The memory of sand in Donoussa

Dear Barbara,

The Italians pull their masks under the chin. The old bus rolls under the burning sun of Donoussa, and everybody is searching for a flower among the dry bushes as if this will be proof that the summer is still alive. Throughout the route, though, there are only rough smells, outworn asphalt, and scattered people against the waves. This small Babylon of vacationers moves around and listens to the wind that blows from the depth of the Aegean Sea. It’s not a song, and it’s not a tune; it’s just the vowels of Donoussa that sigh while climbing the cliffs.

I stare at the drywalls. The large stones found, the small ones construct. The mortars are absent -and whatever connects us this summer is missing as well. Social distancing, which is thought to be the only medicine, has dozens of side effects. The narrative gave its place to statistics, the ancient sense of proportion was surrounded by restrictions, and mass media dictated reality. Our lives, always fragmentary and deserted, have lost their freshness, and they resemble the slopes of this island: arid and dry, they await impatiently the northern winds that’ll bring them back to life.

Self-luminous at the stage of Donoussa

For lonesome travelers, the charm of remote islands is not just a matter of landscape. The raw land exempted from town planning, the delay in investments, and the ferries that can’t reach them when the sea becomes rough are all elements that keep those islands underpopulated. The attraction for remote places is weaved together with local struggles. One daydreams about the simplicity of life for ten days, disregarding the problems of the natives all year long.

At Stavros, the main settlement of Donoussa, every restaurant overlooks the sea. Every summer, this is a privilege that gains importance: exhausted by the cement, the visitors search thirstily for the horizon. The human geography pulsates like the small vessels at the port. Soon, the glance focuses on the crowd. Thoughtless consumption takes place beneath the labels of bars and restaurants as if that’s the only postcard of the summer. However, the authentic image of life unfolds down at the waterfront.

That’s the gathering point of the unripened teenagers. They make their first appearance in the life of summer, like a brand new ecosystem. Boys and girls present themselves self-luminously for the first time at the stage of Donoussa. They have never felt so lively before: they breathe only by their first names. Their surnames are just a misfortune they will rediscover much later in life. This year though, they will communicate, they will discover, and they’ll get hurt. These boys and girls will cross the beach of Stavros, running carelessly on the sand, and they’ll change their beliefs faster than the flight of seagulls.

For several summers in a row, there won’t be any battle between good and evil; there’ll only be an undiscovered territory. Lust, expectations, and some grains of guilt. They won’t realize that innocence is over before they stand in front of a bank counter, at a tax office queue, or in the cage of a public service bureau. Then they’ll meet again with their surnames, and they’ll start living beneath signs and labels.

Donoussa and the art of making pompous statements

The talks you overhear are always an organic part of a journey. Even though they can’t sculpt the landscape, they betray something about the place. Donoussa seems sententious. Verbal fireworks rise into the sky: sometimes they touch the sun while others take place among the stars. One can overhear phrases like “The veal has great value,” or “Three out of thirty I’m going to issue,” or even “The Greeks are always in cahoots with each other.”

It’s not so easy to decipher these statements. It can very well be that they don’t mean anything at all. But for sure, the strong wind affects their tonality. And then, all these statements become an exercise of orthophony. One should keep his voice steady if he wants to be heard in Donoussa. The island constantly vibrates due to the wind -that’s where its name comes from- and one can only find refuge at the seashore. The sea is quiet, almost yawning, and shallows the pompous words like white pebbles.

But one evening, I realize that Donoussa has gotten under my skin. I have just climbed the rutty path from Livadi Beach to Mersini, and I stare at the small graveyard on the slope. A handful of graves surrounded by whitewash and stones. It is a death with a view. But the white crosses face the mainland, and this makes me wonder with a statement: “Why did they have to bury them with their back to the sea, though?”

Of sand and towels

The Italians raise their beach towels against the waves. After packing their stuff, they lift the towels and let them swirl. It’s not something they do rigorously: they hold them above their heads, and the wind decides to clean them. They stay like this for fifteen seconds, like human flags, and stare secretly at Donoussa beneath the fabric. On the other hand, the Greeks, who all winter long were haunted by the morbid trucks of Bergamo, are more pedantic. They clean the towels carefully by moving their palms up and down like clumsy guitarists until the last grain of sand vanishes.

