For the first time in days, I almost managed a full night’s sleep. The sun woke me at 6.30am, and for once the mosquitoes had given up tormenting me. Instead, drunk Germans had provided the hassle, stumbling over Wayne and me as we slept on the beach. Wayne was still curled up in his sleeping bag as I tried to shoo them away with half-awake diplomacy.
By 9.30am we left Stalida—Crete’s answer to Rhyl—and, once again against the advice of my ever-patient guidebook, tried hitching the hundred miles across the north coast. Wayne and I agreed to split up and try our luck solo, arranging to meet later at Hania bus station.
My thumb was barely ten minutes into its shift before a Scottish couple pulled over, beginning what turned into a four-hour patchwork journey. They told me, quite casually, that civil war had just broken out in Yugoslavia. I blinked. Yesterday I was battling mosquitoes and elephant-foot toilets; today whole nations were imploding.
As we drove, I chewed over the madness of it. Why is it humans keep fighting over scraps of land, religion, or oil? Cats scrap over alleys, fair enough, but people? I pictured a BBC newscaster announcing: “Today, the Revolutionary People’s Army of Yorkshire lay siege to Manchester…” Ridiculous. Yet elsewhere, entirely real. It all came down to influence, conditioning: what you’re told to hate, who you’re told to fear. In Wales we were taught to hate the English enough to torch their holiday homes—though not quite enough, in my case, to bother with the matches.
The Scottish couple dropped me outside Iraklio, Greece’s third biggest city. I watered a bush in one of the countless half-built skeleton buildings (seemingly a national pastime: build half, then lose money, interest, or both) before sticking my thumb out again. A taxi screeched to a halt. I shook my head, turned my pocket inside out, but the driver waved me in anyway.
His cab was no Rhyl Skoda rattler—red leather seats, mahogany dash, BMW badge. He chattered in Greek, gesturing at landmarks and women, while I nodded “neh, neh” like a trained parrot. My eyes strayed nervously to the meter ticking up drachma. At 950 I panicked, grunted, and pointed. He laughed, flicked it to zero, and repeated “dhen pirasi” (doesn’t matter). Seventy-five kilometres later, I gave him 1,000 drachma (£3), thanked him with my best “efharisto poli,” and staggered out in Rethimno. In Rhyl, £3 wouldn’t get you into the cab, never mind halfway across North Wales.
From there, it was back to thumbwork: a motorbike ride, a farmer in silence, more long trudges through the heat. I sweated up hills, entertained myself by imagining the road as a lava river and the ants as alien “biological mechanisms” on a distant planet. At one point, I burned my leg on a motorbike exhaust. At another, I nearly kissed a farmer for pulling over, but settled for a polite “Hania?” and silence all the way.
By the time I limped into Hania, I’d been hitching five and a half hours. I bought bread, fruit, and cheese, and perched on the Venetian harbour wall to eat, refusing the shallow grins of waiters who looked like double-glazing salesmen begging me to sit down. A full English breakfast was my dream meal, but my wallet said otherwise.
By five, I dragged myself back to the bus station—grim, red benches back to back, the air heavy with exhaust fumes. Two Greek girls sat opposite, whispering and glancing at me. Attractive, though one was short with that sexy type of bulging body, the other, very pretty if a little under-nourished. They broke the ice in classic fashion: asking me to watch their bags while they both went to the toilet together (an international female ritual I’ve never understood).
Their names were Eleni and Nikola, both seventeen, both chewing gum like it was an Olympic sport. Eleni did all the talking—university in Iraklio, summers in Thessaloniki with her uncle, then on to Bulgaria to see her grandmother. They hated the American army base, hated smoking ads that promised “SMOKE A FAG AND GET A SHAG,” and were horrified when I admitted to having only £160 in travellers cheques and 10,000 drachma. “Very little in Greece,” Eleni scolded.
We talked until 6.45pm, and then Eleni, after a huddle with Nikola, turned to me and said: “Would you like to come with us?”
I blinked. “Where? Bulgaria?”
“Yes.”
It was insane, but tempting. They even offered to pay three-quarters, “our parents are very rich.” My brain whirred: was this a prank? A trap? A cosmic gift? And what about Wayne? Would I be betraying him? No. He’d have done the same if the roles were reversed.
So at 7.30pm, I was waving goodbye to Crete from the militarised port of Soudha, clutching an 8,200 drachma ticket for a coach to the port, a boat to Piraeus, then a coach to Thessaloniki. Only once onboard did the girls casually mention that I wouldn’t be able to stay with Eleni’s uncle (“he is very strict”)—but not to worry, “Granny in Bulgaria is fun.”
Was I being played for a fool? Possibly. Was it reckless? Definitely. But you only live once. Before leaving Hania I left Wayne a note, sellotaped to a bench:
WAYNE – GONE TO ATHENS, THESSALONIKI, AND BULGARIA! HONEST! WORK?
And with that, I was off—destination unknown, companions questionable, but adventure guaranteed.
