in the economic crisis, unemployment has skyrocketed and during this period thousands of Greeks have left for Australia and other countries to find work. But running an English school, like so many other things, is difficult on an island with a tiny population, and beyond the normal school curriculum there's no English tuition available. The economies of scale possible in big schools in big places go out the window here with only about twenty-five schoolchildren, all of different ages; there's no dedicated premises; the cost of licences and insurance doesn't bear thinking about; and in the winter there's no afternoon bus to bring children from the outlying settlements for extracurricular activities. Course books cost a whopping €25 each and would have to be bought in Rhodes along with supplies like photocopy paper.
So in the absence of a language school, the idea is to hold informal English sessions. I arrange a preliminary discussion at the junior school, and there I meet parents who care a lot about their children's education – mostly Greeks but also those from other countries such as Bulgaria or Ukraine who have settled here, whose children have had to learn Greek as well as English. They say they'll leave it up to me to decide what's needed and how to organise things, which is even more nerve-wracking. I take names and notes, and leave with my head spinning and a date to meet the kids.
I decide to give it my best shot. It will be a challenge, a way to get to know people, to get out of the house and be more involved with the community; most of my days are spent working at a desk remotely with people abroad. My work contract with my company in England is for four days a week, the fifth reserved for freelancing, so technically I have time to do a half-day of English sessions twice a week. I have just agreed to take on an additional freelance contract, but I'll squeeze it in over the weekends. Since I can only spare two half-days, I have to divide all the kids aged eight to eighteen into just two groups, meaning each group will vary enormously in ability; but that's the best I can offer. I'll do a session with each group, one after the other, two afternoons a week from four until seven.
So much for my quiet life. It makes me nervous signing a form saying I take full responsibility for any damage to the school property or anything that goes missing. Many of the children I've seen around but I have no idea who they're related to, what their names are or how they are likely to behave.
My first meeting with the children is a few days later. The teenagers are kind and polite and surprise me with their excellent English. I think I'm going to enjoy getting to know them, and if we can keep up their progress it will be a good thing. I bring biscuits to my meeting with the younger ones – bribe them to be good by promising treats. It's funny how smaller children produce much more sound, even before you feed them sugar. They start well, and my Greek is good enough to communicate. It's easy to spot the problem areas; the main problem will be my propensity to laugh at their jokes, which will only encourage their naughtiness – but it's hard not to, as even the little terrors are adorable.
'Any questions?' I ask in Greek at the end.
One hand flies up. 'Yes, miss. When can we eat the biscuits?'
I'm grateful to my friend Dimitris for recommending me.
Back when Dimitris and I first met, when I came for a month to try out living here, we spent afternoons at beaches together, snorkelling around rocks. Now that I'm seeing Stelios, he's told me he'd prefer to keep his distance, and since he lives in Livadia our paths don't cross very much. But he invites me to the celebration of his name day in the last week of October.
Most Greek people are named after a saint, and the celebration, or yortee, that you have on the saint's day is more important than a birthday. Greek calendars and diaries are usefully marked with all the name days, but I haven't yet got around to buying a Greek calendar, so I still forget everyone's name day unless I'm invited to celebrate.
Most of Dimitris' friends are teachers and live in Livadia, but one who lives in Megalo Horio offers to pick me up along the way, since there's no evening bus at this time of year. She and I buy him a gift from the shop near where we park. The nights feel even darker now that many restaurants have shut down for the winter. Dimitris has invited us to Mikro Kafe on the waterfront, one of the few places still open, where I imagine I'd spend more evenings if I lived in this village. The stone walls and dark woodwork feel cosy when it's dark and cold outside, and there's music. I wish my friend, who still looks very young for someone who's nearing 50, khronia polla, many years, or many happy returns.
It's a strange life being a teacher in Greece, and I learn more about it this evening. The government decides where to send teachers to fill its needs across the country, and informs them at the end of each summer where they'll be posted for the year. One of the women is from Athens and has a son in school; she's had to leave him with his father. Of course she can go to see him but only when ferry schedules permit, mainly during holidays; and the cost of travel is high on a teacher's salary – especially when that salary has been cut because of what's simply become known as the krisi, the crisis. The cost of living on a small, remote island can be high compared with a city – there are no cheap markets because of the small population and shipping costs add to the prices – so even ordinary household goods or petrol for a car can be expensive. The teachers have mostly trained and worked their first years in a big city such as Athens, so they don't have friends and family nearby to help out. It can be lonely and a strain; since the staff changes from year to year, it's hard to have permanent friends.
