Environmental & Architectural  Phenomenology  Newsletter

About Selected Articles Selected Reviews Cumulative Index Subscriptions & Back Issues

Claiming a Greek Island as a Precinct Sacred to the Twelve Gods Ron Walkey Walkey is an architect and Professor Emeritus at the University of British Columbia, Vancouver. He lives on the Greek island of Tinos and in Vancouver. In regard to this essay, Walkey writes:“I’ve received kind and patient help with translation from Evi Staikou; and support and encouragement from my friend and colleague John Gaitanakis. This essay is dedicated to the spirit of Bud Wood.” An earlier version was included in “Island_Built Event,” an exhibit in Mestre, Italy, 2005, curated by Phillipos Oraiopoulos and Aristidis Antonas. walkey@arch.ubc.ca. Text and photographs © 2010 Ron Walkey. In May, 2005, I was invited by Professors Phillipos Oraiopoulos and Aristidis Antonas of the Department of Architecture in Volos, Greece, to participate in a research journey to Gioura, a steep, rocky island in Greece’s Northern Sporades. The organizers asked several architects and scholars to join 30 students who had volunteered to explore Gioura’s identity and sense of place. Some two kilometers long and less than a kilometer wide, Gioura is one of the smallest of 9,835 Greek islands and islets. The island of Alonisos is its closest inhabited neighbor. For centuries, Gioura was administered by the monks of Mt. Athos, and no one lands on the island without a permit. More recently, Gioura and several nearby smaller islands have been designated a national marine park for the protection of sea mammals. The only Gioura resident is a watchman sometimes accompanied by his wife. The aims of our Gioura visit were intentionally vague: What identity should this unique island have? Perhaps this isolated place is not yet sufficiently fixed in the public eye? Are its current uses at cross purposes? As a protected biotope, do its possibilities need clarification and grounding? In this essay, I propose a “Gioura identity” arising from precise limits relating to place and defined by the inclusion of wisdom long exiled. I suggest that this particular Gioura identity is timely and may contribute toward confronting the impending collapse of our Earth ecosystem. The text is a travel journal, interspersed with personal reflections into which various myths and stories have tiptoed. *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * I had just returned to Athens from the green and rain of Berlin when I found messages from Aristidis asking me to join a weekend boat excursion from Volos to Gioura. The next day I was on a bus rolling north, passing new industries spread out along Greece’s National Highway. On previous trips, I had seen countless olive fields, but many were now flattened, squared, and fenced by factories. Passing close to the calm blue sea, I saw new tourist accommodations sprawling down to the shore and across the hills above—many of them villas, some straight out of an American soap opera, crying out their tasteless affluence. In the city of Volos, I walked the narrow streets toward Aristidis’ house. Many of the small courtyard dwellings that give the city its special identity are now overgrown and abandoned. Each block holds at least two construction sites of new high-rise apartments, all on pilotis and offering only the butt of a BMW to the urban pedestrian. Owners of the abandoned, older houses wait for the all-important demolition permit allowing entry into the current building boom. At seven the next morning as the sun rises through the mist and frees itself from the mountain of Pelion, I am on the quay. The sun’s warmth dissolves the memory of evening dew. It is good to be with Aristidis and Phillipos again and to join the others, mostly students, boarding a wooden boat named Odyssey that lies still on the mirrored morning sea. “Either fate is playing with us, or maybe the gods want to tell us something,” I think. “To what Ithaca are we bound? What have we to learn about design and identity, to learn about ourselves? And can we resist seduction along the way?” The captain tells us a fine windless day is ahead as we move into the harbor toward the open passage at the south end of the Pagassitic Gulf. As Volos falls behind, I see to the south the remains of a mountain blasted away to serve the appetite of the cement industry. Opposite are the ruins of the classical city of Dimitrias, once dedicated to the goddess of planting and fertility. Now that archaeological excavations have ended, pine trees grow there again. Like so many classical cities in this region, Dimitrias was probably destroyed in one of the fierce raids from the north during the fifth century BCE. From that day the city disappeared, and an illustrious civilization was extinguished. But what about the Dodekatheo, the 12 Gods of the Dimitrians? “Listen to what is said...” Why did we smash their sculptures? Why did we throw them from their temples? You know, they’ve never died, those gods. Ionia, they love you still, their souls remember you. Still. Like in the dawn of an August morning your mood is captured, given strength from their life. And sometimes, low over the hills, an ethereal and youthful form, vague and undefined, may swiftly pass you by.   