Macondo Sunsets

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2011-02-03T14:02:00.000Z

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Fees, cuts and rises in pay: David Eastwood shows the way

2011-02-01T12:13:00.001Z

Smug

In a week that saw Fernando Torres move to Chelsea for a British record fee of £50m, it was also announced that the Vice Chancellor at Birmingham University received a stunning 11% rise to his pay, bringing it up to £392,000 "including pension contributions". You may think the two are irrelevant, but they're not. They are both demonstrations of how, despite the recession and deep government cuts, those at the top continue to live on a different planet.

I will not bother with footballers and their fees-the newspapers have dedicated much of their back pages to that nonsense. My main concern here is Mr Eastwood's pay rise at a time when schools and departments are being 'reviewed', staff are made redundant and the cuts are biting hard those at the bottom of the pile.

According to a 2010 report, Mr Eastwood also enjoys:

a university car (full of fuel) and a chauffeur
university accommodation including a gardener and cleaner (I suspect it's not one of the tiny rooms students pay through the nose for)
Credit cards and expenses

At the same time, all Birmingham University staff have received the princely pay rise of 0.4%, which for most people amounts to the price of a dodgy curry per month.

The division here is clear. Mr Eastwood is not even performing a job. His is a vocation, a calling and a duty, a mission to make Birmingham the Barcl...sorry, Harvard of red brick universities. The services he provides the University are so invaluable that his salary and perks cannot of course come into question by anyone. On the other hand, a 0.4% rise in the pay of University staff (who also pay their own travel expenses, inflated public transport fees, fuel prices and taxes) is probably not necessary. Why oh why do we give a pay rise to people with a mortgage to pay, families to feed and clothe and the likes?

No, the recipients of proper pay rises and perks should be the likes of Mr Eastwood. His duties and services to society and his institution are beyond doubt. He goes to meetings, gives speeches, cuts ribbons. His salary is not enough to ensure him a home, a car and fuel-the students need to pay for that. The man was on the committee which suggested that tuition fees should be tripled, stating that "[G]raduates should make a larger contribution to the cost of their higher education, which delivers higher lifetime earnings". This clearly worked really well for the man himself, as he himself STUDIED FOR FREE and look at what he takes home every Friday! Talk about bringing home the bacon, he brings home a fucking sausage factory.

I hereby propose:

all university staff should donate their 0.4% increments towards Mr Eastwood's professional expenses-his work is clearly more important than theirs
10% of all top-up fees be channelled to Mr Eastwoods gardening and car pool, so that he can perform his duties even better
all working class pupils with aspirations should do a vocational course, in the hope that the ever-expanding Eastwood household can absorb them-know your place!
a significant percentage of the new super-profits should be channelled into hiring more security so that protesting students can be, ahem, collided accidentally with, more effectively
Mr Eastwood, like his namesake Clint, rides off into the sunset with the gold

That's all. Here's a nice reminder of how things should work:

Nutters I have known #3: The Greek 'researcher'

2011-01-19T17:27:00.000Z

Soula was very keen on her research. She was researching her own island (aren't we all) during Ottoman times, but nobody knew exactly what. You see, Soula thought that what she was doing was so important and significant , importantly significant and significantly important that somebody might steal it from her. Therefore, she never told anyone apart from her PhD supervisor what her research was about. Which was a bit extreme.

You see, unless you're researching the cure for cancer or a revolutionary PC software/hardware which will change the face of the planet, nobody cares. Especially if you're researching a small Greek island (not Cyprus btw). Anyway. Soula was so obsessed with secrecy, that when we had student conferences where we presented our work, she wrote a paper on something irrelevant in order to avoid revealing her real topic. On top of that, she confused research with collecting material. She'd go to archives and photocopy everything, accumulating piles and piles of photocopies of documents whose only value was that they could one day prove useful. They didn't. Her supervisor told her to stop it and concentrate on finishing her thesis.

When she finished her thesis, passed her viva and submitted it, she made it inaccessible to anyone for 7 years. Because although there was a date on it and it was printed and bound, someone might still try to steal the supreme knowledge included in her thesis. As a result, by the time her thesis was available to readers, nobody was interested any more. She went back home, found a job in local government and that was that. The world could not benefit from her cutting-edge work. Shame ;-)

The Nutters Series

Bread

2010-12-20T13:57:00.002Z

The reason I insist on baking bread is that in the UK bread is either not good or expensive for what you get. In addition, I believe that baking bread is one of those ancient skills, it has a certain mystery, it is a ritual and a basic function of human existence. After the sermon, here's the recipe:

Ingredients

Roughly 800gr flour (I used strong white flour)

1 sachet dry yeast (if you have sour dough, hats off to you)

A pinch of salt

1 tsp sugar

Sesame seeds

Poppy seeds

Dissolve the yeast and sugar in about 400ml of lukewarm water. Allow it to rise and froth for about 15 minutes. Run your flour through a sieve and into a large bowl. Mix in the salt. Slowly add the water/yeast and knead, until you have a nice, workable dough which is not too moist or dry. Add flour or water to bring it to that desired consistency. Cover it and allow it to rise for about 30-45 minutes. I put mine next to the radiator.

I made little bread rolls, as my electric oven (fan) bakes these better than big loaves. Make your bread/rolls by cutting off enough dough. When you're done shaping it, dab one side with a wet towel and then dip it in a flat plate where you'll have mixed your sesame and poppy seeds. Place your bread on a lightly oiled and floured oven tray. Cover and allow to rise for another 15-20 mins. In the meantime, preheat the oven to 200 degrees.

Bake your bread for about 25-30 minutes (if small rolls) or about 45 for a larger loaf. Again, ovens vary so trial and error will probably determine these for you.

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Nutters I have known #2: the pseudo-intellectual

2010-12-09T14:47:00.001Z

[I had forgotten about this series, until Claude reminded me-thanks!]

Makis was an intellectual. One of those you know the moment you lay eyes on them. Short, dark, with John Lennon glasses, always clutching a book. I met him when I was an undergrad, and he drifted in and out of my life and those of others (I am sure Antonis will have something to say).

This guy had his head in the clouds. He always liked to maintain a certain high ground, intellectual, deeply thoughtful and always supposedly mildly surprised and amused by life's little real moments. I suspect that he thought that the intellectual ticket would get him laid. He did his best to impress the ladies, always quoting this poet and that, speaking with flowers and doves in a manner so detached you could be forgiven for thinking the man was ethereal. I guess that the way he wolfed down his bowl of pasta or his chicken (which you'd cooked for him) was the only thing that allowed a tiny little beam of doubt to cast some light on the mystery...

You see, Makis liked to pretend he was an intellectual. His knowledge of poetry, philosophy, history, literature and literary criticism, sociology, politics and all things contained in the space between book covers proved to be superficial, time and time again. When probed, it turned out that he had a good encyclopaedic knowledge on which academic published with which publishers, when and where. But not what. If you asked him carefully, it turned out that he hadn't actually read any of the things he knew about. A bit like knowing about Mount Everest-you know it's there, but the air of authenticity disappears once people realize that you have never set foot on Asia.

He was perfectly happy to eat like a true Cypriot if someone else had done the cooking. If not, he pretended to lead this intellectual life, where food interfered with reading time-so he bought himself bags of lettuce and carrots, claiming that these stimulated his mind etc. And he could talk. If talking was a sport, Makis would have been World Heavyweight Champion of Talking. Talking Crap. The best retort to him came from a very old academic one day in the foyer of our faculty. We were sitting at a bench and Makis was clutching a literary criticism book, to which the man said: "you should stop reading that and start reading literature". Spot on.

And then there was his attitude to women ("he treats objects like women man"). You'd be standing there, having a casual chat with him, and all of a sudden he'd stop, turn his whole body and stare, following in this manner the movements of this pretty girl who'd happened to pass by. No sign of being discreet-just staring like a man who'd been in prison for 40 years, to the point it was embarrassing to be with him in public. Staring doesn't begin to describe it, I guess he was like a dog who'd just seen a 6ft tall bone walk right past him, drooling and all. Embarrassing.

The last I'd seen of him was when I was moving out of my house. We let him stay with us for a few weeks because he had no place to stay (mug? moi?). As we were waiting for a taxi to come and pick us up, he appeared, book and lettuce in hand. "Makis, give us a hand mate, will you?" And then came the immortal response: "Mate, I'm sorry but I'm an intellectual. I don't do lifting". And that was that.

He's of course nowhere near as colourful as our Basque friend. You'd have to meet him to appreciate his full madness. I hope you don't-you'll be stuck there all day, and life's just too short.

Bah humbug! No World Cup for England. Back to the protests then.

2010-12-02T23:11:00.000Z

What disaster! What a huge injustice and monumental failure of the system to send the 2018 World Cup to the home of football. What a blow to the English (British) economy.

As the tabloids (and not only) are screaming at the perceived injustice, I must tell you that I for one thing am happy England didn't 'win' the right to organise the 2018 World Cup. There are a number of parameters here, and a number of reasons.

Firstly, there is nothing here on the level of states. FIFA are a corporation, milking the World Cup to the extreme. An extremely corrupt club for that too. The way royalty, politicians and others got involved in the England bid you'd think this had something to do with the public. It doesn't. World Cup football (and Premier League football while you're at it) are privately run entertainment events with the sole purpose of generating their owners and their partners maximum revenue. There is no morality here to be broken. Private business is profit-driven, end of story. I for one thing would not be happy to pay for the infrastructure, policing and security which would facilitate FIFA, Coca-Cola, Adidas and the rest of them to reap maximum profits.

Which brings me to my second point. All the arguments we hear about all the revenue that would come in, the tourism, the jobs, have no real foundation whatsoever. There has been no estimate (published at least) of the projected costs of hosting the World Cup. According to Panorama last Monday, the Dutch have in fact undertaken a study and it turns out that when FIFA and their partners have taken their profits, the nation would be £100 million worse off. On top of everything, the Dutch weren't favourites as they were unwilling to change their legislation to satisfy FIFA's demands or allow FIFA tax exemption during its activity in the Netherlands. Benefit? Bollocks. That's just sheer populism.

Thirdly, the cries against corruption on the part of the British media are only coming out after the English bid failed. In fact, I suspect that some of those bent officials who were exposed in Panorama would even be voting for England. Make no mistake: the English bid and its proponents were fully aware-nobody was robbed of anything here. The English have simply been bested at this game by others. The World Cup will be well placed in Russia.

The above phenomena exist whenever there is a huge sporting event with global appeal, it's nothing new. How did an impoverished country with sky-high crime rates get to organise the World Cup last summer? What happened to the infrastructure now it's all over? And have the townships, crime and poverty been eradicated as a result of the World Cup's all-healing impact? We don't know, as the patronising, flatulent journalists who were there during the event are not interested any more. And don't you think that given Joao Havelange's grip on FIFA for decades and his association with cases of bribery, it is hardly surprising that Brazil also got to organise the World Cup in 2014? Will the World Cup eradicate the favelas of Rio? Allow me to be deeply sceptical, although I'm sure it was also part of their bid: the social project, the benefit, the impact.

If you think these big events give economies a boost, think again. The only ones who get a boost are politicians who get to milk the glamour and the fireworks and the multinationals who really run the show. It is disgraceful for the prime minister of a nation hit hard by budget cuts to be throwing his weight behind what is simply a nice celebration of back-scratching and keeping money in the family. The inappropriate excitement about the World Cup bid, just like the pompous announcement of Will's and Kate's engagement, only serve to temporarily shift our attention from the more pressing issues. Unemployment, unfair distribution of taxes, further social exclusion in health and education, accommodation of an upper-class-run exclusive club of politicians, businessmen and their friends. Bread and circuses don't save the day. Just ask a now-bankrupt Greece. The Athens Olympics were only six years ago. And although the Olympics served to temporarily tranquillise them and make them forget the state of the economy, they soon woke up again. The British will too. Good luck to the Russians-they'll need it once Blatter and his partners are done chucking all the sacks of roubles into the truck...

Pasquale's Mussels and Spaghetti with Mussels

2010-11-27T15:36:00.000Z

Not my recipe this time, but rejigged and reblogged from Ιστομαγειρέματα. Thanks to postbabylon for this.

How to clean and prepare live mussels
Take the mussels and pull gently but firmly the little 'beard' they have. When you do this, the mussel closes.
DISCARD the ones that haven't closed after a few minutes. Give them a good wash, cleaning them of barnacles and whatever dirt they may have. Ready to cook.

For Pasquale's Mussels (serves -in our case 2 +2 next day)
1 kilo of mussels
1 large onion or 2 small ones, chopped
2-3 cloves of garlic, chopped
1 can of tomato + 1 carton of passata (if you have nice and over-ripe tomatoes it's clearly better)
2 whole dried chili peppers (or chilli flakes)
Salt & pepper
The original said sugar, but I didn't put because I used...
...1/3 of a bottle of medium white wine
Fresh parsley if you have it, chopped

In a large saucepan sauté onions, garlic and chili peppers in some olive oil. Add the tomatoes with a drop of water (if you're using passata) and allow to simmer for about 10 minutes, or until it's reduced. Add the mussels, wine and salt & pepper, and allow to cook for about 15 minutes (they say 5 for mussels but I'm not taking any chances). All mussels should have opened by now. DISCARD any that haven't opened-getting food poisoning isn't worth it :-)

Serve with some rice and sprinkle your freshly chopped parsley on top.

Spaghetti with mussels (or mussel sauce)
You will have either a fair quantity of mussels left, or maybe just the sauce.

Re-heat the mussels. In another saucepan boil some spaghetti. Drain the spaghetti and return to the saucepan. Using a soup ladle, take the mussel sauce and mix it with the spaghetti, until you're happy it's enough. Serve the spaghetti with the mussels on top. Italians in general don't go for grated cheese with seafood, but Mrs M. grated some parmesan none the less.

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Procrastination

2010-11-19T15:33:00.001Z

Κυπριακά δαμαί

How procrastination works (a real case study)

You're sitting at your desk, working on something important (a job application in this case).

You feel like having a cup of coffee.

You get up and go to the espresso machine. You press the button and realise that the machine is getting a bit clogged up, it could do with some cleaning at some point.

You find the leaflet with the instructions (you can see where this is going, can't you?)

You open the cupboard where you keep the tools. You take out the little case with the screwdrivers. You unscrew the filter head, give it a good wash and screw it back in.

You put the tools away. You heat the water, put coffee in the filter and make yourself a nice, double espresso.

You sit down again.

You blog your findings for the benefit of the procrastinating masses out there.

Pizzas pizzas pizzas

2010-11-15T18:51:00.002Z

In Cypriot here.
My friend Antonis was here for a few days and one night we made a few pizzas with Federica's dough recipe.
600 gr. of village flour made 3 large ones.

Pizza the First

We topped the first pizza with:
Courgettes, cut in strips and grilled in advance
Anchovies
Artichokes (from a jar)
Olives
Mozzarella

Pizza the Second
For the second one we roasted in advance half a butternut squash with some butter, garlic and sage leaves in the cavity. When it cooked we melted it onto the pizza base (instead of tomato) and topped it with:

Sage leaves
Red onions
Brie (in place of goat's cheese)
Balsamic vinegar

Pizza the third
We made the third one in two halves with whatever was left. Half we topped with anchovies and the other half with ham. Then we added:
Fresh tomatoes
Artichokes
Red onions
Parmesan rind
Mozzarella

I made the snail for my little girl with the rest of the dough. She had fun, I baked it and she ate it (until we go back to Cyprus for some real snails).
The pizzas were lovely. I'd invite you round but we polished them...

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Butternut squash soup

2010-10-31T11:26:00.002Z

Κυπριακά δαμαί

We had a bit of a dodgy lunch yesterday, so for the evening meal we wanted something simple and soothing. We had a butternut squash in the fridge so I looked up some soup recipes. This is what I ended up with:

Ingredients
1 medium size butternut squash, diced
1 large potato, diced
1/2 onion, finely chopped
1 clove of garlic, very finely chopped
Dill (either fresh or dried-I used dried)
Vegetable stock or good old water
Olive oil
Salt
In a large saucepan firstly sauté the garlic and onions in olive oil. Toss in the squash, potato and dill and turn for about 1 minute until they are coated with oil. Add your vegetable stock (or water) and salt and allow to boil for about 20 minutes, or until squash and potato are soft. Use a hand blender to blitz the ingredients, getting a nicely thick soup. Serve. If you have fresh coriander, chop some and sprinkle it over your plate. We had this with rye sour dough bread, worked a treat.

Hamsili Pilav (Rice with Black Sea anchovies)

2010-10-05T10:42:00.000+01:00

A lovely Black Sea dish, lovingly prepared by Mrs Blackbeard. Κυπριακά δαμαί.

Ingredients
500 gr hamsi/fresh anchovies
We find these in a Kurdish shop round the corner. I guess you could use sprats or small sardines even...
2 cups of rice (I used paella rice-anything will do)
Mint
1 onion, diced
2 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
Fish stock if you have
Olive oil

Execution
In a saucepan, lightly fry the garlic and onion in olive oil. Add the rice and give it a stir. Add plenty of mint. You can use dill instead, and even pine nuts-we just didn't want little Blackbeard choking on them. Add 2 cups of water/fish stock for every cup of rice, add salt and allow to cook slowly until all the water is absorbed.

If the hamsi are not cleaned, clean them and open them up, removing the central bone. Lightly oil an oven dish and make a layer of hamsi with the skin side down. Also cover the sides of the dish, creating basically a lining of hamsi. Fill it with the cooked rice and seal the thing with another layer of hamsi at the top. Drizzle the top with olive oil. Bake in the oven for 20 minutes at 200 degrees. Eat.

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Pasta with courgettes and fetta cheese

2010-09-22T11:20:00.001+01:00

From Pasta with courgettes and fetta

Στα κυπριακά δαμαί

Ingredients (for 4 hungry ones)
500 gr of pasta of your choice
3-4 small courgettes
1 onion
2 cloves of garlic
200gr of fetta cheese
lots and lots of dried mint
salt

Execution
Chop the garlic very finely and dice the onion. Cut the courgettes and have your mint and cheese on stand by. Lightly fry the garlic and onion in some olive oil on a low fire for a few minutes. Add the courgettes and stir them lightly until they are nicely coated with the oil. You don't need much olive oil at all, just enough to be able to saute the onions in. I sometimes peel the courgettes, as their skin might be bitter if they're not very fresh. Crush the mint in the courgettes. Add some water to the frying pan, just enough to half-cover the courgettes, and then cover the pan with a lid, allowing it to lightly simmer for about 20 minutes. This way your courgettes become steamed rather than fried, which makes the dish nice and light. Stir it a couple of times and when the courgettes are nice and soft, add the fetta, all crumbled, and stir for 1-2 minutes. Turn off and set aside. You'll notice I didn't add salt to the sauce-the fetta more than compensates for it.

For the pasta, just bring some salted water to the boil, add your pasta and cook for the designated time. Drain it and then add the sauce, giving it a good stir. You'll notice I didn't add salt to the sauce-the fetta more than compensates for it.

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Inhuman resources

2010-09-21T11:38:00.001+01:00

New post here
http://wp.me/p14o6E-q

New post on Παττίχα τζιαι Χαλλούμιν

2010-09-15T14:29:00.002+01:00

http://bit.ly/bXY4b8

Νέον Μπλόγκ

2010-09-13T18:30:00.003+01:00

Λοιπόν, επειδή αζούλεψα τζιαι επειδή άρκεψα τζιαι βαρκούμαι να μεν εκφράζουμαι στην γλώσσαν της μάνας μου, εξεκίνησα τζι εγιώ νέον μπλογκ. Τούτον λαλούν το 'Παττίχα τζιαι χαλλούμιν' τζιαι θα το εύρετε δαμαί. Έτσι για να μεν λαλεί ο παρέας ο Αντώνης ότι εν γράφω Κυπριακά. Άτε να δούμεν...

Exorcism pt. III

2010-08-27T18:10:00.004+01:00

Continued from Part II

The brigadier was going from bad to worse, as he hadn’t had a whole-night’s sleep in weeks. He started to forget things, turned up to work in a dirty uniform, unshaven and deranged. He forgot his tendency to bully the major and his other subordinates, and was especially absent-minded to the point where he started leaving classified documents and important keys all over the camp. Despite his macho façade and his pretences of warrior status, he was a man constantly fighting to maintain control over everything and everyone in his life. He kept everyone at arm’s length, lest they saw through him and lost their fear and respect for him. He claimed to like guns and shooting and all things army, but at heart he detested it all. Weapons made his hands greasy and he hated the loud mayhem of practice shooting. He occasionally had to put on a show for the sake of hierarchy, but he loathed it all. His weapon of choice was one of his expensive pens tucked into his breast pocket, and his usual target was the daily crossword. He just felt that things worked out better when people feared him and did as he said-so he left no space for contradictions and arguments in any aspect of his life.

