Some say that sailing the waters of the northern Dodecanese in eastern Greece is not too dissimilar to sailing the Whitsunday Islands off coastal Queensland. And certainly, the waters are aquamarine, with the wind blowing in sudden gusts between the calm, and the sea scattered with irregular shaped islands so there is always land in sight.
But, there the similarity mostly ends.
The islands of the Dodecanese are stark, bare and beautiful in a different way to the lush islands of Queensland’s coastal tropics. More like the wild hilly country of north western Queensland scattered with low weedy shrubs. And beneath the surface, the crystal clear ocean is comparatively barren, more like a moonscape with a light scattering of mostly small brownish fish.
Sailing into a small bay along the indented coast of Pserimos Island from large nearby Kos Island, there are a few huts belonging to the local fishermen who appear to have resorted to fish farming to cope with the decline in fish stocks. Unlike the Whitsunday’s, the Dodecanese are home to many people and bear witness to centuries of human impact.
Around the corner from Pserimos is Pothia, the main village on the dramatically bare mountainous island of Kalymnos. Its harbour is dominated by the traditional white and blue square houses of the Agean. Perched impossibly high above on sheer rock faces, where one would think only goats could roam, are tiny white churches shining against the bare brown background. And above all is the ruins of a medieval castle, a few hours walk from the harbour where one can wind through the back streets and glimpse village women sitting under a tree and singing in Zorba-style harmony. Or see small groups of old men playing backgammon or cards and sipping ouzo. And then there’s the cats in all shapes and sizes perched irresistibly in photogenic places. An old woman dressed from head to toe in black endlessly swings the bell of a small church in preparation for a wedding.
The thing about ‘bare-boating’ (a term not used commonly in Greece; it’s more about chartering) in the Dodecanese, is that it’s not all about sailing. Which is just as well given the variable nature of the Meltemi wind that blows from the north in summer sometimes reaching gusts of 30 knots, but at other times dying away to a millpond. People say that sailing in Greece is about motoring between the gales.
But we’re in no rush to get anywhere fast during the two weeks we’ve chartered our Oceanis 39 foot boat. As charming Panos said, when briefing us at the start of our charter in Kos, replying to our slightly anxious questions about radios and maps: “You’re on holidays, just relax… don’t worry about radios or maps; if you just sail around the corner you’ll find another bay, another island. Nothing will go wrong.”
And Panos was right. Tides and suddenly shallow water full of dangerous reefs is not part of the Greek sailing experience.
From Pothia we sailed to a quiet isolated bay to the north of Kalymnos and anchored outside the small town of Emporio. It was nice to be away from a quay or marina and to jump overboard at any time for a swim or a snorkel; to sit on deck and watch the water turn salmon, then ochre, gold and then, like in Homer’s Odyssey, wine-dark; and to sleep in our comfortable cabins with the sound of gentle waves rocking slowly.
Just around the corner we find Leros, the ‘green island’ and while it has rather more trees than Kalymnos, it’s definitely not the Queensland tropics. But like all the islands we visit, we see patches of eucalypts planted here and there for shade and looking just like they do in Australia; and we wonder vaguely about their journeys to these distant islands. What are their stories?
Everywhere we go, we meet people with connections to Australia. Kalymnos, the once-thriving sponge diving capital of Greece, has strong links with Darwin; divers lured to the north by the promise of pearls more plentiful than sponges. We meet several people who have relatives who live or work just around the corner from us in Brisbane.
Pandalia Bay in Leros is another scatter of white houses with a castle above. But it also has a series of ancient windmills that parallel the new white windmills harvesting wind on a nearby hill. In a small bakery we discover galakto burekos: thick vanilla slice pastries drenched in honeyed syrup. They become an important stable in our diet, along with Greek salads, saganaki cheese and giant beans. And we never get sick of them, sometimes having them more than once a day. Each time they are made differently according to the whim or available ingredients of the local taverna; but they are always delicious. The local white wine is so drinkable that we find we need to order two half kilo jugs each dinner and sometimes at lunch.
