Pack Your Things Veronica

Apart from picking his guests up at the airport and depositing them back there intact after two weeks, Sid’s job was to make sure his clients stayed out of trouble while they were guests on the island.  They weren’t aware that the Greek police had no qualms about bashing them around to make them behave. On torrid alcohol fueled nights, tempers frayed. The English and Italians threw boulders at each other across the square.  Stepping over drunk young men who could no longer walk was commonplace.  Sid would give them a quick glance to see if they were his clients and whether they were breathing or not.     

At the local tourist agency, his company was assigned a desk where the reps were expected to put in daily office hours to sell excursions to visitors who didn’t plan on spending their entire holiday at the beach.  There were day trips to the valley of the butterflies and to the Island of Symi.  He had heard of clients attending the mountain festival barbeque in Embona and making the bus driver stop partway down the winding road home so they could vomit up their dentures, then ask the tour rep to walk back and find them.  

On top of a month-long heatwave that had broken records, an incessant Meltemi had been blowing for the last  week.  A client had stormed into the office the previous day complaining about the exaggerated temperatures and brandishing the front page of The Daily Mail, which read “Brits Sizzle On Blaze Isle,” like Sid could turn off the sun.  Nobody had actually sizzled, but there were small fires here and there as there was every summer.  At the far side of the delta of dry riverbeds, a fire had been burning for the last couple of days but was so far blocked by roads and the whitewashed buildings of a nearby village.  The Meltemi carried the smoke toward Kalathos where Sid lived, but only when the wind veered in the right direction.  He asked his neighbour, a big-bosomed grandmother with small children at her feet, if she thought there was any danger.  “If the fire comes close, the monks at St. John’s, they will ring the bell,” she said.  For a few nights Sid went to sleep expecting to be woken by the clanging bells of the monastery but so far, all had been quiet.   

He was not worried about himself, but about the two sets of clients who had rented houses in his home village of Kalathos for a week.  Sid had grown up in California so he had experience with forest fires because he had worked a few summers on a forestry crew.  Although his parents were English and he was born in England, the family had pulled up stakes when he was a baby and went to live on a commune, where he had been raised until he left at the age of sixteen.  His parents were horrified when he went to work for the government, but they could partly accept it because it was in forestry, which had a tenuous connection to saving God’s trees. When he started his working life, he told people his name was Sid, instead of his real name of Siddhartha, the name of the Buddha. Siddhartha was a burden, but there were Sids everywhere.

The tour company Sid worked for had taken on three small houses in Kalathos, a village that was a ten minute drive from the main tourist town where most of the tour accommodation was contracted. Kalathos was smaller and quieter than the resort with its multiple bars and restaurants, so it suited more traditional visitors.  A rental car was a necessity because the only businesses within walking distance were a petrol station and a bare-bones cafe that closed at ten. There was a long straight dusty road from Kalathos down to the beach but in summer there was no shelter so it was best travelled quickly by motorbike or car. 

Sid had lived in Kalathos long enough to know that the church bells rang early on Sundays, in the afternoons for weddings, and any time of the day for the single toll that announces a death.  One of the three houses in Kalathos the tour company had rented was Sid’s accommodation.  It was on a narrow street on the way to the monastery so he could see the brides and grooms passing, and if he dared to look, the sad funeral processions.  If the church bells were rung in alarm, he would have to track down his clients and tell them to get out of the village.  They were aware of the distant fire because they had complained to him about the smell of smoke.   

He could see the monastery from the patio where he slept on the hottest nights.  His ex-firefighter’s eye had already noted the two tall cypresses in front of the domed church, and at its back, was a wide orchard of orange trees.  He knew that oranges trees with their leathery green citrus leaves would probably protect the windward side of the village more than the olives or pines that grew on nearby uncultivated land. 

The afternoon when he heard the roar and looked up the street, he saw a wall of dancing orange and black flame twice as high as the church.  It was roaring like the full flame of a gas fire.  “Holy crap!” he said.  There were no ringing bells. 

He grabbed his work bag and threw it into the company’s Mini Moke, and sprinted down the street to the most distant of his client’s houses. Nobody answered the door and there was no vehicle parked in front, so he had to assume they were out for the day, just as well since the way things were looking they wouldn’t be allowed back into the village.  He hoped they had taken their valuables with them.

On the way back home, he had just arrived at the rental house close to him, when the church bells began to frantically ring.  He knew the couple,  Douglas and Veronica, were at home because the red Pugeout they had rented was parked in front of their door.   If they were having an afternoon quickie, things needed to come to an abrupt end.  It didn’t take more than a few knocks on the door before Douglas opened it, looking sleepy and surprised.  

