Travelling On To Kekova

We were glad we had spent the extra time in Kasstelorizon. it gave us that extra something that comes from just stopping and immersing yourself in one place. the time to listen and as so serendipitously happens see the connections start to form and begin ti get a small but interesting insight into the fabric of the small community.
We walked to the point as the light started to soften and slide into the golden glow that crowns each day. The wind drops out and the light celebrates with the most flattering of colours as you unwind at the end of the day. The old lighthouse had been changed into a bar with an eclectic bohemian style of decor matched by the appearance of its owner. George was short and stocky with a designer stubble, pink Ralph Lauren heavy shorts and that fashionably lank and long prince Valiant cut hair of Europe that you sweep back behind your ears continuously. we knew we had seen him before.It clicked. He was the one scaling the 2kg groper after midnight after the theatre at dockside behind our boat. we were glad to see the fish was being eaten as there was an expectation by Lazarus the owner that we would order it and we slid side ways as you must do despite the subtle pressure and expectation as we wanted to dine further around the dock that night.
we learnt he was Lazarus's brother, councilor, married to a french woman and it was he who had brought the troupe of players to the island, but was most unhappy with their performance of such an inappropriate play, and even less impressed at their demand to be fed and him having to provide the fish. Fish is very scarce in these parts, fishermen will talk of their catch as being "three" and they are resorting more to spearfishing to keep up in a deadly depleting short sighted way. The fish George was scaling would be a 100 Euro fish.
We ate way down to the left hand side of the bay. it was family, I had the Orata a fish resembling a Piranha including the teeth and it was average but worth the experience.
we walked back along the dock as the last of the locals exhausted after a day of service in their restaurants and shops smoked and drank coffee in the still clear air. Fletch was on a mission for a cone ice cream so we took our double scoop fruit gum and pistachio melting trophies and returned to the boat.
It was time to move and the day was hot. you wake to the sound of early commerce on the dock only a few metres away and the air just hangs in the cabin. looking up through the hatch the rig is bathed in light and the heat of the suns rays is already apparent. it would be good to get moving and create some breeze. We watched as the boats next to us did the tangles chain, anchor of yours dance, but the skipper from island a family guy with his family on charter did well. You grind the chain of the other boat up as it drapes your anchor. Perilously tie it off on your bow, lower your anchor and in a lucky limited way manoeuvre to drop your anchor out from underneath, then drop the other chain and get on your way. whatever the outcome or no matter how long it takes it is great entertainment. I don't feel bad watching, I have caused enough entertainment for others over the years in anchoring as we all have so it is fair sport.
We slid out of the harbour but even by the time we had got off the dock got rolling towards the harbour entrance we were dripping in sweat so stopped the boat off the rocks in the deep azure water still 90m only 15m from shore. It was completely calm so we dived off the back and cooled ourselves with a quick necessary swim as Ocean Free sat obediently in the glassy conditions and we splashed and swam like otters of the back.
It was a 15mile run, nothing really in this boat. She is long and lean and ticks off the miles under power or sail. Ocean Free is an impressive boat particularly in this part of the world. local gulets are wide and have that beamy galleon style side with a wide flared bow.
Ocean Free is the antithesis and stands out because of it. Her covered cockpit and superstructure ideally suited to the climate and the protection you need and draws a lot of admiration.
Travelling down the coast you are struck by how bleak and barren and utterly expansive and deserted it all looks. It is an illusion as this vast stony expanse on closer inspection holds great richness and pockets of intense and colourful occupation. you just see or even imagine it from afar, it is perfectly camouflaged by the building materials and rock structures.
We rejoined Sojourn anchored in our old style, not stern to high in the bay above the island of Kekova. They had been here a day already and gave us the run down on the sights and sounds and the plan was to visit a sunken city high in the head of the bay that we would traverse the narrow isthmus and it was reputed to lie at the other side.
we goatherd and set off in two inflatables planing along high in the bay the steep sides rising in scrub covered boulder strewn slopes, reminiscent once again of central Otago or parts of Barrier. There were two long wharves spreading their pier out to our approach each with an attached local dwelling come bar restaurant each with owners and son vigorously beckoning us to tie off with them and hence secure the trade of water, beer, and if they get lucky maybe the evening meal. we search desperately for a sight of Sojourns dinghy so we joined the right party.

An enthusiastic young boy raced to secure the boat and we all trudged through the open bar out the back and he was sent to show us the early way to the ruins.

