To Kalamata by Bus

2009

After a fairly harrowing introduction to Greece it was time to go my first destination – Kalamata.

Harrowing because the delay in the flight from Madrid meant that I arrived in Athens at rush hour and being driven by a demonstrative Greek taxi driver in peak hour traffic at dusk is harrowing. Then there was the haggling over the fare; the meter said 24 Euros, he said 45. All the tourist books and the helpful man at the tourist desk at the airport had warned this would happen – but one hopes it won’t. It did, and after much remonstrating it came down to 35, which with the tolls, luggage charges and a tip was closer to reasonable.

Then there was the close attention from a distinctly shifty young character in Monastiraki Square who I managed to shake off by heading towards a parked van full of police armed with machine guns.

Things could only get better and they did.

The evening ended on a good note when I ducked into a very reasonable Taverna, had a glass of raki and some good Greek food. I loved the way the cutlery was in a draw in the table and you could use it as required – very practical!

Up early the next morning and off to the imaginatively named Terminal A bus terminal. The travel book warned that it was ‘not a good introduction to Athens’. I disagree, at 6 am it was as good an introduction to Athens as you could get, the real Athens, not the one trotted out by the tour guides.

After the inevitable haggle with the taxi driver one enters this space which has no trimmings – dirty white walls, a series of unimaginative ticket booths with destinations in arial fount, a few banks of chairs, and clocks that give different times. Through here Greece passes. The young are here in hip clothes with their ipods and the old and grey in black struggling with their baggage. The lottery salesman carries his pole festooned with bulldog clips holding tickets, a grey haired woman shuffles along trying to sell packets of tissues, a well dressed businessman strides through carrying his computer.

Then to the buses, there are over 60 stations in a vast shed with little or no direction. There are no boards telling you which bus is going to where, from which dock and when. Only by asking various passers-by if they spoke English could one eventually find the right bus.

I was allocated seat No1 – great I thought, window seat at the front with lots of legroom. No chance, window seat yes, but in their effort to cram as many relatively short Greeks into every bus on the oversubscribed Kalamata route, they reduced leg space to a minimum. The very nice young girl offered to change but I was wedged in and daren’t move.  Then there started the bargaining over changing seats, a woman wanted to sit in the front and tried every ruse to get a seat - my inability to speak Greek was used to advantage. She was unhappy, so her very mobile arms and hands seemed to say.

Everyone settled down and we were off. The girl next to me crossed herself seven times with Hail Mary’s and the old man across the aisle took out his worry beads and clicked away. Great I thought, this is going to be quite a trip. And so it was.

I soon learned that if you are driving the hooter has three functions – to greet your friends in passing vehicles (and there are many), to hoot to warn other drivers who you assume are going to do the wrong thing, and to hoot at drivers who do the wrong thing.

Other lessons were – double white lines mean you can overtake, overtaking round corners is permitted as long as you can see there is no oncoming traffic and finally, whoever gives way last has right of way.

All this delightful irreverence to most traffic convention, mixed with occasional magnanimity makes one completely forget the cramped discomfort of the seat and enjoy the ride.

From Athens we headed west along the coast to Elefsina, Megara, and then turned south at Corinth and headed for Tripoli. All the names stirred memories of Greek history classes at school and reminded me that this country was the home of some of history’s greatest philosophers, warriors and writers. I began to see things from a different perspective, and shedding my conservative well ordered Anglo-Saxon heritage for a while, began to appreciate everything around me.

The countryside to Tripoli was less than attractive. Generally rocky hills with the lower slopes cultivated with olive trees and the flatter valleys used for annual cropping. Unkempt would be a description I would use to describe the villages, and the agricultural land – judging by Australian standards. If something doesn’t have to be moved or knocked down – why do so, the same applying to mowing and general manicuring of farmland and gardens. To be fair, recent bad frost had prematurely ended the colourful autumn vegetation and added to the lacklustre impression.

The olive groves were well tended and in fruit. There were also many severely pruned trees which I later discovered were mulberries. As we got closer to Kalamata, orange trees became part of the horticulture.

From Tripoli the landscape became more interesting with fairly high mountain passes revealing large deep valleys covered with olive trees and cultivated land. There was even a sign to a ski resort.

The road was lined with crypts or shrines in memory of those killed in accidents and the number made me understand the need for the Hail Marys and the incessantly clicking worry beads. Every so often the beads would be swung around like a bolero and I had visions of the cord breaking and the released beads expending their stored energy by pole-axing the driver who was only a metre away. I wondered whether there was a discount for roadside crypts in bulk.

From Tripoli we traveled to the deep valley of Megalopoli which has a huge power station spewing steam and smoke high above the carpet of olive trees. Another high mountain pass brought us to the long valley that ends in Kalamata and the sea. Again at the north end of the valley is a huge thermal power station, somewhat incongruous with the olive trees that stretch south to the sea.

Megalopoli on the Road to Kalamata

The single lane road down the valley seems to be the arterial system carrying the lifeblood of Kalamata which is the capital of the province of Messinia. In come the materials for everyday life – typical consumer goods. Out go olives, either as the world famous black Kalamata olives from the Kalamon variety, or as olive oil from the Koroneikj variety. For oil the olives are harvested green and relatively unripe to avoid the frost. As a result the olive oil is green and pungent and to the uninitiated an acquired taste.

Harvest for oil has already begun – by hand. The old wood branches are cut from the tree and the olives harvested from them by beating them with sticks.  The olives left on the tree on younger wood are hand-raked onto mats. The method is traditional, slow and labour intensive. And it works here, now. However, one has to wonder whether it will survive the onslaught of intensive groves and mechanised harvesting at a quarter of the cost.

The harvest for black table olives – also by hand picking – starts later.

The bus arrives in Kalamata where the noisiest and most immovable traffic jam I have ever been in occurs in one of the narrow main streets. The problem being cars parked on both sides, a narrow street, two buses going in each direction, a concrete truck, a couple of large delivery vans, many scooters and every one with a hooter.

Add to this that some of the truck drivers are mates and have a chat while their vehicles pass so close that a rat couldn’t squeeze between, but scooters were trying. The drivers not chatting directly were talking into mobiles, as were a couple of those on scooters.

And everyone was hooting and gesticulating and offering solutions. Somehow, sometime later, everyone inched forward and escaped the gridlock. Now I understand the hotel clerk in Athens being perplexed when I asked him when rush hour was – he replied there isn’t one but the traffic is always heavy!

Finally we arrived at the leoforio or bus station and it was time for another taxi ride to the hotel. More traffic jams and the driver commented on how bad Greek drivers are!

We arrived at the hotel which is on the picturesque seafront about 5km from the city centre. No haggling with the driver this time – I told him what I was paying. I am starting to get the tempo and temperament of Greece.

My room looks out over the bay which is the tip of the Messinian Gulf. High, rocky mountains climb to the east and west and the sea is quite tranquil. It is the first time I have touched the Mediterranean, and I like it. There is a long walk along the pebble beach to the port and along the way are many reasonable tavernas and restaurants which I am looking forward to exploring.

Kalamata

I am pleased I came to Kalamata, which gives its name of the world’s best table olive. The people are friendly and it is remote enough not to be spoilt by dependency on tourism. Tomorrow I visit the olive industry, on which the local economy depends, as the guest of the Ministry of Agriculture and will learn a lot.

On Thursday it is back to Athens by bus. My seat number is 13, maybe I should buy a rosary and say a few Hail Marys.