14
12 August, 2 p.m. Somewhere in the Aegean Sea. Ferry.
Yep. That’s right. We’ve finally got away from Athens!
The boat left at six this morning – far too early for us. We didn’t leave enough time to get to Piraeus by subway, so in the end we had to blow some cash on a cab.
‘It’s no biggie,’ Beattie says, as the taxi she has just hailed screeches to a stop just inches away from my feet. ‘I found another wallet last night.’
I don’t get this at first. Because we had such an early start today, we took it easy and turned in early yesterday. We had souvlakis from this little hole-in-the-wall grill place at the other end of Nikis Street, where you can see the meat cooking on charcoal grills and they make their own tzatziki. I ate almost a whole one – except for the bread. That, along with two Valium, meant that I fell fast asleep at ten. I thought Beattie and Jake had done the same.
As the grumpy taxi driver watches us lumping our rucksacks into the boot, Beattie explains to me that she and Jake weren’t able to sleep, so after I’d passed out they went off for a farewell-to-Athens walk, taking in a couple of bars.
It’s stupid, because I really did need to sleep, but I wish they’d woken me up and taken me with them. I feel sort of jealous, I suppose. Left out.
But I’ve clearly got nothing to worry about. Whatever went on last night has hardly drawn them together.
‘You go in front,’ Beattie orders Jake, as she holds the back door open for me to climb in.
‘Yeah, whatever you say, as ever,’ Jake mutters.
‘Chill out, asshole.’
He looks daggers at her.
What the hell’s going on between them? It’s a pity, because this is our big adventure, and the bad air between them is threatening to spoil it.
After he slops into the seat next to the driver, Beattie jumps in next to me and leans forward. ‘Piraeus,’ she tells the driver. ‘Fast.’
The taxi driver tuts, revs his engine, and we lurch off into the grey dawn streets.
‘So in the last bar some douche had left this wallet stuffed full of notes,’ she says to me.
‘Was there any ID in it?’ I ask.
‘Nope. Or else I would have tried to get it back to its owner, of course, Emma,’ Beattie says, rolling her eyes at me like I’m stupid.
We arrive at the port with five minutes to spare before our boat takes off (or whatever it is they do).
The taxi driver won’t open his boot until he has his extortionate thousand drachma fare in his hand.
Jake starts to argue with the guy, rubbing his hands on the back of his grubby baggy combat shorts, itching with anger, and I’m thinking
oh no, not again
.
‘Don’t be a
douche
, Jake. We don’t have time to argue with the little shit,’ Beattie says, pushing past him and peeling notes into the waiting hand of the taxi driver, whose demeanour is so sour it’s hard to tell whether he understands what she’s just said or not.
After a little confusion, we find our boat, and beetle up the ramp just as it closes, sealing us in. The sailor operating the winch says something jovial to us in Greek. Already we’re away from Athens and everyone just seems so much nicer.
Except, perhaps, Bea and Jake . . .
As well as being the cheapest, Deck Class has to be the best way to go. We’ve rolled out our sleeping bags and mats and got the beers in. I’m between Bea and Jake, but I’m finding it pretty exhausting keeping everything light because they haven’t yet spoken a civil word to each other. We’ve got fourteen hours of this, for fuck’s sake.
I’ve given up trying to broker peace between the two of them and instead I’ve spent some time watching the ever-changing scenery of sea, distant islands floating in the hazy air, and closer land where I can make out houses and white strips of beach. There is so much blue, everywhere, in the sea and the sky – and in Jake’s eyes, which, even in this foul mood he’s in, seem to suck it up and soak it all in.
But you can only gaze out at the view for so long. With the lack of conversation I’ve finally started reading
The Women’s Room.
It’s about Mira, who starts out as a wild student who doesn’t behave how girls were meant to behave back then and so gets a reputation for herself. But now she’s this middle-class housewife in New Jersey. She can’t work, doesn’t do anything really other than keep a really neat house and clean children while her husband goes off into the world and studies to become a doctor.
It’s interesting, but it doesn’t seem all that relevant to girls my age. We’ll all have careers and everything will be equal for us.