One afternoon he fell asleep in the office, only to wake up late at night when everyone was gone. As his driver had taken his leave, he decided to walk home. Passing through the sleepy village’s narrow streets, mud brick houses and dark arches, he felt that someone or something was following him, as if the dark itself was conspiring against him. He started walking faster, his legs making a vain attempt to run but failing to shift his heavy frame. When he finally got home he had the look of a mad man. His wife tried to calm him down, bathed him and put him to bed as if he was a baby. Then she picked up the phone. “Good evening Yiannís. We need to talk. Yes, tomorrow morning, I’ll come to the church. Thank you, goodnight.”

The brigadier was surprised to see his brother-in-law in his office. He couldn’t remember arranging a ceremony for the troops and it was definitely not a national holiday. Papa Yiannís had arrived informed and trod around the topic very carefully to avoid exposing the poor woman’s intervention. “You look tired Sofokli if you don’t mind me saying so. Have you been busy at work or partying hard?” he joked. When the brigadier tried to dismiss the priest’s concern, the priest insisted. “Seriously Sofokli, I’m worried about you as a friend and relative, and the man responsible for your soul. Is there something you want to tell me?” When the brigadier dismissed his concerns once again, the priest erupted in rage. He charged at him, grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him violently. “For fuck’s sake man! Look at you! You look like you’ve just crawled out of the sewer and you’re crazier than Pello-Kokos. I’ve seen men end up in the asylum for less! Tell me what’s going on before I kick your head in!”

The brigadier had never heard the priest swear, or threaten with violence, and was shocked at his directness but also at his strength. The priest was a young man and was far from being typical. He was rather pragmatic and sceptical about any kind of claims to the supernatural, but also understood its great value to the Church’s cause. He was a rather secular priest, playing guitar in a local rock band and occasionally playing football for the village team. He was in fact quite a good player, with a tendency to get stuck in and even have the odd fight. In the evenings he turned up at the coffee house, played pool and darts and smoked endlessly. The only thing that made him a priest were his beard and cassock. But the brigadier was shocked none the less and immediately explained to him what he had experienced in the past few weeks.

Papa Yiannís listened with caution. When the brigadier finished, he sighed in desperation. He’d been hearing these stories for a while but was utterly dismissive. “Sofokli, there are no ghosts, this is nonsense.” Papa Yiannís went on to explain to the brigadier the local legend of a young girl who was murdered around the chapel of St George by a villain and whose spirit is said to roam the area around the anniversary of her death every August. The priest had a cynical take on the tale and treated it as damaging superstition. “You know the tale of Pafitis, don’t you Sofoklis? Old man Pafitis rode to the cemetery on his donkey one evening to light a candle by his late wife’s grave. He dismounted and drove a spike into the earth onto which he tied the donkey. He turned and got up to go to the grave, when he felt something holding his vraka* back. He thought the dead had reached out from their graves and were holding him back and he died from fear. In fact he’d pinned down his own vraka when he was tying the donkey. They found him dead in the morning, his vraka pinned to the ground and full of shit.” The brigadier stared at him with blank eyes. “What I’m trying to say is that this ghost story is as ridiculous and silly as the story of old man Pafitis. We have to get over it now. For the sake of your sanity, your wife and your soldiers.”

“Please Yianní, can’t you do something? I am really tormented”, insisted the brigadier, his spherical body sunken in his chair. “You are tormented because you have fear in you, and you believe in this crap.” “Can’t you do something, a blessing, an exorcism, something? The soldiers have been seeing things too, something is not right, for sure.” “Listen, you are an intelligent man. If it makes you feel better, we can have a ceremony and consecrate the grounds again, with the soldiers present. Hopefully this will make everyone calm down so we can get on with our lives. I want a favour in return though.” “Anything, as long as we can put this matter to bed once and for all.”

On the following day a sombre procession began from the outpost. The troops, some of which were carrying crosses and the banner of the Virgin which Papa Yannís provided, Captain Kitsis, Major Troullos, the brigadier, Mastre Hambís and Linda the dog were all walking slowly behind the priest’s determined and fearless figure. He was chanting and burning incense all the way to the end of the trench where the bones were found. When they got there, the group still cowering with fear but also hopeful, the priest recited prayers to banish the evil spirits. He went on to sprinkle holy water with a bunch of basil and the cross held in his right hand, making the sign of the cross. It all had a strange resonance in the peaceful countryside. The wind was lightly shaking the cypress trees and there was not even a cloud to blemish the blue sky. When it was all over they all looked relieved and happy. The priest turned around to address them. “My children, now all this is over and laid to rest. I urge you to go back to your daily routine without fear. The Lord will protect you and shelter you from all evil.”

For the next few weeks the soldiers whitewashed the chapel, repaired the door, rebuilt the perimeter wall which was crumbling away and fixed the gate. They pulled the weeds and cleaned up, just as Papa Yannís had ordered. They had a renewed air of youthful cheer and arrogance, their playfulness had returned, as if Papa Yannís’ prayers had disintegrated their worries and cleansed their minds from all doubts and fears. They started teasing each other, splashing Sotirakis’ boots with whitewash and pretending they were ghosts howling and laughing. It was all back to normal it seemed, they were eighteen again.

Papa Yannís came with the brigadier on the last day and together they complimented the soldiers for their work. “Perhaps this ghost should come more often”, Papa Yannís joked. The brigadier looked back at his best, ubiquitous and loud as usual, but also happy it was all over. The soldiers gathered their tools, spades, rakes, brushes and buckets and started walking back towards the outpost. Mastre Hambís would be coming by later with some kléftiko and beers.

Nobody noticed the black-clad figure peering at them from inside the chapel.

_____________________________________________________________
Vraka=traditional trousers/shalvar worn in Cyprus and Crete

Part of the Army Tales

Image from here

Exorcism pt. II

2010-08-26T12:10:00.003+01:00

Continued from Part I

To make things worse, the squad’s bookworm, Sotirakis, had been reading Edgar Allan Poe and H.P. Lovecraft recently, and his wild imagination conjured images of masked aggressors, outlandish beasts with claws and fangs. He’d sit with the rest at night and always start with something like “what if..”, weaving an improbable probability of monsters, ghosts and ghouls prowling the night after the men’s souls. They often tried to shut him up. Antonís threatened to break his legs if he didn’t stop. Unfortunately, Sotirakis had frequent nightmares as a result, crucially waking up screaming as the oneiric beast was about to catch up with him on his patrol and rip his lungs out. He’d occasionally wake everyone else with his screams, and as they were already scared, Sotirakis’ screams froze their blood, until they realised what happened and started cursing him. He then started reading Huckelberry Finn again just for a change.

Patrols passing near the chapel of St George thought they saw a figure in the cypress trees, lurking in the dark, although it may well have been the branches swaying in the night breeze. One night, as they were playing cards and singing, trying to beat the boredom, they heard scratching on the roof. They all fell silent and froze, listening what sounded like a huge pair of claws scraping the roof. In the end Kostís went out and saw that one of the branches of the eucalyptus tree was so low it started to scrape the roof. They cut it down the following morning.

They easy excuse for most things was the enemy. The Turks were probably teasing them, crossing the ceasefire line at night and throwing stones at them or crying out to frighten them. They kept telling themselves that, but didn’t really believe it. They kept their weapons loaded and bayonets fixed just in case.

Things went from bad to worse, when they stopped going on patrols and manning the detached outpost altogether. The threat of punishment was somehow preferable to the threat of the unknown. They’d take a scolding from the brigadier or the captain any time to facing the long walk in the dark to relieve the guard. Sometimes they agreed to keep guard in pairs, doing effectively double shifts. That was the only way they’d brave the dark. The patrols kept moving, as opposed to finding a sheltered spot for a nap as they used to. They stopped by the guard posts for longer periods, sitting all together, smoking and pretending things were all right.

Eventually Captain Kitsis found out about all this and turned up at the outpost to calm things down. He thought that a considerate approach might work better than punishments flying. He tried to entertain their fears, claiming that they were just seeing things, but to no avail. They agreed in principle to go back to normal, but things just became worse after Kostís swore he saw some shadows follow him on his way to the outpost. They went back to spending their nights indoors and going everywhere in groups. Eventually, the regimental snitch grassed them up to the brigadier. They knew they were in for some trouble when they saw his car come up the drive unexpectedly, late one morning. The gate guard trying in vain to hold him up in order to give the rest some time to scrub up. He’d brought Major Troullos with him, as if to tell everyone off together. This caused Troullos great embarrassment as he knew nothing about what was going on.

“So what’s this I hear?” he addressed the assembled conscripts. “Apparently you lot have been seeing ghosts and what have you.” Nobody responded. “Can someone explain to me what’s going on?” he insisted. “Sergeant?” “Well, sir, it’s just that the men have been seeing and hearing strange things since we dug up that trench by the chapel.” “What about it?” demanded the brigadier, his face already beginning to feel the heat, droplets of sweat breaking on his forehead. “Well, there were some bones there, and we think we’ve disturbed the dead.”

“Nonsense! Are you saying there are ghosts? Don’t answer that. There are no such things as ghosts, lads”, changing to a friendlier tune. “I can imagine how here in the wilderness you can imagine things, but I assure you there’s nothing to be afraid of. Generations of soldiers have passed from here and we never heard anything like that” he reasoned, conveniently neglecting the events of 1982. “Now listen, let’s all take a walk together to the chapel and see, except for the guard of course”, he chuckled.

They walked down the trenches, approaching the place the bones were found. When Kostís pointed out the place, the brigadier kicked it lightly with his boot, laughing. “What, this pile of dirt? Some dog probably buried a bone here and you found it. If there were ghosts here, where are they now? I’m actually kicking their ground.” The soldiers looked in disbelief. “Listen, all this is nonsense, I guarantee you that there is nothing to be afraid of. I know you lads have been really tired with long shifts, so to show you I mean it, I’ll post four more men up here, to help with the shifts and give you a break”, he added, eager to wrap this up and head back to the village where the mayor was waiting for him for lunch. The troops were visibly pleased at this, as they hadn’t had proper leaves for a long time.

They returned to the outpost, calmer and more relaxed. It probably was all in their heads; it was easy to get carried away in this solitude. They went about their business, and the officers got into the back of the car and the car drove away. As they were going over the bridge, they saw an old woman standing there, waiting for them to pass. The brigadier turned and looked at her, but thought nothing more of it. About half a mile down the road, there was another old lady, a typical yiayia dressed in black. As the car drove fast past her, raising a cloud of dust, she cursed at them, waving her hand. “Stop the car” ordered the brigadier. He shuffled himself out of the car and looked, but the old lady was nowhere to be seen. He thought it was weird, and stood looking around bemused. “You did see that, didn’t you Troullos?” he asked as he entered the car. “Yes, of course.” “Old hag probably disappeared in the trees” he dismissed unconvincingly.

But it did have an effect on the brigadier after all. He kept waking up at night, hearing a woman crying, and strange noises from the street. The yiayia appeared in his sleep, standing on the bridge, silent and dressed in black, her eyes staring hard at him, deeply set in her wrinkled face. He woke up, time and again covered in sweat, cold sweat rather than the usual sticky sweat and humidity of summer. His wife tried to calm him down but in his moment of vulnerability and insecurity he growled at her to hide his distress under a veil of testosterone. “It’s this bloody heat woman, don’t you bug me as well now” he snapped at her. His wife, a patient and stoic woman who learnt to submit to him and his outbursts over the years, just kept quiet once again, preferring to vent her own frustrations on other things. The brigadier’s nightmares didn’t go away, however. The yiayia kept appearing in his dream, always the same scene, her standing on the bridge, unmoved by the gusts of wind and dust and sometimes pointing at him; him unable to shake off her stare and implied menace to him.

In the meantime, the calm at the outpost didn’t last very long. The soldiers started seeing shadows and hearing whispers, wailing at night and howling noises. They tried to convince themselves that it was the wind and nothing else, but deep inside they were shaking with fear, as if they knew they’d committed hubris and their nemesis couldn’t be very far. Even the newly posted troops caught the fever. They quickly learnt from the rest that things were not rosy, and shared their fears. Luckily the power generator was fixed so they didn’t have to sit at night with just the petrol lamp. They could watch TV, but occasionally the power went out suddenly, always around midnight, something they attributed to the generator overheating until Sotirakis, like the encyclopaedia of horror that he was, helpfully informed them of the significance of the witching hour.

One evening Mastre Hambís turned up with a couple of bottles of brandy and some food, only to find them in an almost deranged state. They were all sitting inside the outpost, without a guard at the gate. They were all armed to the teeth, bayonets fixed and weapons loaded, as if the supernatural could be killed with 7.62 bullets. When they heard Hambís’ voice, they calmed down, as if the old man was their link to the soil, its ghosts and saints. The old man realised that something was seriously wrong. When they recounted the story of the bones to him, he told them the old legend of the village witch. According to the legend, there used to be a witch at the village, a vile woman who always dressed in black, had a black cat and practised magic, giving people the evil eye. This woman’s father was desperately trying to get her to marry, and brought the finest princes in the land to ask for her hand, but she refused them all. She even murdered one of them, and they say he was buried around the chapel, where the trench was dug. The evil witch disappeared and is said to appear around the time of the murder, terrorising the village, although few people can say they have seen or heard her. The soldiers realised that what they’d been experiencing had something to do with this tale. Mastre Hambís was the chorus in this unfolding tragedy, filling in with crucial information inside the amphitheatre of the sun-baked landscape.

To be continued...
Part of the Army Tales

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Exorcism pt. I

2010-08-24T18:21:00.000+01:00

They were all gathered inside the outpost-even Linda the dog was terrified, hidden under the TV stand. The guards did their shifts in pairs, so that they’d have someone to talk to. Patrol duties were largely neglected, not because of a mischievous streak, but as a result of The Appearance. This was no truant dereliction of duty resulting from an urge to stay tucked in bed or hop off to the nearest town for ice cream. This was genuine fear.

It all happened when that wretched commander ordered them to dig the trenches as a punishment for not keeping the outpost free from cigarette butts and weeds. The commander, major Troullos, had been going through a particularly harsh streak recently. Punishments for unpolished boots and unbuttoned shirts had become his staple ever since that inquest into his handling of the munitions storage and a punishment coming his way from central HQ. Troullos just took it out on the lads. The trenches were dug some time in the ‘70’s, when a realistic possibility of conflict existed and made them necessary. They had since fallen into disuse and ended up being used as a rubbish tip or sometimes a cosy spot for lovers to hiding from prying eyes. When Troullos came round one morning, they were still shuffling out of bed, unshaven and scruffy. Antonís was standing there, boots unlaced and eyes half-closed, supposedly in attention but still clinging onto that last dream he was having about playing in a European final and scoring, running towards the fans with his arms aloft.

Troullos was in a foul mood. He kept yelling at them, calling them a disgrace. “If your lot was around during the war we’d all be speaking Turkish now! And you, Constantinou” he yelled in the sergeant’s face, “is this how you keep your soldiers under control? Look at them! They couldn’t fight a swarm of flies, let alone the enemy! Four days detention to all of you! Eight days to you sergeant! And look at this shit-hole, how can you idiots smoke so much? And why do you toss these cigarettes everywhere-you should be court-martialled for stupidity!” And then he just gazed at the sun-baked barley fields, frowning and thoughtful. “I think that our trenches are far from battle-ready, don’t you think?” The men said nothing, although a light grumbling and shuffling of boots could be heard. “Sergeant, hop in the jeep.”

He took Kostís to the trenches, about half a mile north of the outpost, and issued his orders: “I want all grass and weeds gone from here.” Jumping into the trench, if you could call that small ditch a trench, he said to the sergeant: “You see, Constantinou, if the enemy were to shoot at me, they could hit me anywhere from the chest up-the trenches are too shallow.” Kostís prayed for the shot there and then. “You and your men will dig them down to two meters deep”, he said with glee. Kostís gasped. “But sir, the sun is really hot and this is really hard work, how can we dig so much?” “Shame on you sergeant! If your father’s generation had said the same, we’d all be washing dishes in London now. I want it done by Monday-I’ll bring the brigadier to see your excellent work-so don’t let me down. And make sure you all look shaved and polished too, otherwise you’ll never see your homes until I retire!” It suddenly all clicked in Kostís’ mind. Troullos wanted to be in the brigadier’s good books. They had to do the digging in the August sun. It just wasn’t fair-but then again, very few things about the army were.

The regiment issued them with pickaxes, shovels and wheelbarrows. Kostís was really stressed about it, since he was explicitly responsible about this trench and knew the major would just punish him even more severely if they failed to do as he said. One problem was that Kostís’ rank was only useful to the major. The stripes did look good on his sleeve but he had no control over the soldiers-most of them were his friends from school. They were all conscripts, so rank did not matter at all. Finding himself in this tight spot, Kostís had to do more digging than anyone else, simply to save his skin. That the major asked them to extend the trench a few meters towards the chapel just made things even worse.

They started digging early in the mornings and late in the afternoons in order to avoid the worst of the sun. A couple of hours of digging either side of the hottest time of day and they would probably make the deadline. They all mostly pulled their weight, although Andreas saw this as another opportunity for a sick leave. He ‘injured his back’ during the first morning and was off for two weeks. The rest agreed to beat him to a pulp when he returned.

As Mastre Hambís drove past one morning to go to his farm, he stopped his truck and jumped off. “I wouldn’t be digging there if I were you lads” he exclaimed. “That was part of the old chapel cemetery-you don’t want to be disturbing the dead”, he added, wearing a worried frown across his forehead. “I’m afraid we’re only obeying orders Mastre”, Kostís replied. “Trust me, if it was down to us we wouldn’t even be here. “Well, I wouldn’t go around disturbing hallowed ground if I were you” insisted the old man, as he jumped back into his truck and drove off. “Stupid old man” chuckled the ever dismissive Antonís, who had just come back from helping his father with the potato harvest.

On and on they dug the sun-baked earth, their hands full of blisters from the wooden handles and scratches from the thorny bushes. Dusty, sweaty and demoralised, they shifted the earth on the outside of the trenches to create more depth and save on the digging. “Fucking trench! If there’s a war they’ll probably blast us via satellite” said Kostís in despair. “This is all pointless, the bastard just wants to torture us.” And on and on they shifted the earth, bucketfuls, wheelbarrows full of the red earth. Dead nettles and thistles, gravel, rubbish, broken cement and bricks, dumped by builders. There was even an old washing machine, rusty, with its mouth gazing at the sun. Its cause of death was that hunter had shot it for fun, the shot pellets burning a rusty galaxy of stars on its side. They found old shotgun shells, broom handles, beer bottles, an old payphone, a doll with one leg missing, a broken tricycle, three dead rats, a couple of snake skins and a very alive viper, which shuffled away in search of a different nest. They threw all these close to the trench, but behind a pile of earth where the major wouldn’t be able to see them.

It was late on Sunday afternoon and they were almost finished with the digging, when Antonís was heard exclaiming “what the fuck?” They all stopped and looked at him-his dirty hand holding what seemed to be a branch. On closer inspection they realised it was a bone, probably a human thigh bone, as Sotirakis confirmed. They all looked at Antonís, as he let the bone roll off his hand in disgust. They all looked at each other, not sure what to make of this. Hambís’ words rang in their ears, and the hair on the back of their necks stood in attention. As the earth where Antonís was digging started crumbling, a skull rolled to his feet, its eye sockets filled with earth. Antonís screamed and jumped out of the trench, while the rest cautiously followed him. Linda kept barking at the bones from a safe distance.

“I think we’ve done enough lads” said Kostís. Gather the tools and let’s go. But almost as if a hand was pulling them away, they left everything where it was and took the path back to the outpost, speechless. Antonís, embarrassed at his display of fear, started to make fun of it all to try and lighten the mood. “Ah come on, you don’t believe old Hambís’ stories now do you? They’re only bones. People dig up bones in cemeteries every day.” But this was different-they knew it was, and as the night started to throw its dark veil over them, they were certain something was not right.

On Monday morning the major turned up with the brigadier, a rotund man with white hair and a camouflage fatigue like the ones the US marines wear, only a few sizes bigger and with a couple of pens in his breast pocket rather than weapons. They had scrubbed up really well and the outpost was spotless. The brigadier was not the kind to be messing about with-he handed out 20-day detentions at minimum, so everything was sparkling.

“Attention!” barked the sergeant, and they all looked at the sky, muscles tense, fists clenched on their sides. “I report: outpost men present eight sir!” yelled the sergeant, perhaps overzealous, as his high-pitch voice started to crack.

“At ease” croaked the brigadier, his voice gravelly from years of smoking cigars and drinking only the finest whiskey. “Major Troullos here tells me you soldiers are an example to your peers. It’s good to hear that. Remember that you are the future of this tormented country and that it is upon your shoulders to protect your homes and families from the barbaric enemy. Just like Leonidas and his thr…just like Leonidas and his three hundr…just like Leonidas and his three hundred fought the enemy at…Th…Thermopylae, so will you have to fight and sacrifice yourselves for the good of th…the nation” he pomped, waving his hand to drive away the flies swarming around his face. He hated coming out to the outposts-the dust, the smell, the pointlessness of it all. He’d sooner be back in his air-conditioned office, reading the papers while drinking his coffee. But he had to play along, as the general was on his case after recent reports of maladministration in his regiments.

