The men of the region of Sfakia in the White Mountains of western Crete have the
reputation of being the tough guys of Greece. There’s a proverb in Greek which sums it up well:
Av έχεις Σφακιανό φίλο,
Κράτα ένα κομμάτι ξΰλο.
The best translation would be: If you think you’ve got a friend from Sfakia, you’d better be carrying a wooden club!
In the mountain villages of Sfakia, the men are mainly shepherds. They are phenomenally fit, have a lean and hungry look, and do not trust strangers. This is understandable in that historically, Crete has been ravaged by Barbary Corsairs, Venetians, Turks and Germans. But the Cretans always, always, fought back, at times with suicidal courage. Crete, then, is a warrior society. But there is also a local dimension to this suspicion, for the strangers might be involved in the national sport of Crete: sheep stealing. It is hardly surprising, then, to learn that most of these men carry pistols tucked into their waistbands under their shirts, for the runner-up national sport is vendettas. So when my partner and I moved into the remote village of Askyfou at 2,400 feet in the White Mountains, I was pushed to breaking point, for we were the first foreigners ever to live in the village. I eventually won grudging acceptance by demonstrating that I was competent in the savage terrain of the White Mountains, but that acceptance was always conditional.
One evening in June, I wandered down to the taverna where a group of the local shepherds were sitting enjoying the early summer heat. They were obsessively curious about Scotland, and as we drank small glasses of Tsichoudia, the fiery local raki, I was bombarded with questions. I was asked if whisky was made from onions! Then I was asked if I believed in the Loch Ness Monster. Of course, I said, thinking that’s some job the Scottish Tourist Board is doing.
There was a shepherd called Tassos at the table who for some reason didn’t like me. I couldn’t work out why, but thought it might be to do with the fact that I spoke good, idiomatic Greek. I knew that Greeks believe that their language is too difficult for foreigners to master but I also knew that was wrong. I called for another round as it is important to shout your round in the company of Cretan men. In that sense, they are just like Glaswegians. A carafe of Tsichoudia and a cucumber were placed on the table, for Greek men never drink without eating something. I took out my Puma folding knife, opened it, peeled the cucumber, sprinkled it with salt and chopped it into pieces. I put my open knife on the table and raised my glass.
'Se yeia,' I said. Your health.
'Se yeia,' the shepherds said.
Tassos picked up my knife and tested the edge with his thumb. 'Sharp,' he said. 'It’s a good knife. I’ll just keep it.' He folded the knife shut and put it in his pocket. There was silence round the table.
'Give me my knife back,' I said.
Tassos said nothing, but stared at me and loosened his jacket. He carried a pistol in his waistband; practically every man in the village carried one. Oh no, I thought, here we go again, more macho posturing. It’s like wee boys in a school playground in Glasgow shouting: “ma Da will batter your Da.” I knew it was a test, but one which was potentially lethal considering the number of pistols and knives round that table. A ball of ice suddenly formed in my stomach.
'Give me my knife,' I said, taking a deep breath, 'or I’ll come over the table and
take it back.'
Tassos sneered. 'We know you don’t carry a pistol, Yianni. You’re a foreigner, you don’t count. I could just shoot you and throw your body down a ravine, and nobody would know.'
The men round the table watched the exchange with inscrutable faces. The silence was deafening.
'My five brothers would learn about it,' I said. 'And they would come out from Scotland and kill you, and all your sheep, and blow up your house. You don’t mess with my family.'
Tassos studied me for several moments, reached into his pocket and threw my knife on the table.
'I’ve got a better one,' Tassos said, taking out his own knife, and opening it. It was much bigger than mine, a French Opinel knife with a wooden handle. One of the other shepherds poured another round, and the tension evaporated.
Later, as I strolled home through the village, I was overtaken by a couple of the
older shepherds, Yorgos and Strati. Yorgos laughed.
'Ekanes kara, Yianni,' he said. I translated in my head: you did good, John.
Stratis slapped me on the shoulder. 'Five brothers, eh?'
'To tell you the truth,' I said. 'I’ve one brother. And one sister.'
Stratis roared with laughter. 'Bravo, pedi mou.' Bravo, kid! It was just as well they couldn't see the uncontrollable tremor in my knees.