I do feel sorry for Mira, though.
The boat has stopped at five islands so far. Each time we hang silently on the railings, watching the dotted houses of the port town hover into view, the scene getting closer and closer until we can pick out a straggle of foot passengers and vehicles waiting on the dock for us.
But we’re not allowed to stay and watch them get on. Beattie says it’s important that we get back to our patch of deck before boarding commences, because, as she puts it, ‘some fucker’s going to muscle in on our pitch.’
Jake doesn’t do as he’s told, of course. But I’ve been following her back each time. Just to keep everything sweet.
Man, though. She does like to be in charge.
15
12 August 1980, no idea of the time. Paradise.
Well, this is perfect here and now. We’ve found our beach.
But when we arrived in the late afternoon, first impressions weren’t so great. We’d built Ikaria up to be some mythical idyll with whitewashed buildings and happy, smiling locals who’d point us in the right direction. But, in fact, Agios Kirikos, the main port town, struck us as pretty run down, just a functional place full of normal Greeks going about their business, shopping, going to school, putting out their rubbish.
Not one other backpacker or tourist got off the boat with us. We seemed to be the only foreigners in town, and people were quite openly staring at us. I suppose we cut a bit of a strange sight – two short punky girls (one pretty beaten-up looking) and an almost laughably tall and skinny boy with long, curly hair and weird blue eyes. Fairly normal in Athens, but we’re like aliens here.
Deflated, we sat on the birdshit-splattered terrace of a bar on the quayside, got some beers in and watched our ferry chug off into the distance to other islands, some of which we could see floating on the horizon, blending into the sky more like a watercolour painting than real life.
‘What we going to do now, then?’ I ask, rubbing lotion into my sunburned legs. Out on the boat deck you don’t feel the heat of the sun with the sea breeze, but it’s fierce.
‘Looks like a shit hole,’ Jake says gloomily.
‘Oh quit it, Jake,’ Beattie snaps.
‘We should’ve stayed in Athens, if this is what it’s like.’
‘This is just the main town.’ I touch his arm. ‘It’ll be different when we get away from here, out into the countryside.’
‘Yeah. What’s the name of that place that drippy dork girl talked about in The Milk Bar? That great beach?’ Beattie says.
I shrug. Neither of us can remember. I know I have it written down somewhere in my notebook, but I don’t want to get it out and start flipping through it, with them looking over my shoulder.
‘And how big’s this goddamn island anyhow?’ Jake asks, sprawling on his chair, all legs and arms.
None of us know. We haven’t really done our research. We’d just assumed that Ikaria would be perfect, and we’d instantly get the size of the place, sort of know it all at once, the minute we stepped foot on it.
We drain our beers and wander down a narrow shopping street, just off the harbour. In the back of a kiosk selling cigarettes and magazines we find a map of the island, which turns out in fact to be about seventy kilometres long. Massive.
We just thought you’d be able to walk round it in a day.
We also discover that Agios Kirikos is on the south coast and there’s this string of interesting-looking beaches towards the west. Beattie says we’re going to hitch out and find a nice quiet beach to spend the night on.
So, after a visit to a supermarket for as many supplies as we can carry along with all our gear, we stand on the coastal road leading out of town, ready to stick our thumbs out.
After about twenty car-less minutes, a rusty old pickup truck appears, slows down and stops, crunching into the gravel at our feet.
Even with Jake beside me, I’m apprehensive about getting in. I’ve never hitched before, but I’ve heard the stories. But then I see that the driver is a toothless old man and, crammed in beside him, are three young children and a youngish woman.
Luckily, the old man can speak English – in fact, like the creepy tattooist, he has an American accent.
He translates our request to go to a quiet beach for the woman (who I take to be his daughter) and they launch into a long, animated exchange.
‘We take you there. Best beach in Ikaria,’ the old man finally says, and gestures with his head for us to jump in the back of the pickup, which is partly filled with empty crates.
‘Awesome,’ Jake says, not entirely enthusiastically. But he gives me a leg-up into the tall vehicle and when Beattie asks him to do the same for her, he does.
Progress!
