Day 74: Leaving Kythera

 

The wind howled across Kythera this morning, the kind of gale that shakes shutters and whips the sea into a frenzy. For a while I thought it was fate’s way of keeping me anchored to the island, perhaps for another week. The ferries rarely challenge such weather, and with the island battered from all sides it felt like the Aegean itself wanted me to stay.

I hitched first to Potamos and then on to Agia Pelagia, expecting to find the port in lockdown, no boats daring to brave the waves. But at the Martha booking office the young woman behind the desk reassured me with a smile—it wouldn’t be Pelagia today but the more sheltered harbour at Kapsali. A ferry would leave at 5:30 p.m. Hope restored, I had a few hours to gather my scattered belongings and say my farewells.

Up at the Vouno I collected my pack, said goodbye to Cheryl, and left a note for Wayne before taking the winding road back down to Pelagia. I lingered there over lunch with an Australian teacher, though her conversation never strayed far from smoking joints and late nights. The sort of girl, I thought, you’d fall into bed with at a party and slip away from before morning.

The road carried me onward. Two Aussies gave me a lift as far as Aroniadika, then a Greek driver took me further—his car enlivened by an unlikely passenger: a London rasta with a Jamaican lilt and his Oxford-based girlfriend. Strange combinations, chance encounters; it seemed fitting as my Kytherian chapter closed.

At 6:15 p.m. the ferry pulled away from Kapsali. I stood on deck as the whitewashed villages and craggy hills slipped into the distance, swallowed by the dusk. Did I regret leaving? I wasn’t sure. Three months of steady work, food, and a bed had given me comfort and routine—but comfort can quickly turn to confinement. Out there lay uncertainty, hunger, nights without shelter… and freedom.

By the time we docked at Neapoli I had company again: the rasta, whom I dubbed “Peter Tosh,” and Marie, his girlfriend. They’d just been searched by the police and assumed it was racial harassment. But minutes later I was pulled aside too—their real quarry, it seemed, was a German causing trouble somewhere in town.

The night ended not with triumph but with fatigue. Hitching toward Sparti was hopeless; no cars stopped. I bought some bread and cheese and made do with a corner of an unfinished hotel as my bed. The stone was cold, the air damp, but I had crossed the water.

800 drachmas lighter, but one island heavier in memories, I had left Kythera.

Day 69: Kythera - Jackhammers, Postcards & Soviet Breakups

 

Location: Kythera, Greece

Some days on Kythera unfold gently — those extremely strong and sweet Greek coffees in the sun, a breeze from the sea, a bit of hitchhiking to somewhere stunning. Today was not one of those days.

By 7am, I was back on the building site, bleary-eyed and barely functional. My shift ran through to 2:30pm and concluded with a solid 45 minutes wrestling with three donkeys. They were only marginally more cooperative than the tools.

Not an hour after regaining consciousness from a sleep that almost took me to the other side, I found myself clutching a pneumatic jackhammer, cracking through rock under the already punishing sun. Kythera may be a Greek island paradise, but today it felt more like a quarry and "Trial by Heatstroke." But shit happens, and I know you lose pieces of yourself — and find new ones too.

The jobsite is ruled (if that’s the word) by Dieter, the mad German who looks more alarmingly like the Kaiser everyday and acts like someone with a nervous breakdown permanently pending. Today’s drama? Lambraki (Λαμπράκης) — one of the local lads — made a major construction blunder. Fortunately, Dieter spotted it just as the day ended, narrowly sparing us his full Teutonic fury.

Still, it's only a matter of time. The man is juggling too much, barking orders, flying off the handle, and generally spiralling. If anyone's going to spontaneously combust out here, it’s him. In a strange way, I almost admire the spectacle.

On the gentler side of life: I got a lovely postcard from Mum and a letter from Nain and Bob — always a boost. There’s something grounding about seeing handwriting from home when you're thousands of miles away swinging jackhammers. 

Wayne, meanwhile, received a copy of the Daily Telegraph in the post. Holding a British broadsheet in the middle of the Aegean felt surreal — like a telegram from another planet. But it’s good to get some context about the wider world again, albeit from a right wing perspective.

🌍 Elsewhere in the World

History's in motion:

Six republics of the Soviet Union have now declared independence — Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Armenia, Azerbaijan, and Ukraine. Even on a small island like Kythera, the tremors of global change are being felt. It feels like the world is shifting, and here I am up a mountain with a hammer, dirt in my lungs, and sweat in my eyes. 

💸 Island Finances & Currency Shenanigans

I'm trading 15,000 drachma for $100 AUD with Martina — a cheeky little exchange rate hack that nets me the equivalent of £4. Not much, but here, every drachma counts. Between beers, bread, and borrowed time, we live off scraps and sunshine.

Sitting at Cafe Faros this evening, I heard English accents, very uncommon in these parts. I didn't latch on that I could speak their language, but ear-wigged their conversation;:

“I think feminists are women who can’t achieve orgasm.”

Ha ha - Everyone’s got a theory when the beer’s cold and the sun’s set.