Lipsi is the island of escapist dreams: small, but not too small, and still reliant on agriculture rather than tourism for survival. We spend two nights at Lipsi – one at the quay and the other anchored in a small bay just around the corner. Strolling across this flatter island, we see olives, grapes, and crops growing. Everywhere there are goats, donkeys and horses. Some of us wistfully consider the opportunities for buying land or even an empty house.
Feeling more in touch with the culture, we sail like Greek Gods and Goddesses across the “broad-backed sea” to the famous island of Patmos. Actually, it’s only a few nautical miles from Lipsi and marks the northern-most part of the Dodecanese, south west of the visibly towering island of Samos. Patmos is the busiest place we’ve been to since Kos and a good place to replenish stocks of food and water, and clean the boat ready for the trip back.
The famous hill top monastery dominates the island with its history of St John, writer of the New Testament gospel, Revelation. It also provides a challenging destination for a bicycle ride on hired bikes with faulty gears. But once up the top, the descent down the other side to the bay of Petra through villages, small farms and rugged country roads makes the hot journey up more than worthwhile. Then cycling back to the main town on a small rolling road hugging the coast and neighbouring vineyards is spectacular.
The tiny island of Marathi with its three tavernas all owned by the one and only family living on the island (who are only there in the summer-time), provides us with another quiet anchorage. The tavernas line the small cove and have courtyards filled with clay pots holding healthy stands of Greek basil, and other herbs. The Sunday lunch of lobster and fresh fish washed down with gallons of local white wine and Mykonos beer is an expensive indulgence worth every cent.
Just around the corner is Arki with 36 permanent residents. Arki has one road and one car, and Sofia from France, who sails here every year with her family, tells us: “you can go anywhere you like, just remember to shut the gates after you to keep the goats in”.
There’s a church on top of a small hill, and from here you can see the whole island. If one wanders down the road to the south until it ends, and then follows the goat track, there is a small bay where you can swim alone in absolute solitude as long as you don’t take anyone with you.
Sailing back to Kos down different sides of the islands brings its own surprises. Like Lakki on the west side of Leros with its town built by the Italians in box fascist style architecture with strangely wide gridded streets. A town fraying at the edges from its original austere grandeur; a town built for people who have never really felt at home there.
Then there’s the tiny cove on the north east side of Kalymnos with its smooth shiny white pebble beach beneath a huge cavern frequented by the world’s most experienced rock climbers. And Niklois of Oopenelli cove who greets travellers on his dingy loaded down with sponges to sell and fresh figs and ouzo to share.
Niklois entices us to his taverna set back from the warm sea behind a tiny church. There he shares his past sponge diving fame through photograph albums while he cooks lunch (yes Greek salad, and giant beans feature again). Then while eating he plays us a few songs on his lute and tries to entice us to stay the night with promises of Greek dancing (something he says he’s much better at). But time is running out and the narrow-cliffed harbour of Vathi awaits us to the south.
Vathi with its roped off swimming area reminds us strangely of Sydney beaches like Tanarama and Clovely. The old village people come here early to swim before the day tourist boats hit the tavernas strung along the quay. One old women swims in her full black regalia – from head scarf to dress to stockings – and smiles warmly as she slowly gets out and takes a freshwater shower by the edge. Men – old and young – sort their fishing nets by their small colourful wooden boats that crowd and paint the harbour.
Too soon we are headed back to the Kos marina where we are guided into a stern to quay berth. This is another difference from sailing in Australia: the need to reverse one’s boat into an often narrow space between expensive other boats after dropping anchor, rather than pulling in alongside a wharf or key. The first few times were scenes of entertainment and mild (actually perhaps moderate to severe) hysteria for those on board as well as those ashore with everyone shouting advice or insults. “You’re dangerous,” one cranky old Dutchman asserted loudly (though later he admitted over a beer, that it had taken him three times to get his yacht into the berth, and he was experienced).
But back in the Kos marina, at least one of us shows they’ve mostly mastered the skill. But we’re all reluctant to finish our journey, disembark and leave the Dodecanese behind. (2350)