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In Which I Have To Pull My Thumb Out

October 12, 2008 by Mike

Porto Lagos

Route: Stavros - Kavala - Xanthi - Lagos

There are so many petrol stations in Greece. Hundreds of 'em. Not as many as I found in Albania, but enough to go round.. or so I thought.

I found the one stretch of road in the entire country that doesn't have any petrol stations -- around 50km from Orfanio to Nea Peramos -- and this is the E90, mind, *the* main road from Istanbul to Thessaloniki -- hell, it's the main road from Asia to Europe -- and here, I chose to run out of petrol.

Ooops.

[The Bonneville has no petrol gauge -- far too modern -- and my tripometer broke in Portugal. But I have a small, rusting padlock hanging from the handlebar which I adjust to record the mileage every time I fill the tank.]

I knew I was running low but.. well, this is Greece, right? There'll be a petrol station in the next village. Except the next village never came. So the inevitable happened, the engine spluttered (I know 'spluttered' sounds like a cliché but that's *exactly* the sound it makes) and conked out in sight of a lay-by. I coasted to safety.

The thing is -- at no stage, not once, did I curse my misfortune, or tell myself off, or shake my fist as another car whizzed unstoppingly past. So I was stuck in the middle of a big long stretch of nowhere. So what? A farm worker wandered past. He pointed back the way I'd come from: the nearest petrol, he indicated, was 20 km down the road. So what? It was sunny, I was in no great hurry and besides, it meant I could unfurl my secret weapon. My thumb.

The last time I hitchhiked in Greece, Wayne Rooney wasn't born yet.. and Greeks picked up hitchhikers. (And I was *very* young.)

I'm a good hitchhiker. I can't give away any trade secrets; you'll just have to take my word for it. I *could* beat you in a race -- but I wouldn't choose to race -- and that's one of the trade secrets. Oops.

After 20 minutes or so -- and as many cars or lorries -- I had a slight moment of doubt. Does the hitching 'thumb up' mean something else in Greece? That I'm on the game? In which case, no wonder they aren't stopping: in biker boots and trousers, with helmet and jacket slung over my arm, I'm hardly dressed to impress.

There's definitely a country somewhere round here where you're supposed to point to the ground with yr forefinger rather than thumbing a ride.

But, it seems, it isn't Greece.

One van pulled over to make sure I was OK. The kind that, as a hitcher, you make an extra effort for, focus on in a line of traffic because they always stop -- a bit old, a bit cranky, you can tell from half a mile away that it's driven by an eccentric man. This one ticked all the boxes but, when he'd confirmed I wasn't sick or an emergency case, he gestured at the back of his van. "Too much human beings," he shouted, cranking into first. And sure enough, there must have been 20 people crammed into his Transit van. He wasn't a hitcher-kidnapper, or the child snatcher. They were all so obviously related to each other I thought they were all wearing identical masks.

After half-an-hour's hitching, the PARP of a car horn. It was a small hatchback that had driven past a couple of minutes before, pulling up on the other side of the road. They'd turned round to collect me. Always a good sign.

It's very easy for a driver to think "oh I'd have stopped if there was space to pull over/ if there wasn't a lorry up my backside/ if I'd noticed in time/ if he was in fact a beautiful, blonde, busty swimwear model."

It takes something to think all that, and *then* decide to turn round anyway.

DSC03110

Turns out that Sterios and Despina are bikers -- they did a tour of Italy, France and Austria last summer. And they spoke just enough English to make the ride to the petrol station a pleasure for, I hope, all of us. Enough for them to then drive me the 20km back to the bike. That's classy. Very, very kind.

Invited in to their private space, I knew enough to sing for my supper but not to go over the top. Happily Sterios, especially, was keen to question me about the trip. When I invited them to join me on the way round the Black Sea, was that a moment's hesitation before he smilingly declined? Someday someone will say Yes when I ask.

--

Breakfast this morning in a little cafe overlooking the fishing port, where I fell into conversation with Nikos, son of the owner. A Liverpool fan. A 'refugee' - his grandparents were transported as children in 1923 from Asia Minor and resettled, with all their Christian neighbours, in Stavros. And here's the thing: on Wednesday, Nikos will travel with a coach full of Christians from Stavros to Istanbul, and then on to the small village on the south side of the Bosphorus where their families lived for hundreds of years. The two villages have established this contact only in the last few years -- this is the third time people from Stavros will go 'home.'

"It is just like here," Nikos told me. "Hills behind, the sea in front, some fishing, a few tourists in the summer. But quiet."

He knows this because he's looked at the Turkish village on GoogleEarth. 85 years ago his grandparents were forced out at gunpoint, quite probably on foot -- in which case, quite possibly barefoot. That's what I call progress.

There was no bitterness or fear or antagonism or bullishness about Nikos: perhaps a whisper of wistfulness. He's going home. I would *love* to go along. But.. it's off my route, on the wrong side of the Bosphorus; I'm flying from Istanbul to Stansted on Thursday moorning to see Pa; oh, and I'm not invited ;-)

--

Late lunch in Kavala with a Bonneville owner. We spotted each others' bikes at the same moment. Sadly for me, I was at the time making a hash of riding a cobbled, rutted lane in the Old Town, while "George" (Yorgos?) was washing down a plate of something good with a glass of something cold, in a roadside restaurant with a clear view of the cobbles and the ruts.

A very nice man. His two friends were equally welcoming, so I am left with a particularly good impression of their town, "the most beautiful place in Greece," one of them explained. "The most beautiful place in all the world", he added as an afterthought, as if it that extra explanation was frankly unnecessary.

--

Dinner alone, in Porto Lagos. I've treated myself to a nice little hotel at the one spot where the road, which drifts here inland away from the watery delta of the Nestos river, returns to the seaside. I'm surrounded by water, in fact, as Lake Vistonia envelopes Lagos from behind. It's a bird-watchers paradise. I twitch at the thought of being snaffled for a birders' conversation, but there are no other guests tonight and I eat in peace with a good book.

There are times when I enjoy good company. And there are times when I appreciate its absence.

Comments

By kostas | October 23, 2008 11:04 PM

Hello my Bonnie Friend .Hope you have a good time wherever you are. Kostas Kavala.Please let me know if you are back our place

By Nick | November 13, 2008 2:29 PM

Loved the hitch-hiking tale, reminds me of similar moments I`ve had in the long and distant past. That feeling of having all the time in the world, equally happy if the lift come in the next minute, hour, day ... or, ahem even the next day...

By George "Yorgos" (is just fine) | November 15, 2008 3:36 AM

Hey mate! I know it took me a while to post, but better late than never right? I'm glad to see that your trip is going well. If Lady Luck is kind we talk again on your return. But this time make sure you have plenty of time available. Wish you the best. Cheers!

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