It's OK if the Locals Do It...

Long-haul buses seem to be a great place to meet people, and the men of Central Crete were adamant that their buses would be no exception. On our way to Anogia (rebel stronghold up in the mountains - more on this to come), we had a 15 minute stop while we transferred buses. Just enough time, it seemed, for us to join a table of three old men sitting at a café by the bus stop for Raki shots and snails. It didn’t matter that it was 11am - what better time of the day to be raising your shot glass to the cry of “E Viva!”, and following it (very quickly) by a snail dunked in olive oil and vinegar.

Being shy little Kiwis, it took us a few minutes to accept the offer and fully get into things, and a few more minutes to learn the finer points of eating snails - like how to squeeze out the gastrointestinal tract and its contents before putting the snail into your mouth. Luckily our bus to Anogia came before we were stumbling around with oil dripping from the corners of our mouths.

Leaving Anogia, we were less lucky. Or more. It depends on how you like to spend the time waiting for your bus.

We arrived at the bus stop at 11am, and before we knew it, had been lured across the road to where a group of 5 old Greek men were switching between animated argument and hysterical laughter. It took three shouts of “E Viva!” before we realised that, for the second day in a row, we were being plied with alcohol before noon, and they managed to communicate (via charades, or course) that our bus was two hours away. As more and more rounds were poured, we learned about the village we were in, and the Cretan people in general (all of this was via charades, and then with the help of another man who joined our group and had lived in Melbourne for 30 years, so was happy to help interpret):

• Anogia always has been a rebel town, and still is. They resisted the Turks, the Venetians, The Ottoman Empire, and the Germans. Even now, the police won’t try and enforce he law there. We saw a police car drive through town as we were sitting there, and the men laughed and waved it away, “they will not stop in our village - they know they are not welcome”.
• The result of self-policing seemed to be an extremely strong community with some slightly unconventional conventions: (1) when a 10 year old boy was seen driving a ute up the main street, looking through the steering wheel it was explained by, “It is ok - he is getting his pilots license!”; (2) Every man at our table had not a hunting rifle or pistol, but a machine gun, in his home, “we will not let ourselves be invaded again”.
• The stubbornness of these people is legendary. As we were sitting with our recently adopted grandfathers, a man was sitting under a tree across the road dishing out wads of 100 Euro notes to people as they came to talk to him. We didn’t think that these men would allow drug dealers in their town, and they couldn’t be arms dealers (there’s no way that they would ever sell their machine guns), so we asked what the deal was. The answer? They refuse to put their money in the banks, so the government pension officer drives into the mountains with bags full of cash and delivers everyone’s pension in person. But he doesn’t mind too much - it means that he too can have a few Raki’s before heading back to the city.
• The hospitality of these people is just as legendary. We sat, talked, and drank for over an hour, during which time rounds would keep coming, stories would become wilder, and the men would wander over the road and return with loaves of bread and a round of cheese to soak up the Raki. Then the leader (if these men would follow anyone, it seemed that it would be this guy) stood up and walked over the road to his restaurant to light a fire. Then out came half a lamb on a spit - in case we might be hungry.

Turning down offers of more food, drink, and accommodation for the night, we stumbled onto the bus back to the city full of lamb, cheese, raki, great stories, and a strong dose of Cretan hospitality.