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“A forest fire.  You need to evacuate.”

“To where?”

”I’ll meet you at the travel agents office.”

“Who is it darling?” a woman’s voice called from inside.

“The tour company,” her husband called back.  “We have to leave.”

“Do I have time for a shower?” she called.

He looked at Sid, who shook his head, and said, “No.  You need to go now.”  

He still seemed reluctant, so Sid gestured him to step out of his house and come to the corner of the street.  Douglas hobbled down the scorching pavement in his bare feet, and then looked to where Sid pointed.

“Holy mother of God!” he said, and sprinted back to his front door like the hot stones had suddenly gone red hot. 

“Veronica! Veronica!  We’ve got to go.”

“Why darling?” she asked.  

“Just pack your things.  Alright?”

When Sid got back to his Mini Moke, there were several men from the village rushing through the streets, knocking on doors, and telling people to run for it.  A few residents were already in flight, with suitcases or bundles on their shoulders, scurrying down the narrow streets and cement-step shortcuts toward the highway.  Once he had politely waited for those on foot to move to the side of the road, he arrived at the highway directly across from the one petrol station.  It was an Esso station built to the standard international plan with a box of a shop and a gas island sheltered by a flat canopy.  Although it seemed natural that these people, probably twenty by then, wanted to stay out of the afternoon sun, Sid was horrified that they seemed oblivious to the fact they were standing on an bomb.  They were gawking and pointing at the tall flames licking at the edge of the village, unaware of their own precarious position.  

As Sid sped up the highway to see what was going on at the agency office he was reminded of another incident that had left him wondering what got into people’s heads.  A month earlier, one of the scheduled buses had gone off the road into the ditch, killing a few passengers and a child. There had been wails of “Why does God do this to us?” and wondered the same thing, until he heard that the child was the son of the bus driver, and he had been standing between his father’s legs at the time with his small hands steering the bus. God had nothing to do with the tragedy.  He could hear the laments all over again of how cruel God was if a crowd of believers lost their lives when a gas station exploded. 

 It was just as well there wasn’t much highway traffic that afternoon since it wasn’t a changeover day when a steady whoosh of air-conditioned buses left the resort town for the airport, and another set of buses arrived from the airport, their baggage compartments crammed with suitcases packed with tins of beans, long life milk, Weetabix, and hairdryers. 

He didn’t try to park in the village square because it would be a log-jam of taxis and buses driving around the central tree.  The tourists knew there was a fire somewhere because from the back of the village a column of smoke was visible in the direction of the garbage dump.  It took a while for Sid to fight his way through the usual crush of afternoon tourists, some of whom had arrived on bus tours, other on local buses, and some on boats from the main city on the island.  At the agency office, he learned there was a chance the highway back to the airport would be blocked because the fire was burning very near to it.  Those who heard the news overwhelmed the rental car desk hoping they could drive up the west side of the island and avoid the fires, but the agency only had eight cars and seven of them were already out.  Others requested tickets for the boat, but there was no regular service, just pre-booked tours, which had arrived loaded at lunchtime, so there were no more tickets available.  This didn’t stop some macho heads of households from rushing their families to the dock and threatening to sink the tour boat if their families weren’t let on.   A young woman wandered into the travel office to ask the reps if they had any guests who suffered from cold sores, because she had just been to the pharmacy and seen how expensive a tube of her preferred cream was.  “I left mine at home, y’see.”  She hoped someone would go halves with her on the price of a tube.   

The tour boats finally left for the city so foot traffic was reduced in the pedestrian-only streets, but the bus drivers were still on stand-by in the square.  A stream of people hoping to get out of the village stopped by the agency to ask for the bus schedule, which at that juncture was as pointless as asking for a down parka in a heatwave.  Along with the day-tripping bus people who were trapped and walking in circles, were others like the American college kid who wanted to know which restaurant had the best hamburgers and milkshakes.  A moisturized thirtysomething redhead came by to ask if the smoke was going to interfere with her suntanning the next day.  If Sid thought that was the case, she’d have to book a car for the next day to go to a resort further down the island away from the smoke.

  “There aren’t any cars available ma’am,” he told her.  

With a quick glance at the others in the office, she leaned close to him and whispered. “Do you know how often the resorts down there disinfect their sunbeds?  I was talking to my lovely Yianni, and he says they don’t do it ever. The entire season!” she sat back in triumph as if she was privy to a CIA secret. 