“Major Troullos here” he pointed at the major who was beaming “tells me that you men have, under his enlightened leadership, restructured and expanded the trenches. This work is crucial, as this will no doubt be your own Therm…Thermopylae. Defensive work is our priority, and I urge you to carry on with your duties with the same vigour as usual. Major, let’s have a look at this trench!” The major waved at the sergeant to join them and they all entered the brigadier’s brand-new chauffeur-driven saloon car. Kostís had been dreading this. They would find the bones and the deserted tools and he could kiss goodbye any hope of seeing his family any time soon. When they reached the trench, the brigadier commented on the quality of the work, the depth of the trench and the speed with which the men finished the work. When they reached the part where the bones were found, Kostís was amazed to find that there was nothing there-no sign of the bones, and no sign of the tools. As they were heading back to the outpost, he thought that thieves must have carried the whole lot away. He would probably get the rap for the loss of the tools, but he preferred that to a scolding from the brigadier.

“Good job major-this should be an example to the other outposts. Please make sure that all trenches are up to this standard” said the brigadier, bringing a handkerchief to his nose as the whiff of a decomposing sheep from somewhere caught him as he was entering the car. The major joined him and the car disappeared back towards the air-conditioned civilisation from where it had come.

The men were baffled. They went back and looked around for the bones and tools, but found nothing. They asked Hambís if he saw anything or anyone, and Hambís’ frown appeared even deeper, his face darker than before. “I told you not to dig there didn’t I? Now you disturbed them, god knows what will happen.” That wasn’t the answer they were hoping for. They thought Hambís arrived early in the morning and took the tools away, tidying the place up as a favour. But that was simply not the case. And that’s when strange things began to happen. Guards heard wailing at night, but they couldn’t tell whether it was just the howling of the wind or something more sinister. The dog had become more uneasy, and she barked at the darkness for no obvious reason. As they were sitting around the petrol lamp at night, the dog just jumped to her feet and dashed outside to bark at something. Nobody followed her to check. One of the patrols thought they saw a light flickering at night inside the chapel-where no priest had lit a candle for centuries. They kept hearing strange, creaking noises from the roof, scratching and sometimes a noise which sounded like heavy sighing. A general feeling of fear and unease descended upon them, and they all kept thinking of the bones, the tools and the trench. Some tried to make fun of the situation in order to lighten up the mood and conceal their own fears. Some others just kept to themselves. Hambís somehow came round less frequently and looked more serious than usual.

One night the patrol came back terrified, their faces blank and white. They kept hearing heavy breathing and panting, as if a pack of dogs was following them. When they turned and looked they could see nothing. They kept walking, going faster and faster, but the panting followed them until they entered the outpost. Some nights they could hear the sound of horses galloping on the road. Nobody dared to look-there hadn’t been horses in that part of the world since the English made the railway. Linda kept barking.

To be continued...

Part of the Army Tales

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Roast chicken

2010-08-21T17:17:00.000+01:00

This is a nice and simple recipe.

Ingredients:
1 chicken, cut into pieces
1 kilo of potatoes
3-4 ripe tomatoes
1 onion, chopped
2 cloves of garlic, chopped
Rosemary
1 glass of white wine
ground cinnamon
salt
pepper

Place the chicken, potatoes, onions, tomatoes and garlic in a baking tray. Add the rosemary and wine. Top up with some water until it's all half-covered. Add salt, pepper and a light sprinkle of cinnamon, not too much as it can be a bit overpowering.

Cover with foil and cook in the oven for roughly 1 hour, perhaps a bit longer. Remove the foil and cook for another 25 minutes to allow it all to brown a bit. Serve with a lovely salad and bread. Open yourself a very cold KEO to go with it.

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Lavoura's tale

2010-08-19T17:19:00.000+01:00

A long time ago, long before the time of the Turks, when the Franks were ruling the land, there was a rich feudal lord by the name of Markéllos. Markéllos had a daughter, Lavoura, who was of marriage age. Lavoura was a difficult woman, hard to please and very proud, and she rejected all proposed husbands her father found for her. As she was growing older, rumours started to spread that she was a witch and no man could ever have her as she was already married to Satan. As the peasantry in the area was fascinated and terrified by the stories, Markéllos desperately tried to find her a suitable husband to take her off his hands. He brought the village priest and even the bishop to bless her and drive away all evils, but to no avail-Lavoura’s attitude became even more difficult and she appeared destined to end up a spinster.

Lavoura was not what you ‘d call a beautiful woman. Her dark complexion and curly raven hair were only matched by eyes of burning coal. She was rather eccentric and always wore funereal black-something which fuelled the witch rumours about her. However, she had an inner beauty-she was a creature of great determination, loyalty, and above all intelligence. She resented the fact that she was seen as this burden to be rid of, this liability in the household. So much so, that her father was even willing to forego the traditional gift a groom had to pay for the marriage to take place. This attracted many eligible, if penniless bachelors from the area. Markéllos’ wealth and social standing was not to be sniffed at, being married to a ‘witch’ was a small price to pay for those eager to climb the ladder.

Lavoura spent her days doing embroidery, and reading the chronicles and histories, descriptions of events and places far away. Her only friend was her milkmaid Ploumou. Together they embarked on long walks in the fields where Lavoura talked to the birds and flowers. They often went on pilgrimage to the deserted chapel of St George, hidden among the cypress trees outside the village. Ploumou was the only person who understood her, and always defended her when the villagers talked about her. She knew that Lavoura was a prisoner of her fate, her gender and her social standing. That fact increased Lavoura’s resentment towards all the hopeful grooms-to-be. These ranged from sons of well-to-do landowners who were eager to marry the wealth to wealth, to the dregs of feudal society, rogues who’d spent their little property on gambling and ambitious and foolish pirating ventures they masqueraded as crusading. These were little more than raids on hapless villagers on the Anatolian mainland, where they plundered and kidnapped with a view to ransom and handsome profits. Inevitably, their meagre profits were blown on either more foolish ventures or drinking.

One of these, Franjéskos, was determined to lay his hands on Lavoura’s dowry and the land it came accompanied with. He had had enough of the fighting life and wanted to settle down, and Lavoura’s wealth represented a golden ticket for him, one he wasn’t prepared to let get away. When Lavoura treated him with cold contempt, he wasn’t put off. He knew of her reputation but thought he’d manage to break her resistance. He tried everything, approached her with sweet caution and honey-glazed stubbornness. When that didn’t work, he played the hard man role, treated her harshly and appeared arrogant and sure of his chances with her. Lavoura came to detest him and couldn’t wait for him to lose hope and join the hordes of the other failed suitors. In vain. Franjéskos was different in that he never gave up the chase until the day he died.

Markéllos felt that Franjéskos was the one who would finally make Lavoura his wife, and so allowed him extraordinary access to his daughter. He even allowed him to join Lavoura and Ploumou in their long walks in the country, which fuelled Lavoura’s hatred even more. Franjéskos, this vile, brutish man, had managed to invade one of the few spaces where she could find calm and joy. As Franjéskos became bolder and more forward with his approaches, Lavoura became increasingly uneasy and alarmed at the unprecedented intrusion and threat.

And so it came to that fateful day before the 15^th of August, when the peasants believe that unless the Virgin goes to sleep on the day of her dormation, one should be extremely mindful of accidents and carelessness. There was nothing accidental or careless about what happened that morning inside the perimeter of St George’s chapel. Lavoura and Franjéskos were sitting on a large rock, under the cypress trees, with Ploumou at a cautious distance. Lavoura’s hatred boiled over and Franjéskos’ considerable patience finally ran out. Like two cats cornered against a wall, they began hissing and growling at each other. Lavoura, in a fit of rage, called him a vagrant and a bandit, when the violence which ran through Franjéskos’ blood began to surface, and he started waving his fist at her, calling her a witch and a hag. Lavoura had heard this once too many-the witch thing had become harder to swallow and hit her hard. She sat down with her face in her hands, weeping. Franjéskos looked at her, thinking that he was finally victorious in this battle of wills and that he had finally broken Lavoura’s pride. He immediately changed his tone, and stooped over to her with kind words, hoping that it was the coup de grâce for Lavoura’s stubbornness. He suddenly staggered back, both shocked and surprised at the pain caused by the dagger stuck in his throat. What swarms of pirates and town garrison men had failed to do, was delivered by a woman. Lavoura had thrusted the dagger so swiftly that Franjéskos could hardly react. He held the dagger from the handle, blood spurting out, and as he looked at Lavoura incredulously he opened his mouth to say something, but he instead fell flat on his face, bleeding to death.

Lavoura then disappeared. Markéllos searched everywhere for her, had his men scour the countryside and notified his contacts in the cities to look for her, but to no avail. It was as if the very ground which was soaked with Franjéskos’ blood had opened up and swallowed her, bringing her unfortunate life to an end. Markéllos could not contain his grief and the great shame the crime brought upon his name. He roamed the village streets, the fields and orchards at night, wailing and calling out her name until his legs could carry him no more and he ended up a crazed old man with no heirs.

Part of The Army Tales

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Meatballs with mash

2010-08-17T22:17:00.000+01:00

From Meatballs with mash

Ingredients (for 4)

For the meatballs:
500g minced meat (beef, lamb, pork or a mixture of whatever you fancy-I used lamb for this one)
1 onion, very finely chopped
bread crumbs, about 1/2 glass (cous cous will do if you don't have bread crumbs)
a generous handful of dried mint
1 egg
cinnamon
nutmeg
salt
pepper
1 can of tomatoes
2-3 bay leaves

For the mash:
1 kg of potatoes
1 block of fetta cheese
Milk
oregano
olive oil
Optional: chilli flakes, fresh peppers or roasted peppers

Mix well the meatball ingredients in a bowl until it's all evenly distributed. If you have time to allow the meat to absorb the flavours, even better, do it from the night before, cover with cling film and keep in the fridge. It's fine if you don't, you can make the meatballs right after mixing the ingredients.

Shape your meatballs and place them in a baking dish. Add the tomatoes from the can. I usually mix them in the blender because I like a smooth tomato juice rather than chunks. Add some water, the bay leaves and bake in 200 degrees for about 30 minutes, turning once for the bottom side to brown too.

For the mash: boil the potatoes, drain them and mash them. Add milk until you have a nice, fluffy mash. Add lots of dried oregano, the crumpled fetta cheese, some olive oil and whatever else you fancy. Don't add much salt, as the cheese can be quite salty.

Serve, enjoy.

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Sotirakis the Meek

2010-08-03T13:59:00.002+01:00

Sotirákis sat patiently waiting for his replacement. He'd been on guard duty at the detached watchtower, looking after the .50 cal since midnight, with his shift ending at six. Six long hours in this wilderness. He didn't mind though; on the contrary, he enjoyed these long stints away from the outpost and his colleagues. He had a small torch and a battered paperback copy of Christ Recrucified in his ammo pouch, and the watchtower provided the best solitude for reading.

He'd arrived at the outpost a hot August morning a couple of months earlier, fresh from training, and he soon became the centre of attention for all the wrong reasons. Sotirákis was rather simple and quiet, the kind of person who serves as a toy for the alleviation of the outpost's boredom. The hardened veterans caught wind of his manipulable nature within 2 minutes after he'd first arrived to the outpost as a new recruit. He came on the back of the regimental Land Rover and when the corporal saw him, he simply asked him who he was, more out of curiosity, as they weren't expecting anyone. "Private Sotirákis Halloumáris reporting for duty corporal sir!", Sotirákis duly reported in fully voice and standing in attention so vigorously his back was arched and he nearly fell backwards.

The corporal was hardly a 'sir', himself far from being the alpha male at the outpost, having failed the rudimentary exams for sergeants and earning the lowest rank one could possibly earn. That made Sotirákis' response even more spectacular: the oldies knew they had a 'meek' one to play with. The corporal, after he recovered from the surprise, decided to play along.
"What's your specialisation soldier?"
"Rifleman sir!"
"That's a shame soldier. We really needed you to have more specialisations than that"
"Wh..."
"SHUT THE FUCK UP! Did I give you permission to speak?" "You only speak if I ask you a question."
"..."
"Now, as I was saying, we badly need a cook and a cleaner. Also we could do with an experienced and hardened patrol officer, do you think you can do all those things?"
Sotirákis looked at him, unsure whether to respond or wait.
"You may speak soldier" said the corporal, trying to suppress the laughter.
"I would be proud to perform these duties sir!"
"You do understand we'll have to train you-training can be hard and demanding. Are you sure you can cope?"
"..."
"You may speak soldier" repeated the corporal, rolling his eyes, incredulous at the naivety of this latest recruit.
"Of course I can cope sir" said Sotirákis firmly, while his legs started to tremble.

It didn't take long for the rest to cotton on to the fact that Sotirákis was fair game. Apart from loading him with the worst chores, cleaning, doing the washing up, doing the worst possible shifts, they played the most cruel tricks on him as well: they woke him up in a creative way every morning, ranging from buckets of water to tipping his bed over and raising the alarm. They once put a dead black snake in his bed as a joke, and Sotirákis nearly had a heart attack. If he was on guard duty when lunch arrived, they often ate everything and didn't keep any for him. They sometimes stole his personal supplies of food, drinks, soap and whatever else they liked. But he never protested, he took everything with quiet dignity, bowing his head and clearing up the mess, as if his fate had predestined him to do so.

And sometimes they just didn't turn up to relieve him off his guard shift. Like today. It was fast approaching seven and there was nobody in sight. His replacement often saw this as an opportunity to have a lie-in at Sotirákis' expense. And all he could do was sit there and wait. He was a very proper young man, to the point of suffering. His fatigue was always in order, his rifle clean, his boots polished. He shaved his young and hardly visible stubble daily-unlike some of the older soldiers.He was never late for his shift, always on time and proper. Proper, proper, proper.

He'd finished school with straight A's and already had a place in the medical school waiting for him for when all this would be over. His academic nature contributed to his being bullied, as being 'proper' and 'clever' never went down well in a world where macho posturing, boasting, breaking the rules (or saying you did) and physical prowess ruled. His quiet, reserved nature and his respect for the rules offered more ammunition to those who wanted to completely control and humiliate him. He passed as 'retarded' 'simple' 'soft' and even 'gay'. His proven academic record posed a threat to the less literate men, such as Antonís. Their insecurity made life hell for Sotirákis.

Stupid he was not. He knew that he was part of a bigger game, his place in society pre-determined. All he had to do was put up and try and belong as much as possible. He did that by laughing at the jokes, pretending he didn't mind, that he was a good sport. But inside he was burning. And he'd already started boiling that morning by the time his watch showed nine o'clock. Stavrís was due to replace him but he was nowhere to be seen. Sotirakis had been guard since midnight, he was starving and desperately needed to rest. He thought of Stavrís having a lazy morning, perhaps even being awake and sitting around with the other lads, having a cigarette and a game of backgammon. And he snapped.

When he entered the main outpost building, about half a mile from the detached watchtower, he found them drinking coffee and chatting. When they saw him they knew the game was up. Something about the death in his eyes, his demeanour, not to mention the fact that he'd done the unthinkable and abandoned his post, leaving rifle, ammo and helmet behind in his fury. Stavrís failed to read the signs. "Psaraka*, did you abandon your post? You'll get court-martialled for that" he said, his voice full of sarcasm while he was taking another sip of coffee, glancing at the rest for their reaction. Within seconds, Sotirákis had hauled him off his seat and violently planted his forehead onto his nose, dropping him onto the concrete floor in the process. Stavrís shouted and writhed, clutching his bloody face.
"And never be late replacing me again you cunt!"

Sotirákis washed himself, ate something and jumped into bed for a nap. Nobody dared to bother him until about lunch time, when the sergeant politely nudged him: "Sotiráki, come, there's some lunch for you if you want-it's OK if you don't-just have some rest, Stavrís will be doing your shift tonight".

Sotirákis was not meek any more.

____________________________
*Psarakas = (lit.) fish, can be translated as 'greenhorn' or 'fucking new guy'. In Greek new recruits are called psaria, fish, because they are 'fresh'.

Part of the Army Tales series

Off to lift some spuds

2010-07-29T15:28:00.003+01:00

Antonís was fed up. Really fed up. He hadn't left the outpost on leave in over a month, and the 5-6 new recruits the Captain had promised had failed to materialise, with the exception of Sotirakis. They were severely understaffed and had to do a combined 6 hour patrol and guard shift every day, including the outpost sergeant and sometimes the second lieutenant as well. Passes and leave were really hard to come by. Petros had to beg the captain to be allowed a three-hour pass every other day for his football training.

When this situation arose, the conscripts adopted various methods in order to go home. The most common one was of course doing a runner. The afternoons and evenings, when the officers had finished work, was the best time to jump the fence and hitch-hike home for some food and clean clothes. This was of course extremely risky, as being caught by the odd surprise visit by the officer-on-duty or even an external check, meant a certain court martial and a prison sentence.

The ones who weren't lucky enough to be football or volleyball players in one of the region's clubs had to either shut up or go off sick. Going off sick wasn't easy either. Sick leave wasn't simply allowed to anyone with a mild cold,it had to be something serious. Or you had to know the regimental doctor, who could give you sick leave without asking questions. Or perhaps, you could ensure you were sick enough for a sick leave. Andreas had chosen the second way. His father, a known businessman in the area, organised frequent feasts (and brothel visits) with the regimental doctor, and was in a position to get Andreas out on 'sick leave' pretty much on will. And Andreas duly obliged-he was more or less permanently on sick leave. When his sick leave ended, he turned up at the outpost to a frosty and often hostile reception. Antonís hated him, as his sick leaves meant that everyone else had to patiently sit it out. Andreas knew this, and his first business after returning from sick leave was to hop on to the regimental jeep bringing the food and go see the doctor again, to his colleagues' dismay.

Antonís was determined to go on leave. He hadn't seen his fiancée in ages, and his father needed his help to collect the potatoes. His cunning plan was to acquire an injury which forced him to go on sick leave but also allowed him to do whatever he liked. He remembered hearing somewhere that if you held your hand over steam for some time, it was possible to break a finger without any effort or pain. This was probably another one of those urban legends conscripts ensured survived for generations from the times of Hammurabi's armies to our day. Unfortunately Antonís, out of school and into the building trade since the age of 13, was almost illiterate and had heard of neither Hammurabi nor his armies.

So there he was, holding his left hand above a steaming saucepan where the lads were boiling potatoes. He had expressly instructed Stavrís to hit his pinky with the rifle butt while he held it against the kitchen sink. Any more damage and he wouldn't be able to lift the bins full of potatoes onto the lorry. He could do without the pinky, he thought, it was only a small finger at the end of the day.

So there they stood, Stavrís with the rifle, Antonís with his left hand above the saucepan. "How long does it have to stay?" asked Stavrís. "I reckon about half an hour" replied Antonís, ridiculously over-confident. "Five minutes and we do it-are you sure you can handle it?" he asked, staring straight into Stavrís eyes for signs of fear. Stavrís' had been secretly cherishing the opportunity to smash Antonís' finger, and if anything he was over-zealous. "Sure, no problem at all. But hurry it up because I am on guard duty as well." The outpost dog, Linda, was sitting there, staring at them and patiently waiting for scraps-thinking they were cooking.

"Let's do this" said Antonís as he turned away from the cooker and placed his hand, pinky outstretched, against the kitchen sink. Stavrís approached carefully, lifted the rifle and smashed it onto Antonís' hand as hard as possible. The loud bang, quickly followed by Linda's yelps, filled the tiny room and rang for a few seconds before the smoke and the debris from the kitchen ceiling cleared. All that could be heard was Antonís' screams of agony, as he was lying on the floor curled up and holding his left hand with his right. Stavrís had dropped the smoking rifle and was also curled up on the floor, holding his ears. The loud bang from the rifle had almost deafened them, and they couldn't hear the howls of laughter which came from the rest of the squad who had run to the kitchen door to see what had happened.

When they finally managed to get up, they couldn't hear a thing. Kostís, the sergeant, had a notepad and was scribbling questions on it. "Can you move your finger?". Antonís nodded. "Can you bend it?" Antonís nodded again. "It looks very red but not broken to me mate-do you want to try again?" Antonís just burst into tears, more out of humiliation than pain.

As it happened, both Antonís and Stavrís had about a couple of weeks off, as their eardrums had burst and the regimental doctor had no option but to send them off with antibiotics. They would of course be punished on return, as they discharged a rifle without permission, but for the time being they had the last laugh, although they could only hear a muffled noise.

________________________________________
Part of the Army Tales series

Chaff

2010-07-13T10:59:00.011+01:00

Mastre Hambís put out his cigarette with his boot. 'Come on boys, not much left'. The soldiers lazily got up from the comfort of the giant carob tree's shade and prepared themselves for another couple of hours of work. Mastre Hambís owned the farm right next to their outpost, and they were helping him collect all the hay bales and stack them up in storage for the winter ahead. The July sun was scorching the red earth as they reluctantly came out of the shade.

