IT’S THE end of a hard day examining English, but while Cyprus is pounded by gales the setting sun over the Gulf of Messinias is casting shards of light across a flat sea. I have six hours to kill before bedtime, so I head to a small traditional taverna at the harbour’s edge and watch the Mountains of the Mani change from pink to blood red. What to drink? I’m working early next day so I must remember to pace myself. A few old fellows in the corner have ordered ouzos; I hate the liquorice taste so I decide to follow their suit. I know I’ll sip it slowly.
It was in one of the villages of the Messinias that we watched women collecting the leftover remnants from the vines; grapes, stems and peel, in a waste not want not attitude, boiling and stirring great vats all day to create the mash to distil to the homemade alcohol of raki. I was told that each village has its own recipe: it is during the first fermentation that they add fennel or anis to give the distinctive flavour, but in the second fermentation each will add their own special signature of cardamom or cinnamon, ginger or cloves.
My ouzo arrives clear and sticky in its own little bottle, not the most popular cr?me de la cr?me Plomari from the island of Lesbos, but one locally produced from the owner’s village. He assures me it’s the best. He brings a little plate of mezethes, dark plump Kalamata olives, tiny titbits of salty village sausage, chopped vinegary octopus and creamy cheese.
My little table with its checked cloth and backdrop of mountains and sea looks like a tourist brochure; in the calm evening, one lone monk seal, a rare but not uncommon sight in these waters, is following the trail of a fishing boat collecting its own aperitif of leftovers.
I pour a little water into my small straight glass and watch the alchemy as the milky white appears: the colour forming as the anis and other essential oils transform into opaque white crystals. At around 40 per cent alcohol, I still don’t like the taste, and much to the amusement of the men in the corner with their weather worn fishermen’s faces, I add more and more water until my glass is practically clear. But the mood of the moment is still magical as the increasing twilight reveals lights winking across the bay. It’s working, I am drinking very slowly indeed, I have already been here an hour and still have half my little bottle left. Then I make my mistake. I order more water and some ice. It arrives with a top up to my mezedes of cucumber and chopped ham. As I drop the ice into my remaining ouzo, the men opposite gesticulate wildly, waving their hand and telling me off like a naughty child. “Oxi,” they tut. I ignore them, and put on my ‘it’s my life and I’ll do what I want’ look. But still they look concerned.
By the time I finally finish ice, water, ouzo, mezedes, two and half hours have passed. I feel smug and satisfied at my self-constraint. The owner, brings the bill, it costs exactly 1 euro 50 cents. I wonder how they make a living. Pitch dark, save for lone light of Venus, I head to my hotel, happy in the knowledge that I shall wake clear headed.
It was seven when my mobile stirred me. The first thing I thought was that during the night my head had been invaded by an alien force, little men with red hot pokers who were excavating my eye sockets. Dammit, I can hardly lift my head off the pillow. Eyes half closed, I scrabble for the Neurofen, gulp down two, and take my searing skull to the shower. Cold water always seems to work in those cowboy films. No luck, worse. I had to be at the school by nine. It’s against the rules, but I take two more Neurofen. Dressed, sun glassed, I walk through the early morning heat haze, head throbbing, every step as painful as the little mermaid’s. The green cross of the pharmacy is my only hope. Like a penitent I confess my sins to a white-coated woman; she smiles the smile of the guardian of knowledge. Ah, she said you put ice in your ouzo, the frozen temperature creates anethol, it’s a poison. I felt like grumbling: “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Then I remembered. My sin of arrogance: absolution comes in the form of a fizzing glass supplied free from the chemist. It works, the army of alien invaders leave, just a faint echo remains of their labours. But, worryingly, as the sun slips on another day’s work I am left with a desire, to sit and, siga siga, sip it one more time…