“There are no other resorts, ma’am,” Sid told her. “Lots of beaches, but no resorts or umbrellas.  You’d need to take your own.  Anyway, there are no cars or buses at the moment and it's too far to walk.”

“And just how would I have carried a beach umbrella in my suitcase?” she demanded. “You people should know these things.”

“You can buy one at the corner shop,” he told her.  

“Not what I would call outstanding service,” she said and flounced out of the office, back to her tiny room off Yannis' courtyard. Sid had seen Yannis in the street a few times in the last week, and had gotten a wink that seemed to say “Thank you.”

Mercifully, the time had almost come to close the office for the day, but as the reps were herding the last of the information deprived visitors out the door, there was a startling snap in the fuse box and the lights went out.  There were often power outages on the island, but since the electric lines to the village were in the path of the fire, this blackout could be a long one.  For just such occasions, Sid kept a supply of traditional beeswax candles in the bottom drawer of his desk.  When the days had been shorter at the beginning of the season and the power went out, a flickering flame was the only way to tell if someone was alive in the black cavern of the office.  Scooping a supply of candles into a plastic bag he set off to visit his client’s accommodations one by one, to see how they were doing.

As he started up the dusky streets, stooped grannies came out to their doorsteps to pump up their lamps.  For them this was not a long step backwards because it was only twenty years since the village was connected to the island power grid.  Before that there was a generator which kept fixed hours and was prone to breakdown, and before that there was nothing.  Candles, kerosene lamps, and hissing white-gas lanterns with mantles, had illuminated the nights.  Sid’s clients were in need of light.  One of them had rigged a lighted string wick in a shallow dish of olive oil.  As the darkness in the streets deepened, a few private generators hummed to life, supplying light and refrigeration to the generator owner’s bar and nobody else.  The electric glow from the few bars with power, were like flames on a dark night, attracting a host of circling moths, trying to decide if they would go in or not, or if the bar owner, seeing his planning pay off, would burn them with the price of his drinks. 

It was in front of one of these Sid saw a tall man with red face and wild white hair, passing through the crowd and declaring in a loud voice, “Evacuate!  Evacuate the village!  Everyone needs to leave immediately!” 

 He was not with the police or the civil emergency forces because he was not even Greek.  Sid had never seen him before but the man had to be stopped before he caused a stampede.  .

“Sir!  Sir!” Sid chased after the man who was waving his arms in the air to get attention.   “Sir!  Stop!”

The man turned around and looked at Sid like he was just another slow-witted tourist who would be trapped in a burning house.  “Evacuate!  Down to the St. Paul’s Bay!  That way!” He shouted so close, Sid felt his spit spray.  

“Excuse me.  Sir!  Stop.  Wait a minute.”

“We’ll all be burned alive if we don’t evacuate this minute.”

“Sir!  Please shut up for a minute.  Who are you?”

“Scarborough Mountain Rescue.  Retired.  Been through a lot of these things.  Evacuate!” he shouted over the heads of the crowd who backed away from him.

“Sir.  Sir.  Stop saying that.  We don’t want to panic anyone do we?”

“Order,” he said.  “Proceed in an orderly fashion. Women and children first.”

“Sir.  There’s no need to evacuate.  I’ve seen the fire, and between it and us, there is nothing to burn.  It’s all rocks.  No trees.  The fire won’t get here.”  Sid could see couples whispering the news among themselves, as some of them confirmed their beliefs, keen to get points on their partners in a game of ‘I told you so.’

“Somebody needs to take charge here,” the man said.  

“Somebody already has,” Sid insisted. “The police.  They aren’t telling anyone to leave because we don’t need to.  Go up and see them.  It’s that building at the end of the road.” Sid pointed to a white wall with a small blue sign some distance away which was in fact the police station.  They would make short work of this guy and send him on his way.  The plan worked, and the man hurried off in the direction he was sent with one arm outstretched and a finger pointing at blue wall plaque like he had spotted a rescue victim on a slope and wouldn’t be distracted from his mission. 

Because Sid was wearing his blue uniform shirt and name tag, on his way to the square, several people stopped him to ask things as if he was a moving information kiosk.  How long would the beer stay cold if there was no electricity?  Where could they rent a motorbike at that time of night?  Did he know who had the cheapest souvlaki?  Would a Turkish postage stamp work to mail a letter from Greece?  Were asthmatics likely to die from breathing in the smoke?  What time that evening would they be evacuated? 

