Escape from Sfakia

Eve Zanni

Word Count 2888

1973

The village appeared out of nowhere as the ferry rounded the southwest corner of Crete, then coughed and sputtered slowly into the port of Choras Sfakion. Stone houses nested on the steep southern slope of the white mountains down to the sea, as if thrown there by a giant’s hand. I was twenty, on the plump side, with a bushy cascade of long, dark, curly hair worn loose or in one long braid. I wore cargo shorts, espadrilles and loose peasant blouses. When we docked, I began to explore the village of Choras Sfakion, or “Sfatch-YA” for short. I only knew that I wanted to stay, had to stay. And I had almost no money left. There were two seaside cafes with a few locals hanging out and not much else. I wandered around, climbed up a mountain path, saw a tiny store and went in. The stone shop sold a variety of vegetables, canned goods, Greek church icons with huge dark eyes and essentials like tools and dish soap. The proprietor was a good-looking, muscular guy named Nikos who was very friendly. We chatted a bit but he didn’t speak much English and my Greek was minimal.

As my eyes got used to the dim, I noticed another figure seated in the corner. Nikos introduced me to his father who wore the full regalia of the Kritiko Palikari (loosely translated as a “proud warrior”) the fringed, beaded scarf circling his head, the soft, baggy full trousers that closed at the ankle, the silky, black shirt. By his feet lay a long, curved sword. The father was also very good-looking, with a regal head of gray and white hair and a profile like a Greek statue or image from an ancient coin. I asked Nikos if there was any work available in the village. He conferred with his father and then declared, “You will STAY in ‘Sfatch-YA!” Then he sent me back down the mountain to find his elder brother Yanni, who ran the seaside taverna.

Yanni and I hit it off immediately. He was tall, dark-haired and spoke English fairly well. Yanni had been a merchant seaman and had traveled the world working on ships. He was back home trying to whip the family businesses into shape. Tourism was pretty sparse but when visitors did come, they needed someone who spoke English to help them, so he hired me to work in the taverna. I sang songs and played guitar when business was slow, to the slapping of the waves on rocks below.

The taverna had four rooms nearby to rent for guests. After serving the customers in the taverna, I cleaned the rooms and got them ready for tourists. I was paid twenty-five drachmas a day with meals included. I was allowed to sleep in one of the guest rooms if no guests showed up. When all the rooms were full, I slept out on the beach or in a stone cabin on the mountain.

Many of the locals were shocked to see such a young woman traveling alone. I was a source of surprise, even suspicion. But I was making friends and just believing that they would eventually “see my heart” and understand that I was there to appreciate their culture. Not to upset the rhythms of their lives, but to listen and win their trust. I often wished I was invisible and could disappear into the land and culture to experience it without my age, gender or nationality getting in the way of peoples’ acceptance of me.

I was on a life mission, like my literary and musical inspirations; “Siddhartha”, “Meetings with Remarkable Men”, “The Odyssey” and singer-songwriters like Joni Mitchell whose songs about traveling— “All I Want” and “Carey”— were composed in her early twenties. Joni had lived nearby in the caves of Matala on the other side of Crete a few years before I happened there.

Yanni became a good friend. He was overjoyed to have someone to speak English with and we sat up late into the night, talking about everything from Greek philosophy to The Beatles.

One day there was a sudden flurry of excitement as a young man on a strapping horse thundered down from the mountain, kicking up clouds of dirt and stopping mid-turn with a swagger. Georgios, younger brother of Yanni and Nikos, and his horse were beautiful to behold and my breath caught in my chest. The whole village watched his arrival. I saw that his eyes were amber like the sun setting on the rocky hills of myrrh and oregano.

The moon was full that night as I climbed the narrow kadzi-KO dromo or goat path up to the stone house where I was sleeping. High in the distance, I saw a figure coming down the same path. There was nowhere to hide and our bodies almost touched as we tried to maintain our footing while passing one another on the steep path. Something happened when we locked eyes. Maybe we became enchanted by the supernatural brightness which filled the whole sky. Love had captured and claimed us under the full moon.

