The story about the convoys and the vegetable market brought back some fond memories from my time in the Hellenic Republic. We learned early on that you were shit out of luck if you stopped and asked for directions and you happened to get someone with less than a flattering opinion of the U.S.. We were restricted from wearing uniforms for the entire time I was in Greece, (May 88 - Aug 89) because of the "sensitive nature" of relations between the U.S. and Greece at the time. (Were they ever good?) We were supposed to "maintain a low profile" and "blend in". To this goal, all of our vehicles were supposedly unmarked. It didn't help much though, that the vehicle assigned to me was a Dodge Ram 4 x 4, sixpack pickup truck, painted OD green. Not too many of those being driven around the Peloponnese by Greek farmers. One time we decided to combine the delivery of equipment to a Greek army detachment with a sightseeing road trip on a three day weekend. The army detachment was in the mountains, about 30 Km from Patras. We kept following road signs directing us towards the town of Flokas, where the army kaserne was located. In the process we passed through about a half dozen increasingly remote towns as we moved further and further into the mountains that make up most of the interior of the Peloponnese. In each of those towns we asked for directions and were given detailed, if surly, instructions on how to get to Flokas. After travelling over 100 Km on a 30 Km trip, we figured out that we had better just figure out how to get the hell out of the mountains, rather than find the army kaserne. We ended up at the end of a winding mountainous road at what appeared to be a sheep farm, with a massive stone arched entry into the farm. We pulled in, intending to turn around, when saw that our way out was blocked by one of the largest men I have ever seen. He was fully 6' 6'' and weighed an easy 300 lbs. He was a movie caricature of a mountain chieftain, a chest length beard wearing a sheepskin vest and carrying a side by side double-barrel shotgun. My partner looked back and said, "Holy shit, it's the king of the mountain bandits". The giant looked at us like he was going to have us for lunch and motioned for us to get out of the truck. I decided I, discretion being the better part of valor, to do as he asked. I got out and he asked, in perfect Oxford English, "American army?" I told him no, we were Air Force and he said "even better!" I was afraid to ask, better for what? He then stuck out a huge hand and introduced himself as Spiro Koutsomitopolou and welcomed us to his "summer home". We were offered wine and something to eat, which we gladly accepted. We spent the afternoon with Spiro and his two sons and their families. It turned out that he was Oxford educated and was apparently a wealthy importer of automobiles, trucks, and heavy equipment, who lived in Athens, but spent the summers at his family home in the mountains. He had been a young boy during the German occupation of WWII and still had fond memories of the Americans that liberated his home village. We told him how we had ended up at his farm, and he just laughed. After about a half dozen bottles of wine, some food, and a tour of the farm, he offered to drive us in our truck (he said he hadn't had the pleasure of driving a "good American V8" in years) and have one of his sons follow to drive him back. In every village we passed through, he would stop and have words with either the police chief or someone of importance. Apparently he was letting them know that we were his dear friends and that henceforth we would be treated accordingly. In one village, Lapas, he stopped and we were all welcomed to drinks at the local Taverne, where we met all of the village's important men and learned that we were in the heartland of the Greek communist party. All of our hosts were devout communists and obviously knew we were American GI's, but apparently our status as friends of Spiro overrode any political considerations. While we were there, we were treated to the local "moonshine", a triple distilled, raisin liqueur called Trippero (sp?). It was about 120 proof. Before the afternoon was up, my partner and I had learned at least a dozen traditional Greek folk songs and a couple of dances. When we were invited to suggest a song to sing, the only thing I could come up with was the Love Boat theme song. (That trippero is wicked) It went over fairly well, and to this day, if you go to the village of Lapas, and sing "Love, exciting and new, come aboard"...etc., etc., there is someone in that village that will join you in singing. I like to think of it as my small contribution to a Greek/American culture exchange. Well, to finish the story, being unable to walk, much less drive, we stayed overnight in Lapas, and the next morning completed our trip to the Greek army kaserne. It gave me some sense of satisfaction that Spiro felt as poorly as I did. We found the kaserne. After saying our goodbyes to Spiro and his son, we dropped off the piece of equipment and headed back home. Going through a couple of the villages, a few people even waved at us instead of glaring or giving us the "poof". (You know what I mean George. That gesture with both hands, palms outward, that effectively curses you and your ancestors. We called it, the "poof".) We found someone had placed a large jug of Trippero in our truck, which we brought back to our detachment and broke out on special occasions (usually with devastating results). We visited Spiro several times at his home in the mountains and in Athens several times over the next year and I keep in touch with Spiro to this day. He and his wife stayed with us during the Olympics here in '96 and we had a blast. Hopefully, if Greece isn't declared a hostile country by the State Department, my wife and I hope to visit them this fall. I haven't spoken with him, since the onset of NATO activity in Yugoslavia, but I don't think it's anything that would come between us.
Hopefully, some of those NATO drivers took the road less taken and ended up making some friends and drinking some trippero. |
