Pyrgos Dirou Caves

Following road signs to the town of Areopolis, our first destination was the Pyrgos Dirou caves. Discovered at the end of the 19th century (with a whole new section found in 1983), this labyrinth of caves meanders for approximately 44 miles, possibly reaching as far as Sparta.

Following a subterranean river, small, six-person boats float visitors through the fantastically formed stalactites and stalagmites encrusting the walls and clinging to ceilings. Some even protrude up from the water. The cave’s liquid passages are so convoluted that only certified spelaeologists are allowed in without a guide.

After lining up to don hard hats and orange life jackets, we gingerly stepped into one of the rocking rowboats along with four Germans.

As our guide paddled us along, our eyes played tricks as we strained to see the water’s bottom, not discerning if it was inches or feet deep. Everything was silent, but for the rhythmic dipping of the oars and an eerie echo as drips fell from the pointy stalactites into our watery path.

We floated from room to room, murmuring in awe as each turn brought a new wonder. Thirty minutes later, we emerged from this underground fairyland and returned to the warmth and light of the summer sun.

The Mani

Back above ground, we admired the intense aquamarine of the little bay just below, streaked with a dazzling white beach. Sitting just above this lovely sight is the town of Areopolis. This area had been hard hit during the devastating fires that had racked the Peloponnese just a month before; we drove past the grim evidence in silence. Whole hillsides were burnt to a crisp — two blackened cars hunched at the side of the road, the metal twisted in on itself. From home, I closely followed the new reports as this horror unfolded, reading terrifying tales of trapped families dying in their cars. No longer impersonal stories in a newspaper, these scenes were all too real.

Turning south to delve deeper into the Mani, we pulled off for a closer look at a monument sitting alone on a corner of the road. It was a tower monument to Petrobey, who you may recall, was the reason for the assassination of Greek president Kapodistrias in Naplion. Petrobey, prominent in the fight for Greek independence against the Turks, had been the foremost leader of this wild region known for its proud and independent-minded people. When Kapodistrias ordered Petrobey’s imprisonment, his clansmen didn’t stand for it.

Historically resisting foreign rule with a vengeance, the Mani can be likened to the Mafia-run areas in Sicily. Known for vicious clan feuds and vendettas, the Maniots (derived from the Greek word “mania”) claim to be the last descendents of ancient Sparta, supposedly breaking off from that city during the Roman period. The Greek expression, “Mania’tiko” means to hold an unrelenting grudge — the proud and hard-as-nails people that inhabit this land personify this phrase.

Onward we drove, further south into the third finger of the Peloponnese. The Mani is also known for its tall, skinny tower houses, seemingly made of patchwork stone. Dotting the stark landscape and clustered in the villages, these stony marble-roofed spires served as private forts for the warring clans. Adhering to strict rules while carrying out their vendettas, the object was to smash the roof of the opponent’s tower; thus, house heights rose to four and five stories.

In this part of the Mani, everything seems made of stone. Groves of stunted, wind-twisted olive trees sit amongst boulder-strewn terraces and low walls, mottled gray blending with the dusty silver of leaves. Austere and slightly forbidding, I nonetheless found this rock world of the Mani hauntingly beautiful.

I knew Gino wanted his beach time, otherwise I would have pushed on further south to Vathia, a town whose skyline is thick with tower houses. Instead, I settled for turning onto a small, partially paved road stuck with signposts pointing towards Tigani and the promise of a castle. Winding up and around the narrow, deserted road, we arrived at a tiny, isolated settlement. No was about except a man shaking a rug from an upstairs veranda.

Not finding any castle, we plodded along the empty streets, meeting no one but a dog which emerged from one of the back alleys. The dog was alone except for the small group of pigs he was expertly herding across the town. As we walked further down, ferocious barking convinced us to end our visit and we quickly trekked back to the car.

Cafe Oyzepi

Retracing our way, we noticed the prevalence of bee boxes and roadside vendors selling fresh, natural honey. I regret not stopping to buy some. But these amber jars did remind us of lunch, and we kept an eye out for some place to eat along the way back. Not having noticed any restaurants on the drive in, I had my doubts about finding something in such a desolate area. But as we came onto a small taverna at the side of the road, I pulled over. A scratchy sign nearby read “Cafe Oyzepi,” among other words I couldn’t understand.