An old Irish ballad “The trees they do grow high…” became my theme song and I often found myself singing it with my guitar in the cafe…. “For he was only sixteen years and I am twenty-one, Oh, the bonny boy is young but he’s growin’…”

Georgios was not like any sixteen -year-old I had ever met before….he was strong, sure, smart and mature beyond his years. We would steal away to be together; sometimes lying for hours in a sea cave above the Libyan Sea, where we tried to see Libya in the distance. Neither of us spoke the others’ language so we invented our own. Our love talk was tender and thrilling. We seemed to understand each other completely. I had never experienced what I felt with him. His trembling wonder and response to the softest touch set off heavenly waves all through me. Georgios was not my first but I was his. Each thrill he felt set me vibrating like an undulating earthquake. He looked like a blissful Apollo and I was his goddess.

We met in secret for several months. I had many friends amongst the villagers or so I believed. But the tide was turning. I began to notice hushed, scandalized whispers from the women in black head scarves as I passed by. A young fisherman and close friend of Georgios’ kept warning us to be careful or our secret would be out. The village was divided, with those few who “believed in love” and the many more who did not. The village was buzzing with the words “Georgios ee Eva” repeated in corners, carried on the wind. I’ll never forget when our fisherman friend yelled at me in frustration “Eva, Love does not EXIST in Sfakia!”

One day I boarded the boat for Loutro, the next village over, to visit a friend. I wasn’t expecting to see Georgios whom I thought had returned to the shepherd’s station, but as the boat pulled away from the dock, I saw him running down the mountain! He ran to the boat but we had already left the dock. He stood on the dock, his arm reaching out to me with a tragic face. I hung over the back of the boat with my hand stretched out towards him, tears streaming from my eyes. Looking around, I suddenly realized that the whole village was watching us!

Our secret was out. There was only one telephone in the village and it was located in the post office. Georgios often phoned me from the mountains and I went there at the agreed-upon time to receive his calls. Little did we know that the post office lady, who I thought was my friend, had been eavesdropping on our conversations and sharing the details with everyone.

Things really began to heat up then. Yanni explained to me that Georgios was the family’s great hope to form a marriage alliance with a suitable bride from a good Kritiko family who would bring a dowry of land, sheep, goats.

Nikos, the second eldest brother, had already asked me about my prika, which I found out meant dowry. I had jokingly replied that California girls had better things than a dowry to offer but apparently that didn’t sit well with him.

Tensions were mounting. One night in our sea cave love nest, Georgios asked me to marry him. I was surprised and giggled, trying to picture myself in a black head scarf, staying inside a stone house all day, cooking, cleaning except to go out and swim fully-clothed at the Women Only beach. I told him I loved him but wasn’t ready to be married yet. I was twenty years old but still felt like a child. I was supposed to return to London to complete my studies. He didn’t appreciate my answer at all, and slapped me. Love was quickly turning into something else.

One evening, when the four tourist rooms were full, I went to sleep on the beach. I was followed by an older man named Marcos* with green eyes, whom I recognised as a friend of Andreas, father of Yanni, Nikos and Georgios who often came to the taverna. Like Andreas, Marcos wore the old-style clothing of the palikaria. We had never spoken. By the light of the stars and the sound of the sea, he ripped my clothes off and raped me. I never told anyone. For fifty years I buried this memory in deep shame that I had been so stupid and naive to sleep alone on a beach, as a girl of twenty.

Several days later, the fisherman warned me that I was in big danger. He told me that Nikos had a gun and was planning to kill me because I was ruining his little brother’s chances of marrying a respectable girl with a big dowry. Yanni was in love with me and wanted to kill Georgios out of jealousy! And their father was planning to kidnap me and bring me up to the shepherd’s station in the mountains and keep me there as his sex slave. I had to get out of there, fast.

A couple of Australian tourists were leaving overland to catch the bus from a mountain village to eastern Crete. Late into the night, I told them my story. They got excited about helping me to escape with them. The guy kept yelling “The fix is in!” Early the next morning, we trekked overland until we made it to the bus that came twice a week. Then we traveled east to Iraklion where we parted.

In Iraklion I stopped into a small store to buy a yoghourt. I kept my head low and when I spoke in dialect, the woman asked me if I was from Sfakia. I was pleased that she thought so. I played along to see how long I could get away with it. Then she asked me if I had met the American girl who was with the son of * * Kyriakis?! Her voice was intense with delicious scandal. Using gestures, few words and determined to salvage my reputation, I said Yes, I know her well and she is a GOOD girl!

