Monasterys of Meteora

  Kalambaka, Greece
Thursday, September 27, 2007

Moving right along we mounted the bus again for a long drive to Kalambaka in the northern end of central Greece. Along the way, about an hour east of Delphi, we made the required stop at wool-weavers SHOPPING emporium where we were encouraged to buy everything in the place.
 
If the archeologist had her time in the sun for the past several days, it was now time for the bus driver's skill to take center stage. The mountainous region we traversed was aclutter with steep descents, ear-popping ascents, hairpin switchbacks and the like. We motored through these like we were late for a wake. We threaded our way through the small town of Arakhova at times with less than six inches of room on either side of the bus, peeping, re

Village of Arakhova

luctantly and with embarrassment, into the second-story windows of the stores and homes along the street. The driver never blinked an eye but the residents into whose homes we were peering did.
 
This bravado performance ended after about 2.5 hours with what must be an all-time pinnacle for highway audacity. Our road ended at a four-lane north- and southbound major highway. We were approaching from the west. There was no entry ramp, underpass or overpass. Apparently you just drove across the two lanes of traffic approaching from the left, crossed a small median and then tried to find an opening in the traffic approaching from the right - one thing if you were driving a Fiat, another when driving a full length touring bus. Our driver accomplished the first leg of the mission but could find no opening for the second. As a result, our bus was effectively parked at right angles to the on-coming traffic and his passengers sat, looking like deer caught in headlights, wondering if all these cement trucks, dump trucks, busses and other vehicles were going to be able to stop before they very literally entered our world. As I play the tape back in my mind, it was sort of hilarious watching the driver of the cement truck furiously sawing back and forth on his steering wheel, smoke pouring from his brakes and tires as he tried to bring his vehicle to a semi-controlled stop. Once he accomplished the feat, with feet to spare, he sat in the cab of his truck hollering and gesticulating for the several minutes, which seemed like several hours, that it took for us to MOVE! I'm not sure what he said - it was Greek to me - but it probably had to do with the current price of wheat.
 
We arrived in Kalambaka for a late lunch at the foot of the giant sandstone monoliths that are the singular geological feature of the area. These things soar as much as 2000 feet straight up and it was decided, in the late 1300's AD, that the pinnacles would be good places to build monasteries. If it was solitude the monks were after they found the right place because the only way to get to them was to scale the vertical cliff face or, eventually, to ride up in a bucket on a rope. The apparatus to wind the buckets up could still be seen although the six currently active monasteries now have road/stair/bridge combinations that allow easier access.
 
We visited two monasteries. Nuns run them all now, the monks having apparently cooled to the whole idea. Each featured small gardens that grew herbs and flowers, living quarters that we were not allowed anywhere near, and

Monoliths of Meteora

small chapels in the Greek Orthodox tradition. The striking features of the chapels were the gold-inlaid frescoes that covered every surface and told various stories from the Orthodox scriptures and history. One in particular featured the most graphic and horrifying pictures of early Christians being tortured and slain in highly creative ways by various Roman and Islamic interests. Now I understood why the monks sought the high ground.
 
Curiously, in one of the chapels several of the wall frescos had been seriously vandalized. It looked like someone had taken a chisel and crudely removed the faces. Out in the courtyard Anitazizi was sitting on a bench so I sat beside her and asked what the explanation might be? She reported that the Turks had defaced them - they were graven images. I asked why nobody had bothered to repair them, since the Turks had been driven out in the 1820's? She said, "It is impossible. They have been desecrated." A light came on at this point and I said, "Ah. So these frescos are not just paintings. They are sacred objects!" Anitazizi leapt to her feet and said, "Of course! Are you Catholic? No, of course not. Otherwise you would know these things!" and flounced away. High-fives all around.
 
Each monastery also featured small SHOPS where we could buy icons and other religious paraphernalia,

Fine place to get away

speaking of which, on our way back to the hotel for the night we made another obligatory stop, this time at an icon factory. Here we were told why a genuine icon costs so much and we should SHOP until we dropped. I have never been inclined to own an icon and neither was anyone else apparently because we all fled and milled around in the parking lot until our bus returned to pick us up.
 
And that was effectively the end of the first leg of our Greek tour. The following morning we were shepherded to our bus to endure the six-hour return across the cotton fields that are the plains of Thessaly and on to the metropolis of Athens.