One of the curious things about the ex-pat lifestyle is that no matter how well intergrated you are into your chosen community, there are some aspects of local life that you will never, and may not choose to, truly understand.
Easter is the most important date in the Greek Orthodox calendar. Families come together from far flung corners putting an increasing strain on the infrastructure. the ferries back and to to the islands have been booked out for weeks, and true to form the power went down on Saturday evening, as households all over the country made final preparations for their equivalent of Christmas lunch/dinner (traditionally served at 3am on Easter Sunday following Church).
The population on this island alone has multiplied ten fold; from 60 to 600! The problem is now how everybody will get back to Athens and elsewhere as there will not be room for them all on the boat.
As an a-formal-religious person I observe all these goings on from a distance. Firstly, I am not sure the term ‘Easter celebration’ applies, as mourning the death of Jesus is part of the Orthodox package. What we in the Church of England refer to as Good Friday (and I have never understood why we call it Good, either) might be called ‘miserable’ Friday. This aspect I stuggle to comprehend because after 2008 years we all know how the story ends; although you wouldn’t think so to witness the demeanor of some of the island’s older inhabitants, who are clearly traumatised, such is their belief system.
These days are also marked by following a strict vegetarian diet, which is then broken at the aformentioned late night dinner. Traditionally this meal consists of an offal and egg soup (tastes better than it sounds), and roast katziki (young goat).
These unfortunate creatures, although, admittedly, they have a lovely (short) life here, meet their end at dawn on Saturday morning in a way that most definately DOESN’T conform to EU regulations (despite the fact their owners will have received an EU subsidy for each and every one of them). I thought this practise was peculiar to being on a small island but apparently it’s standard practise across most of the country. National news coverage over the w/e features the consumption of goat, it seems to me, almost exclusively, curiously diverting the attention away from the religious angle. Most disturbingly, some local inhabitants seem to derive far too much pleasure from the event, for my liking. It’s a full time vegetarian’s nighmare.
The stress associated with this event, and preparation of the dinner, is tangible (worse for the goats, no doubt); and intensified this year by a reluctant deep freeze apparently contaning 8 katziki heads. Fighting for the last free range turkey in Sainsbury’s on Christmas Eve is a breeze by comparison.
At least everybody’s mood improves as the Saturday night service reaches an orgasmic climax (presumably coinciding with the realisation that Jesus has in fact risen) marked by bell ringing, fireworks and fire-crackers, which are then a feature for several weeks to follow at random intervals. the customary greeting then is ‘Kalo Pasca’, or Good Easter.
The unseasonal wet weather hasn’t helped this year. Sunday lunch is traditionally a spit roast (more goat); and yesterday’s rain led to the rather bizarre sight of goats roasting under colourful summer parasols!
I personally was Christened C of E; or at least that was the plan, somebody, however, had taken the plug the font on the day in question. My adorable Aunty Gill came to the rescue with a mildewed jug of water kept for topping up her flower arrangements. So that’s my excuse. My interest has always been in the ancient pre-christian religions; many a Sunday (when living in Wiltshire) I would drive myself off to Avebury and watch the ‘bearded weird ones’, as my daughter’s ex would call them.
I was heartened then when I discovered that Iraklia has an ancient history dating back to 4500 BC. There are remains of stone circles and spiral symbols carved on large stones. Some mark graves. Some may be undisturbed (unfortunately many were pillaged by locals in the 60s when an American noticed local children playing with Cycladic idols and alerted the population to their value).
Now. at Easter time, rather than attend several Church services I can’t even pretend to understand, linguistically or otherwise, I make a point of walking out into the hills and think about the simplicity of the universe when left to its own devices. I take time to smell the proverbial roses, or thyme, as the case may be, and say hello to the baby goats, who fate would would have it, were born too late.