Artemis place was set in behind the cafe on a back road.Not much went on in Figtia other than backgammon at the cafe but that was a masculine passtime. The women didn’t seem to go out with their husbands. I don’t know if it was because it was their only opportunity to get their heads showered and enjoy the peace, or if it was a frowned upon thing. Being a foreigner, these rules weren’t clear nor did I intend them to apply. There was no work for me in Artemis workshop. He set Tony to hand sanding doors. I spent my days upstairs in the half built shell… getting depressed with the surroundings… nothing to do. Artemis spoke with some relatives and found me a few days work picking lemons.
It was good to escape the drab walls for a few days. Lemon picking didn’t come without some bloodshed. The trees were viscious. Two inch thorns made it impossible to get through the day without lacerations on hands, arms and anywhere else that happened to be exposed to the pricks. I remember the smell of the lemons. It was a small orchard. Only a couple of days work, but enough to build a reliable reputation.
John and Uri were still living at Yanni’s house and planned to go to Holland after a few more weeks. The olive harvest was about to begin.
Yanni would need some help to get his olives in. Tony was tiring of sanding doors 8 hours a day and when we were asked to work on the olive harvest we jumped at the chance. This meant moving house. Yanni’s house was another work in progress and once again we were allocated a room on the upper half built floor. Work began before dawn. We climbed into the back of a truck not all that sure what to expect. It seemed like we drove for miles up narrow mountain roads that weren’t wide enough for the truck to be on. It was a rough ride. A few other Greeks were picked up along the way. The women crossed themselves frantically on passing every roadside booth or groto. It was as if we were on a sacred mission. I little knew that first morning just how sacred. Those first olive groves in the mountains were in a lovely location, but the work only lasted a couple of days.
We learned the basics of what to do, spreading tarpaulins beneath the trees and using an olive comb (a little like a mini rake) to comb the fruit from the branches onto the tarp. Because of the use of olive oil for religious purposes, it was considered some kind of sacrilege to stand on them…. even accidentally. I was chided often by the women who furiously crossed themselves and seemed annoyed that I didnt do likewise. Not wishing to give offense I was careful from then on to try to do the impossible and get through the day without crushing one single olive underfoot. After combing everything off the tree the pile on the ground had to then be sorted to remove any twigs or leaves that had fallen. That being done the produce was put into sacks and loaded onto the truck.
My favourite part of the day was the wonderful picnic lunches that were provided. Filo pastry nibbles, chicken, boiled eggs, feta cheese, salad, cold pasta, tomatoes, potatoes, bean soup, freshly baked bread and retsina to wash it all down. These feasts in the field were supplied by almost every farmer we worked for no matter what the harvest.
Yanni’s brother in law needed help next. About two weeks work on his olives and we could stay on at the half built hotel. The lunches were a little more sparse with the new employer. He also expected that after a days work on his olives that we pack eggs… an extra hour onto an already gruelling day. His wife always concocted something strange to feed us. Neither of them would eat any. I suspect it was mostly chickens that had expired and unfit for food but beggars couldnt be choosers. This guy wasn’t paying until the end of the two weeks. That was the biggest mistake. By now our clothes were becoming water proof from working with this oily fruit. I just wanted a bath. Come payday he paid 100 drx less than everyone else for the days work…. and nothing for the egg packing claiming that we had to do that to pay for the wonderful chicken dinners he provided. Yanni was upset when we told him what had happened. He was genuinely decent man who felt bad because he had recommended us to his brother in law and vice versa. He offered to pay the difference himself but we wouldn’t take it. He had some more olive groves almost ready to harvest. The promise of more work was enough.
We finished the year out working on olives and egg packing for Yanni and for Panagoula Panayoti who lived at the bottom of the village. Panagoula’s father was an amazing character. 81 and still climbing ladders to comb olives. His voice had gone, like so many elderly Greek men… apparently due to a lifetime of drinking Raki. I wish I had some photos from those days.
December made Tony homesick at the prospect of missing his gifts from Santa… work had run out for now with no prospect of anything until the orange harvest began. So we headed to Athens with chicken George (who drove the egg collection truck) and caught the Magic Bus to London and Ulsterbus back to Belfast. Home sweet home. It was great to sleep in a real bed.