* Not the real name

* * Not the real family name

2023 Epilogue:

It felt important to return to Sfakia because I needed to make sense of things. I had experienced a great love affair that upset an entire village and people had taken sides in the ancient battle of sex versus traditional taboos and the control of women. But I wasn’t sure if I had exaggerated or imagined the danger I was in. I needed to understand how I’d fallen under the spell of this village and a beautiful shepherd boy. And why this passion was stronger than any concern for my personal safety.

In August 2023 I went to Crete and stayed in a yoga retreat held in the village of Sfakia. My days were filled with meditation, yoga, swims in the sea, walks in mountains. I was surrounded by a small, loving, caring group of women. The leaders of the retreat, a lovely yoga couple, learned my story and set about helping me to unearth answers to my questions. They introduced me to Eleni*, a warm, perceptive village woman who had grown up with the Kyriakis family. As she spoke, I listened and asked questions. She kept her voice low. Speaking of those long ago times and the people who were gone, filled her brown eyes with emotion and perhaps a little fear.

I told Eleni how Georgios had suddenly turned against me. And I told her I’d been raped by Marcos. She solved the mystery for me. She said that she was certain that Marcos must have bragged about having me to Georgios which could have necessitated a blood feud to-the-death between them. Defending one’s honour by blood was everyday business in Sfakia. But by painting me as the temptress, I could be sacrificed instead.

I learned from Eleni that Georgios had perished ten years after our love story in a disastrous car crash on the eastern side of the island. Five young adults including two tourist girls had died. He was twenty-seven. My Georgios, in his short lifetime, was known for violence and illegal activities. If I had married him, would I have died in that car as well?

* Not her real name

Andreas the father was long gone. In addition to his courageous acts of heroism in the past, Eleni knew stories of his violence to his wife and daughters. While he lived, an entire village, perhaps an entire island, were afraid of him.

The following day, the yoga couple brought me to meet with a local herbalist and historian who knew the family well. Vangelis was sad and horrified at what I had experienced and told me that this family had a long, devious and murderous criminal history, going back centuries. There were stories of women confined on their property for sex and men who’d been murdered in feuds or in one case, for a pair of boots. Vangelis assured me that I did well to escape when I did.

Nikos, the second eldest brother is still there. He runs his cafe and grocery store and still unleashes fear and intimidation in the village. His family, who work in the taverna, recently ordered him to stay in the back, because he loses his temper and scares away the tourists. I was afraid to see him up close but I did glimpse him getting into a car, on my last day there. He still looked good; strong, fierce, proud, scary. Still wearing muscle T-shirts. The yoga couple told me about an incident in recent times, where a tourist who’d been living in the village was working for Nikos and had done something Nikos didn’t like. The tourist was beaten so badly that he’d left the island, a cripple.

The eldest brother Yanni’s businesses had flourished. He had passed away but his cafes, grocery, tourist shops and eco- hotel were all thriving. He had been the dutiful son and his hard work still brought great benefit to his family and the village. He was respected and known for his gentle heart. Eleni had worked for him and told me about people he had quietly helped, expecting no praise or recognition. He had never married. Once Eleni asked him why. He told her that if he married, he feared that he might become like the other men in his family. He wanted to avoid the fate of abuse and violence that plagued his family, so he could not take that chance.

To learn that Yanni never married and the reason why, really hurt my heart. I thought about the many conversations about love we shared, late into the night under the Sfakian sky. He believed in love and he believed in me, but I left. He knew that the ancient traditions of Sfakia were powerful. He chose not to tempt fate and instead he broke with age-old patterns and lived his life alone. In a village of brave heroes, I think Yanni was the bravest of all.

I returned to the U.S. still processing the whole thing. I began to feel a growing lightness that has somehow left me feeling more whole. Gaining some clarity and insight into what happened in 1973 helped me release a mass of trapped emotion that was weighing me down in 2023. I think I have forgiven that brave, foolish young girl who fell in love with a wild, ancient world and lived to tell about it.

Eve is a jazz singer, instrumentalist, composer, writer, educator, and leader / founder of Bliss Singing.   She has been creating music and lyrics from childhood, was born in California into a family of singers, musicians and activists, spanning several generations...her father’s Vaudeville legacy includes membership in the famed Harmonicats and oldest brother was the bass player with many famed bands such as Canned Heat, Kaleidoscope, Maria Muldaur. She grew up surrounded by jazz, blues and world music in a family of performers.  Eve’s essay writing and record reviews have been published in her own Jazz Superheroes; a history series for young people, reviews for Shanachie Records, Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood and more.  Listen to her music at www.evezanni.com