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I was leaving Matala with Anne and Thomas, the dedicated communist German from Ulm, who owned the French Peugot which elevated and lowered its suspension at the flick of a switch. He and I had argued about communism and democracy for a week every night in the taverna. My strongest argument, the one which he couldn’t answer, was to ask him where all the communist travellers were? Why was he the only one from a communist country who was free to travel where he liked, do what he wanted?
Thomas’ idealism was admirable. We agreed, at least, that the rich, communist or capitalist, were still screwing the poor. He owned a car and offered me a free ride to Iraklion when he learned I was leaving.
Anne was leaving Greece, too. She was from England, I was heading for London. She had seen me around Matala, decided to accompany me.
I collected the drachma which were saved for me by my boss, Costa, the young, local godfather in Matala. He gave me an allowance each week, kept back a portion of my pay. I worked on various construction jobs he had, was hardened, tanned and strong when he paid me off.
He held back a bit for himself, just to make sure everyone knew who was the boss. If he hadn’t saved some of my pay for me, we both knew I would have blown it all.
The ferry from Iraklion to Piraeus was boring and uneventful. Just as well. After living for six months in Matala, on the southern coast of Crete, never leaving, it was a slow emergence into the outside world.
One of the most embarrassing occasions in my life occurred just then. I had the crabs. I got them in Matala and was at the stage of exterminating them which required sexual abstinence. There was to be no carnal contact, not even snuggling, in case of infection of another and a rebirth of the cursed bugs. But I was ashamed. I was too embarrassed to tell Anne.
God knows what she thought.
Anne had lived in Matala long enough to know that I wasn’t gay. She was attractive enough, the ex girlfriend of a guy who was the grandson of Robert Graves, the poet.
But I passed up perfect opportunities and situations which thrust us together. You don’t get much closer together than when you hitchike together. I had recently been through hell, living in my makeshift tent in the campground, scratching at myself. I wouldn’t have wished it on anyone. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell her.
It was bad enough telling Costas and the boys in Matala. They all took a step away from me.
Costas wrinkled his nose when he asked why I didn’t tell him sooner. Later, he admitted that when he got them, he separated himself from his family home and friends until he got rid of them.
After a few smog filled days in Athens during which we were treated as fair game, ripped off everywhere we turned, we concluded that the air fare to Britain was too costly. There was an election on in Greece, something catastrophic was happening in Northern Europe, living in Athens, even on our skimpy budget, was too expensive. Reaching London could be done, cheaper, by hitching most of the way.
Anne was fighting with her parents, proving her independence. She could easily get the required air fare home but refused to make the call, thereby signalling to her family that she was dependent upon them.
I thought she was crazy.
A guy seemed to meet us in Brindisi, when we landed in Italy. He appeared, smiling like a long lost brother, gave us pizza and a room for the night, ostensibly, for free. He finally demanded payment in sexual favours, from Anne, but too late. By the time he sneaked away from his wife, it was morning and we fled.
On the motorway, heading north, it was easy to see why veteran travellers advised always to hitch with a woman in Europe. Even eighteen wheelers with full loads stopped for women.
The first big rig which came by, skidded to a fishtailing halt, up the highway. The driver didn’t care about the truck, t