The topography of Ikaria is similar to most other Aegean islands, mountainous with several imposing peaks reaching over 1,000 meters in height. Needless to say traveling by auto around the island is a white knuckle experience. One follows the mountain terrain traversing corkscrew roads often doing switchbacks, and progressing at the speed of a tractor that requires constant shifting and braking. I always find myself with a feeling of great satisfaction when I can shift into third gear even if it is only for a fraction of a minute, maybe covering a grand distance of fifty meters or so. Such terrain provides for a variety of activities, which includes occasional military maneuvers by the Greek army.
Once again I found myself in a hurry on my red Vespa going from Xilocirtis to Agios to pick up my wife’s birthday torte as quickly as possible before it melted in the 100 degree heat. Rounding one of the numerous bends in the road, I stumbled upon a detachment of young Greek soldiers huddled near their jeep under the shade of a large oak tree outside the yerokomio, relaxing and enjoying the national past time of Greeks, the compulsive obsession with political discourse. Continuing on my errand I raised my hand in the customary wave as I whizzed by the preoccupied recruits. A few kilometers later I was puzzled why I hadn’t run into any traffic coming the other way, when suddenly as I was hugging the outside curve of the road, several chunks of rock cascaded down in front of me. I looked up to see more rocks falling from the cliff above. Then came the puzzling noises. Noises that sounded like muffled firecrackers followed by pinging sounds. As I rounded an S curve I noticed another group of Greek soldiers blocking off the road with their military vehicle. Frantically gesturing and waving their hands at me, the officer in charge sprinted towards me.
“What are you doing here?! Where did you come from? Didn’t you see the road block four kilometers back?” he screamed.
Perplexed I replied, “There was no road block, just a bunch of soldiers relaxing and smoking under a tree.”
“Look down there,’ he gestured pointing to another group of soldiers in the ravine below the road, ‘we’re conducting target practice on this stretch of road; the road is closed for the next two hours.”
“Well,’ I countered, ‘your comrades at the other end aren’t aware of it and allowed me to proceed.”
In a typical animated Greek manner he explained that the noises I had heard ringing above my head were bullets ricocheting off the rocks. The soldiers, down in the ravine unable to see me, were shooting at targets a few meters above the very road I had just passed through.
Thinking to myself later that night Greek marksmen are either very, very good or very, very bad. The birthday was not the only reason for celebration that day.
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