            When Sid made it to the square on foot, it was more chaotic than he imagined.  There was the usual glut of buses and taxis, but everything was at gridlock and nobody could back up or turn around. A policeman waved his arms and blew his whistle but nothing moved.  Tour bus passengers who should have been gone by then, milled around parked cars, mostly taxis who had come down to the square to pick up.  A few rental cars were jammed into the traffic because they were there at the wrong time. It was like the evacuation of Saigon but there were no helicopters and nobody was leaving.

In the square Sid was stopped by a barefoot middle-aged Venus in a white flowing dress and ankle bracelets who asked him where she could find the vegetarian restaurant. A perfectly fitted and scrubbed American approached him to ask if there was a gay bar.  A freckled, sunburned, roly-poly couple, who were breathless because they had dragged their suitcases to the square, wanted to know what time the army was coming to rescue them.  Assaulted from all sides, Sid explained in a loud voice so others could hear, that the fire was not a threat.  There was nothing to burn.  They should go back home, get as cool and comfortable as possible and wait for it to pass.  They could go down to the sea if they were uncomfortable in the village.  “In any case,” he said, “the church bells will start ringing if there’s any threat.”  He hoped nobody had noticed he was blushing and suddenly overheated in his cotton shirt.  

Some of the listeners drifted away disgruntled that they weren’t going to be in a disaster movie about sizzling Brits.  Others continued to circle the tree like pilgrims where the vehicles were packed as tight as an automotive Mecca.  Sid didn't wish to take on the role of an emergency management official, so he took off his name tag and retreated to a bar at the back of the village to have a well-earned, though tepid beer, and decide what to do next.  A few of his clients found him there, but he could only tell them what he had said in the square. 

When the beer tasted like hot tap-water, and with nowhere in the resort to lay his head, he took a chance on driving back to Kalathos to see if he could sleep in his own bed.  As he rounded the corner at the top of the hill, going the opposite direction from the spot where year after year, tourists had gasped at the beauty of the white village with the temple on a rock soaring above it, and the surrounding turquoise sea, he saw the first signs of the fire’s aftermath.  It wasn’t exactly true that there was nothing to burn.  Driving along the benchland toward Kalathos village with its long gravel beach, he felt like an army general surveying the smoking ruins of a battlefield. There were no walls of flame but smoking trunks of burnt olive trees dotted the land like destroyed machine gun nests.  A few makeshift dog-houses or chicken pens, anything made of wood, had gone up in smoke. The few white-block houses along the road to Kalathos were all standing and appeared undamaged. 

The petrol station hadn’t exploded and the village appeared to be intact, though there were a few plumes of smoke behind it, peripheral things set alight when the fire passed, but now mostly extinguished.  The flames had been diverted by the orange trees and cement buildings, and gone around the back of the village, finding fuel for its advance in a few outbuildings.  The wind-driven head of the fire had skipped off toward the resort to roast a few tourists, but finding its path blocked by the lack of fuel, it had turned back to rush up another valley.  

The police were waiting at the entrance to Kalathos to check who was going in and out. Although Sid didn’t recognize the man in charge, one of the policemen recognized him from an incident involving a drunk client and a donkey.

That night in Kalathos there was absolute silence.  The sheets and pillows smelled of smoke but it was a sweet smell like a dry-cedar campfire at a mountain lake.  The sky the next day was a deep blue at the zenith because the wind had blown most of the smoke away.  The Kalathos rental clients had sneaked back in during the night and were sleeping away the hangover they got from spending half the night in a bar before they could free their vehicles from the traffic. If they were on the road in that condition at four in the morning, it was just as well Kalathos was only a short way and the roads were empty.  

The agency opened as usual in the morning.  The telephones worked though the power was not on, but since it was a clear sunny day and a few high windows let light into the office, there was no need for candles.  For the day after the near disaster, things weren’t so bad.  A woman in a busty bathing suit with a beach-towel towel wrapped around her substantial thighs, got her inflated li-lo stuck crossways in the entry door. When she did maneuver the hot pink mattress into a straight-ahead position she knocked several pen holders off desks.  She wanted to know what time the power would be back on because she had an anniversary dinner that night and wanted to know how she could do her hair before dinner.  Without her hair-dryer she couldn’t go out.  Did the office have some kind of power supply she could borrow?  Outside, the temperature was hot enough to make the pavement impossible for bare feet, but the woman didn’t take it well when Sid told her that after her shower she should stick her head out the window. “I’m sure your hair will dry just fine,” he said.

“I don’t have a window,” she snapped back. 

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “I’ll take that up right away with the police.”

There were still two months until the end of the season. Sid wasn’t sure if he would make it.