My hair is now so full of dust it's forming natural dreadlocks. I might be mistaken for a Rasta if not for the accent (when I'm not pretending to be Greek) and industrial boots.

Emotionally, the homesickness creeps in quietly. I’ve made my decision not to return to Wales — at least not right away — but there’s a pull. I miss the family, especially little Daniel.

And in a final note of schadenfreude: Rupert Murdoch reportedly lost £187 million last year through his newspaper empire.

Ha ha ha.

There’s something soothing about rich people losing money while I count drachmas and barter my way through the Aegean summer.

Day 41: Kythera - Hard Labour, Cold Beers, and Long Walks

 

The alarm dragged me out of a restless sleep at 5:25am — the kind of sleep where you’re never fully under, just hovering in half-dreams. I threw on my raggy shorts and even raggier t-shirt, grabbed two big tomatoes for breakfast, and climbed the path to wait out on the main road in the faint pre-dawn light. After a long while, just as I was starting to think I’d been stood up, Kostas finally appeared around 6:30am, pulling up on his 600cc trial bike. I climbed on, and we set off.

He took me to Fatsidika — a village inland from Agia Pelagia, somewhere in the heart of Kythera’s rugged hills. I'd never been before, but it was a working place, not a tourist stop — raw and sunbaked, with the smell of cement and dust in the air. My task for the day? Unload 89 sacks of cement off a wagon, and then feed them one by one into the beton machine (I’m still not sure if “beton” is just the Greek word for cement or something slightly different — either way, it was heavy).

By 3pm I was ready for food, and the work was done and I was paid 10,000 drachmas — not bad for a day’s graft. We all sat down for a proper meal together — meat, bread, and cold beer, the best kind after a hard day in the heat. One of the many Nikos (they’re everywhere here) gave me a lift back to Pelagia, and cranked up a mix tape for the ride: The Doors, The Stranglers, and Echo & The Bunnymen blaring out of the speakers as we wound our way through the dusty roads. Perfect soundtrack.

Later that afternoon I walked down into the village and met up with Wayne. We took a swim in the sea — part wash, part cool-down — and were heading back up the hill when we bumped into Céline and Agnes, literally just as we were about to go looking for them. They were starving and there was no food at the shack and they had no money, so we convinced them to walk all the way back down the hill with us for a meal at Cafe Faros (and, naturally, beer).

Wayne stayed down in the village for the night (sleeping on the beach) — he’s working for Dieter tomorrow (traitor!). The rest of us trudged back uphill to Kalamitsi, slowly, legs aching. Céline and Agnes are leaving tomorrow — heading off to meet Philippe, Steffan, and Marie before making their way back to Paris.

I talked with Wayne about going home to Wales for a couple of weeks in September. There’ll be some challenges, for sure — the usual balancing act. But as long as I can keep working here regularly, I’ll manage. Maybe I can even stretch to a flight from Athens, if the drachs keep rolling in.

Day 39 – Kythera: Chasing Sun, Postcards, and Paprika

"Wake up, you lazy bastards!"

That was our alarm call this morning, courtesy of Wayne and his special brand of sunrise motivation. It did the trick — within minutes we were up and hitchhiking, pairing off to make our way to Potamos.

📍 Potamos – Our Postal Lifeline
Potamos is about 12 km north of Agia Pelagia — not far, but on Kythera, hitching is often the only way to get around. We go there regularly, drawn by the small thrill of eating hot bread from the bakery and checking for mail. Without a fixed address here, we rely on the Poste Restante system — a lifesaver for travellers like us. Basically, it's a service where the post office holds your mail until you come to collect it. Today, Wayne scored a postcard from his folks.

🏖️ Paleopoli & Avlemonas
After Potamos, we hitched down to Paleopoli for the third time this week. It's hard to resist — the beach there is wide, sun-drenched, and perfect for lazy sunbathing and great swimming. Once our limbs had absorbed enough Vitamin D, we headed east to Avlemonas, a tiny and stunning fishing village that looks like it was plucked from a postcard.

The road from Paleopoli to Avlemonas curves inland before dropping toward the coast again. It’s not a long ride — maybe 6 km — but we’re always at the mercy of passing cars. Today, luck was on our side.

🍅 Choriatiki & Beers by the Sea
In Avlemonas, we treated ourselves to a choriatiki (Greek village salad — tomatoes, cucumber, olives, onions, feta, all drenched in olive oil) and a cold beer. Simple, perfect, and part of my calorie controlled diet. We lingered, savouring both the food and the view, before starting the return journey home.

🚗 Hitchhiking Back – A Waiting Game
Celine and I got lucky again and scored a lift straight back to Potamos, but then wasted an hour and a half waiting for Wayne and Agnes to catch up. Hitchhiking: part travel method, part social experiment.

📉 Island News – Work Woes and Surprises
The mood shifted slightly when Wayne found out that Taso doesn't want him to work for the season. Not ideal. Meanwhile, I found out that Costas does want me to start work — at 7am on Friday. 

🌶️ The Paprika Incident
Back at the shack, we cooked up a vegetable dish that should’ve come with a warning label. I don’t know what we were thinking — maybe we underestimated the paprika, or maybe it was a different kind entirely — but within two bites we were all frantically gulping water, eyes wide, noses running. A fiery end to a long, sun-drenched day.

