I am in the harbour for a change – waiting for some friends to come back from the round the island day trip. I am sitting at the Aktis bar and watching the world go noisily by…
The water boat is in – always a good sign in September when we’re very short of water. But there are many other boats in too. The Irini pumps water from her tanks into the pipes and ultimately to the island’s reservoirs. Meanwhile that water is being pumped back down to the harbour to wash down the decks of gin-palaces from the Cayman Islands and Guernsey. Strange that but sadly true – my garden is dying but at least their boats are clean.
The coastguard ship is also in and many yachts and gullets from Turkey are lining up to be guided in backwards. Drop your anchor on the other side and reverse in… the harbour is too deep for you to… ok, start again - and so it goes on. The Poseidon and the Diagoras are both out – it’s a Wednesday and everyone is taking advantage of the traditional change over day to grab a quite day on one of the caique trips. Only a few fishing boats and the refugee ship lie tied up and empty.
Cars pass me, not something I am used to being a village dweller, and there are lots of people that I don’t know, for the same reason. There’s a hustle and bustle going on down here that I am not used to and it makes a nice change. You might pay a little (or a lot) more for your drinks in Yialos but you get more people to watch while you drink them. There are some loud Italians at the next table who I am trying to ignore but you suffer from that in the village too. A couple of Rumanians pass me by on bicycles.
Suddenly there is a fracas in the lane behind me - something to do with a van, a ladder and an awning. By the time I turn to look the drama is concluded and all is calm again. It falls quiet in time for me to hear a solo bell toll up in the village somewhere. There is the faint whiff of sea on a slight breeze – it mixes with the smell of exhaust fumes and perfume as over-splashed young ladies giggle past, their yacht forgotten as they head in search of local lads no doubt.
Uniformed crewmen walk the opposite way talking into crackling walkie-talkies, the boss wants this or that and so get it while you’re on your break would you? Mobile phones ring and other people start chatting as a motorbike roars around the corner too fast and too loud - malaka! He’s only 14 and thinks people are impressed.
The diesel truck passes and, yes, he’s in his cab smoking again. So sure is he of the connections between his pipes and the inflammable liquid that he is always smoking, and we are always waiting…
The Italians are discussing their iced teas now and it’s getting very noisy – there is something of an opera of debate going on as to which flavour is best. I distract myself by watching the taxi boats pull in and seeing how many people caught to much sun today… ouch! There will be some uncomfortable folk not able to sleep well tonight.
More bikes, motorised and otherwise, pass me by as the harbourmaster blows his whistle and signals boats into their berths. People all around are chattering and the cars all seem to need new exhausts. Then suddenly it all falls quiet, as if the whole harbour was pausing for breath and there is a weight lifted from my head and my ears in particular. If I shut my eyes I could be back in the village, apart from the quiet clank of a bell and a pair of flip-flops padding past… And then it starts again.
It’s hot but an occasional cool breeze cools me down, as refreshing as a cold glass of water. More taxi boats unload and on the horizon I see the boat I am waiting for. A new edition of the Symi Visitor arrives with a bowl of crisps, how charming and more boats race in from the sea to find a place to stay for the night as six o’clock approaches. And then my party arrive, the cock tower strikes six, as if on cue, and the evening really kicks off.
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