Panikkos had a soft spot for Mastre Hambís, as he reminded him of his father who was also a farmer. Mastre Hambís only had one daughter, who had married and moved to Australia, so he had nobody to help him with the farm. An old man of an age impossible to accurately guess, he had the vivacity and spring of a mountain goat. He'd often turn up at the outpost with a tray full of kléftiko and a crate of beers for the boys. It was almost as if he had de facto adopted the soldiers at the outpost. He'd seen them come and go, fresh out of training and into the boredom and solitude of the ceasefire lines, hardened, disillusioned and hopeful out into real life. On his farm he grew potatoes, barley, kept sheep and goats and had the obligatory fruit garden, so common a pattern in the region. Whatever the season, there was something to harvest, something he needed help with, but also something he could offer the boys. Oranges, mandarins, potatoes, peaches, apricots, plums, water melons. They sometimes pinched some fresh milk from the jars he put out for the dairy collection. His contribution came to substitute the dreadful slops the regiment's kitchen insisted on calling food, a pile of something or other which arrived at the outpost in a tin container at the back of a truck, covered in the red Mesaoria dust. The contents of the tin pot inevitably became food for the six or seven dogs and puppies the soldiers kept at the outpost.

They hopped on the cart drawn by Mastre Hambís' tractor and he led them to a field about a mile from the main farm. The hay bales, cubic beasts peacefully sunning themselves, were waiting to be collected. Mastre Hambís parked the tractor in the middle of the field, and the boys started stacking them onto the cart, hauling them from the two plastic strings they were tied with, their heavy boots clumsily stumbling in the caked earth. It was hard work, the sweat was pouring down their bare backs, bits of chaff and dirt covered their bodies and faces, making them look like those images of the peasants of a bygone time. Their youthful bodies were so tanned they had the appearance of leather, their eyes burning bright from under the dirt.

"Aman kopelia*! We're fucked!", exclaimed Andrikkos. They all turned and looked at the cloud of dust following the fast-approaching regimental Mercedes jeep. There was no point trying to either hide or pretend they were on a patrol. Their weapons and kit were left behind at the outpost-they were there to carry hay bales. They just stood there, waiting for their approaching fate. The sight of the Mercedes usually meant the regiment commander or, even worse, the battalion commander, a development which would surely land them in court-martial.

The jeep pulled up and out came Lieutenant Hristofís with a folder in his hands. Their despair started evaporating, because the only person who could possibly let them off lightly was him. Hristofís was a mild-mannered chap who was clearly in the wrong profession as he couldn't harm a fly. His dream was to be a primary school teacher, but he got his exam preferences mixed up and ended up in military school instead. He was always bossed about not only by his superiors and his peers, but also by the odd conscript who overstepped the mark and gave him a hard time. The only time he punished a conscript, because the presence of the commander gave him no choice, he offered a tearful apology afterwards.

"Hey guys, what's up?", he asked as he approached the boys with his folder under his arm. "I went to the outpost and the lads there sent me here. Did you all become farmers now?". "Erm, Mastre Hambís here needed a hand sir, so we did it out of boredom. I hope you don't mind" said Kostís, the sergeant and technically the person responsible for the squad. "That's fine, I didn't see anything", replied Hristofís "as long as the commander doesn't get wind of this, he'll have your balls on a plate". Swearing just didn't agree with Hristofís, and the word 'balls' just sounded odd coming from his lips, even in an environment such as the army where swearing was common speak.

"They are very nice lads Mr. Hristofís, they were giving me a hand, I hope you don't mind", added Mastre Hambís. "No, that's fine, just don't say I said so" smiled Hristofís. "Anyway lads, I'm here for your payment". The statement was immediately followed by loud cheers which echoed in the almost desert-like landscape. The conscripts only received about £20 per month, barely enough for cigarettes, but pay day was always a good time nonetheless. "Thank you re Hristofí!*" they said, patting him on the shoulder, as if he was a mate who'd come back with cans of lager. After they'd all signed the form and pocketed their money, Hristofís jumped in the jeep and he was on his way to the next outpost.

They returned to their job with renewed vigour and in a good mood, quickly throwing the bales onto the cart. Mastre Hambís smiled from under his moustache. The sun was beginning to dip to the west, and the sea breeze was finally starting to blow.

______________________________________

*Aman kopelia = god help us lads

* re = you, hey you, mate

Part of the Army Tales series

With thanks to KnifeJuggler for the photo

Spaghetti with Asparagus, Peas and Mushrooms

2010-07-07T10:25:00.004+01:00

Simple recipe this one, but so tasty...

Ingredients (serves 4)

1-2 bunches of asparagus (the thinner the better)

a few mushrooms (chopped)

some peas

2-3 spring onions, chopped

chilli flakes

olive oil

butter

white wine

salt

500gr spaghetti

Wash the asparagus and cut off the harder part of the stem if it feels too hard to cook. Alternatively you can slice the harder part right through the middle. Cut the asparagus in pieces of roughly 2cm each (that's less than an inch you imperials).

In a frying pan, heat some olive oil and toss in the asparagus. Add butter, peas, spring onions and chilli flakes. Cook for 4-5 minutes, drizzle some white wine, add the mushrooms and salt. Turn the heat down and cover, allowing it to cook gently for another 5 minutes or so. In the meantime...

In a saucepan add water, salt and bring to the boil. Add your spaghetti and cook for as long as you like-preferably the time advised on the pack.

Drain the pasta, return it to the saucepan and tip your asparagus sauce in. Mix gently and serve with some nice parmesan cheese. I use mature anari, a Cypriot cheese. Drink the rest of the wine with it :-)

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Καρτερόντας τους βαρβάρους

2010-07-06T12:59:00.005+01:00

Σε ελεύθερη μετάφραση.

Περιμένοντας τους Bαρβάρους

Καβάφης Κ. Π.

Ίνταμπου καρτερούμεν, συνάμενοι στο παζάριν;

Εννά φτάσουν οι βάρβαροι σήμερα.

— Γιατί έτσι κουνοσσυλιόν μες την Σύγκλητον;

Ίντα κάθουνται οι Συγκλητικοί τζιαι έν νομοθετούν;

Γιατί οι βάρβαροι εννά φτάσουν σήμερα.

Ίντα νόμους να κάμουν πιον οι Συγκλητικοί;

Άμαν έρτουν οι βάρβαροι εννά νομοθετήσουν.

—Γιατί ο αυτοκράτορας μας εσηκώστην που το χάραμαν του φου,

τζιαι κάθεται πας της πόλης την πιο μιάλην πύλην

πας στον θρόνον, επίσημος, με την κορώνα πας την κκελλέν του;

Γιατί οι βάρβαροι εννά φτάσουν σήμερα.

Τζιαι ο αυτοκράτορας περιμένει να δεχτεί

τον αρχηγόν τους. Τζιαι μάλιστα ετοίμασεν

για να του δώκει έναν χαρτίν. Τζειπάνω

έγραψεν του τίτλους πολλούς τζιαι ονόματα.

— Γιατί οι θκυο μας ύπατοι τζιαι οι πραίτορες εφκήκαν

σήμερα με τες κότσιηινες, τες κεντημένες τόγες·

ίντα εφορήσαν βρασιόλια με τόσους αμεθύστους,

τζιαι δαχτυλίθκια με λαμπερά, γυαλλιστά σμαράγδια·

ίντα επιάσαν σήμερα πολύτιμα μπαστούνια

με ασήμια τζιαι γρουσά όμορφα σκαλισμένα;

Γιατί οι βάρβαροι εννά φτάσουν σήμερα ·

τζιαι τέθκοια πράματα θαμπώννουν τους βαρβάρους.

—Γιατί τζιαι οι άξιοι ρήτορες εν έρκουνται όπως πάντα

να φκάλουν τους λόους τους, να πούν τα δικά τους;

Γιατί οι βάρβαροι εννά φτάσουν σήμερα ·

τζιαι τούτοί βαρκούνται τες ομιλίες τζιαι το λαφαζανιόν.

— Μα ίντα άρκεψεν άξξιππα τούτη η ανησυχία

τζιαι η σύγχυση. (Ίντα σοβαρά που εγινήκαν τα πρόσωπα).

Ίντα φκιερώννουν γλήορα οι στράτες τζιαι οι πλατείες,

τζιαι ούλλοι γυρίζουν έσσω τους πολλά συλλοϊσμένοι;

Γιατί ενύχτωσεν τζιαι οι βάρβαροι εν ήρταν.

Τζιαι εφτάσαν μερικοί που τα σύνορα,

τζιαι είπασιν πως έν έσιει πιον βαρβάρους.

Τζιαι τωρά ίνταμπου εννά γινούμεν δίχα βαρβάρους.

Οι άνθρωποι τούτοί ήτουν μια κάποια λύση.

The dining table of life

2010-06-10T18:15:00.006+01:00

As someone who lives abroad, I always dread phone calls from Cyprus announcing losses of loved ones. It's the fate of the voluntarily (or involuntarily) displaced. They always tell you that [insert name of loved one here] is in hospital and it doesn't look too good. Half the times your loved one is already dead and they're just trying to soften the blow. It doesn't work of course, it just makes it easier on the unlucky messenger to deliver the dire news.

Just over two years ago, I lost my grandmother. She'd fallen and broken her hip bone, they operated on her and apparently it went well. 'Yiayia' was always afraid of anything remotely related to death however (she'd stopped going to funerals decades earlier), so when she was in the clinic she decided that it was probably her time to be on her way. They said that she kept saying thing like "I'll be seeing my Kostis soon" (her dead husband). I suspect that her death was partly due to her frail condition (she was 96) and partly a conscious decision-she'd simply had enough.

In her final years her eyesight had started to fail her, and she gradually lost her hearing. I loved her very much though, and she always recognised me and asked me whether I'd found a wife yet (Firfiri you are not alone). She only knew how to read a little bit, hadn't gone to school, worked the fields and raised children all her life. She always sat on an old-style chair outside her door, looking at the gate. Every time I passed from there, on a bicycle (childhood), moped (teens) and more recently in a car, I'd turn my head and see the figure clad in black sitting there, enjoying the breeze. It was reassuring somehow, as if my own roots were still secure, firmly in the ground.

When my brother rang and told me the bad news, I kept my composure up until I hung up. I then cried bitterly, like I'd never cried before. By the time I heard the news they'd already gone ahead with the funeral and it was all over. I never told them this, but I was upset that they didn't at least allow me a day to get there for the funeral. I don't know, somehow I wanted to be there and go through the grieving process with the family, and especially my dad who lost his mum.

When I go to Cyprus, we always gather for family feasts. I think it was last year, or perhaps the one before, when I noticed that my brother's children are now sitting where my brothers and I used to sit when we were children, at the edge of the table. Where my parents/uncles and aunts used to sit is where our generations sits now. My parents sit where my grandmother used to sit, as if the conveyor belt of life is slowly but surely moving us from one end of the dining table to the other. The dining table itself is life. I must say that the hairs on the back of my neck stand upright every time I think of the concept. Life is a dining table, and as we grow older, we shuffle down to make space for the next generation. Figure that one out.

Every time I pass outside yiayia's house, I always look, as if I am still expecting her figure to be sitting there.

[Apologies it's a bit of a sad one-I promise you a nice recipe to make up for it]

Image by John Thomson

Things I hate about Cyprus

2010-06-09T13:30:00.004+01:00

Right...here it is. I'll try to keep the rant to a minimum. (Following on from 'Things I love...')

1) Class mobility

Especially in the countryside, where an up-to-recently peasant class has quickly transformed into a middle class. Nothing wrong with that, I hear you say. However, the problem is that what makes the hitherto peasants middle class are simply more material possessions. No cultural/spiritual progress has taken place, and in a way, this is much worse, as at least the peasantry had an organic relationship with the land. Its children have 4x4 BMW's and houses with two kitchens (a Cypriot first?). Our grandmothers raised 7 children while working in the fields. Their grandchildren employ Vietnamese servants and hire limos for their children's birthdays (this last one I was told, never witnessed, thankfully).

2) Racism, xenophobia, a swing to the right

The direct consequence of the Cypriots' newfound affluence and material cornucopia is a certain insecurity and fear of losing their prized possessions. Enter fear of: gypsies, foreigners, asylum seekers, the EU, Greece. Add to that the perennial fear of Turks, Brits and Americans and society is shaping up nicely for ghetto-ing its 'lesser' members. Even people who used to be left-wing-and still pretend to be-have developed right-wing, xenophobic ideas (sorry Omonoia fans, the Che Guevara t-shirt is simply not enough)

3) Land for sale

The same people who fear foreigners are more than happy to reap the benefits of globalisation and the EU. Example: what was until recently a rural landscape was largely carved up by 'developers' who built huge complexes of villas for the well-off Brits and Russians who fancy a house in the sun. This is all built and supported by Sri Lankan and Syrian builders, Vietnamese au pairs and servants, Ukranian, Belarussian sex slaves, Bulgarian farm hands, Polish hotel workers and so on. On top of that, people are xenophobic, because the people who do the dirty jobs for pittance are visible. Have cake/eat cake? That is the question. My dream is that one day we will tear down villas with our bare hands in order to plant potatoes again in order to survive. I can dream, right?

4) Individualistic realism/Realistic individualism

The fact that most people are looking after no. 1 without consideration for anyone else. Driving through Frenaros, I saw a car parked on a pavement (common practice). The problem was that a lady on a wheelchair had to get into the road to get through. Fucking barbaric. The examples are endless.

5) Being cosy: bad for reunification

Many Greek Cypriots find the current political situation rather cosy, and would secretly prefer it to remain like this or even be formalised with two independent states. The reason, product of years of brainwashing and material insecurity, is a lack of interest in living with the Turkish Cypriots. I suspect the latter don't feel very differently.

6) The obliteration of farming

The EU told us to stop growing things and buy them from other countries. So now we have Argentinian oranges, whereas in the years before 1974 Famagusta hosted an orange festival. And farmers gave their land to 'developers'.

7) The complete politicisation of heritage

See number 8 here. The Turkish-Cypriot Department of Antiquities will simply not put a padlock on this beautiful medieval Armenian church, just because it's not their heritage (their words). Medieval heritage, especially Frankish and Venetian, is simply not highlighted, in case someone thinks the island is not thoroughly Greek/Turkish.

8) Inadequate or non-existent public transport

The only people who walk in Cyprus are tourists and the previously-mentioned foreign workers. They often die on the streets, as there are many areas without proper pavements. People drive everywhere, no matter the distance.

9) The Greek-ification of Greek-Cypriot TV

By this I mean that our newsreaders, sports commentators and advert producers feel that they have to imitate Greek as spoken in Athens, even suppressing the Cypriots' ability to pronounce harder sounds so that they sound more 'Greek'. It sounds just stupid, as if forcing everyone in the UK to sound like the Queen. Fuck that. Be natural. We are Cypriots.

Things I love about Cyprus

2010-06-04T10:10:00.008+01:00

Every time I go back to Cyprus for holidays (and to see family) I have to readjust to life there, even if it's just for a few days. It goes without saying that the differences with the UK are fairly sharp. Some things I have to revert to, some others are totally new. However, I always find things I love, new and old, discovered and re-discovered. And of course, things I absolutely hate. Here we'll deal with the nice things, because they matter more.

1) The light

You forget how brightly the sun shines. The photographs are easily over-exposed, and everything is awash with sunlight

2) The sunsets

Sunsets in Cyprus are exceptional. The sun shines red, illuminating the barley fields and painting purple the few clouds that always seem to appear above Pentadaktylos, the northern mountain range.

3) The smell of the evening dew on the freshly-harvested barley fields

Sorry, I can't possibly describe this. I guess you'll just have to travel there

4) The fact that fresh and locally produced fruit and veg are (still) easily available

Despite the best efforts of Carrefour and Alpha Mega with their Peruvian grapes and Kenyan onions

5) The beaches

But then again, I'm biased...

6) People's attitude to children

People don't disapprove and tut whenever you take your toddler to a restaurant or a museum like they do in the UK. People in Cyprus love children, and it's very relaxing. Brits, especially older people (shockingly, as they should know better) always show their disapproval with this expression they make, the one where they look at you and quickly turn away. I've had this in restaurants and also places like National Trust properties. In addition, in Cyprus people don't believe in the whole 'strict routine for children' nonsense. Nobody forces their kids to sleep at 6pm.

7) The fact that you can (still) escape

Despite its small size, Cyprus still has some beautiful, undiscovered spots which I cannot reveal here. All the 'development' couldn't ruin the countryside. And it's all within an hour's drive.

8) The history

I am stunned by it every time. The Cypriots' (both Greek and Turkish) fixation with their respective Hellenistic/Byzantine and Ottoman 'pasts' means that the island's huge medieval, Frankish and Venetian heritage is largely unexplored, under-promoted and relatively hard to find. And when you do find it, it is simply spectacular. Limassol Castle houses one of the best museums (in terms of content rather than presentation) of 'Crusader Cyprus'. Famagusta, due to decades of political limbo and neglect, is a rough diamond half buried in the sand (as the name Ammochostos suggests). The old town was one of the richest cities in Christendom in the 14th century and it shows. Its Gothic architecture and Venetian ruins are simply impossible to fathom. And yet we're fixated with Hellenistic...

Did I mention the smell of the dew on the freshly-harvested barley fields? OK then...

Nutters I have known #1: the Basque

2010-03-22T11:29:00.008Z

According to Will Self, 70% of the world's nutters are in University in some shape or form. In a way it makes sense. Universities are inhabited by people who spend lifetimes focusing on something so small and intricate, that they often lose any sense of reality. Communication with the environment becomes a burden rather than necessity. Wearing white socks with sandals all of a sudden sounds like a good idea. But that's not to say these people are bona fide nutters. They are simply eccentric. But the most eccentric of these most definitely strayed into nutter territory. This series of blog posts is dedicated to these weird and wonderful (when they are not your flatmates) people.

Being a student and then working at Universities since 1993, you understand that I have had way more than my fair share of nutters. Maybe I am one of them myself. Memory is a tricky thing, it makes you think of them in better colours than you really should. You need to really rake your brains to re-discover the fury you felt at the time, so that you depict them fairly and accurately.

#1: the Basque scientist

The one who by far takes the biscuit, the top prize, was a flatmate of ours called 'Juana'. The Mrs-Blackbeard-to-be and myself lived in this extremely cold and damp flat at the top floor of a lovely Victorian house. The house being lovely made up for the rotting windows and the extreme cold. Or so she says.

Juana was a Basque student in Engineering, doing research on something I never quite understood. She went on to get a research post, working in the lab. In any case, she was one of the most driven uni-nutters I have ever known. She had an Italian boyfriend who visited weekends and was a half-nutter himself, but we'll deal with him later.

Here are some of Juana's traits:

She was so extremely stingy that she often ate food way past its sell-by date. On one occasion she got poisoning from expired prawns
In order to save money, she took a bus day ticket, went into town, loaded herself with groceries from the open market, came home, dumped the bags, got on the bus again, went to the big supermarket and returned with another load of groceries
the above visits happened on Fridays, because that's when said supermarket had loads of 'reduced' items-hence the expired stuff
she bought food for 8 people from the market (5 pineapples for a pound, 3 melons for 50p, that kind of thing). As it was impossible for any human being to consume so much food in a week, most of it lay rotten in the fridge or in the fruit basket
she refused to pay with a card at the supermarket, because "the black man at the checkout may memorise my card number". Her words, not mine.
She was paid for a 9-5 job at the lab, but she woke up at 6, went for a swim, started work at 7 and came home at 7. 12 hours. She also went weekends. She slept at 8.
So that she wouldn't spend money, she made a pot of coffee in the morning, put it in a plastic container, and re-heated it in the microwave at work
She would have a tub of double cream on its own as dessert. (I suspect she thought it was some kind of yoghurt)
When the boyfriend came for the weekend, after dinner she'd order him to their room for a 15-minute sex session after dinner. She then slept and he sat with us to watch TV. He liked Van Damme films. We didn't.
On Sunday mornings she woke up, filled up a huge pot full of dry chick-peas and water, put it on the fire and then went back to bed. The chickpeas needed a good 2 hours of boiling. She did this so the boyfriend could take some boiled chick peas back with him. He also carried his dirty clothes with him on the train so she'd wash them for him.
Although she lived with us for more than 2 years, she never got used to the idea of having a cat in the house. He constantly startled her, and she reacted like this.
She ate so much pre-prepared food that she often blocked the toilet with her stools. She then spent hours locked up in the loo, hopelessly trying to unblock the toilet with bleach and huffing at it. She never used the toilet brush. When I told her that she could, she was offended.
She often tried to burn us down by forgetting the stove on.
A colleague of hers broke up with her boyfriend. Juana thought that she was a slut because she'd had an ex-boyfriend-in her mind, you're only supposed to have the one, marry him and have his babies.

I was very happy when she eventually moved out.

The dream of the spherical goddess

2010-03-06T12:23:00.015Z

Ever since I hurt my ankle and gave up football, 18 months ago, I have been wanting nothing more than to kick a ball. It's as if my heart defies what the body knows: I've hurt both ankles twice. Last time it took me over a month to walk, and I can still feel that my ankle is weak, probably permanently. But I sometimes go to bed and the moment I close my eyes I make that killer pass from right-back all the way to the winger. It can't be helped. I've been playing the game ever since I can remember. Some of my first memories are of the World Cup of 1978, with that fantastic poster. I remember my dad going to the coffee house to watch games with the other men in Ayia Phyla, that's about it.

