Departing Lesbos

We have just boarded the huge inter-island ferry that towers over the little town of Mytilene. I feel sad to leave Lesbos but also guiltily relieved. The sadness of the refugee situation is pervasive and it is awful not being able to do anything. Even on the dock at six o’clock this morning a group of haunted looking dark skinned people were clustered together watching for the ferry. We thought for a moment they had got permission to leave, but no – an official gestured for them to hunker down in a bunch whilst the tiny number of passengers boarded. I suppose they will have to walk back to their camp. As we moved to board, one of them objected to his treatment and was sternly rebuked by a policeman. Our last day on Lesvos was fairly full on. We had a mission. I had put out a call, on the conference excursion bus to the Petrified Forest, for books in English as the Afghani refugee man I had got to know in Mytilene had expressed a longing for something to read and said English was fine for him. Grant suggests that I call my short-term friend “Alex” as he had blond hair and blue eyes, suggesting that deep in his past is the 5th century BC visit of Alexander the Great and his troops. Alex told us that where he was born there are many people with blonde hair, light skin and blue eyes; his homeland lies in the mountains, where it is cold. He declared in the hot Lesbos mid-day that he likes the cold, the snow.

We were given about eight books by the people at the conference – thrillers, good novels and a book of philosophy as well as a Lonely Planet guide to the islands which I decided to leave in the bag for its cultural content. We bought a big bag of cherries and apricots for good measure and set off for the closed camp Moria.

We managed to get to the camp in our rather beat up rental car by going the opposite way to the steady trickle of migrants walking in their ambling way into Mytilene for the day. Groups and individuals had a way of taking short cuts through the olive groves that confused us so I got out and asked a group of Africans which way to go. “You speak French?” said a guy. “I speak English,” said another and I thought what a weird polyglot the camp must be.

The way to the “Camp”, was indicated with crudely hewn and painted signs as one got closer. It was a horrible looking place with three razor wire fences, one inside another, and a huge gate. Little cafes and businesses had sprung up untidily outside. A sign said no cameras. Another showed coins falling on to a hand, with the circle and slash across it. No donations? No beggars? There was a smell of sewage. 

The camp

People were going in and out in groups and as the gate was open we drove in only to be stopped by a policeman. “You have a permit? This is a closed camp.” I explained about the books and my destination of tent T51 but it was no go. “You call your friend and he can come out and get his books”. I tried calling but there was no signal and I thought I’d be damned if I was going to carry all those books and cherries back and so waited until the guard’s back was turned and walked in with an authoritative air. Inside was squalid. Limp low tents lined the razor wire fences, each one with one or two people huddled inside. A guy with a plastic bowl was washing clothes at a feeble tap. A mix of people were milling about, some with volunteer organization uniforms on. Nobody took any notice of me.

I found an official looking hut with a blonde girl in charge and enquired for tent T51. She consulted a map and gave me directions down an alleyway of mixed low tents. I started asking people and was eventually

taken to the right tent . 
 It was a big one and, praise be, Alex was inside along with eleven other men. I was ushered in to sit on a pile of grey blankets. It was a bit like a cave. I was welcomed by the startled group.

  An older man reminded me to remove my shoes and a young one gave me a bottle of water. It was clear that they were pleased to have a visitor and very glad for the bags of fruit. I took the books out one by one and said what they were – Tim Winton, Australian, very good, Stella Rimington – thriller – I gestured throat slitting with a wicked grin and they laughed. Philosophy, very serious I said with a solemn face. It occurred to me this it was rather like a version of my book swapping club that meets in the Art Gallery of New South Wales from time to time. The men took the books eagerly and riffled through the pages although later Alex told me that only two of them could read English. We talked for a bit and he told me more about the camp – how there was an inner section that could only be accessed if you had a special bracelet. This was for women and children who needed protection. He told me about his volunteer role – troubleshooting on the food lines and organizing food for tent bound people. I realized he was a rather remarkable person, only twenty-three and coping with the recent murder of his father by the Taliban in Afghanistan as well as being trapped on Lesvos with no certain prospect of moving on thanks to the deals made by politicians in Brussels. “I must handle this,” he said.

I took a photo of the group in the hut with my phone and tucked it in my bra thinking the police, even if they stopped, me wouldn’t suspect a contraband camera was lurking in the ample bosom of this old lady.  Alex escorted me through the camp and we met Grant outside. We all had a cup of coffee in one of the Greek run kiosks.  Alex looked so tired.  He said he’d had toothache all night.  He said he could get painkillers in the camp but dentistry?  I doubt it. It was a wrench to leave him.  He refused the offer of a lift into town as it was coming up to lunchtime and he’d be on duty.

We go the archaeological museum. No wonder I couldn’t find it as its signage indicates that it is the Ministry of Culture. I’d walked past it on previous days and dismissed it as a government building. Anyway it’s lovely. All the ancient bas reliefs and pottery soothe my jangled feelings. Looking into the blind eyes of statues from 200BC puts the current sadness into the context of eternity and as always art is a consolation. There is a room full of bas reliefs of “Dinners of the dead”. Their detail has been rubbed away but a spirit of something potent remains. The English sign says“The dinners of the dead in their imagery are united the primordial popular beliefs about the dead with the zest of the living, the tragedy of the final departure and the submission to fate”

What a fine aspiration for a sculptor or any of us for that matter.

A mortifying incident on this ferry just now. A man has come up to me with my passport which I must have dropped. Grant is aghast at my incompetence and so am I. He gestures smoking which I think is a request for remuneration. Grant gives him a twenty euro note and many thanks. How very lucky I have been.

After the museum we drove to the birthplace of Sappho and I had sardines for lunch. Oily and crunchy with slender cats watching my every movement. Grant wisely abstained and didn’t suffer my urgent need for a toilet half an hour later. Driven by desperation I successfully trespassed on my second camp of the day – a sort of English Butlins by the sea and gratefully used their facilities. Like the other one this camp is totally cut off from the world. Everyone here is English and having a nice time here – bikinis and sunburn, buckets and spades, drinks at the bar with little umbrellas. Apparently they come for four days from the UK by plane and bus and return again without having to tangle with local tourism at all. And sadly they probably contribute little to it.

Well I’m going to have a little nap now as we have eight hours more of chugging our way to Mykonos, allegedly the Sodom and Gomorrah of the Greek islands. Who knows what adventures this place will bring.