The ride is idyllic. The students, having partied late, doze at this early hour. Others light up a succession of small paper-covered offerings as part of their sacrifice to the god of lung cancer. It is a time for reverie. Where is Gioura? How do we have permission to land there? Did the inhabitants of Dimitrias know Gioura? What was the island called then and how long did it take to get there? “Listen to what happened…” “We must never forgive Plato for disparaging Homer’s world of luminous, amoral fatality. We must continue to regard theology as a decadent form of reflection, one that already at its origin was headed downhill toward the modern wasteland of denatured “facts,” algorithms, and the banalities of “public opinion.” We round the point with the village of Trikeri high on port side. We see new roads slashed in the landscape to reach new recreation developments. At the crest of the hill and usurping the view from the cluster of old island houses stands a new concrete skeleton waiting to be clad as a large villa. I become uneasy, not from the sea but from sensing what has happened on this marvelous landscape in the 15 years since I last made this passage. All along the southern part of the Tisseo peninsula, to Platania and beyond, there is much new development: isolated, expensive, unsustainable sites where the glories of the sea and landscape can be consumed a few weeks each summer. I wonder about poetic content in the human effort now modifying this landscape. The rationale of the older landscape—the pathways, the low stone fences enclosing goats and sheep, here and there a few cultivated terraces—they spoke of survival with a timeless elegance. But now? As we pass the last elbow of land before we head toward the islands of Skiathos and Skopelos, we look up to witness the destruction well underway of a gigantic mountain landscape. From some 500 meters above, thousands of tons of rubble from a huge marble quarry pour down the mountainside into the innocence of the blue sea below. Will such aggressive destruction of nature someday end? We all know that it is not much longer before the Earth’s major support systems pass beyond the point of repair. Atmospheric poisons, climate change, ocean-current redirections, desertification—I don’t need to tell myself more. Demeter, goddess of fertility, together with the other 11 gods, must be furious. I watch for them from the corner of my eye. At a bay where my wife and I once swam naked and made sand castles with an exceptional three-year-old, I see a large cluster of tourist bungalows—units for passive, summertime consumption. They march up the hill, ignoring the ruins of an ancient defensive wall raised from gigantic fitted stones. Years ago I climbed beside that wall in wonder as cicadas ground away at my ears. What can the myths tell us about Demeter’s response to ignorance, greed, and destruction? What penalty is paid? “Listen to what happened…” Near to this place, only removed in time, Erysichthon, king of the Pelasgi in Thesally is so rich and powerful that he wants to add a great banqueting hall to his palace in which to entertain and impress his friends. His carpenters tell him that there are no long timbers available in his kingdom to construct such a huge roof. They tell him that only in the “Ieron Alsos,” the forest sacred to the Goddess Demeter, might such trees be found.         One day he enters into that grove leading 20 slaves each carrying a sharpened axe, for he is bent on harvesting all the tall poplar logs his new project demands. But the Goddess Demeter herself appears and, transforming herself into an old lady, stands in his way to remind the king that the forest is a sacred precinct where nothing should be touched by human beings. Angry and impatient, he sweeps her aside and threatens to kill her if she is not quiet. Enraged, the goddess draws herself up into her majestic form. With her feet deep into the earth, her head blocking out the sky, she screams down at him, “Build your dining room, dog, for you will need to eat there! You will need to eat there forever         The axes fall, the deed is done, the trees are felled, stripped, and assembled into a magnificent roof over a glittering banquet hall where now the first feast is prepared. Demeter sees all, then sends down the demon of hunger to enfold itself around and within the body of Erysichthon. Enthroned, the king sits with his retinue and begins to eat. Then he calls for his 20 cooks and 12 wine slaves to bring him more. This they do. But he calls them again, for his appetite appears insatiable.         