I even vaguely remember Aston Villa's 1982 European Cup win. But my first, big football memories were from the 1982 World Cup in Spain. The images flood back: naranjito, the mascot, the brilliance of Brazil with Socrates, Zico and Falcao. Everyone around me loved Brazil and wanted them to win it. But I somehow rooted for Italy. Our local grocer's was giving away world cup posters of teams, and I landed one of Italy, clad in their away white strip. It's funny, but that simple coincidence in the course of my childhood, one of many, has determined my support for a national team which never plays attractive football. And then there was Marco Tardelli. In the final against Germany he scored, and produced the most passionate celebration of all time: he turned and ran towards his team's bench, screaming 'goal' and crying tears of joy. That image has remained etched in my memory, the explanation to why football inexplicably becomes the passion for millions of people. That was it. I've been supporting Italy since.

As a player I was never great. When I was in school there were no real positions-everybody followed the ball, wherever that was, to form a huge scramble of feet, elbows and heads in search of the goddess. We used to play in a dusty field next to my mother's house, clouds of dust rising. I remember taking a bath afterwards, and the water turned red in the tub, the colour of the soil, blood from my knees. We'd have matches with teams from other neighbourhoods, with all the hostility seen in a Barcelona-Real Madrid classic.

A stint in the youth team of my village didn't really last all that long. I guess, as Roberto from Byzantium said to me once, "the mind is quicker than the body". He of course meant that we were getting old. I think it also means that some people can produce on the pitch something resembling the brilliance we saw on the screen. I couldn't. I was useful I guess. I could kick the ball, and as I grew older, I developed a good sense of positioning and passing, to compensate for my complete lack of pace and mobility. I also gradually developed the ability to pass and shoot with both feet, so I could play anywhere on the pitch. Except goal.

In the meantime I began to worship the divine ponytail, Roberto Baggio. He represented all I loved about football. Talent, commitment, work ethic, but most of all he was a sound character in a sport where these were rapidly disappearing. I started playing for the uni team as an undergrad, and then when I came to the UK I bumped into the Byzantine Roberto, another one who 'excelled' on the pitch after the age of 30. By then I'd moved to defence, using my 'wisdom' as a counter to the lack of physical condition. I began to play hard, but also developed my passing based on the Italian defenders who never ever hoofed the ball, but rather patiently brought it out and started counter-attacks. I hated giving the ball away more than anything. Roberto, like his Buddhist namesake, played in attack. His 'genio Italiano' as Captain Steve called it, served him well, and he went on to score goal after goal for our struggling team. Bizzarely I never scored, not even when we (rarely) came up against teams considerably weaker than ours whom we thumped. And then, when I went to Italy for Roberto's wedding, I bagged the perfect hat-trick in a match among his friends the night before his big day. I bagged one with the right foot, a screamer with my left, and a header in the first half. And that was the last time I scored.

And now I just watch. I thought of taking up coaching. Archery. Something. But nothing is like it. No matter how many hours I play the guitar, the buzz is never the same.

Clubs and national teams I love and have loved

Anagennisi Deryneias (home club)

Omonoia Nicosia

Nea Salamis Famagusta

Italy 1982

Argentina 1986

Soviet Union, World Cup 1986 and European Cup 1988

Yugoslavia 1990

The miracle of Denmark, 1992

Romania 1994

The wonderful Czechs, 1996

Players/icons

I am sure Roberto will remind me the ones I forgot...

Dedicated to Eduardo Galeano, whose writings on the goddess are the best tribute to the passion.

Πηλά τζιαι ρόφκια (μέρος Β')

2010-03-03T14:31:00.006Z

(συνέχεια από το Α')

Άμαν τζιαι εφκήκεν ο ήλιος για τα καλά, τζιαι η φύση γυρόν τους ήταν πιον όξυπνη, εσηκωστήκαν σιγά-σιγά τζιαι εμπήκαν πιο μέσα στο περβόλιν. Ερέξαν που μες τα δεντρά ως την άλλην άκραν του περβολιού, εγυρίσαν τζιαι αρκέψαν να παρπατούν που μες το περβόλιν, φακκώντας παλαμάκια, σφυρίζοντας τζιαι πετάσσοντας μέσα-μέσα καμιάν πέτραν ποτζιεί-ποδά για να φαράσουν τα πουλιά να πετήσουν προς τες ελιές που είχαν στημένα τα βερκά τους. Την ίδιαν ώραν, είχαν τζιαι τον νουν τους άμπα τζιαι δουν τίποτε που εμπορούσαν να παίξουν με τα λάστιχα τους. Ο Αγγελής είδεν έναν αμπελοπούλλιν πας το κλωνίν μιας ελιάς. Εσημάθκιασεν με το λάστιχον τζιαι ξαπόλησεν το αλλά εν το κούτσιησεν. Έφερεν το λάστιχο στο στόμαν του, έφτυσεν μέσα αλλό έναν βούκκον σκάγια τζιαι εσυνέχισεν με το φάραμαν.

Άμαν εφτάσαν πάλαι στο τέλος του περβολιού, τζιαμαί που εκάθουνταν πριν, εκάτσαν πάλαι πουκάστην τερατσιάν τζιαι αννοίξαν τες τσέντες τους. «Ελπίζω να έφερες κανέναν χαλλούμιν ποτζιείνα της μάνας σου» είπεν ο Παράσκος του Αγγελή. «Ακατάγνωτα, εν κάμνουμεν δίχα του» επολοήθηκεν του ο Αγγελής. Έφκαλεν που την τσένταν του το χαλλούμιν, λλίες ελιές, κανέναν-θκυό αγγουράκια τζιαι λλίον ψουμίν φρέσκον που έψησεν η στετέ του, ούλλα τυλιμένα σε μιαν μαντηλιάν της κουζίνας. Ο Παράσκος έφερεν τζιαι 2-3 αυκά βραστά τζιαι εμπουκκώσαν κάθοντας πουκάστην τερατσιάν, θωρώντας τον ουρανόν τζιαι παρατηρώντας τα πουλλούθκια. Ένας κουρκουτάς εθώρεν τους με περιέργειαν που μιαν τρύπαν στον κορμόν της τερατσιάς. Είδαν έναν μπουλούκκιν μαυρόπουλλους να πετούν ψηλά, προς τον νότον. Αχ τζιαι να πιάνναν κανέναν που τζιείνους, ήταν όμορφα πουλιά τζιαι το κελάηδημαν τους ήταν πολλά γλυτζιήν. Αλλά είχαν άλλα πουλιά να πιάσουν προς το παρόν.

Εποσπαστήκαν που το μπούκκωμαν, εσυνάξαν τα πράματα τους τζιαι αρκέψαν να παρπατούν προσεχτικά προς τες ελιές τους. Που μακρά εμπορούσαν να δουν ότι είχαν πιαστεί λλία πουλλούθκια, αλλά εκοντέψαν σιγά-σιγά άμπα τζιαι φαράσουν άλλα που ήταν κόμα μες τα δεντρά. Ο Παράσκος είδεν μιαν τζίηκλαν πιασμένην πας σ’εναν βερκίν τζιαι εβούρησεν να την πιάσει άμπα τζιαι καταφέρει τα τζιαι φύει. Εφκήκαν πας τα δεντρά τους τζιαι εσυνάξαν γλήορα ότι επιάσαν: αμπελοπούλια, κοτσιηνολαίμηες, μούγιους, κοτσιηνονούρες, δακκαννούρες. Ο Αγγελής έβαλεν ούλλα τα πουλλούθκια που ετρώαν σπόρους μες το κλουβούιν του: κανέναν-θκυό ζαρτηλούθκια, έναν τσακρίν τζιαι θκυό κουτσομουττούθκια. Ότι έτρωεν σπόρους εκρατούσαν το για το κλουβίν, τζιαι κάποια ήταν πολλά πολύτιμα για την ομορκιάν τους τζιαι το κελάηδημαν τους, όπως τα ζαρτήλια τζιαι τα κουτσομουττούθκια. Τα άλλα πουλλούθκια επνίαν τα, τζιείνα ήταν να καταλήξουν στο τραπέζιν.

Εστραφήκαν πίσω στην τερατσιάν τους να πνάσουν. Αφήκαν το κλουβούιν με τα ζωντανά πουλιά πουκάστες ελιές για να φέρουν άλλα με το κελάηδημαν τους. Εκάτσαν λλίην ώραν τζιαμαί αλλά εβαρεθήκαν να κάθουνται ύστερα που λλίον. Ο Παράσκος ήβρεν έναν ττενεκκούιν αγιωμένον τζιαι εκούμπησεν το χαμαί, μπροστά που την τερατσιάν. Ο Αγγελής μεμιάς εκατάλαβεν το παιχνίδιν. Εσταθήκαν τζιαι οι θκυό λλία μέτρα που το δεντρόν τζιαι αρκέψαν να το σημαθκιάζουν με πέτρες μέστα λάστιχα τους. Μετά που θκυο-τρείς απόπειρες, εκούτσιησεν το ο Αγγελής. Το ττενεκκούιν έκαμεν έναν κούφκιον ήχον τζιαι πετάχτηκεν κανέναν μέτρον πιο τζιει. Εξαναστήσαν το τζιαι αρκέψαν ξανά π’αρκής. Ούλλα ήταν τσιάττισμαν για λλόου τους.

Μετά που λλίην ώραν, είπαν να ξαναπάν στα βερκά τους. Αρκέψαν να παρπατούν προς τα δεντρά σιγά-σιγά, αλλά η ησυχία εταράχτηκεν που την τσιριλιάν του Παράσκου που έδειχνεν με το δάχτυλον προς τες ελιές: «Μαυρότζιηκλα, μαυρότζιηκλα!» Ο Αγγελής εξαπόλησεν ότι εβάσταν τζιαιμαί που ήταν τζιαι αντάκωσεν του βούρου, φτάνοντας στο δεντρόν μετά που εκουτσούφλησεν τζι έππεσεν μες το φρεσκοκαμωμένον χωράφιν. Εφκήκεν γλήορα πας το δεντρόν τζιαι έφτασεν πας το κλωνίν που ήταν πιασμένον το πουλλίν. Έπιασεν το απαλά-απαλά με το δεξίν του, κρατώντας το βερκίν με τ’αριστερόν, ξικολλώντας το σιγά-σιγά να μεν του χαλάσει τα φτερά του. Εβάσταν το σαννα τζιαι ήταν το πιο εύθραυστο κομμάτιν πορσελάνη στον κόσμον. Ένιωθεν την καρκιάν του να χτυπά γλήορα τζιαι δυνατά. Εκατέβηκεν σιγά σιγά που το δεντρόν, κρατώντας προσεκτικά το πουλλίν. Αγαπούσαν πολλά τες μαυρότζιηκλες, γιατί εν επιάνναν συχνά τζιαι εκελαηδούσαν πολλά όμορφα. Εκαθάρισεν την κόλλαν που τα ποούθκια της με λλίον νερόν τζιαι έβαλεν την μες το κλουβίν.

Σιγά-σιγά ήρτεν η ώρα να συνάξουν τα βερκά τους τζιαι να παν έσσω. Τα πουλλούθκια μες το κλουβίν εθέλαν σάσμαν. Αρκέψαν το σύναμαν, με την αντίθετη πορείαν που εκάμαν το πρωίν. Εσυνάαν, ετυλίαν τζιαι εβάλλαν τες μάτσες μιαν-μιαν μες τες κουκκουρκές τους. Άμαν ο Παράσκος ήταν πας τη δεύτερην του ελιάν, άκουσεν έναν φτερούγισμαν βαρετόν πουπάνω του τζιαι είδεν την νοσσιάν νου γερατζιού να κάμνει κατά το δεντρόν στο τέλος της σειράς. Είδεν το τζιαι ο Αγγελής. Αρκέψαν να φωνάζουν πέρκι φοηθεί τζιαι φύει αλλά τίποτε. Το γεράτζιν έσσιησεν τζιαι έκατσεν πας σ’έναν βερκίν που ήταν πιασμένος ένας μούγιος. Άρπαξεν το πουλλίν τζιαι πέτησεν, παίρνοντας τζιαι το βερκίν μιτά του.

Εσυνάξαν τα πράματα τους, εχτός που το χασημιόν βερκίν του Παράσκου, τζιαι εσαστήκαν να στραφούν έσσω. Ήταν μετά το μεσομέριν τζιαι αρκέψαν να πεινούν. Ο Παράσκος εφιλοσόφησεν το πράμαν: «Ε, νομίζω το γεράτζιην εκέρτησεν τον μούγιον, παίζει τζιαι τζιείνον το ίδιον παιγνίν με μας». «Ναι, μεν έσιεις παράπονον. Ρίζει περίτου που λλόου μας πας τα πετούμενα τ’ουρανού», απάντησεν ο Αγγελής. Περπατώντας προς το περβόλιν με την τερατσιάν, οι μιτσιοί εσταματήσαν τζιαι συνάξαν λλία ρόφκια. Εκάτσαν πουκάτω που την τερατσιάν τους, εκόψαν τα, εγλύψαν το ζουμίν που έτρεξεν μες τα σιέρκα τους, τζιαι εφάν τα λαίμαργα. Θέλεις ήταν η ώρα, η πείνα τους, ο ήλιος που έλαμπεν μεσοούρανα, τζιείντα ρόφκια ήταν τα καλλύττερα που εφάν.

(φώτο δαμαί)

Πηλά τζιαι Ρόφκια

2010-02-02T18:30:00.008Z

(Translation of mud and pomegranates part I)

Ο Αγγελής επετάχτηκεν που την καρκόλα άξιππα, σάννα τζιαι θώρεν όρομαν. Εκοίταξεν το ξυπνητήριν. Η ώρα εν ήταν ακόμα τρεισήμισυ το πρωί. Το ξυπνητήριν ήταν να παίξει η ώρα τέσσερις αλλά που την ανυπομονησίαν του ένωσεν πιο πριν τζιαι ξύπνησεν. Οι Κυριακές ήταν οι καλλύττερες μέρες-έν είχεν σκολείον τζιαι εμπορούσεν να κάμει ότι έθελεν, συνήθως να παίξει μάππαν ή να πάει τζυνήιν. Εσηκώστηκεν, εφόρησεν την παλιάν στολήν του τζιυρού του που τον τζιαιρόν που ήταν έφεδρος, έναν πράσινον παλλιοτρικόν με τρύπες, κλάτσες χοντρές. Ήπιεν στα γλήορα έναν ποτήριν γάλαν, βλέποντας πόξω που το παράθυρον. Ήταν ακόμα πισσούριν. Εφόρησεν τον σάκκον του, τες ποΐνες του, άρπαξεν την τσένταν του τζιαι εγύρισεν το κλειδίν τζιαι έφκηκεν έξω μες τον ψόφον του πρωινού.

Έμπηκεν μες την παράγκαν τζιαι μετά που λλίον έφκηκεν με την κουκκουρκάν του τζιαι έναν κλουβούιν στο σιέριν. Εκρέμμασεν την κουκκουρκάν πας τον ώμον του τζιαι ίσιωσεν κατά την άλλην μερκάν της γειτονιάς να εύρει τον φίλον του τον Παράσκον. Ο Παράσκος ακόμα εν ήταν τζιαμαί, μάλλον ήταν ναν στην ώραν του-εν θα επετάχτηκεν που την καρκόλα του νωρίς όπως έκαμεν τζιείνος. Έκατσεν πας το σιμιντιρούιν τζιαι είδεν γυρόν-γυρόν. Η γειτονιά ήταν ακόμα αμίλητη, ακίνητη. Τα περίτου φώτα ήταν σβηστά, εχτός που κανέναν-θκυο, τζιείνων των άτυχων που έπρεπεν να σηκωστούν νωρίς να παν δουλειάν. Έκατσεν τζιαμαί τζιαι απορρόφησεν το παγωμένον πρωίν του Οχτώβρη, τα τελευταία της αστρόλουστης νύχτας, την γλυτζειάν μυρωθκιάν του γιασεμιού. Αγάπαν πολλά τζιείντην εποχήν, που το καλοτζιαίριν ακόμα εποκράτεν, αλλά άρκεφκεν ο σιειμώνας σιγά-σιγά να κοντέφκει, σαν νοικάρης ανυπόμονος να μπεί στο σπίτιν.

Ήταν χαμένος μες τες σκέψεις του τζιαι η φωνή του Παράσκου αντελόσσιασεν τον. «Ίνταμπου ρε Αγγελή; Ονειρέφκεσαι πάλαι; Εν θα πιάμεν τίποτε έτσι!» «Έσιει ώρες που σε καρτερώ ρε αμπάλατε», επολοήθην ο Αγγελής, προσπαθώντας να ξυπνήσει που τες σκέψεις του. Ο Παράσκος εκουβάλαν την δικήν του κουκκουρκάν, έτοιμος τζιαι σε μεγάλα κκέφκια. Εφύαν που τον κύριον δρόμον τζιαι επιάσαν έναν μονοπατούιν που επήαιννεν προς τα χωράφκια. Το πισσούριν εκατάπιεν τους, αλλά εξέραν πολλά καλά που επηαίνναν. Τζιείντην στράταν εκάμαν την πολλές φορές τζιαι εξέραν την με τα μμάθκια κλειστά. Εσυνεχίσαν να πειράζουν ο ένας τον άλλον για κάμποσην ώραν, όμως τα παιχνίθκια τους σιγά σιγά ελλιάναν τζιαι εσσιέπασεν τα τζιαι τζιείνα η νύχτα αφήννοντας τους μόνους τους με τες σκέψεις τους. Ήταν έναν όμορφον πρωίν, ο αέρας ήταν γλυτζιής τζιαι ήταν χαρούμενοι.

Σιγά σιγά ερέξαν που τα πηλωμένα μονοπάθκια προς το τέλος του χωρκού που επηαίνναν συνήθως για τζυνήιν. Εφτάσαν στο περβολούιν του Μάστρε Κογκολή με τες αρχαίες ελιές, τόσον παλιές που εν εκάμναν πιον ελιές. Είχαν συγκεκριμένα δεντρά για τα βερκά τους, ο καθένας τα δικά του-τζιαμαί τα εβάλλαν κάθε φορά τζιαι εξέραν τα κλωνίν-κλωνίν. Τα δεντρά ήταν πανάρχαια, με κορμούς κούφκιους, σαν να τζιαι ήταν κάμαρες σε σπίτιν, τζιαι τζιειμέσα επαίζαν χωστόν τζιαι πόλεμον με τους φίλους τους. Κάποτε ο Μάστρε Κογκολής άφηννεν την μούλαν του διμμένην πας το δεντρόν, τζιαι επαίζαν τζιαι μιτά της τους κκάουμποϋς.

Τζιείντο πρωίν έν είχεν με μούλαν με Κογκολήν. Τα κοπέλλια εκινούνταν όσον γλήορα εμπορούσαν μέσα που τα ολοκότσιηνα πυλά. Επήαν ο καθένας στα δεντρά του. Ο Αγγελής έφκαλεν μιαν μάτσαν βερκά που την κουκκουρκάν τζιαι έβαλεν την πας σ’εναν κλωνίν στο πρώτον δεντρόν. Εφκήκεν σβέλτα πας το δεντρόν, με τες ποΐνες του να γλιάζουν πας τον αρχαίον κορμόν. Άμαν έφκηκεν τζιαι επάταν καλά, άρπαξεν την μάτσαν τζιαι έβαλεν την νάκραν του πρώτου βερκού στο στόμαν του, εκράταν την μάτσαν με το αριστερόν σιέριν τζιαι έκοψεν το βερκίν με το μασιαίριν που εβάσταν στο δεξίν, κόφκωντας προς τα έξω. Έστησεν το βερκίν σε έναν άννοιμαν των κλωνιών, να το θωρούν καλά τα πουλιά. Έστησεν ούλλην την μάτσαν τζιαι εκατέβηκεν, εφκήκεν το διπλανόν δεντρόν, τζιαι το πάραδιπλα ώσπου η κουκκουρκά εφκαίρωσεν. Έξι δεντρά, έξι μάτσες βερκά. Έβαλεν τα δαχτύλλια του μες το στόμαν τζιαι σφύρισεν κατά την μερκάν του Παράσκου. Ο Παράσκος εσφύρισεν τζιαι τζιείνος που την άλλην μερκάν του περβολιού. Ο Παράσκος έν εφτύχαν πολλά, έτσι που ήταν τζιαι λλίον σγούρτουλλος, τζιαι ο Αγγελής ετάνισεν του για να ποσπαστούν. Άψε-σβήσε εποσπάσαν τζιαι την κουκκουρκά του Παράσκου.

