13 Apr 2015

Stranded, part I - Hiking down Donkey Turd Avenue

So picture this:

Your friend has left the island and you’re settled in in your hostel, awaiting your ferry’s departure the next day. But then you hear whispers in the common room about ferries getting canceled due to the storm, so you go out and check. A look down from the main road seems to support that rumor:

Just as the first heavy drops fall you reach the travel agency, and yes, ferry traffic has been cancelled. Outside, stray dogs and cats run for shelter. Probably for the best not to be on a boat right now. The ticket gets moved to the next ferry, which leaves on Sunday night. If the storm has calmed by then, which it might. Or might not. You know how islands are, says the friendly lady with a shrug. Since there is not much you can do you flick up your collar and step outside and get drenched on the way to the bakery next door. Armed with coffee and a sandwich you half-walk, half-run back to the hostel. Since plenty of other people are just as stranded as you are, most of the guests are sitting in the common room. So you settle in for the day and get to know the others, which include a guy from Finland and a girl from Norway. So far so good. So you end up spending the day watching Taken 3 and Wild Card and being generally useless, while outside the palms are whipped back and forth by gusts of wind. Sunset happens without anyone noticing, because the sky was pretty dark to begin with. After a day holed up in the hostel you sneak off to bed.

The next morning, lo and behold, the skies have cleared. The wind is still coming in powerful gusts, but the sky is mostly blue. So you decide to be less useless than you were yesterday and set out to explore the cliff-side of Fira. 220 meter above the sea, the cold wind sucks all the warmth right out of your clothes. This part of the town is pretty, but devoid of substance: Bars for tourists. Souvenir stores for tourists. Restaurants for tourists. Without tourists, the area is mostly empty. The view however, is stunning:

Sitting there, staring down into the water, you notice a path leading all the way down to the sea and the old port. So you try to find a way to the beginning of that path, which isn’t easy because whoever planned this city had no plan at all. What you absolutely don’t do is climb over lower walls or gates when you get frustrated. No sir, not even when nobody’s looking.

Eventually you find the start of the path down. Right at the start you pass a man brushing the sidewalk in front of of his store. He’s build a neat pile of manure. Where did he get that from, you wonder? Suddenly you are distracted by a conversation between a local man and a tourist:

Tourist: "So are you from around here?"
Local: "No, I'm from Pireas."
Tourist: "Pyras?"
Local: "No, Pireas."
Tourist: "Ohhh...you mean PEE-RAY-US!"

Nestled between the cliffs, the path is somewhat protected from the cold winds and you can feel the heat radiating from the cobbles under your feet. You smell the sun on the stones, the salt of the sea and, again, manure?

The avenue in question.

You turn onto the start of a serpentine stretch of shallow stairs, and suddenly you understand where all that manure comes from: Donkeys. Not horses, because that would be stupid. No, donkeys. Apparently there is a class of people who are too lazy to walk but too outdoors-y to take the cable car. For those people the locals have two or three dozen donkeys shuttling tourists up and down the stairs. And covering those stairs in donkey poop in the process, evidently.

One of the furry culprits.

But of course you wouldn’t be caught dead on one of those four-legged mobility scooters, you’ll walk. So you pass the group of donkeys currently being loaded with a few tourists. You see one of the donkeys strutting off towards a wall at a casual pace. The British teenager riding it begins to scream in panic. In slow-motion she begins to tip out of the saddle, suddenly hanging on with one hand and one leg only. For an instant, the other donkeys seem to shake their collective heads in disgust.

Leaving a respectful distance between yourself and the donkeys you walk around that group and hike down the stairs. Further down, the wind picks up and throws more and more dust in your face. Most of that dust is dried donkey turds, actually, but there isn’t a whole lot you can do about it. The entire stairway is covered in it, after all. Onwards and downwards. After nine serpentine loops you see the old port down there.

You pass a sign “Donkey Terminal”, followed by a row of two dozen donkeys, patiently waiting for the next group of tourists going up the stairs. After that, you’re in the old port. One or two restaurants are open for business, but most of the harbour seems to be empty ruins with occasional bits of maritime engineering strewn around and left for good: An anchor winch here, part of a rudder there, some damaged rowboards pulled up on the dock. Everything is sun-baked and covered in salt. Some glass-bottom boats are hidden from the storm behind a pier. Leaning against the sudden gusts, you carefully climb up the stairs to the pier wall and follow it until its very end, marked by a light tower and a bench. You sit down and pull up your collar against the stiff wind, then you look out over the bay.

The other day, the clear, blue water looked so inviting. Today, it shows a very different face: Waves surge violently and crash into the pier, filling the air with a salty mist. Out in the bay, the squall grabs the crests off the waves and rips the spray up in the air in hazy shapes. Close to the volcano in the middle of the bay seabirds struggle to stay in the air as angry gusts throw them this way and that. The sun shines on it all. And you just sit there, on your bench, and smile at this phenomenal display.

After getting completely lost in the view for an hour you get up and slowly make your way back to the stairs. You scoff at the next group of tourists which is just getting on their respective donkeys and start taking the steps, two at a time. After two of the serpentine loops you begin to feel that welcome sense of going somewhere. After three, your breath comes quickly and you start feeling rather warm in your jacket. How many of those loops were there again? Oh, that’s right: Nine. Two loops later you notice that the weird dimensions of the steps mean you’re stressing one leg more than the other. You begin to alternate the pace. Maybe that will make it less exhausting. Five loops done and you’re breathing through your mouth. You can definitely feel your legs now. Can’t really slow down though, because then the donkeys might overtake you. How would that look? Loop six is a short one, thank god. You feel sweat soaking your shirt and your pulse hammering in your neck as you ascend the last few stairs and lean on a low wall to catch your breath. Way, way down below the donkey caravan is crawling up, leaving another unmistakable trail on the stairs you just conquered. Who the hell needs donkeys anyway?

Until next time,
Arne