No one was about except a man sitting on the elevated veranda, smoking. As we approached, a young woman emerged from the door leading inside, and we greeted them both. Explaining we were looking for lunch, we asked if they were open. Only Greek spoken here, but the woman indicated she could make us a lunch of pork, potatoes, and Greek salad. We enthusiastically agreed. For drinks, Gino ordered a beer, and I ordered carbonated water. When the woman didn’t understand my request, I named a Greek brand of bubbly water I had had before. She repeated the name back to me, although it wasn’t exactly how I had said it, and I nodded yes.

As we relaxed and waited for our meal, we looked around. Greek music played softly from the speakers while a cageful of chickens clucked and pecked nearby. Two meowing cats swished between the tables, hoping for a stray morsel from the upcoming meal. From our vantage point, we could look out onto miles of rocky olive groves, the sea in the distance. Few cars went by on the adjacent main road — it was very peaceful.

Lunch arrived. It turned out to be one of the best meals we had. Tender pork steak, those delectable Greek potatoes, a colorful Greek salad glistening with olives, and a plate of fresh feta cheese drizzled with fresh olive-oil — fabulous!

Then my “water” arrived. Miscommunication, without a doubt! I had mistakenly ordered “Tsipouro,” which sounded similar to the brand of water I had tried to pronounce. Tsipouro is a very strong spirit made from the solid remains of pressed grape skins. Similar to grappa, it is 45% alcohol — not exactly something you want to gulp and then try to navigate over unfamiliar Greek roads. However, not wanting to offend the woman, I demurely sipped what seemed a respectable amount and left the rest. After profusely praising this woman’s culinary talents, we waved goodbye. Back in the car, we laughed at the mix-up as we continued our way back to Gythio. We arrived safely, notwithstanding the Tsipouro.

More Ruins, Please

Our lunch had eaten up more of the afternoon that we had expected, so we postponed our beach trip until the following afternoon. Instead, we asked our hotel proprietor for a map of the town. Sighing sadly, the clerk informed us there were no maps of the town and, in fact, there really wasn’t much at all to see. I asked her where we could find the Roman amphitheater we had read about, but she said it wasn’t even worth bothering to go there. While she lives next door to 2,000 year old ruins so familiar and commonplace that they are no longer “special,” people like us live in a country where 100 years is old and something still to be awed.

Undeterred, we set out to find this small Roman ruin, consulting the sketchy description in our guidebook. The directions took us to the outskirts of the town and we passed decrepit buildings and empty lots stinking from the decay of garbage. Still, no Roman amphitheater or the army barracks that were supposed to sit next to it. I was about to give up, but Gino was thankfully unwilling to let the search go; we ended up finding it!

There was the army compound, unmistakable. A lot littered with broken, abandoned cars lay at the foot of an adjacent fenced off area. And behind the fence, the scant remains of the amphitheater — not very big, but quite recognizable. Dismayed at how these archaeological remains were so poorly maintained, we were sad to realize how they were obviously also so poorly regarded.

Not far from the ruins we passed another fenced lot, this one containing fallen ancient columns and broken bits of building. As we photographed it, an old woman emerged from one of the nearby houses and shouted a hello. She saw we were interested in the ruins and explained these were leftover from the time of Pericles. Although it is unthinkable that nothing is being done to protect this ancient heritage, I recognize it would be impossible to protect every remaining chunk of every past civilization. Otherwise, the entirety of Greece would be nothing but an enormous museum.

Images only to be seen in Greece flashed past as we walked along the street that stretched along the water and veered off towards the pier. Groups of men, hands busy with cigarettes and worry beads, sat in straight-backed wicker chairs engrossed in endless games of Backgammon. A gray-bearded priest in long, black, flowing robes, stove top hat to match, darted in and out of traffic. An old rickety truck, heaped with huge bales of hay, lumbered through the center of town, two people clinging to the top of the shaky pile.

Rows of octopus hung from ropes, dangling over the tables of a taverna. A dilapidated pickup rolled slowly through town, toys and beach gear strapped to the roof and hood, while the driver hawked his wares over a microphone. This was true Greece, a working Greece, not just a tourist’s two-week fantasy.

That night for dinner we ate at a square that blared obnoxious carnival-like music over loudspeakers — not very relaxing, but the homemade spanikopita was good. Back on our balcony, we finished a bottle of wine we had lugged from Monemvasia, and watched the gleaming lights of an enormous cruise ship anchored offshore.