Εσυνάξαν ούλλα τους τα πράματα τζιαι αρκέψαν να περπατούν γλήορα, μακρυά που το περβολούιν, κατά την μερκάν νου άλλου καμιάν εκατοστήν μέτρα μακρυά. Έπρεπεν να ποσπαστούν τζιαι ναν μακρυά που τα βερκά πριν το χάραμαν, τζιαι ήδη άρκεψεν να φαίνεται ο ορίζοντας ολοκότσιηνος στην ανατολήν να μοιράζει την νύχταν στα θκυό. Εφτάσαν στο περβολούιν του Καννή τζιαι εκάτσαν χαμαί, με τη ράσιην τους να πνάζει πας τον κορμόν μιας τερατσιάς. Εν είχαν τίποτε να κάμουν εχτός που να περιμένουν. Εγείραν πας τον κορμόν τζιαι εκαμμίσαν αλλά η κρυάδα εξύπνησεν τους. Τα πρώτα πουλλούθκια αρκέψαν κελάηδημαν, τζιαι η πρωινή χορωδία άρκεψεν πρόβες.

(συνεχίζεται)

Cicely revisited: Northern Exposure 20 years later

2010-02-01T14:29:00.006Z

I was very fond of Northern Exposure first time round. I was about 18 and it was shown on Cypriot TV (then with only 2 state channels) at obscure times. As an 18-year-old I probably connected with Ed, the half-Indian lad who's discovering himself and life around him, and has a keen interest in cinema. I also thought that Chris Stevens (played by John Corbett), the solitary, ex-con intellectual radio DJ, was the coolest thing ever and wanted to be him. Clever, good looking, he had a Harley. I loved the fact that everything around him, the seemingly simple, and at times downright brutal life in the countryside, always had a poetic and literary extension, two sides of the same coin.

The central story was of course the love tension between Joel Fleischman, the New York doctor 'exiled' in Alaska as 'payback' time for his scholarship and Maggie O'Connell, the local pilot/plumber/landlady (who I had a huuuuuge crush on). Other stories of course do exist, and Northern Exposure was written to bring out a warm, fuzzy feeling towards its characters and their problems.

Having discovered the joys of broadband, we decided to revisit the scene of the crime (Mrs Blackbeard is also a fan). I was a bit apprehensive about it, as revisiting usually ends up in disappointment. I always find that there was a reason I loved something when I was 18, and that reason simply does not exist anymore. I was worried that it would spoil my memory. I was wrong. Northern Exposure is not only as fresh as ever, but revisiting the characters and stories allows me to explore other, previously unseen dimensions which I hadn't noticed as a teenager.

For example, Chris Stevens, although cool and deep, is sometimes downright pretentious. Joel Fleischman can be a bit of an arse sometimes. Ed is rather slow. But apart from all these re-inventions of characters, based on our own life experience-something which severely tints our viewing glass-the story remains beautiful. Lovingly written, well executed, in a magnificent setting (it was filmed in the town of Roslyn, Washington State). The key messages are still there: our relationship with nature, the people around us, ourselves. I am wondering also what this journey says about ourselves. What do we learn by reinterpreting our past experiences? Is a story fixed or fluid? If you know, let me know please. In the meantime, I am enjoying it more than ever.

Cod and spinach bake

2010-01-29T15:42:00.004Z

For this recipe you can use any kind of white fish, such as cod, haddock or coley.

Ingredients

Fillets of white fish

Lemon juice

roughly 250gr of spinach

Dill (fresh if possible-dried will do)

Mozzarella cheese

Olive oil

Salt

In a frying pan, cook the fish gently with the lemon juice and a drizzling of olive oil. About 15 minutes is more than enough, but make sure you have a soft, flaky fillet of fish. In the meantime throw the spinach in a frying pan with another drizzling of olive oil, salt and the dill. Let it sweat on low fire for about 3-4 minutes.

Lay out the fish on a baking dish and also add the juices from its frying pan. Spread on top the spinach and cover with some thick slices of mozzarella. Cook in a pre-heated oven at 200 degrees for about 15 minutes, or until the cheese melts and turns golden. Serve with cous cous or rice.

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Dorotheos' Tale

2010-01-14T01:13:00.007Z

Dorotheos looked at the green land, full of expectation. It was Easter Sunday, 12th of April 1528, and the ship that carried him and the rest of the men from the expedition of Panfilo de Narvaez had finally arrived to the land of Florida. They had heard tales of 7-foot tall men with three eyes, of wild rituals and cannibalism. They had also heard of untold riches, mountains of gold waiting to be had, rivers of milk and honey, endless fertility and even the Fountain of Youth.

Dorotheos had come a long way, longer than most of his Andalucian fellow travellers and soldiers of fortune. The day he left his mother and his native Crete to embark on that Genoese pirate ship in search of glory and, above all, fortune against the Turk, felt like centuries away. His poor mother wanted him to become a man of the cloth, go to the monastery and perhaps help secure her and his sisters. His father had been long lost at sea, and his mother detested the idea that her only son could follow his path. And yet, here he was, about to embark on another conquista, the only El Griego to set foot on this new world.

They had been at sea for a few months, despite the short distance from Cuba. Their first concern was to find fresh water and something with which to tar the ship. 'Don' Dorotheos was sent with three others inland to find some kind of resin for this purpose. All the way to the woods he was daydreaming, full of wonder for this new land. His companions were more concerned with finding something too shoot and eat.

Dorotheos' thoughts flew to his sisters, his mother, his village. He wondered about his friends and his cousins who broke their backs for their Venetian lord and spent whatever time they had left on trying to harvest the fruit of that cruel mistress, the sea. Not him, he managed to escape that fate. Shortly after he embarked on the Genoese barque, they had some skirmishes with some Turks which brought him some money. He was brave and ruthless, and the opportunities abounded. It did not last though. One day the Turks caught him and would surely have cut his head off had he not been able to buy his freedom. He ended up on a Venetian ship, and from Malta he jumped on a Spanish one.

Narvaez brought him to the new world. Dorotheos was as curious and ambitious as the next man, and he swallowed the dream hook line and sinker. He would surely make a fortune and return to his land a lord The musket shot woke him up from his dream. His companions had shot a fowl and were off to fetch it. They made a fire, roasted it and ate it greedily. After their meal they gathered some resin and started heading back to the coast. They weren't alone though. Their hunting had brought them much more than they wished for, as they saw the natives carefully approaching from all directions. They were surrounded. There was no point in fighting, they were too many.

The natives let Manuel go to the coast to bring news of their capture. Narvaez was furious. He sent him back with an interpreter, demanding their release. The Indians did not care for his threats. In the meantime, Dorotheos and his two companions were kept tied up, frequently beaten and humiliated.

Narvaez and his men prepared to attack the Indian village. They had horses and dogs, both lethal out in the open. But in woodland they were of little use: the game was even. They engaged the Indians, and having killed many they managed to capture a chief and retreat. Dorotheos and his companions were nowhere to be found. Narvaez was getting impatient. They had to sail and he couldn't wait for the Indians to make up their minds. He offered to exchange the prisoners but the Indians refused. In a final attempt to terrify them into submission, he had the chief burnt alive. When the Indians didn't respond, Narvaez ordered everyone back to the ships and sailed off with a heavy heart.

Dorotheos' fate was sealed; the Indians had decided to kill them. As he felt the first arrows pierce his wretched body, in that short moment between living and dying, he thought of his friends, harvesting the blue sea, his mother and his sisters alone in the world, his father whom he was about to meet again.

Loosely based on the Narrative of Cabeza de Vaca. Doroteo Teodoro was a Greek, part of the expedition. He was abandoned behind in what is today western Florida and was probably killed by the natives. Real story here. Narrative here.

Pizza!

2010-01-10T23:53:00.008Z

The recipe for the base came from my friend Federica (of squash risotto fame).

For the base (serves 2):

250 gr plain flour

130 ml lukewarm water

oregano

1 sachet of yeast

1-2 tsp sugar

2 tbsp olive oil

salt

For the topping:

mozzarella cheese

passata tomato sauce

anchovies

olives, pitted and halved

mushrooms (I precook these in some butter)

artichokes

whatever you fancy on your pizza

(You can make double or triple the dough simply by multiplying the ingredients, except the yeast. One sachet should be enough for up to 1kg of flour I think...)

Add the yeast and sugar to the water, stir well and allow to rise for about 15 minutes. Run the flour through a sieve to avoid having any clumps. Add the frothed-up water/yeast to the flour, add the salt and olive oil and knead knead knead. Add more flour if you need to make it more workable. I also like adding oregano to my dough, it gives it a nice flavour.

Knead well and allow the dough to rise in a dark and warm place (I usually put it in the oven-oven off of course) for about 30 minutes. In the meantime prepare your toppings and have some more flour handy. Prepare a hard surface such as a table or a large chopping board for making your base. Spread some flour on the table and cut a sizeable chunk of dough. Shape it with your hands to a small, round shape. Using a rolling pin spread the dough out until you're happy with the size and thickness. I like mine not too thick, about 5mm maximum, thick enough to be a bit bready, thin enough to cook well.

Spread some of your passata* on the base. Add your toppings but don't overdo it. Less is more. If you put too much on top the dough won't cook well, especially in the middle. Put some slices of mozzarella around the top. Put your pizza in a preheated oven for 20 minutes and bingo. Not only very easy but considerably more tasty than any crap you'll get elsewhere. Try playing with different toppings.

*If you have no passata you can dilute some tomato paste with water, but don't make it too watery, just smooth enough to spread. Federica would kill me :-)

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Mud and pomegranates II

2009-11-26T21:21:00.007Z

(continued from I)

When the sun was well on its way, and nature around them was wide awake, they slowly got up and headed back inside the orchard. They made their way through the fruit trees to the edge of the orchard and started walking back, clapping their hands and throwing the odd pebble here and there, trying to drive the birds out of the orchard and towards the grove where they'd set their sticks. At the same time, they kept an eye open for anything they could shoot with their slings. Angelís spotted a blackcap on an olive tree branch. He aimed his sling and shot at it but missed. He spat another mouthful of lead shot into the pouch of his sling and carried on with scaring the birds.

When they came to the end of the orchard, they again sat against the carob tree and opened their bags. "I hope you brought some of your mum's halloumi" Paráskos". "Of course, never without some". Angelís brought out a bag with olives, some cucumbers and tomatoes and some fresh bread which his grandmother had baked the day before, all carefully wrapped in a cloth. They laid it all on a rock, and had breakfast lying against the carob trunk and looking at the aerial activity. A kourkoutás was watching them curiously from a hole in the carob trunk. They spotted a flock of starlings in the sky, flying south. They'd love to catch a couple of them, they were beautiful and their song was glorious. But they had other things to catch.

They finished their breakfast, wrapped up their things and started walking carefully towards the olive grove. They could see some birds were already caught, but treaded slowly so as not to scare away any more that could still be around. Paráskos spotted a thrush caught on one of his sticks, and quickly climbed the tree to collect it before it managed to break off. They climbed all their trees and quickly collected their harvest: blackcaps, robins, chiffchaffs, finches. Angelís put all the seed-eating birds in his cage: a couple of goldfinches, a chaffinch and a couple of greenfinches. Birds which ate seeds were kept as pets, and some, such as goldfinches, were particularly loved. They killed the other birds-those would end up on the dinner table as a delicacy.

They went back to their carob tree to rest, leaving the cage with the captured birds in the grove to attract more with their chirping. They sat around for a while, but they soon got bored waiting. Paráskos picked up an empty, rusty can and put it on the ground against the carob tree. Angelís didn't take long to figure out what he was trying to do. They both stood a few meters away from the can and started aiming for it, using pebbles instead of shot. After two or three attempts, Angelís hit the can, the pebble bouncing off it, leaving a hollow metallic sound. They stood it up and started all over again, everything was a competition.

After a while, it was time to check on their trees again. They started walking towards the grove, but their cautious approach was interrupted by Paráskos' loud shouting: "run! There's a blackbird!" Angelís dropped all he was carrying and started running as fast as he could, stumbling and falling in the freshly-ploughed field. He quickly climbed the olive tree and made it to the branch where the blackbird was caught. He grabbed it carefully with his right hand, holding the lime stick with the left as he carefully released the bird without damaging its feathers. He held it as if it was the most fragile piece of porcelan ever. He could feel the bird's tiny heart beating fast. He slowly climbed down, holding the bird with great care. They loved blackbirds and valued them greatly. It was rare they ever caught one, but when they did it filled them with pride.

He put the bird gently in the cage. It was time to gather their sticks and go home as the birds in the cage needed to be cared for. So they started again, in reverse to what they'd done before dawn. They gathered their lime sticks, rolling them together into bunches and placing them in the koukkourká. As Paráskos was on his second tree, he heard a heavy flapping near him. He looked up and spotted a falcon making for the grove at great speed. Angelís had seen it too. They both started shouting to scare it off, but to no avail. The falcon swooped and landed on a lime stick on one of the trees where a chiffchaff had been caught. It grabbed the small bird, and flew off taking the lime stick with it.

They gathered all their things, except for Paráskos' lost stick, and prepared to walk back home. It was just after noon and they were getting quite hungry. Paráskos mused: "I guess Mr Falcon deserved his harvest as much as we did." "Yes, no grudges", replied Angelís. He had as much right to the sky's harvest, if not more. Walking out of the grove and through the fruit orchard, the boys stopped and picked themselves some pomegranates. They sat under their carob tree once more, cutting the pomegranates open and feasting on their juicy insides. They tasted better than anything in the world.

They'd caught about a dozen each

Mud and pomegranates

2009-11-24T16:59:00.009Z

It wasn't even half past three when Angelís woke up. He'd set up the alarm clock for four but his excitement couldn't wait. Sundays were the best, there was no school and he could do whatever he liked with his time-usually hunting or playing football. He got up, pulled on his dad's old military fatigues, an old woollen jumper with holes, thick socks. He had a quick glass of milk, looking out of the window. It was still pitch-dark. He put on his coat and wellies, grabbed his bag, turned the key in the door and found himself outside in the crispy cold.

He headed for the shed and soon emerged with his koukkourká* and a small cage. He threw the koukkourká over his shoulder and walked to the far end of the neighbourhood where he was to meet up with Paráskos. Paráskos was not there yet-he was probably running on time rather than jump out of bed early like him. He looked around. The neighbourhood was still, motionless, like a freight ship waiting in the distance at night before docking in the morning. Most lights were off, apart from one or two, where the unlucky ones had to get up very early to go to work. He took it all in: the crisp October chill, the last of the starry night, the sweet scent of jasmine. He loved that time of year, when summer still held on but the winter had started to move in, like a tenant eager to occupy the premises for a few months.

Paráskos' voice made him jump. He'd been lost in his thoughts when his friend called him as he approached. "What are you doing there Angelís? Dreaming again? We'll never catch anything like this". "I've been waiting ages!", protested Angelís, in an attempt to snap out of his thoughts and into reality. Paráskos was also carrying his own koukkourká, all ready and in good spirits. They left the road towards a path which led to the fields. The darkness swallowed them but they knew very well where they were headed; this was a path they'd taken many times before and knew with eyes closed. They went on teasing each other for a while but their games gradually faded into the darkness, leaving them in their own, individual and shared contemplation. It was a beautiful morning, the air was sweet and mild and they were happy to be there.

They slowly walked through the muddy paths to the edge of the village where they usually did their hunting. They usually set their lime sticks in specific trees and even specific branches in an old olive grove. The grove was one of those which weren't producing many olives any more. The trees were ancient, their trunks hollowed out, the size of small rooms. These occasionally doubled as hideouts or tree-houses during various phases of afternoons full of games. The grove belonged to old man Kongolís who hadn't even bothered fencing it as he didn't mind the children playing in it. He sometimes tied his mule on one of the trees and Angelís and his friends had endless fun with it.

There was neither mule nor Kongolís that morning. The boys moved as swiftly as the red soil mud would allow them to. They picked their trees carefully in advance and they had each taken his share of the spots in the grove. Angelís pulled out a bunch of his lime sticks and placed it on a branch on the first of 'his' trees. He climbed it with some difficulty, as his muddy wellies slipped against the ancient trunk. When he was up and secure, he picked up the bunch of lime sticks, all glued together, and with great skill he picked one out, held the tip with his mouth and cut it out of the bunch with his knife moving outwards and away from his body. He placed it across an opening in the branches, ready for the birds to rest on. He placed them all, one by one, with great care and attention. When he finished the first tree, he moved on to the next one, and then the next one, until he had placed all six of his lime stick bunches. He put his fingers to his lips and threw a swift whistle in the direction of Paráskos, who whistled back in acknowledgement. Paráskos was slower and was still setting up on the fourth tree. Angelís gave him a helping hand, and together they emptied Paráskos' koukkourká in no time.

They picked up all their things and started walking fast away from the grove towards an orchard a few hundred meters away. They had to be done and away from the grove before the break of dawn, and they could already see the rosy horizon in the east breaking into two. They sat down and rested their backs against the trunk of a carob tree. All they could do was sit and wait, so they leaned and waited, dozing off but waking up from the cold. The first birds started singing as the dawn chorus started rehearsing the day's performance.

(to be continued)

*custom-made reed basket for lime sticks

Rigatoni with roasted peppers and fetta

2009-11-21T15:58:00.005Z

I found these lovely peppers at the vegetable stall the other day and thought of a nice recipe (after talking about it with Billy).

Ingredients (serves 4)

500 gr rigatoni pasta (or whichever type you like)

3-4 long, red peppers

1 pack of fetta cheese

1/2 onion, diced

2 cloves of garlic, finely chopped

chopped fresh parsley

some mushrooms, chopped

Chilli flakes

Olive oil

Grill the peppers in your grill for about 25 minutes, turning them once halfway through, so that both sides are almost charred (but not). In a frying pan lightly fry the garlic in olive oil and add the chopped onion and chilli flakes. When the onion is nice and translucent, add the mushrooms and stir them gently until they're cooked. Turn it off and set it aside.

Boil the pasta in salted water for as long as your pack suggests (or until you're happy with it). While that is boiling, take out the peppers from the grill, take them gently and put them on a flat surface (a plate is good). Gently pull out the stem and grab the skin and peel them slowly. You'll find that the skin comes off very easily. Cut up the peeled peppers and keep them in the plate with their juices.

Drain the pasta and return it to the saucepan or a large bowl. Add the mushroom/onion mix with all its juices. Add the peppers with their juices, the chopped parsley and, finally, crumble the fetta in as well and give it a good stir so that the fetta pretty much melts in the pasta. As the fetta may be salty, taste it before adding any more salt. Lovely.

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Gol

2009-11-19T21:23:00.012Z

He had to jump in order to get to the long ball Javier sent from right back. With great effort, he chested it down onto the muddy pitch on the left flank. He saw the defender approach with the corner of his eye. He'd been kicking lumps out of him all evening and was certainly coming back for more. Claudio flicked the ball down the sideline and managed to jump out of the defender's way. He looked up and saw Diego and Gabriel advancing from midfield, waiting for the ball. He paused. The rain was lashing down, and the floodlights seemed to give it an almost supernatural quality, as if it was pounding down on him, heavier than ever before. Ever since the coach called him to the national team he had been trying hard to prove himself. He knew he was only in the squad because of others' injuries, and he'd only made tonight's starting line-up because Juan got injured in training just that morning. He knew this match was his last chance to show them what he could do.

Time seemed to slow down, almost pause. He could hear this fan a few meters away, screaming at him to cross the ball. What did he know? What did anyone know? He turned and looked at the coach, out of his dugout, pointing at something and yelling. He only just spotted the defender recover, making his way towards him again at great speed.

He remembered his childhood in La Plata, playing in the street with that flat football they'd found one day with his brother Alberto. They impersonated the greats of the day: Kempes, Ardiles, Tarantini, Luque. They always played these endless matches against the children from the calle San Lorenzo, a couple of blocks away across the avenida. Nobody ever knew the final score. The matches, scrappy affairs played in a cloud of dust, always ended in a fight which the Lorenzitos always won as they were a bit older. They could only retreat throwing rocks back at them. Once they crossed the avenida back into their own turf, they could taunt their opponents with swearing and gestures. The Lorenzitos would never dare to cross, they would be too far from home.

He poked the ball with the outside of his right boot, past the charging defender, jumping to avoid the tackle. He cut in, approaching the corner of the penalty box. There were three defenders, plus the one he'd just skinned who would surely be back on his feet any moment and approaching again. Jorge was taking a position near the penalty spot, while Diego and Gabriel were not far behind. He could also see Javier moving in fast from right back, towards the far post. He had a number of options and a number of obstacles. As the ball was getting stuck in the mud, he again slowed down to decide what to do.

He was only 13 when he lost his brother in the Malvinas War. He remembers his mother crying in the evenings for months, his father sitting in silence. That pointless war changed everything. Some of his friends were also conscripts and fought there, while his cousin Jose was on board the Belgrano, lost in the cold Atlantic waters. There was a shadow in his family and in the neighbourhood ever since, as if his childhood had come to an abrupt end. He carried on with his football, playing for a local club before signing forms for Gimnasia, one of the local big clubs.

He advanced with the ball, always keeping an eye out for the defender behind him. One of the two center-halves came towards him, slowly and cautiously. He saw Gabriel pointing to the space behind the center-half and beginning his run to space. He looked further and saw Diego stand off a bit, as if to shape to receive the ball and shoot. He had to act fast.