It’s the eleventh consecutive summer I wear the same shoes. Every September, I think this is their last year: they are outworn, don’t fit properly anymore, and I’m afraid winter will destroy them. But every summer, they prove they can still walk a couple of thousand steps more. From Anafi to Sikinos and from Schinoussa to Crete, the accumulated sand of the islands is probably preventing decomposition.

Maybe the Italians know better: the memory of sand oxygenates the summer.

The view of Amorgos from Mersini, Donoussa

One should see Amorgos from the church of Agia Sofia in Mersini. Every time I climb the path from Livadi, the wind is aggressive. There’s no place to stand while waiting for the bus back to Stavros. All I can do is shelter myself in the yard of the little church and sit on the bench that overlooks the sea.

It’s an oblong yard, and the white wall on the right side has a blue finish that seems flammable, like a matchhead. Across the sea, Amorgos looks transparent due to the orange light of the afternoon. Fluffy clouds stand on top of this rock in the middle of the open sea, and above it, long before sunset, the moon becomes an allusion to the landscape: it resembles a pebble that decided to travel.

At a quarter past seven, the bus horns like a boat ready to depart. There’s no other way to perceive its arrival. The heads waiting in the yard of Agia Sofia walk a couple of meters against the wind. We all embark. Grey rocks, scattered goats, and a bus panting on the curves at twenty kilometers per hour.

A taverna in the middle of nowhere

On deserted landscapes, I often remember Wim Wenders and “The Salt of the Earth.” One night, at the taverna of Mitsos in Kalotaritissa, I stray while trying to call the only taxi on the island. Without noticing it, I’m already a hundred meters away, and I’m standing in front of the dark sea. A lonely tree demarcates the end of the shore. There’s only a shiny speck when I look back: the taverna.

Some people dance in front of a fire on the other side of the shore. I can only hear diffused laughter. I check alternately the two shiny dots: the fire and the taverna. I’m in the middle of the Aegean Sea, in the middle of the night, and on the shore’s edge. I could potentially choose between the two shiny dots, the more hospitable one, but being so decisive in the middle of nowhere seems unbearable.

Trypiti Beach, Donoussa

At Trypiti, the Italians are born in the sea. On one of the last days of August, when I reach the beach, I only see two people. It’s a couple of days now that I keep listening, “Tonight, the island will be empty.” But this never happens. This day though, the statement seems to be valid. For a couple of minutes, the beach of Trypiti is quiet.

Twenty minutes later, I see people swimming towards the shore, others appear suddenly behind the rocks, and another bunch walks down the path. It’s a proper invasion, an almost deliberate one, and soon two dozens of towels lay on the beach. I can count approximately twenty heads, from nine-year-old kids to eighteen-year-old teenagers -and I also see five adults. It’s like one more feast of Italian neorealism, where the whole cast arrives at the beach, but no one knows why.

The beach is vibrant now. The Italians snuggle, push each other playfully, swim naked, run non-stop on the blond sand. Later the same evening, I see them at Kyma, a waterside taverna at Stavros. They drink and laugh, and the Greek clients say, “Let’s go to the other side; there are Italians making noise here.”

The summer of 2020, its depressing spirit, and one thousand contradictions simmering next to the sea.

Save the summer

One last time at Livadi Beach and quick dives to see the crystal sea urchins up close. A quick shower in an outdoor bathroom and then straight to the queue at the port. A mask for eight hours, social distancing, and a middle-aged guy in a blue suit running all around the boat trumpeting the measures of the journey.

Now and then, I escape to the deck for a quick smoke. Whatever makes life bearable has been demonized this year. I observe the Italians on the deck as if this is a habit I inherited in Donoussa. Some of them dangle from the handrail and stare at the waves; others pull their masks until the runner in the blue suit excommunicates them, and some nibble cheese pies. Without knowing it, they have brought a drama and an image with them: how a lethal virus decimated their cities and how they got back to the joy of life. Spontaneous and brave, the Italians save the Greek summer.

Love,

George

More about Donoussa: The ultimate travel guide to Donoussa

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Last Updated on April 16, 2024 by George Pavlopoulos