In July 2019 I visited Greece. I took an 11-hour ferry trip from Piraeus to the island of Leros in the south eastern Aegean Sea. Leros has a butterfly shape with natural harbours and whitewashed fishing villages. Medieval fortresses, ruins of byzantine churches and windmills dot the hilltops. For a few days, I enjoyed the breezy shade of the tamarisk trees and the surf lapping the pebbled shores after snorkelling in the crystal-clear waters. Trust me, you can taste the freshest fish and the best hand-made ice cream on Leros. Tourists are a rare sight.
At the time, my sister worked at the island’s refugee reception centre. It was installed on a long-abandoned Italian naval base founded by Mussolini in the 1920s. Tents and portacabins filled the gaps between palm trees, oleander bushes, dry fountains and the Art Déco buildings.
The place was full to bursting. Every evening before the departure of the ferry to Pireaus a river of bodies, loaded with baggage, flooded the local port.
‘Once they are granted refugee status,’ my sister explained, ‘they can’t get away fast enough. They are dreaming of a better life in places like Germany or Sweden.’
The night I left Leros, the ferry to Piraeus was docked at the port, lit up in the darkness, its bow visor open. Refugees boarded first. Then a handful of tourists and I. The ferry looked like a monster swallowing people whole. Through a maze of stairs and empty corridors I found my way out to the lower deck. Every space was occupied by the refugees. The throb of the ship’s engine mixed with a Babel of languages. I tried to find clues in their faces of what they’d been through, but I only saw tiredness and weariness.
On the upper deck the stars were out. A man, leaning on the rail, was talking into a mobile phone. The wind was taking his words away. He exuded a peculiar, outdated 50s charm, with a James Dean quiff and a cigarette dangling from his lips. He wore a pin-stripe burgundy suit, and white polished leather shoes.
A young scarecrow of a man, appeared. I had noticed him on the lower deck bumming cigarettes. He sidled over to my James Dean and made the sign for a smoke. James Dean offered him a battered packet with a couple of cigarettes pocking out. Mr Scarecrow, excuse the nickname, plucked them without hesitation. James Dean, looking like a hologram emerging from a high tech-appliance, gave him a light. Mr Scarecrow went to a quiet corner of the deck, and there in the dark, he reduced to a glowing tip.
Legend has it, the sister of Alexander the Great was turned into a mermaid when she decided to drown in the Aegean Sea at news of his death.
‘Is King Alexander alive?’ she would confront the sailors who caught sight of her with the question.
‘He lives and reigns and conquers the world,’ the sailor must reply.
Any other factual reply and she would transform into a raging monster that would send the ship straight to the bottom of the sea. I broke out in a cold sweat thinking of those lost at sea fleeing their homelands. What if they too have become mermaids desperate for hope.
Mr Scarecrow had fallen asleep. As I crossed the lower deck back to my cabin, I caught sight of the white leather shoes among the sleeping refugees.
The following evening, I took the overnight highspeed ferry from Piraeus to Crete, the world’s fourth top travel spot. An old friend was expecting me in Heraklion. Every lounge was crammed with tourists. I curled up in a comfy chaise longue in the glass-fronted foredeck with a book.
In the morning, I struggled out of the ship into the Cretan sunlight. The ferry was spewing tourists, cars, and lorries, filling the air with exhaust fumes and blaring horns.
Outside the port, as I was crossing the highway with a crowd of backpackers, I saw him again, Mr Scarecrow. On the other side, he bumped into a man in a pin-stripe burgundy suit, cigarette dangling. My James Dean. I had no idea how he could have gotten there. The two men stared at each other for a second, smiled and hugged. As I left them behind me, I hoped they found home in that embrace.
The place was full to bursting. Every evening before the departure of the ferry to Pireaus a river of bodies, loaded with baggage, flooded the local port.
‘Once they are granted refugee status,’ my sister explained, ‘they can’t get away fast enough. They are dreaming of a better life in places like Germany or Sweden.’
The night I left Leros, the ferry to Piraeus was docked at the port, lit up in the darkness, its bow visor open. Refugees boarded first. Then a handful of tourists and I. The ferry looked like a monster swallowing people whole. Through a maze of stairs and empty corridors I found my way out to the lower deck. Every space was occupied by the refugees. The throb of the ship’s engine mixed with a Babel of languages. I tried to find clues in their faces of what they’d been through, but I only saw tiredness and weariness.
On the upper deck the stars were out. A man, leaning on the rail, was talking into a mobile phone. The wind was taking his words away. He exuded a peculiar, outdated 50s charm, with a James Dean quiff and a cigarette dangling from his lips. He wore a pin-stripe burgundy suit, and white polished leather shoes.
A young scarecrow of a man, appeared. I had noticed him on the lower deck bumming cigarettes. He sidled over to my James Dean and made the sign for a smoke. James Dean offered him a battered packet with a couple of cigarettes pocking out. Mr Scarecrow, excuse the nickname, plucked them without hesitation. James Dean, looking like a hologram emerging from a high tech-appliance, gave him a light. Mr Scarecrow went to a quiet corner of the deck, and there in the dark, he reduced to a glowing tip.
Legend has it, the sister of Alexander the Great was turned into a mermaid when she decided to drown in the Aegean Sea at news of his death.
‘Is King Alexander alive?’ she would confront the sailors who caught sight of her with the question.
‘He lives and reigns and conquers the world,’ the sailor must reply.
Any other factual reply and she would transform into a raging monster that would send the ship straight to the bottom of the sea. I broke out in a cold sweat thinking of those lost at sea fleeing their homelands. What if they too have become mermaids desperate for hope.
Mr Scarecrow had fallen asleep. As I crossed the lower deck back to my cabin, I caught sight of the white leather shoes among the sleeping refugees.
The following evening, I took the overnight highspeed ferry from Piraeus to Crete, the world’s fourth top travel spot. An old friend was expecting me in Heraklion. Every lounge was crammed with tourists. I curled up in a comfy chaise longue in the glass-fronted foredeck with a book.
In the morning, I struggled out of the ship into the Cretan sunlight. The ferry was spewing tourists, cars, and lorries, filling the air with exhaust fumes and blaring horns.
Outside the port, as I was crossing the highway with a crowd of backpackers, I saw him again, Mr Scarecrow. On the other side, he bumped into a man in a pin-stripe burgundy suit, cigarette dangling. My James Dean. I had no idea how he could have gotten there. The two men stared at each other for a second, smiled and hugged. As I left them behind me, I hoped they found home in that embrace.
Ioanna Akoumianaki was born and raised in a blue-collar neighborhood in downtown Athens, Greece. She has travelled a lot as a marine biologist and has gathered many stories exposing the evils in society and the environment. She has published one such story in Greek. Ioanna lives in Scotland working on water sustainability.
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