The old attraction of travelling is the escape of routine and the avoidance of the dreaded treadmill of a deskjob, the dreadmill. When you are on the road for long enough, however, and you find yourself settling in a new place a new routine is inevitable. The very thing we fled from intitially. The contradiction of long term travel even manages to undermine an old travelling adage. "The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun." With that said, I have a definite routine here in Greece. This is my treadmill.
I have the luxury of waking up between 2pm and 3pm because I have nowhere to be in the day. After a lazy rousing, myself and my roommate Janner, a dreadlocked chatter-box Australian make our way to the beach over the hill. The beach is a standard meat market and most days are spent dipping in the sea and competing in spontaneous hand stand competitions in which there are three categories of endurance, stability and
freestyle. The beach is nearly a kilometre long of white sand and warm torquoise water protected be points on either side that make up the bay. It is the same beach that Cat Stevens used to give free concerts on for the hippies that frequented Ios in the sixties and seventies. A frisbee throw from the tip of the sea and across the tine street is the Far Out Hotel and pool where they have a daily DJ, cocktail specials, thee pools, a supertube, a restaurant and a big screen. This is where the excitement is and where most people spend the day lounging around the pool or if the occasion merits it, partying. There is a large contingent of staff on the island and everyone knows and is friends with everyone. It is easy because everyone is on the same wave as everyone else and here for the same reasons. Most of the staff are your stock standard Australians with some Irish, Kiwis and Canadians making up the numbers with a token South African to spice it up. We mingle and catch up on the stories from last night and get to meet the tourists and backpackers on the island to tempt them to come to our bars. Once the sun has scorched us sufficiently and our appetites peeked we head home in gangs, laying plans for the night and oaths of which bars to dance on and the extent of your partying intentions. Janner and I generally get home at 7pm or so, make something to eat and have a siesta after our strenuous day's activities. By nine our housemates will have returned from their day jobs on the beach as watersports guys and we catch up with some relaxed drinks on our balcony. There are eight of us in the house and all are cool and tuned in bar the Romanian invalid who is yet to look at me in the eyes in five weeks and who most consider to be genuinely retarded. Some nights we go for a BBQ at other staff houses on their balconies and take in the sunset but most we spend on our own with a few guests before we head out later. Our landlady is our Greek grandmother who lives directly under us and has no qualms exploring the house at her will and sneaking into our rooms. She speaks no English so hand gestures and grunts are all we have but she is sweet and washes our sheets once a week for us. I start work at midnight for a small bar off the main square of Ios and either mildly harass the passersby or go inside and liven up the dancefloor. Myself and two girls are basically rent a crowd so the bar looks full. We get free drinks and very few instructions other than to just be there. Technically the girls are floorwhores and I am a doorwhore. Those are just names. We close at 4am or so and we then meet up with other friends and go to the bars that will stay open till 8am causing havoc and joining in on the revelry. The best place in town is at the bakery after everything is closed where their pies are killer and they sell Bacardi Breezers and Smirnoff Ice. Strawpedos are expected and the bakery is the accepted rendezvous point for all the staff still out and about and a way to end off another day in paradise.
The only break in routine is the weekly and infamous 'Strawpedo Run'. On Mondays we meet at 2pm in the square and then make our way to the beach stopping at each of eleven mini-markets on the way to down a Bacardi Breezer with the aid a straw and hence the name. There is a flag and familiar and entertaining speeches at every stop with practiced traditions of opening the run such as getting a three person high tower and the top person does a strawpedo while holding a flag. Last Monday there were seventy of us and we must of made quite a spectacle as the strawpedos take their effect once we make it to the beach and many people end up having a little puke before the finish generally bright red and encouraged to be deposited in someone else's pocket, that is the common practice. That in general is my dreadmill spiced with kayak trips, cliff jumping, snorkelling and dancing competitions. If ever I was going to not complain about doing the same thing day in and day out this could be it. Depite that, however, I have been here 6 weeks now and that incessant itch in my feet is flaring up again but not just yet because July is the busiest month fattened up with St Paddys day in July, Independence day, Canada day, wet t-shirt competitions and huge influx of Scandinavians. Will let you know how it all plays out.