It's a convivial evening and I enjoy the company. But I'm worried about staying late, as I have a piece of work to start the next morning and my time now is tighter than it used to be. I also feel a little awkward, thinking they're speaking English or slow Greek for my benefit; and I find it difficult making conversation in noisy places. If I mention that I'm leaving, the teacher who gave me a lift here will feel pressured to cut short her night to take me home, so I slip out quietly without saying anything. I pay for my glass of wine at the bar, have a quick chat with a couple of English friends, and happily set off walking. It's a mild night with lots of stars, and I enjoy the hour-long walk in the dark on the quiet road. Young Saeed passes me on a scooter, stops and tries to insist on giving me a ride.
'No thanks – I'm almost home!'
'Ela re, come on!' he shouts, but I grin and wave until he drives on.
I send Dimitris a message before I go to bed, thanking him for the invitation and explaining why I left early, and I receive one back from him the next day.
Thank you for your company last night, now there is the explanation for your sudden departure without say anything.
I do not like your action to pay for your drink, the Greek custom is paying the human which invites people. I will owe a drink.
All best Dimitris
I realise I've made a faux pas, a cultural gaffe, and I write back at once saying I hope he realises I didn't mean to offend him. I was only trying to do the right thing and not break up the party.
I have never felt the need for a car. Though I passed my driving test while at university, I subsequently felt no need or desire to drive. Living in cities in Greece, Canada, France and England, I cycled, walked, took buses and trains and taxis (still so much cheaper than owning a car). People always claimed there was too muc
h traffic on the roads, but no one bothered to do anything about it. Not having a car was good for the planet and good for me.
A couple of years ago, I decided that being able to drive once in a while might be useful, such as at Christmas when public transport in England grinds to a halt and I have to rely on my parents to deliver me from one house to the other. So I took refresher lessons, but then life got turned upside down and I never got around to driving. When my mum visited Tilos this summer, she encouraged me to drive the hire car around the quiet roads. My dad let me drive his hire car, too, when he came, although being given unwanted advice by him and Stelios simultaneously in two languages nearly made me give up again.
So I know how to drive, but I think that even if the weather turns wintry, walking to Livadia and back to do the English sessions will be good for me. Stelios laughs and tells me I might change my mind when there's a huge electrical storm and rain lashing down. Walking 4 miles for fun is one thing; walking it loaded down with books, papers and my laptop, spending 3 hours with demanding children and walking back again, twice a week, is quite another. And then there's Leo from Megalo Horio, whose family doesn't have a car. He can't join in if someone doesn't take him home.
Ironically, after surviving all my life so far without a car, now I might need one on an island that's about 7 miles long by 3 wide. Naturally, I'm hesitant. Apart from anything else, it could be the beginning of the end for the strong leg muscles I've been building.
My first thought is to rent a car for the winter: presumably the hire cars aren't used in the winter and a deal for several months might be good for everyone. But when I enquire, I learn the cars aren't insured during the winter. When they factor in the extra cost for getting insurance, the amount for six months would be half the price of buying a used car outright and getting it insured and road-tested. So I start to consider buying one.
The question is causing a little stress, which is funny as the editing job I have just started is a book about managing stress. I made a conscious decision to cut back on stress a couple of years ago, especially when I decided to try to get pregnant. I seem to have most of the book's recommendations covered – from eating healthy fats and low GI foods, walking and swimming, to appreciating what you have and living in the moment.
'Take control of your spending', says the book. Spending large amounts of money makes me nervous, and it's early in my life in Tilos to be making big investments. Plus it doesn't quite fit with my plan to reduce my needs. Legally, I can't own a car without a Greek driving licence, so I have to give the money to Stelios – a man I've been with for just two months – so he can buy it and let me use it. If I had any issues with trust after the end of my last relationship, they're certainly being put to the test.
A week later, fit but exhausted having walked to Livadia and back three times in one week, I hear reports that the parents and kids are happy with their English sessions. So if I'm going to continue, it's time to bite the bullet. A car is for sale in Tilos but it seems a lot of money for a fairly rusty thing, so we decide to go to Rhodes to see one of Stelios' cousins, whose girlfriend is selling hers. We can take the big ship Diagoras on Friday morning and return that evening, and now I know about the online 'marine tracker' which you can use to find its position and know if it's arriving on time at 6 a.m. We drive to Livadia on the motorbike, and a golden sun is rising over the harbour; we're treated to a spectacular view of Symi harbour 2 hours later, and arrive in Rhodes around mid-morning.
The car is a bright-red Citröen Saxo. It's not too big, not too expensive, and old enough that I won't mind bashing it occasionally – but it seems to run well. I sense that it's the car for me. We sit around drinking coffee for a while, and the sale is agreed. Stelios knows a good mechanic who can service it for us, so we leave it with him in the afternoon. In the couple of hours we have left, I buy some English language materials; Stelios pays a visit to a fish merchant who owes the fishing boat thousands of euros but professes to be too broke to pay.