The way the old man drove! Beyond the town, the road started rapidly to climb uphill. The going was rough, bumpy and full of potholes, but he didn’t slow for any of them, so we were thrown all about in the back, bashing against crates, thumping into our rucksacks. At times it felt like we might be chucked clean out of the van. My bruises have got bruises, etc.
As we headed away from the town, the landscape framed itself on a different, wilder scale. The road skirted in and out of the deep ravines of a black, almost vertical mountain, which reared above us to our right, and crumbled straight down to a rocky shore to our left. And the wind howled around us, lifting loose bits of sacking in the back of the van, catching Jake’s hair (out of the three of us he has the most on his head by far), whipping it into his firmly closed eyes. He gripped his rucksack, his knuckles white.
‘The old boy probably does this trip every day,’ I say, trying to reassure him.
I’m surprisingly calm. I’m not a good road traveller – I used to puke all over Dad’s car when we went on Sunday drives – but Jake looks like he’s on the verge of passing out, and it’s easier to be strong if someone else needs you.
‘And he wouldn’t endanger the lives of his grandchildren, would he?’ I nod at the children, whose heads we can see bobbing around in the rear window of the driver’s compartment.
‘How do you know they’re his grandchildren and not abducted or something?’ Jake says, his eyes still shut.
I’m not sure if he is joking or not. It’s hard to tell with Jake. It’s getting harder, actually. Since we left Athens, almost by the hour, he’s got jumpier, more edgy, like there’s something bearing him down. It could be seasickness. Or perhaps he’s feeling the same tension as me, about us not having got together yet. I hope it’s that.
I wish I knew.
It will happen, though. I’m sure of that.
‘At least there’s no other traffic.’ I stroke his clenched hand, relaxing his fingers so they curl round mine.
He opens his eyes and smiles at me. I feel the tingle that his touch stirs in me.
Beattie laughs cruelly. ‘You’re such a damn pussy, Jake.’
Scary or not, the views were spectacular, and so long as I didn’t look down, all the terrifying detail about sheer drops and crumbling roads was hidden by the sides of the van. All I could see was the Ikarian Sea rippling and shimmering, and I calmed myself by breathing in the delicious, herby, salty air – which smells like sticking your face in a packet of oregano.
This is what I’ve been looking for all the time I’ve been travelling. Beattie’s right: this island’s going to cure me.
I’m going to relax, start eating properly, drink and smoke less and, gradually, Beattie will understand, and Jake and I will become a couple and I’ll be able to let him in.
After about an hour, the van draws to a halt on a blind bend that seems to tip over a cliff and into the water. We clamber shakily out on the roadside. A path disappears over the edge of the rocks, and the old man tells us that it leads to a perfect beach: white sand, limestone and granite rocks, and ‘very special water’.
I ask him to mark the spot on our map, and he also circles a village a little way inland, pointing out a track that leads to it. We’ll find a shop and a taverna up there, he says.
We say our thank-yous and Jake – oh Jake – helps me on with my rucksack. I notice that when he touches me now – when Beattie isn’t watching – his hand lingers. This island is our chance.
We stumble down the path – it is mostly slippery smooth rock, but there are some steps cut into the steeper parts – zigzagging down until we reach this glorious, sheltered sandy beach, hugged all around by a curve of high, steep cliffs. The only sign of human activity is a rough stone slipway and a rusty boat winch that doesn’t look as if it’s been used for decades.
The sun’s nearly down now and, thanks to our supermarket shop, we have one candle, one big bottle of water, twelve bottles of beer, three cheese pies and enough cigarettes to see us through the night. All that’s needed for life, really.
It’s beautiful here. Perfect. We’re like Adam and two Eves in our own lovely Eden. It’s a different world after Athens. The only sound is the gentle slap of the waves on the sand, the cliff shelters us from the wind, it’s warm enough, but not too hot, and the air is fresh, with NO BLOODY MOSQUITOS. But the best thing is the cave. We have a little limestone cave to sleep in!
First, though, we have to drink our beer and relax. I’m writing this while Beattie and Jake are out swimming – she went to the left, he to the right.
I’ve stayed behind, of course. I can’t swim.