His childhood friend Matias had signed forms with Gimnasia's hated rivals, Estudiantes. Although they still met occasionally, the hatred between the two clubs was so great they gradually drifted apart. Whenever they met on the pitch, he sensed that Matias had grown arrogant and treated him with more than a hint of sarcasm. He tried to take his own back, but all he could manage was two sendings-off in three encounters. His coaches had already labelled him a rogue, a loose cannon who couldn't be relied upon when the going got tough. Against all odds, he managed to establish himself in the first team. But as he saw his friends advance and move to Boca, River or even Barcelona and Madrid, he stayed as his reputation as a bad boy preceded him, somewhat unfairly. His chance had come and gone.

The national team coach would never have called him had it not been for the misfortunes of other, more popular, and probably better, players. But here he was, striped in sky blue and white, with the crest on the chest, playing in the world cup final.

He knocked the ball forward, going past the first centre-half. He chose to ignore Gabriel and Diego; instead, he sweetly moved the ball to the left, finding himself with the other centre-half just off his right shoulder, but he was at too sharp an angle to take a shot at goal. He anticipated the defender's move. As the defender tried to shield the goal from a potential shot, he put his right foot under the ball and flicked it over the defender's left foot and into space. He didn't have to look. He knew perfectly well where the goal was. Where it always was, in the dusty streets of La Plata, in the training ground. It didn't matter if it was a Lorenzito in goal or a world class goalkeeper. It felt like a lifetime passed in a few split-seconds. He hit the ball firmly but with accuracy, making contact with the outside of his left boot. It curled and swerved away from the goalkeeper, landing just inside the far post and resting inside the net.

He can't quite remember what happened. He ran towards the fans, behind the goal. In the daze of it all he felt his team mates jumping on him, exploding with joy. It was all a mixture of rain, floodlights, mud and noise. Tears and laughter. Although he'd just given a whole continent a huge moment of joy, he could only weep. He wept the bitterest tears he ever had, as if the sweet embrace the net had reserved for his shot had released him from years of frustration. He'd done it. He'd won it. For himself, for Alberto, for his crying mother, and every crying mother. For that bastard Matias. He'd won it.

How the fight against fascism became fascist

2009-11-12T14:56:00.011Z

fas·cism n.

a. A system of government marked by centralization of authority under a dictator, stringent socioeconomic controls, suppression of the opposition through terror and censorship, and typically a policy of belligerent nationalism and racism.

b. A political philosophy or movement based on or advocating such a system of government.

From the Free Dictionary

I was teaching yesterday morning, 11-12. When I got into work I found an email from Central Bot saying that the Institution would be observing a 2-minute silence for Armistice Day. This immediately put me in a weird position: I have never observed the two-minute silence in my private life for a number of reasons. To begin with, as a general rule, I do feel that it is a tragedy that millions have given their lives for god, country, and whoever thought of sending them out to die to start with. This is a constant belief of mine. War is never right, the loss of life can never be truly justified, and this applies to all wars, ancient and modern, the Balkans, The Somme and of course Afghanistan. They are all wrong, violence as a means of solving tensions has never worked. It just creates more.

In addition, I always felt somehow excluded and threatened by the 'poppy' culture. I was always fascinated and at the same time mortified by the nation's obsession with war. In this country there are 'War Lanes', football stands named after battles, no 'Peace streets', something I haven't experienced anywhere else. War and fighting, and their terminology permeates everything else. On top of that, I always thought that the significance of the poppy became a celebration of 'Britishness', something like flags on top of cars during any sporting event. You either belong in this or you don't. If you don't, you'd better watch out.

But when faced with the institutional directive to observe the silence, I was at a dilemma. I live and work in a country where this is important. Moreover, in my function as teacher, I am to respect the culture and observe the silence. However, isn't my role as anacademic to also questiondirectives and authority? Isn't academic freedomimmune from phenomena of mass control? Apparently not. To my shame, I asked the students to observe the silence, and looking out the window, I saw everyone else, whether they believed in it or not, whether they knew what Armistice Day was about or not, stand in silence, in public, for 2 minutes.

When one ideology becomes dominant to the extent it imposes itself oneveryone's life and activity, surely it is too close to fascism for comfort. OK, we don't have the blackshirts with poppies going around bashing everyone to death. Not yet at least. But the public ridicule and aggression towards anyone who contravenes this, based on personal beliefs (such as John Snow), shows that this surely is fascism. Perhaps we should be allowed to remember the war dead in private if we choose to, but not be forced to do so in public to show our respect.

I will not make the same mistake again. If anything, next November 11th I will do things differently. For now, I am ashamed.

Claude in Hagley Road to Ladywood also comments on the poppy-bashers....

Chickpea & butternut squash soup

2009-11-01T16:27:00.006Z

Chickpea & butternut squash soup

Ingredients

1 butternut squash, diced

250 gr dried chickpeas (soaked in water overnight)

1 onion, chopped

2 cloves of garlic, finely chopped

1 can of chopped tomatoes (or some nice fresh, ripe ones if you have them)

Coriander seeds, finely crushed

Cumin seeds, finely crushed

Olive oil

Chilli flakes

Salt & pepper

Fresh parsley, chopped

In a pressure cooker, add the chickpeas and cook for about 30 minutes. After 30 minutes check them, if they're not cooked to your satisfaction, cook for about 10 minutes longer. In the meantime...

Boil the diced squash and let it rest to one side. In a frying pan shallow fry the garlic, onion and the crushed coriander and cumin seeds. Add the chilli flakes.

Open the pressure cooker, bring to the boil again without the lid and add the (drained) squash, along with the tomatoes and the onion/seeds mix. Let it cook together for about 15 minutes. Serve with a handful of fresh parsley.

P.S. In the original recipe it said to put everything in the blender. I like my soups with some texture so I ignored that.

Armed solitude

2009-10-29T10:34:00.014Z

Panikkos carefully put out his cigarette by stepping on it with the heel of his boot. He picked up the cigarette butt and put it in his magazine pouch. There was no point flicking it away, as Captain Kitsis would only make them collect cigarette butts as a punishment. He was in full gear, standing watch in the outpost's detached watchtower, which was about 1/2 a mile from the main buildings. Ever since the order came from HQ to be on alert, everyone was doing double shifts. His turn had come to keep watch at the dreaded detached post. Dreaded because it was in the middle of nowhere, so far from any visual stimulation that could keep him from being bored. At the same time it was well within the visual range of the Captain, so taking a nap was out of the question.

Since the alert orders came in, the company had set up a .50 caliber machine gun as defence to potential air attack. Panikkos knew that there was as much chance of the attack happening as there was of that old piece of junk being of any use. He had no ammo for the .50 cal, and the ammo for his G3 rifle came with the guard post. It was securely sealed in a magazine holder made of leather, heavily stitched so that the soldiers wouldn't steal bullets. He was not allowed to open fire without permission from the officer on duty. But the guard post phone didn't work. He knew that his best chance was to make a run for it if the worst was to happen. But it wouldn't. This was just an exercise in exercising power. HQ made up a stupid order, Panikkos and his mates had to stand by the .50 cal for hours. Somebody somewhere was having a laugh.

His watch started at 6 in the morning and was to end at noon. It was only 8.30 and he was already bored out of his mind. He tried to divide his time into smokes, pacing himself so he wouldn't run out of cigarettes before the end of his watch. He had a whole pack of Craven A's he'd bought the evening before. He smoked Craven A's because they were so heavy nobody wanted to pinch one off him, they kept away. He'd planned to smoke 3 cigarettes per hour, roughly one every 20 minutes, that would bring him to the end of his watch fine. But it was only 8.30 and he'd already smoked half the pack.

His little radio, hidden in the other magazine pouch, was playing music, frequently interrupted by the musings of the DJ. He liked that one , she had a warm, fuzzy voice, which made him think of nice, comforting things. Her name was Joanna , and he imagined her to be beautiful, with long blond hair and blue eyes. Her voice gave him some comfort in the long hours.

By 10.00 he was really bored. Thankfully the patrol dropped by, sneaking him a halloumi sandwich and the football newspaper, Kosmos ton Spor. He ate the sandwich very slowly, savouring every bite, making it last as long as possible. The newspaper headlines were just commenting on the results from the day before. His team, Nea Salamis, was thrashed 4-0 and was lingering at the bottom of the table. Pushing the newspaper aside, his thoughts drifted to the coming evening. He was due for a pass, his first one in six weeks, and couldn't wait to see Andri, his girlfriend. He'd have a nice, home-cooked meal, his clothes washed, go out for a drink and get back the following morning with his batteries charged.

It didn't help the time pass. If anything, it made him more impatient. He stood his rifle (bayonet fixed during the alert) against the wall, took his helmet off and started kicking the pebbles around the guard post. He picked up a handful and started tossing them, one by one, trying to hit one of the many crows that flew around. He quickly went to the dirty toilet at the base of the guard post for a piss and came back up, in case Captain Kitsis was looking at him through his binoculars. He was really strict, one of those officers with a real chip on their shoulders, always giving the boys a hard time. Panikkos thought Kitsis was in some kind of ego-trip, fancying himself as one of those hard American officers from the movies, perhaps just like the sergeant from Full Metal Jacket. They were not all like that. Captain Ektoros, for example, sometimes came to the outpost with a bottle of brandy and some food and sat with the lads around a game of poker. He was all right, one who understood the futility of it all and had decided to have as little aggravation as possible.

By 11 o'clock his spirits were good. He had two cigarettes left but was less than an hour away from being replaced. He hoped that his replacement wouldn't be late. As the phone was broken he had no way of contacting the rest. The patrol was not due again until about 1. He tried to keep himself busy by thinking ahead, what he'd do in the evening, if his mate Yorkos would be around, if his mum would cook his favourite food, keftedes.

"8.28: Turkish Land Rover sighted". He updated the log, even though there was no land rover. He didn't want the Captain to think he wasn't watchful. "9.44: Turkish patrol". "10.36: Turkish guard replacement". He made sure the things he 'observed' were simple routine, nothing that would cause an investigation or further paperwork, such as reported gunfire. The logbook was full of such observations, as each guard ensured that they left no room for anyone to doubt whether they were watchful, or even awake.

By 11.45 he was really happy. He was sure the replacement would come soon. He was getting hungry and was ready for a quick nap before he scrubbed up and got his pass in the afternoon. He had a hitch hike journey home ahead of him, but he didn't mind. He usually met interesting people while hitch hiking, and drivers always stopped for a soldier.

12.01. There was no sign yet of the replacement, but Panikkos was sure it was on its way; being 5 minutes late was not uncommon. Perhaps whoever it was took the path through the orchards to gather some plums and peaches on his way. He hoped that his replacement wasn't that new guy from England. He was only serving six months and was really lax about such things. Everybody hated the 'Charlie', because they were envious, but also because he was culturally alien to them. And he was usually late for his guard duties.

By 12.15 he'd started getting a bit anxious. "Where the fuck is the damn replacement?" he thought, now kicking pebbles around in fury. He was not pleased, that Charlie, or whoever, was eating into his rest time. Another half an hour passed, it was a quarter to one. He started contemplating walking down to the outpost but was sure the Captain would see him and so he stayed. He tried not to think of it, something must have happened-his replacement would be there soon, definitely. By 1.30 he was out of his mind. He hadn't smoked in over an hour, out of cigarettes, out of patience, hungry and furious. He thought that if he took the orchard path he wouldn't be seen walking back for most of the way, and if the Captain happened to check the guard post through his binoculars, he could always claim he was in the toilet with the runs.

He took the ammo, his rifle and everything else and started walking cautiously back. It was almost 2 o'clock and he'd been guard since 8. Inside him the possibilities were projected, like a black and white film against the screen of his mind. If he was lucky nobody would see him and he'd get the replacement to quickly run back to the post. But if the Captain saw him he was as good as dead and buried. He'd definitely get a 20-day punishment, no leave or pass, plus he'd have to serve it at the end of his national service as an extension. In the worst case he could even be court-martialled for deserting his post and abandoning his duties. This was no joke, he could end up in jail, probably serving another six months at the end of his service. But he had to rest, eat, get ready for his pass. The whole thing tormented him. He couldn't face the wrath of the Captain, it could crush him. He thought of going straight home, at least he'd get a night's enjoyment before he was severely punished. Perhaps it was a gamble worth taking.

He approached the outpost very cautiously, as if on a stealth mission against the enemy. The Captain was the enemy. He saw the Captain's car parked outside and his heart sank. He knew he was in trouble. No pass, nothing for weeks. He approached the gate and saw there was no guard. Panikkos entered the compound, making for the entrance. Entering the main building, he saw Kyriakos, in full gear, sitting on a chair and keeping one eye on the road and one eye on the TV. He was on guard duty at the gate but knew there was no danger. Panikkos was relieved. He saw his mates sitting around the table playing cards. They told him that the Captain's car broke down and he went to HQ in a service jeep. He asked Andreas, the sergeant, who was supposed to replace him. They all turned and looked at him first, and then looked at Yiannis who was sleeping in his bed. He'd returned drunk just that morning from his pass and had struggled to keep his eyes open. As soon as the Captain left, he collapsed. Panikkos went outside, came back in and emptied a bucket of water in Yiannis' bed. "Get up you bastard" he shouted, as he landed a kick in his ribs. Yiannis jumped amidst the roar of laughter from the rest. He sheepishly picked up the ammo and his gear and started to make his way to the outpost. Panikkos took his boots off, grabbed a piece of bread with cheese and sat in a chair to watch some TV. His mind was already hitch hiking home.

________________________________
Part of the Army Tales series
Inspired by AH's story.

Life is going round in circles

2009-10-19T16:21:00.006+01:00

image by Leonard Freed. Click here to buy. Click image for large version

At last. The much discussed, rumour-based, policy-driven, top-down shakedown-fuelled office move has taken place. The 'porters' shifted all our stuff this morning into our new space, where we're sharing with two other blokes, all blokes in one room! All we need is a urinal, that symbol of masculinity!

And as I'm sitting there, 5 jobs and 5 years down the line, it hit me: this was the very same room where I had my viva*, those millions of years ago, way back in the palaeolithic age. Do I need to get out of here? Is the room trying to tell me something, like a friend giving you a pat on the back when it's your round at the pub? I don't know. All I know is that it feels very strange, as if I am caught in some kind of game, an allegory where we are all puppets in someone else's hands. I need a pair of scissors...

*A viva (viva voce) is an oral examination for PhD candidates

Life is a journey, I am a traveller

2009-10-15T18:10:00.004+01:00

image from here

A few days ago I scanned and posted some old photos on Facebook for the delectation of friends, old and recent. The outcome was a thoroughly moving response by about 10 fellow students from a time long ago, which reminded of the friendships, likes, dislikes and, inevitably, loves, of my undergraduate days. One of these friends, Eleni, is also a blogger, and has expressed these same emotions very beautifully on her own blog.

It's not monumental for others. This life journey is something we all go through, en route to the bitter end (as Placebo says). And all of us go through the coming-of-age ritual one way or another. Mine was during national service, but mostly during my time as an undergraduate. The optimism, naivete, hope, passion. Children disguised as adults. Children becoming adults. The world was there for the taking, and I certainly wanted, and still do, a huge chunk of it.

Perhaps our choices landed us on different shores, apart from what was at the time our universe. Apart from people we loved, the warm embrace, the soft kiss, the swift kick in the shins during a game of football in the Venetian town walls' now dried moat. Our friends (and foes) all took their own path, followed their own journey, made their own choices, regretted their own mistakes perhaps. And it's rather sweet to rediscover them and briefly reminisce, but also find that we have changed, as Eleni points out, but what made us friends is still there at the core sometimes. Peace and love, peace and love.

I know it's a bit sentimental, I promise you a slasher horror story next time.

Open Season on Wire Laggers [SPOILERS]

2009-09-11T11:59:00.007+01:00

Last night's BBC finale of The Wire means that it is now open season on whoever is still on season 3 or still trying to catch up. Sorry guys, we've been keeping a vow of silence for months not to let it slip how Omar dies, or how Stringer and Avon fall out, with the latter handing the former on a silver platter for brother Mouzone and Omar to execute. We can now enjoy the analysis of what was a fascinating insight into the world of drugs, crime and their social background.

Chips glorious chips!

2009-08-30T15:30:00.001+01:00

Easy to make, far far better than what you get at the chip shop. I come from the potato-producing part of Cyprus, so eating potatoes in all shapes, sizes and ways is almost in my blood. What on earth did we do before they came from America?

Ingredients

Potatoes, cut in...well, chips

Fresh oregano or marjoram (I used the latter as I have loads in the garden-dried will also do)

Sunflower oil

Wash, peel and cut the potatoes. Mix them with your finely chopped herb. Heat your oil on a medium fire until it looks like it's bubbling. When you drop a chip in it should start cooking fast. If not, the oil is not hot enough. Put all your chips in, give them a quick stir with a straining spoon (ladle with holes?) and allow to cook for about 15 minutes. Check if the bottom side is crispy and golden, then carefully turn them. Cook for another 5-10 minutes-until you're happy with them. Take them out on a dish with kitchen roll at the bottom so you get rid of the excess oil. Don't forget to turn the oil off :-).

Add salt as you please and enjoy!

Fish Chowder

2009-08-29T22:14:00.008+01:00

This my take on what is a lovely, wholesome dish. I tried a lovely version in Saratoga Springs in 2007, but wanted to make a version without the bacon rind. I hate mixing seafood and meat.

Ingredients (serves 4)

For the stock

Heads of 4 sea bass

2 carrots, chopped

2 celery stalks, chopped

2 cloves of garlic

(if you have more fish off-cuts and heads, use them)

For the soup

400gr of white fish, I used coley, cut in large chunks

1 onion, cut in strips

2 cloves of garlic, finely chopped

parsley, chopped (separate the harder stalks from the leaves)

some sweetcorn

prawns (shelled)

mushrooms (quartered if small)

[shelled mussells if you have them-I didn't]

3-4 medium-sized potatoes, cut in cubes

In a saucepan, boil the ingredients for the stock for about 30 minutes. In the meantime, heat some olive oil and butter in a different saucepan, shallow fry the garlic and onions for a few minutes. Add the potatoes and parsley stalks and stir for a few more minutes.

Remove the fish heads from the stock and pure it in with the potatoes, adding hot water if necessary. Add salt and pepper. Boil for about 15 minutes or so. When the potatoes are cooked, take some out, mash them and leave them aside. Add the mushrooms, prawns and sweet corn and cook for another 10 minutes. Add the chunks of coley and simmer very gently for about 10 minutes (or until you're happy with it). Return the mashed potato in the mix, stir gently, turn off and allow to stand for about 10 minutes. Serve with a sprinkle of the fresh parsley and crusty bread.

(note: I chose not to use milk or cream as I find it culturally challenging to mix dairy and fish. Soups don't always have to be cloudy.)

Stuffed Marrows

2009-08-21T18:15:00.004+01:00

I found these lovely marrows...here's the outcome:

Ingredients (serves 4)

1/2 kg of minced meat (beef or lamb)

1 large marrow

1 onion, finely chopped

2 cloves of garlic, finely chopped

lots of mint

Olive oil

Tomato aste

Salt & pepper

Ground cinnamon

Ground nutmeg

Shallow-fry the onion and garlic in a pan. Add the minced meat and the mint and cook slowly. Add some tomato paste, cinnamon and nutmeg. Salt and pepper. In the meantime, cut the marrow in pieces roughly 4-5 cm thick (see pic). Hollow the pieces out by removing the seeds with a spoon. For the tips it's OK if there's no hole, make them like cups.

When the meat is ready, put the pieces of marrow flat in a pan and fill them with the minced meat. Fill them as much as possible. Add hot water in the pan, carefully and from the side so as not to make a mess with the filling. Add enough water to roughly half cover the marrow pieces. Allow to boil lightly, with the lid closed, for about 30 minutes. Check if the marrows cooked with a fork-if they're soft, they're ready. Serve them by carefully picking them up with a spatula underneath so the filling doesn't fall out.

Serve with cous cous or salad (or even both).

Lentils with aubergines

2009-08-20T18:23:00.007+01:00

I pretty much made this up as I had some aubergines I had to use.

Ingredients (serves 4-5)

Lentils (I always measure by soup bowl, in this case 1)

2 aubergines cut in chunks (see pics)

2 celery stalks, finely chopped

1 onion, cut in strips

2 cloves of garlic, finely chopped

4-5 bay leaves

2 cans of chopped tomato, or a kilo of very ripe tomatoes, chopped (keep the juices)

Olive oil

Salt & pepper

In a large saucepan, boil the lentils for about 30-40 minutes, until you're happy with them. In the meantime, shallow fry the garlic, onions and bay leaves, add the aubergines and celery and stir so they're nicely coated with oil. Keep cooking like that for about 10 minutes. Add the tomato plus some water, salt & pepper and let it simmer gently for 30 minutes or so.

When the lentils are cooked, drain them and throw them in with the aubergines (if the aubergines are ready). Turn off and allow to rest for a while (the longer the better), so that the lentils can absorb the juices of the aubergines... I didn't have fresh parsley but if you do add some nicely fresh, chopped parsley just before serving.

Serve with a generous portion of set yoghurt, yummy!

