The Road to Hellas

February 24, 2008

Photo:Flickr/Jesmyn

The Greek approach to parking - anytime, anywhere, absolutely any angle - causes such congestion that we weren’t surprised when the bus from Thessaloniki to Halkidiki was late. In fact, at forty minutes past its due time, it was pretty near embalmed. Barely had we three clambered on board than our driver, Stavros, took off. His foot through the floor way with an accelerator and non-stop rants about the shortcomings of other road users, combined with the conductor’s incessant huffing, confirmed that this was one seriously overdue bus.

We’d gone maybe half a mile when we slammed to a halt at a T-junction behind a beaten up truck full of builders. We were instantly surrounded. Seemingly, our supersonic speed and late braking meant that their vehicle was now a little more beaten up than before.

Abandoning the Big Bad Wolf routine in favour of a very convincing headless chicken, the conductor ran the length of the bus and took refuge behind a heavily pregnant woman at the back. Our Stavros, though, was made of sterner stuff. Yanking down the window, he aimed a smart left hook at the leader of the mob. Deciding that withdrawal might be the safest option the disgruntled builders made a nifty exit back to their truck, from where they showed their displeasure by crawling along at a snail’s pace for the next fifteen minutes. Eventually they turned off into a garage, waving us farewell with the time-honoured gestures of friendship but at least leaving us a clear road. Not for long.

In a picturesque fishing village further up the coast, an oversized milk-float laden with beer and spirits sat perched half on, half off the pavement, narrowing the pencil-slim road still further. Spotting the delivery man enjoying a quiet drink and a smoke in a nearby taverna, Stavros did a double take. Moustache bristling, he thrust his head out of the still open window and pointed out, with his customary charm and sweetness, that the man’s ***** float was causing a blockage and would he please be so kind as to move it. You didn’t need to be fluent in the lingo to understand - some languages are universal.

Just as the delivery driver was telling him how to similarly block a certain part of his anatomy with his bus, up at the far end of the village a small white car appeared. In a scene straight out of High Noon it advanced slowly up the street, the lady driver staring at Stavros as if thinking to persuade him through sheer force of will to give way. With a mere five yards separating them, it dawned on her that there were no flying pigs around that day and she’d better reverse. Fumbling with the gear lever, she let out the clutch. The gap between the vehicles shrank still more. Flustered, she tried again. Fumble, fumble, grip the wheel, reverse. Several more feet were eaten up.

Standing in the doorway to her shop, a local greengrocer broke off from serving to shout advice on the finer points of manual gear boxes, jabbing the aubergine she was holding sideways and up. Our lady driver shadowed the move. The car crept forward another foot. Abandoning the vegetable, the shopkeeper bustled forward, gesturing for the woman to vacate the car. All but gibbering, she did so. Breathlessly, we watched the newcomer do her stuff. Fumble, fumble, grip the wheel, reverse. The car bunny hopped another yard closer. Exit one highly embarrassed shopkeeper, back past her customers into the darkest recesses of her store.

Back on the pavement, Delivery Man was at last moving his float. Giving the wheel a ferocious tug, he bounced the vehicle back onto the road and round into the taverna’s tiny car park. Unfortunately in his haste he’d forgotten to secure his stock. Fascinated, we watched the lazy sway of the stacked up beer barrels, like hula dancers undulating to some unheard tune. As half a dozen tumbled over the side and began rolling down the hill towards the sea we waited. Sure enough, a split-second later the red-faced DM erupted from his cab and took off after them, legs going like pistons and mind no doubt full of just how he was going to explain that the beer he was supposed to be delivering was not only lost but in danger of becoming a hazard to shipping.

Meanwhile, the standoff between the bus and car was continuing, with both drivers looking to the other to do the right thing. Cue belated arrival of superhero in the form of a passably good looking chap from the local gift shop. All but dragging the woman from behind the wheel, he got in, shoved the car into reverse and shot backwards up the street, scattering dogs and small children as he went. Once again our path was clear. Though, frustratingly for Stavros, for even less time than before.

Just around the corner, crawling up a hill that must have felt like Mt Olympus to its poor transmission, was the most decrepit, clapped-out car in the universe. With dented doors held on with string and rusty wheel spokes more kinked than a piglet’s tail, this was the great-great-granddaddy of motoring. Elderly donkeys were trying to overtake this thing. Stavros tooted. No response. Stavros jammed his hand on the horn. Nada. Stavros drove so close to it we were almost in the boot. Not a flicker. For mile after agonizing mile we followed this wheezing rust-bucket up the hill’s winding, hairpin road, until finally, right at the top, its centuries-old driver pulled over and permitted us to pass. He and Stavros bade each other farewell with the usual caring gestures and we thought fondly of England and the M25 on a wet Monday morning.

What’s a Greek urn? If he’s a bus driver called Stavros, not nearly enough.

About the author: Christine Sutton is a mum in her mid-fifties who lives in the county of Essex, England. She has been writing for around fifteen years (with occasional breaks for meals), mostly short stories and the odd article, and has been fortunate enough to be published in a variety of magazines both in the the UK and abroad (Australia, Canada, Bahrain, S. Africa and the USA). She and other half Pete share their home with son Daniel, his girlfriend Rose, and their three pets, mad dogs Meggie and Gemma and Sophie the cat.’