We knew it was a kilometer but nothing else as we set out across a parched landscape of red earth that swirled around us and covered our ankles and legs staining feet and calfs like a bad spray tan. It was a desperate scene of failed wells, massive runs of dry stone walls and the feeling that despite all endeavours the land had won and was reverting back to form.
The area we arrived at was that of a steeply sloping hillside down to the sea, which high in this other side of the bay was shallow and muddied quite unlike the usual look.

The ridge was crowned with a massive ruined structure a fort or acropolis it is often hard to tell as due to the layering of successive empires can actually be both at various times. From here the ground fell away rock strewn and braided with paths and stone steps. As far as the eye could see dotted among the olive trees were massive sarcophagi some intact apart from the tell tale rat like holes chiselled and gnawed through their massive stone sides by the tomb robbers. Some sat as first placed others tipped at drunken angles with their huge heavy lids slid off and scattered like discarded toys. There had a been a massive earthquake about 300BC and the bay had tilted and ropped and the sea flooded in producing the drowned city effect. We decided on the clarity of the water and the huge amount of sight seeing shore side we would can the swim and we just fossicked around the sarcophagi in the searing heat. The place had a very strangely biblical feel and I was struck by the thought of sandled feet treading those same worn steps carrying bodies to their resting places as close to the sky as funds would allow to give then their best start for the after life. The ground was covered in pottery shards as old as the tombs, good remnants of handles bases rope formed pots marked by the rope used to form the pot shape and then be withdrawn via the neck as the clay dried. it was an eerie feeling that such a large a previously bustling place now desserted for centuries and abandoned.
We returned to the restaurant dock. This was a family enterprise, dad mama, complete in harem pants and scarf, peasant style worn and endlessly busy, their son a young boy of 15 and a younger sister shy and coy but desperately interested in observing us.
We ordered beers and large waters and sat at the table out over the water relaxing and swapping notes on our impressions of the necroploli and the afternoons walk.
Beers disappeared to our thirst and papa became increasingly anxious till finally he jumped in the 40 horse tinny and sped off into town at high speed. We had cut his stash and a quick trip to town was an emergency errand.
We were not sure if we would stay for dinner but it is good to help the local economy by participating and it promised to be an experience. Jo and I were dispatched to see what might be available. Mama had a wide white hovel kitchen with open fire in the wall and she was starting to sweat as she bustled and stressed to secure the booking. She had lamb, a frozen solid leg, potato chips and tomato salad. Through the wall on the dining area side from the kitchen they had a bed of coals waiting but we thought there was no way we would get fed before midnight but decided we would sit it out and go with the flow. Sergen the son was desperate to please and ran at every service opportunity to point we tried to explain for him to slow down. He would run back to the fridge and come to a swirling dancing stop then dash back to the table with a grin from ear to ear. We drank and talked and mama sweated while dad cut frozen lamb from the bone and ushered it up to the bright coals and it was beginning to be transformed. the kitchen was like a furnace, a large open fire, fed by logs lined up across the kitchen floor and being fed continuously into the flames. Atop the open fire a large light aluminium pot of boiling oil, and mama head enclosed in the alcove of the chimney scooping the rising chips from the boiling oil and deftly flicking them back to the waiting platters as Sergen hovered to wisk them to the table he had set. We sat out over the water, paper doilies, napkins, cutlery and crockery all produced from this stone and concrete hut. It was amazing.

They had performed a clever minor miracle, the food was stunning well cooked and in their fear that we might not have had enough began producing chicken breasts beautiful grilled and herb dusted by the plate. We accepted then returned claiming we could not handle any more food but very grateful and that we we would pay for the food produced but they would be able to reclaim it themselves and eat for free.
After dinner Rosco produced the guitar and the part picked up. the family were genuinely delighted and started to dance and we welcomed them to the table. we were unsure as to how the father would react to mama's presence and participation but we all were so happy to see now the stress of the service was over dad welcomed mama to the table and she came willingly now changed and fresh scarved and embraced her man at the table head as the kids crowded in to enjoy their parents success and company. It was a great sight and with the clever and entertaining antics of Don Robertson with the joy of the turks to dance soon had us a party of old time proportions. Ross played, all sang then Sergen would trade turkish tracks and dad would leap up and lead the dance. The highlight of the evening was mama dancing with Don robbie as we laughed and drank under the harsh eco bulbs in this beautiful part of the world.
Family joy and party times have no boundaries and are the same the world over. It was a privilege to have shared this evening with them and we slid into the darkness towards the anchor lights of our boats riding silently in the bay.