Burma: The Blockbuster (cont.)

Our trip has fallen during both Catholic and Orthodox Lent, and we wander the island surrounded by people with distinct types of rosaries in their hands and crosses around their necks. The fasting rules of Greek Orthodox tradition are relaxed on weekends, and today is a particularly spectacular Sunday in the local calendar. On this day, the secular Greek Independence Day coincides with the Orthodox feast of Annunciation. The Independence Day parade on Naxos, featuring school children in uniforms and nationalistic costumes, is presided over by the island's government and Orthodox pappa. After the march breaks off into a short speech and a prayer, the entire island proceeds to the local eateries for a feast of grandiose proportions. By the time we wander into one of the beachfront restaurants, the waiters have stopped bothering to clean off the tables, and the resulting bacchanalia of half-full glasses and dishes brings to mind that worship of the rowdy god Dionysus used to be widespread on Naxos.

The very next day, however, the picture of an island united in joyful celebration is shattered to bits. We wake up late and set out towards the Kastro; our ambitions include brunch. As we stroll towards a seafront avenue adorned with taverns and souvenir shops on the one side and fishing boats parked in the makeshift port on the other, we are greeted by the sound of festive music pumped over a loudspeaker. A large Orthodox church rings its hourly bells just as we approach the pier, and suddenly all the shops and kiosks start to close.  More fishing boats descend upon the port.  Men, women, and particularly children rush to fill the empty space between the shops. Men on boats pull out hand-painted posters. A few people take their place behind a low-wooden podium and greet the crowd, which cheers and chants in response. They are protesting! . . . but what?  Our scant knowledge of Greek allows us to pick out that it has something to do with the port: “Nαι λιμάνι! (Harbor—Yes!)” they shout over and over again. The same phrase is repeated on many of the posters. I delegate Dave to ask the proprietor of an ice cream kiosk whose shutters are still open what is going on.

“There are a few who do not want the new port to be constructed,” is her vague reply.

“They do need a better harbor on Naxos,” Dave notes as we walk up the hill towards the Kastro. “Remember what happened to us?”

Our first encounter with the island a few days earlier had not been entirely pleasant. The ferry that transported us from Pireaus, the port of Athens, had to make three attempts before it succeeded to dock in the harbor of Naxos. It was a windy day, and the ship kept getting blown off course, making contact with the dock impossible. Refusing to give up, the crew waited an hour before making each successive attempt, resulting in a three hour delay in our arrival. When they succeeded at reaching the dock on the third try, passengers, cars and trucks ran and rolled down the gangway all at the same time to accelerate the loading and unloading procedures. The wind continued to blow heavily at the side of the ship, and the crew yelled at the crowd to encourage them to hurry up. A harbor better protected from the winds—like we’d seen on the other islands—would save ferries time and do wonders for local trade, but reciprocally it would attract larger ocean liners and officially put Naxos on the map.

Back in November 2006, the Greek national newspaper Kathimerini devoted an article to the issue of the harbor on Naxos. The piece profiles a group of 33 residents who oppose the new construction.  Thirty-three people who oppose progress with soft arguments like “the mediaeval castle will be removed from the cityscape.” The crowd that we see on the pier cheering for the new harbor easily numbers in the thousands. Among their ranks is the mayor, who was quoted in the article talking about the need for an international airport and a harbor of regional standing in order to accommodate the growing demands for travel and transportation on the island.

We observe the proceedings from the top of a hill, standing by the walls of the Kastro.  The men and women on the podium change places behind the microphone, making speeches and leading the crowd in chanting for hours. But despite all the enthusiasm of the fishermen and restaurant owners, the group of “thirty-three” has been influential enough to block the new construction during three consecutive island administrations. The picture that unfolds in front of our eyes awakens the revolutionary spirit in my heart.

“Oh, the aristocracy,” I sigh, staring at the sea through the glassless windows of the mediaeval castle. The structure, currently under repair, presents a sorry sight. It stands windowless and doorless, with its beautiful Venetian floor and wall mosaic at the mercy of the winds and rain. “They’ll die off first but won’t change their ways.”

“But that’s the attraction,” Dave says. “You wouldn’t want to stay here if this were just another touristy, picture-perfect Mediterranean island with a big harbor, would you? Their way of life and all of its charm would be completely lost with the coming of big tourism. Of course they want to live better and earn more money, but they’ll end up being pushed out of their own island. Look what happened in Santorini. Neither you nor I want them to have their new harbor.”

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