The quay where the Diagoras docks in Rhodes again after its long round trip to Kastellorizo is full of people from various small islands, loaded with shopping. It's dark and cold, exposed to the elements, but people wait patiently for the lights of the ship to appear. We arrive back in Tilos close to midnight. On nights like this in the winter, with bags to carry, it will be good to have a car to drive home. For now, we have had to leave the car with the mechanic, and he promises to put it on the ferry in a few days; in yet another leap of faith, I've had to leave behind the car I've just paid all that money for.
Chapter 9
The Austerity Diet
A few days later, the big ship docks at the harbour and amidst all the frenzy of people and trucks coming and going as quickly as possible, Stelios dashes on to the boat, finds the car and drives it down the ramp and off the boat. I most certainly could not have done that.
'Kalo riziko!' exclaims Delos when he sees our new red car outside the honey factory the next morning. When you acquire something new in Greece, people wish you good roots for your new purchase, or me yeia!, may you enjoy it with health.
I drive to Ayios Andonis just because I can, to see the waves dashing in to shore. In the distance is the humped back of Kos, with Kalymnos rising up behind it, and a Turkish peninsula – no signs of man visible, just layers of land.
Twice a week, I must think up activities to do with the kids. I've learned that a few hours of concentrated preparation to ensure that I can keep the group entertained non-stop is the only way to keep a semblance of control. We can't just follow a course in a book, because some of the kids have already completed them, so I gather exercises from different books as well as resources I find online, and I create some myself. I don't yet have a photocopier so I have to go to the dimos, the council office opposite the church, and ask Kyria Vicky, the museum curator – it's more polite for me to use 'Mrs' in front of a name in a situation like this, I've learned – to photocopy everything I need twelve times while I stand and wait. I'm not sure she's figured out that I'm practically living with her son, or what she thinks about it, but her manner is very friendly if somewhat formal.
In the next English session, the little kids are giving me a big headache. They're good as gold for the first half of the class, but after break they're endlessly distracted. I know that some are bored while others are completely lost. The big kids just tell the little kids the answers, which is very endearing but doesn't really get us anywhere. Just as I'm saying goodbye to them, feeling utterly drained, a man I don't know strides into the room and shouts at me for holding a class on an important public holiday: Ochi Day, the anniversary of the famous day in 1940 when the Greek prime minister, Metaxas, rejected the ultimatum made by Mussolini that Axis forces should be allowed to enter Greece and occupy strategic locations.
I knew it was 28 October but assumed I'd have been told if the English session wasn't supposed to happen – and the kids all showed up. As he rants at me, I only understand about half of what he says, but I think I've made another big mistake.
This is all too complex, I think as he leaves. I've taken on too much. It's beyond me. All I'm trying to do is help the children keep up with their English, as their parents asked. The last thing I want is to offend anyone. Surely everyone knows I'm new here and not familiar with how things should be done. No one else has said anything.
I'm crying as two of the diligent teenage girls arrive, and I apologise, tell them what happened. They tell me not to worry – clearly they think the issue is debatable. I ask if they want to do the English session and they do. The older class behaves well, apart from one kid who's been adorable recently but doesn't want to do anything today. It's as if they take it in turns to be naughty, but it's natural: they're just teenagers, going through good days and bad.
By the end of the 3 hours, I'm frazzled. Leo's not where we arranged I'd pick him up, but playing football in the square, maybe because I'm late. Grumpily, I drive down and he runs up to the car.
I'd usually turn around at the ferry dock, but the big ship is coming into port so there are cars everywhere. I panic, not being very used to driving around other cars. Best to do a three-point-turn, I think. But in my haste, I back the car into the building behind me. Which is the police station.
There's a gruesome sound, and the word that comes out of my mouth is not the most polite. I apologise to Leo, and get out to see the damage. Mercifully, there is none – either to the car, or the police station. And there's no one around watching. So I get back in, and drive off.
As we drive up the hill, I explain to 12-year-old Leo why it's been a hard day, and just talking to him cheers me up. He's Albanian but has mostly grown up on Tilos, and in addition to speaking Greek, he's on his way to speaking excellent English. I started him off with the younger kids, the eight to twelves, but I think he's going to have to move up to be with the older kids soon, he's doing so well. He seems very clever – maybe something to do with having hard-working parents who had the resourcefulness to move here for a better life. I ask him what other subjects he likes at school and he says maths and physics.
'Difficult!' I comment.
An Octopus in My Ouzo Page 7
