Mani Barnacles and Swinging Gourds

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The Mani Peninsula, the southern tip of mainland Greece (in fact of the entire continent), feels like the end of the road in Europe. It’s stark and sparse — imagine Connemara in the bleak west of Ireland…after three centuries of drought. Also like Ireland, today’s Mani population is a tiny fraction of what it was as many of its former residents either fled the country for the promise of far away lands like America or were killed in the violent bickering that seems to be a local trait. Only goats thrive here. Salads come with a slab of feta cheese the size of a paperback. While mountains striped with abandoned terraces hint that the Mani once grew much more, for two centuries olives have been the only Mani export. According to a museum display, historically the economy was based on three things: immigration, piracy, and brigandage. People hid out tucked in the folds of the mountains far from the coast and marauding pirate ships of old. Ghostly barnacle-like hill towns serrating distant ridges are fortified for threats from both without and within. Cisterns which once sustained tough communities by catching pure rainwater are now mucky green puddles that would turn a goat’s stomach. The bleak history and rugged landscape provides an evocative backdrop — making hedonism on the Mani coast all the more hedonistic. Stepping out of my room and onto the shady veranda, I bonked my head on a lemon. Then, strolling to the taverna on the beach, I enjoyed images of a long ago Mani dinner — settling my chair into the sand under a bare and dangling lamp at sunset.

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While squeezing lemon on my octopus, I enjoyed a faint but refreshing spritzing. Wondering from where the mist came, I looked over to see a tough young man in a swim suit the size of a rat’s hammock tenderizing someone else’s dinner by slamming it over and over on a rock. Today, twenty years later, Anne and I settle in at Lela’s Taverna under a leafy canopy. Lights bulbs still swing in the breeze — but, no longer naked, they’re dressed in gourd lamp shades. Lela, bent and cloaked in black, scurries as a fleeting rain storm drives a few people inside. We sit under an eave enjoying the view. Anne asks Lela’s son the difference between white wine and rosé. He says, “It’s the same but for the color.” I go for the ouzo — if only to watch it cloud over as I trickle in the water. I love gazing into the misty Mediterranean, knowing the next land is Africa. Inky waves churn as a red sun sets. The light morphs as it does each evening from solar to incandescent. In a land where “everybody’s grandma is the best cook,” ancient Lela is appreciated for the way she gives her tzatsiki a fun kick and how she marinates her olives. I can’t get past “good morning” (kalimera) with this Greek language. You try it: ne, okh’i, parakalo, kalimera, poli kala (yes, no, please, good morning, very good). I attribute my problem to confusion caused by the three words I know in Hawaiian: King Kamehameha, Haleakala, and Mele Kalikimaka.

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A local guide explained that while the French keep their mouth shut when they talk, the Greeks keep it very open. While I’m tempted to keep my mouth shut while I don’t talk, I’m determined to get the basic Greek vocabulary down. Here, perhaps more than anywhere in Europe, saying just a couple of local words endears visitors to the people they meet. Mele Kalikimaka.