Made with Slideshow Embed Tool

How to make the most of a chicken

2009-07-20T21:32:00.007+01:00

(apologies to my vegetarian fans :-) )
I bought a chicken from the butcher the other day. I chopped the chicken into the following pieces:
2 legs/thighs
2 breasts
2 wings
2 back pieces

Using these I made a number of dishes. Firstly, I shallow fried (with minimal olive oil) the 2 legs/thighs and breasts, adding garlic, onions, celery, carrots, chilli flakes, cinnamon powder, nutmeg, salt and pepper. I threw in a bit of white wine, some mangetout/sugarsnap peas and then added a pack of passata tomato sauce (a can of tomato will do) with some water and let it simmer covered for about 40 minutes.

Secondly, for baby Blackbeard, I put the wings and back pieces into a saucepan and boiled them with broccoli and carrots for about 30 minutes. This of course created a nice chicken broth.

I took two cups of the broth and mixed them with two cups of cous cous to accompany the chicken. Taking some more broth I boiled some star-shaped pasta for baby. I boned some of the chicken I boiled, mashed broccoli and carrot and mixed it with the pasta. She loved it.

So, from one chicken we have all these dishes. The tomato sauce that stayed from the chicken and peas made a lovely pasta sauce. We mashed and froze the boiled chicken and veg in baby portions. We kept the remaining broth in ice cube sachets to cook with in the future. Not bad eh?

Ingredients
1 whole chicken
2 packs of sugarsnap peas
2 stalks of celery
3 carrots (2 for the chicken and peas, 1 for the baby food)
1 broccoli
2 cloves of garlic
1 onion
ground cinnamon
ground nutmeg
black pepper
salt
2 cups of cous cous
a handful of star shaped pasta

Fresh around the ears

2009-07-10T11:49:00.008+01:00

It's now been 18 years since that day. The day each one of us boys anticipated and dreaded. Despite the assurances of various males in the family who'd already been there, national service had not been abolished by the time our number came up. Whereas girls in our class were free to sit exams and plan their lives as students, employees or wives and mothers, boys had the 26-month 'service' to the motherland to anticipate. Stories from older brothers, fathers, cousins and uncles, black and white photos of their time in the army, all served to fuel our imagination and expectations. What would it be like?

On the morning of Wednesday the 3rd of July 1991 I said farewell to my mother, got on the bus with my school friends and left childhood behind. There were no tears. This was a habit, an expectation, and regardless of how much pain the mother and child felt, they contained it. And so did we. I entered the gates of the recruitment centre as a boy, a lad with a head closely trimmed, only to be identified as soldier number 5983/91. We went through various phases of carefully planned humiliation: the physical strip down, the psychological strip down of personal identity. The donning of uncomfortable, ill-fitting, camouflage fatigues, boots, cap (to be worn at all times), personal hygiene products. And a gun. A weapon. An actual, man-killing device. For training purposes we were issued with a Zastava rifle, a Yugoslavian AK-47 imitation. Don't imagine the opening scenes of the Full Metal Jacket here. There was nothing ceremonial about all this, just endless bullying, humiliation, shouting, but also the occasional moment of unexpected kindness from the odd corporal who happened to recognise you from school.

On the first day, we were lined up and taught to obey orders: march, halt, right or left turn and about turn. The striped sadists used about turn as a means of torture. Even though they were not allowed to order more than 4 about turns without an 'at ease' and 'attention' in between, they were really effective in getting us to burn our boots in the July sun. By midday we were pretty much skilled in the whole thing. We were made to jog to the restaurants, where I saw a passing soldier carrying a tray with chick peas stew, one of my favourite dishes. 'Great', I thought, in my diachronic naivety, 'I love chick peas, the army's not so bad'. Until I tasted the stuff. It was as if someone had shovelled some gravel into a tomato sauce and dished it out to 800 starving, camouflaged boys. Not good. I tipped it into the bin and got myself a bag of crisps from the canteen.

Over the next month or so we were made to run. A lot. Running in the July heat is no joke either. I remember drinking so much water during the day that I had neither space nor appetite for food. I dropped 7-8 kilos in a month. My shirt was so sweaty it was getting soaked and dried up in the heat, with white marks on it. We washed in our spare time, but having only two shirts meant you went a couple of days wearing a stinky, crusty shirt.

In addition, we were 'taught' to aim and fire, break down and assemble our weapon, clean it, make our beds so well a coin would (or should) bounce off them, polish our boots so hard you could see your face in them (for about 2 minutes before the dust covered them again). We were taught to hate the enemy. The specific enemy, with their Muslim, 'backward' attitudes. We were taught to fight them at night because Muslims 'didn't like dying at night'. Bullshit of course. Muslims, Christians, Buddhists and pretty much everyone else, hate dying whether it's midnight or the sun is shining bright in the sky.

It wasn't all bad though. We were taught to use a compass, a map, find the north by using the sun or the stars, such things. But above all we were taught to obey. Obey orders, your superior, the system, the institution. Learn the hierarchy by heart, the soldier's prayer, the soldier's oath. Military songs about parachuting, killing, pillaging and raping the enemy's women. Songs about the glory of our army and the evil of others.

After about a month, having done well in the exams, I was selected to be an officer. So I, along with another 300, were shipped off to a Greek island to learn the trade. Enter another 4 months of running, climbing mountains, walking the distance, shooting various weapons, night and day training, attacking imaginary enemies on real life mountain slopes. Clinging to things such as the memory of a girl, the new Guns n' Roses album. I remember sharing my walkman with my best friend from school who also made it to the island, listening to the same stuff, going through the same emotions, despite the army's attempt to desensitise us and turn us into animals.

There we came into contact with our Greek 'brothers', with whom we had a love/hate relationship. They were suspicious of us and we of them. We clustered around our identity, our little cultural and linguistic peculiarities, against this common foe. Clashes were common, but also friendships. The army's deconstruction of the person is the great leveller, after all. In this school we were 'taught' how to be leaders of men, to take the initiative (but not too much). On the whole I had a fantastic time, only because of the lovely landscape and the frequent exercise, and the bonding with my brothers against the establishment that sought to swallow us up and churn us out as order-obeying robots. Even in our 18-year old naivety we could still distinguish some of the absurdities: the 150-kilo captain ordering us to do push ups. The principle that you couldn't walk anywhere in the camp-you had to run. Weaklings with stripes. Bullies and other people with all sorts of chips on their shoulders and sadistic tendencies. We resisted as much as possible, going underground to avoid detection and public humiliation. A Greek sergeant punished me for eating bread just outside the dormitories. I still remember his name and how petty he was.

When that was over we returned home, to be posted to various areas and duties. I ended up plodding along, having a good time on the whole, but also growing fiercely anti-authoritarian. I learned to appreciate superiors with common sense and kindness. I also hated deeply superiors who were power-hungry and irrational, and still do. Even though I was technically an officer, I identified with the soldiery, many of whom were mates from school. Together we saw ourselves a world apart from that of the 'professional' soldier, whose career evolves around pretending to be effective in the presence of their superiors.

I managed to finish my service without ever being punished, even though I often broke the rules. That was the greatest lesson I learned from all this: you can't openly oppose the institution on your own-it will always find a way to crush you. That's where the idea of the underground was born I suppose. Twenty-six months of an institution working hard at undermining your sense of personal identity and attempting to reconstruct you as a number (not a free man). Thanks, motherland. You taught me a great lesson: never ever ever to die for you.

Driving in Cyprus and the UK

2009-06-23T11:38:00.005+01:00

I haven't been driving long. I learned how to drive and passed my test in the UK, after a rigorous training which lasted ages (and cost an arm and a leg). I bought a little Peugeot 306, small enough to park in tight spots but big enough to put Mrs Blackbeard and baby Blackbeard in and sail to the South Seas. At first I found driving daunting but also liberating. Daunting because I no longer had the safety net of the instructor. Liberating because I was at last free of the instructor to make my own mistakes. After I passed my test and started driving I noticed that for a few weeks, every time I drove I made a mistake (or two) that would have failed me the test. As my dad said, "you first pass your test and then you learn to drive".

A few months on and I can confidently say that I drive much better, I am calmer and make few mistakes (although parallel parking on the right is inconceivable). I am used to driving here, used to how other drivers behave, know which cars' drivers are likely to be completely devoid of brain (anything modified, with decals of stereo brands, spoilers, wings). I find that in particular small cars with such little 'interventions', such as Citroen Saxos, Seat Ibizas and even Ford Fiestas are driven by absolute nutters. So I keep well clear of those. I also hate with a passion drivers of 4x4s and luxury cars. Call it a class thing.

A few weeks back I went to Cyprus to see the Blackbeards in their natural habitat. Father Blackbeard had insured me on his pickup truck, a 2.5 litre Mazda (he's a part-time farmer OK?), so I could drive around and go to the beach. I hadn't driven in Cyprus since I was an undergrad and had a little Suzuki moped. The difference with driving in the UK was striking. Drivers are much more aggressive and selfish. I lost count of the amount of times people cut in and blocked me when I was doing 30-40 miles, reversed into the main road, did not let me turn right or enter a (busy) road, something which I find is basic courtesy in the UK. I kept using the car's horn to warn other drivers not to jump out, reverse etc etc. Constant aggro. I realised that in 4 months of owning my Peugeot, I used the horn twice, once by accident and the second time to warn someone of my presence. Behaviour you learn to expect in the UK is unheard of. Behaviour which is the exception in the UK is the rule in Cyprus. People get stuck in your back, flashing their headlights and demanding that you either a) go over the speed limit so they can go faster or b) make way for them to overtake. On a couple of occasions I went very slowly, way below the speed limit, just to irritate them more. Constant aggro, swearing and waving an angry finger from the open window.

I don't want to sound too much like generalising, but I must tell you that after two weeks of driving there, I came back more aggressive and aggravated than I was. Driving home from the airport I beeped the horn and gave the finger to someone who 'dared' to jump in while I was driving. You'll be relieved to know that I have since gone back to normal, only swearing in the car and not giving the finger to anyone...

Driving the pickup truck was great though...I want one I want one!

Octopus stew

2009-04-16T15:43:00.003+01:00

This is a dish suitable for the Greek lent, since seafood is allowed. Serves 3-4

Ingredients
2 octopuses
5-6 onions, thickly cut
2-3 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
4-5 bay leaves
black peppercorns
2 cans of tomato (or plenty of ripe tomatoes)
Olive oil
1/3 glass white wine
1/2 glass red wine vinegar (approx.)
Salt

To soften the octopus, cut into pieces and boil in a pan for 30 minutes and drain (keep the broth, we need it later). In the meantime...

Lightly fry the garlic and onions in a large, deep pan (which has a lid). Add the boiled octopus and the bay leaves and stir for 3-4 minutes. Add the wine and let it cook for 3-4 minutes more on low heat.

Add the tomatoes, peppercorns, vinegar and some salt, and some of that broth you had from boiling the octopus. Put the lid on and let it simmer for 90 minutes, or until the octopus is really tender. Check every now and then so that the liquid doesn't run out, add some more water if it does. If you don't like vinegar much, use less.

Serve it with rice. You can use the octopus broth to make the rice, it makes it yummy.

Cypriot Eliotí (Ελιωτή)-Olive Bread

2009-04-10T14:01:00.005+01:00

Ingredients
approx. 400gr flour (wholemeal or white)
1 sachet of yeast
400ml lukewarm water
Olive oil
approx. 1 cup pitted olives
chopped fresh coriander (or parsley if you prefer)
dried mint
1 large onion, chopped

Add the yeast to the water and allow to stand for about 20 minutes, until it forms a foam at the top. In the meantime, prepare your flour in a large mixing bowl, or a skáffi if you are lucky enough to own one. When the yeast is ready, add to the flour with some salt and mix well. Add about 1/2 a cup of olive oil. Knead until you have a nice dough which isn't too moist. If it's too moist add some more flour. When the dough is ready, let it rise in a dark place (I use the oven-off of course) for about 30-40 minutes.

When the dough has risen, take your bowl, lift the dough and throw underneath the onions, parsley, mint, some more olive oil and of course the olives. Let the dough drop on top, press it so it picks up some of the ingredients, and then turn, turn, turn until all your ingredients are nicely spread in your dough.

Place your dough in a lightly oiled metal oven tray as in the picture. Again allow to rise for as long as you can, but no less than 40 minutes. I once left it for over 90 minutes and the result was excellent, as the dough rose very well. When you are ready, bake the bread in a preheated oven at about 200 degrees for roughly 40 minutes. If you want to check whether it's cooked well inside, slide a knife into it and check the blade when it comes out. If it's very moist it needs to bake longer.

When you're happy with it, take it out and allow it to cool for about 15 minutes before devouring. Lovely. Store well and eat again and again for breakfast, preferably accompanied by Cypriot coffee (or Turkish/Greek coffee as some people call it) and some halloumi perhaps...

Variations
In Cyprus you can find this bread with the olives in it whole, stone included. This makes the bread slightly bitter, but it balances well with the sweetness of the onion. You can also make it with white flour or a mixture of the two as you like. If you use olives kept in salt, they usually melt slightly in the kneading, making the bread even tastier. But be careful not to add extra salt, as this will make it lyssa as we say in Cypriot, very very salty. Enjoy!

Stuffed Aubergines with Spinach, Fetta and Mushrooms

2009-04-03T20:06:00.005+01:00

Ingredients
2 Aubergines
250gr Spinach
1 pack fetta cheese
1 onion, finely chopped
1-2 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
Some mushrooms, chopped
Olive oil
Salt & pepper

For this recipe I am using the same method as the Stuffed Aubergines with Fetta and Pepper.

Step 1: Cut the aubergines at length, score them with a knife and put them in an oven tray. Sprinkle them with some olive oil. Roast them at 200 degrees for about 20-30 minutes.

Step 2: While the aubergines are roasting, in a large frying pan lightly fry some garlic and onions, add your spinach and mushrooms and sautee until cooked. Add the fetta cheese and stir for 1-2 minutes.

Step 3: Take the aubergines out (they should look like the ones above). Lightly mash the middle, creating a cavity.

Step 4: Add your stuffing, carefully, and return to the oven for about 15 minutes to give it that nice, crispy look. Enjoy!

Mixed bean salad

2009-04-03T19:58:00.005+01:00

Mixed bean salad
For this recipe I use ASDA's mixed beans. About 500gr feeds easily 2-3 people. Soak the beans overnight in water. I usually cook them in a pressure cooker for about 25 minutes. If you are boiling them in a pan allow about 45 minutes to 1 hour. Drain the beans and mix with fresh tomatoes, spring onions and herbs of your choice. I like fresh coriander and/or dill in this. Season with olive oil and lemon juice.

Innocent!

2009-03-20T09:55:00.011Z

10 policemen beat 2 handcuffed students on the pavement, in Nicosia, Cyprus. Click here to see the video (Politis newspaper). Yesterday these thugs were found innocent by a Cypriot court. The court did not accept the video, filmed by a local resident, as valid evidence. Once more the rights of citizens are brutally violated. May I remind you of the Menezes case? Nobody went to jail. Nobody was given the sack. And let's not forget Carlo Giuliani (video contains blood & violence), shot by police in Genova in the riots against the G(reedy)8 in 2001, or the shooting of 15-year old Alexandros Grigoropoulos in Athens in December 2008. Or, for that matter, the thousands of others not mentioned here, but whose cases are no less important. Overzealous police are still among us, ready to defy more than 60 years of Human Rights, trigger-happy and proud.

Police are there to 'serve and protect' citizens. Indeed, time and again we see that it is these very citizens who suffer from surveillance, intrusion, torture and death. And we're not talking about Zimbabwe anymore-this is the so-called civilised Europe, the same Europe that assumes the patronising role of 'protecting' the Zimbabwes of the world. Nonsense. Hypocrisy. Give a man a badge and a gun and they will abuse their power to satisfy whatever darkness lies in the depths of their soul.

Wake up. WAKE UP!

Mediterranean Lamb

2009-03-12T16:18:00.005Z

Ingredients
1 lamb shoulder, cut into large pieces
2-3 onions, chopped
5 cloves of garlic, chopped
1kg of ripe tomatoes, chopped (or 2 cans of tomato)
Red wine (dry)
Ground cinnamon
Nutmeg
Fresh parsley, chopped
Salt and pepper

In a large, deep frying pan with a lid (or a saucepan) sautee the lamb in olive oil until it turns golden brown. Add the onions and garlic and stir for 2-3 minutes. Add the rest of your ingredients (except the parsley) and stir. Add a bit of water, until all is covered and bring to the boil. Turn the fire down low and allow the food to simmer gently with the lid on for 1 1/2 -2 hours. When the lamb is really tender it's ready. Add the fresh parsley, mix and serve with rice or bulgur wheat and natural set yoghurt. The rest of the sauce can be used as a pasta sauce, lovely!

Samoobsluga-Universes of Me

2009-03-10T11:41:00.001Z

It stands for 'do it yourself' in Polish.

Risotto with Butternut Squash

2009-03-04T15:16:00.004Z

A lovely recipe plagiarised from my friend Federica (who is from Romanziol, near San Doná di Piave).

Ingredients (serves 2-3 hungry people)
1 medium-sized butternut squash (peeled, cleaned from seeds and diced)
1 medium onion, finely chopped
1-2 cloves of garlic, very finely chopped
Fresh parsley, finely chopped
2 cups (or glasses) of arborio rice or pudding rice*
Vegetable stock (roughly double the quantity of the rice)
Olive oil
A splash of white wine
Parmesan cheese, grated (optional)
Seasoning

*It may be anathema to my Italian friends, but I have been using pudding rice instead. This is for two reasons: firstly, it's a nice, thick grain rice and does a similar job. Secondly, it's infinitely cheaper and you can get it anywhere in the UK. Arborio is a bit of a middle class thing, therefore expensive, right up Nigella's alley.

Execution
Put the diced squash in a saucepan with boiling water and boil for about 30 minutes or until nicely cooked. Drain and put aside. In the meantime...

Lightly fry the garlic and onions in the olive oil until beautifully translucent (or cooked as I like to call it). Add a bit of white wine and cook for 2-3 minutes. Add the rice and give it a stir for a few seconds until it's nicely coated with the juices. Add the stock until the rice is covered, bring to the boil and then allow to simmer. Add your seasoning and keep an eye on it. When it's beginning to absorb most of the stock, check if it's sufficiently cooked. If not, add more stock until you're happy with the rice. When you think it's cooked, take it off the fire and cover it for 5 minutes, allowing the rice to absorb all the juice. Add the squash and parsley and serve it topped with parmesan cheese. If you want, you can serve it with natural set yoghurt instead, turning it from a risotto to a Turkish pilaf. Enjoy!

Chicken and Leek Cottage Pie

2009-02-25T10:47:00.008Z

Here we bring together two cultures: the comforting nature of British food, based on its cottage pie idea but combining it with Mediterranean style which gives it an extra twist.

Ingredients

For the filling:
2 pieces of chicken breast, diced
1 leek, finely chopped
Mushrooms, finely chopped
Garlic, finely chopped
Olive oil
Oregano
Salt & pepper

For the mash:
Potatoes (obviously)
Milk
Olive oil
Salt & pepper

Lightly fry the garlic and then add the chicken and leek. Sautee until the chicken is cooked (you can add a drop of white wine) and then add the mushrooms, oregano (don't be shy with it, we want a very oregano-ey flavour here) and seasoning. When the mushrooms are cooked, take it off the fire. Put your filling in a medium tray. In the meantime...

Boil the potatoes (if they're chopped it takes less time). Drain them and put them in a bowl. Add milk and mash. When you have a nice, creamy texture, add some olive oil (for flavour) and seasoning. Spread the mash evenly over the filling, making sure that it completely covers it, coming up to the edge of the tray. Stick it in the oven for about 30 minutes (until the top is nicely golden brown), take it out and serve. Lovely.

Green Lentils

2009-02-12T11:22:00.005Z

Ingredients (serves 2-3)
300 gr of green lentils
1 onion, finely chopped
1-2 cloves of garlic, likewise
Olive oil
Some ripe tomatoes or a can of chopped tomatoes or tomato paste (depends on availability and taste)
1-2 carrots, chopped
1 celery stalk, chopped (optional)
Some chopped parsley
Salt

In a medium/large saucepan lightly fry the garlic and onion in olive oil. Add the tomatoes and cook for 3-4 minutes. Add the lentils, chopped carrots, celery and salt. Add water and bring to the boil. Let it cook for about 40 minutes or until the lentils are soft. They absorb the water so keep an eye in case they get stuck. If they are cooked and have absorbed the water there's no need for more, but if not, add more to help them cook. In the end you'll get a lentily pulp, there shouldn't be much water left in it. No problem if there is, just use a ladle with holes to serve it, or eat it as a soup. Some people like to add bay leaves in the mix, it gives it a nice flavour. When it's finished, throw in the chopped parsley and serve.

This is a very flexible recipe and you can pretty much embellish the lentils with any veg you like. I sometimes put a chopped pepper instead of celery, mushrooms go well too (add them near the end), lemon juice...be brave and try variations.

Goes fantastically well with natural set yogurt. Eat and help yourself to seconds, it's lovely! There is also a version with rice which I promise to share with you all if you're nice :-)