Soon, all the animals he owns are slaughtered and eaten—the mules, even the cats. His fields are stripped of their harvest, even those that stand unripe. His father Triopas, son of Poseidon, makes excuses at court for the king, claiming an unexpected but necessary absence. It is not many days before the starving man must sell his own daughter to raise funds to buy food, yet he remains famished at the tables laden with such plenty. Finally there is nothing left to bring him to eat. Nothing. Then he begins to pull away at the wasted and feverish flesh of his own body, consuming himself… handful by handful. *  *  *  *  *  *  * From the deck I look out at the unchecked “development” and wonder what role the forbidden now plays in our lives. Perhaps we should not be making this trip—that this Gioura should remain prohibited to us. Is being an elite ever defensible? Are we, too, going there to “consume” the place? Maybe this odyssey is an illicit affair? Since that daring theft by Prometheus, human beings have been doing pretty much what they want when they want. With the help of technology’s short-term efficiency, we have drawn stored wealth from the ground so fast that any sense of limit is blurred in the fog of progress. Progress is freedom, right? Progress is unbounded, right? Yet why do we need to see limits as chains? Our daily survival, social discourse, and customs—all are shaped by what we’ve chosen to refuse. We are differentiated by imposed boundaries or, if we are lucky, by boundaries we ourselves set. Our responsibility here is to recognize internally set limits. Abstinence seems central but requires courage and experience with consequence. With it comes an opening into mystery and an awakening of poetic imagination. Maybe we should not land on Gioura and remain wiser by our abstention? The bowsprit noses out into a brisk wind rising along the eastern side of Alonisos. I see roads cutting down across the natural slopes to reach new development. More olive trees have been cleared for white villas. Little abstinence is visible there. Gioura and the small surrounding pelagos are now part of Greece’s only marine park, home to the few remaining seals in the eastern Mediterranean. I ask about these sea animals and learn that protection programs have so far been ineffective. Only 65 left! With water pollution, depleted fish stocks, and more and more pleasure boaters, these creatures’ demise is imminent. What monument will be raised to their absence? But wait, a few people are trying, and that’s good news, isn’t it? There is a park, after all. Also, they say the cave of the fabled Cyclops is on this island. “Oh, oh,” I think. “Listen to what happened…” They say that the cave high up on the western face of Gioura was once the lair of the Cyclops Polyphemus. Here Odysseus and his crew found themselves prisoners, being devoured two by two. Crafty Odysseus offers wine to the monster and blinds him when he falls into the swoon of sleep. This gives Odysseus the opportunity to instruct his shipmates that, by covering themselves with the skins of the devoured sheep that lay around the floor of the cave, they could escape. Of course, as Polyphemus was one of Poseidon’s sons, the rage of that god against Odysseus was multiplied, a situation that further prolonged the wandering of that old warrior. * * * * * * * But “they” are wrong, for the cave of Polyphemus is far from Gioura. It’s near Sicily. The cave on Gioura was the home of another, older Cyclops—one of three Cyclopes, all children, and, like the Goddess Demeter, of parents Kronos and Gaea. These Cyclopes gave to Hades his helmet of invisibility and forged Zeus’ dreaded thunderbolts. Either it was Arges, Steropes, or Broontes in the Gioura cave. One of them was killed, not by Odysseus but by Apollo in his anger over the death of his son Asclepius by the hand of Zeus. Asclepius had annoyed Hades because he had learned how to use Medea’s blood to bring the dead back to life. Acting in defense of the order in the world that is life and death, Zeus killed Asclepius with a thunderbolt forged by the Cyclopes. Apollo was seized with a violent rage and, taking up his arrows, killed the Cyclops, But it is not told which one. Two thunderbolt-making Cyclopes must still remain! As we approach the southern cliffs of Gioura, the captain slows the engines. We cautiously approach the island’s forbidding limestone cliffs dusted with low, thorny, green bushes and milk-holding cacti turning red in the May heat. These cliffs are steep, perhaps reaching 200 meters before leveling off out of sight far above. We see a small, enticing path zigzagging its way back and forth up a slope and disappearing over the crest. The path touches the water without a wharf or landing. Our boat glides slowly forward as the cliffs rise up high enough to shut out the wind. The captain is worried—How to land us? “Won’t we change our mind?” he hints. But we’ve come too far, and abstinence doesn’t seem to be on the program. Turning the boat, the captain orders a heavy anchor dropped. Some 200 meters of chain rattle over the cleat until he is confident the anchor has reached bottom. The stern lines are made fast, and we walk the swaying plank, helped ashore by two crew members. What seductions and delusions await us, for Demeter can’t be happy? Can we keep our minds clear? Need we bring blindfolds? I know there are no sacred cows on this island, but perhaps the goats roaming free belong to the Sun, replacements for the cows slaughtered by Odysseus’s starving crew? We move quickly up the path, all 40 of us. Some of the women reach down to pick oregano just days from flowering. Under the oven of a sun, we reach a level area and walk toward a cluster of walls and buildings that were