Day 27 – Kythera: Blood, Sweat & Bush

Agia Pelagia, Kythera

My fingers are absolutely wrecked today — six and a half hours of swinging a pickaxe at solid rock will do that to you. I must’ve shifted half a mountain into that wheelbarrow, and all for 500 drachmae an hour. Slave labour? Pretty much. It’s fine when I’m shovelling pig shit for 20 minutes — not exactly glamorous, but doable. But breaking rock for hours on end? That’s another level.

I’m seriously beginning to question the value of my time and my back. Cheryl muttered something about “writing down another hour” when I finished at 1pm. The so-called policy seems to have become a 2pm finish. But since when was that ever mentioned out loud? Tomorrow’s payday, and I’m going to have a quiet word. If they sack me, so be it. Let’s see them find another mug willing to do this kind of work for those wages. I’d actually be okay with 4,000 drax a day if the hours matched the job — it’s the imbalance that stinks.

Meanwhile, Mickey reckons he might have a better gig lined up — same sort of work, but 10–12k drax for seven hours. Now that’s a conversation I want to have.

And speaking of imbalance, there was a bit of a diplomatic riot in Athens last night. Six hours of chaos to “welcome” George Bush to the country. Nothing like a bit of molotov diplomacy. I need to find out more, but it sounds like the Greeks gave him the warmest possible anarchist greeting. Yeah!

Oh, and the alarm clock’s gone on strike again. Second morning in a row. Still, I was up on time, even the Greek Clock Gods can't stop me.

Later in the day, I tried to get cracking on some beach-cleaning work for Taso. Showed up at 3pm, but he wasn’t around and I didn’t have the tools to start. I finally bumped into him at 4:30, and he gave me the old “Where were you at 3?” line. Absolute tosser. Whatever — I’ll do it Sunday morning, properly.

Rounded the day off with a siesta on the beach — not bad, actually. Sun in my face, waves in the background, and two stunning French girls sunbathing topless fifteen feet in front of me. Life has its moments.

A quick swim, cold shower, then back to Mickey’s.

Kythera continues to grind and glow in equal measure.

Day 70: Kythera - Upsetting the German hippy

The sun rose over Kythera and so did I — reluctantly, as usual. You know it’s going to be one of those days when your morning starts with Dieter (our resident mad German foreman) storming around a half-built house, shouting orders like a man one stone short of a breakdown.

We were building again today — another stone wall, another chance for bedlam. This time, it came courtesy of Irving, a German hippy with a spiritual connection to rocks. I’m not sure there’s a worse combination than patchouli and perfectionism. Irving insisted on choosing “beautiful stones” for the wall and flipped out when Georgo (my Polish co-worker) and I committed the unthinkable crime of using… cement.

To be fair, Georgo and I are hardly a slick duo. He speaks no English. I speak no Polish. So we get by in pidgin Greek — a mix of gestures, swear words. The only Polish word I know is for “shit,” which, funnily enough, sees a fair bit of use on site. "Gówno" (pronounced GOOV-no).

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🌍 Meanwhile, in the Rest of the World...

While we were wrangling rocks and egos, the outside world kept spinning — and cracking.

A Ugandan Airlines 707 was forced to land in Yugoslavia today, intercepted by fighter jets and found to be carrying 19 tons of ammunition. Nobody seems entirely sure where it was headed, but it's a stark reminder that not all travel plans are made for pleasure.

In the East, the Soviet Union continues to disintegrate. Today, Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan declared independence, bringing the tally to 10 breakaway republics. Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Armenia, Azerbaijan, Ukraine — the list grows by the week.

Wayne quipped:

We’ll know Russia’s truly democratic when they include it on the Interrail ticket.

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📞 Mum, Maps & Money

Managed to get through to Mum today by phone. She said Marshall’s in Florida and heading back to the States soon. More importantly, she’s posted maps of Italy and France to help me on my next leg westward. No smartphone, no GPS, just creased paper and a vague sense of direction.

I also handed over 15,000 drachma to Martina, who promises to sort me out with more Australian dollars at the current rate.

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🎭 Dieter’s Mood Report

Shockingly, Dieter didn’t lose his temper at me today — which felt almost suspicious. But he made up for it by yelling at everyone else on site. He’s not so much managing the project as surviving it one tantrum at a time. The man looks like the Kaiser and acts like he's one faulty cement mix away from exploding.

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📝 Final Thoughts

Kythera is a strange place to watch the world fall apart. While republics crumble and planes full of ammo land under suspicion, I’m knee-deep in dust, swatting mosquitoes, building imperfect walls with perfect strangers.

I’m not sure where I’m heading next. But today — just for a moment — I felt like I was exactly where I needed to be: sunbaked, sweating, arguing about cement, and somehow still smiling.

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On Tomorrow’s Horizon:

• Will Martina come through with the dollars?

• Will Dieter implode?

• Will Irving find the “perfect stone”?

• Will Georgo teach me another Polish swear word?

Stay tuned.