originally a monastery and small church and now provide the residence for the island’s guardian. The complex is surrounded by a wire fence to keep the goats from eating the riot of wildflowers and green within. It’s clear the goats have destroyed the bio-diversity of this landscape. With simple, elegant moves, the guardian and his wife have made this place beautiful. Gathering off-roof water in the winter rain is a cistern large enough to serve the couple and their mule. Photo-voltaic cells provide power to receive news on a small television. He has made alterations and additions to the courtyard, including a pergola to support grape vines throwing deep, welcome courtyard shade. His home is a finely detailed place—a testament to immediacy, intelligence, and limited means. We ask him about the monastery and he leads some of us into the small church. “Listen to what happened…” It is said that, years ago, there were 40 resident monks living here. On the holy day celebrating the namesake of the church, the monks crowded inside under the gaze of the Pantocrator. They began the ancient chant for the evening’s ‘unsleeping’ liturgy. Suddenly out of the clear evening sky, a ferocious thunderbolt struck the building. The electricity passing through the church dome incinerated everyone except one monk who, a moment before the strike, had stepped outside to tend an animal. As evidence for the story, the guardian points to a long fissure traversing the dome. * * * * * * ** Did the 39 monks deserve such a fate? Was this the work of the surviving Cyclopes, done with the bidding of Zeus who still remains angry at the replacement of the Dodekatheo by the monotheism of Christianity? Gioura is a dangerous place. We’ve been warned. Over the next hour, we wander about this spectacular place, then walk out to a cliff from which we can see the cave of the Cyclops. A small tree crouches windblown at its mouth, and tailings from a recent archaeological dig tumble down the hill. Later, we gather in the courtyard shade and talk. One person expresses surprise at finding such a beautiful place—not at all like what she had been led to believe by her research. Another person says that here is the essence of Greek unspoiled nature. Some of the younger architects suggest to the guardian that they return with clay tiles to replace asbestos sheets on his roof and thereby improve water quality and make the place more “authentic.” I’m impressed, but I fear we are lost. Like so many before us, we are charmed by the spring beauty of Greece—its light and extravagance. It is easy to see ourselves here in this garden of Eden, leaving life’s complexities behind. Most of us are architects, and our first impulse is to repair, improve, and extend. Aristidis and Phillipos had emphasized that we should not betray “the suspension of our ideas”—not choose an island identity through design. Perhaps they knew the danger that lay in the power of the island’s seduction? Perhaps they were proposing impotence? Perhaps they wanted to see if abstinence might play a role? It was so easy to think how the clarity of the logical mind could transform this place into “a Center for Ecological Study and Sustainable Recreation,” which was described as follows. “Listen to what could happen…” With extensive governmental support assured, the groups hoping to protect Gioura as a research park have been able to implement their ideas. Although the Mediterranean seals have been lost, refuges for other endangered species have been built on the island, together with a research clinic testing feeding patterns.         Anchored in the sea off the south end of the island, four permanent buoys accommodate ecological tourists in canoes, sailboats, and cruise vessels arriving daily. A high-tech funicular has been installed to bring visitors up to the meadow to see experiments in hydroponic agriculture that supports the island’s small but growing research community.         Recently, some hostels have been built at sheltered locations on the island. Made from biodegradable materials, these constructions have minimal impact on the landscape. All waste is intricately recycled, then removed from the island. Power is generated by wind turbines and photo voltaics. Because of its environmentally aggressive policies, Gioura is becoming much better known, nationally and internationally. * * * * * * * * But this vision of what Gioura might become assumes an island identity that is active and aggressive. The “battle” is joined. But is this mindset nothing more than Promethean progress in a different guise? Where is abstinence and reflection? Where is humility in the face of Demeter’s demands? Is active resistance the only alternative to passive ignorance? I leave the group, find a shaded wall, and sink to the warm earth overrun with poppies. A cat appears, stretches her neck for a rub, and saunters off. Seduced by beauty, I can’t help thinking that, at any moment, “an ethereal form, vague and undefined, might swiftly pass me by.” Of course, there is also the chance that Zeus might discharge another lightning bolt into the midst of these beautiful young people unknowingly involved in this illicit affair. What could be done on Gioura to make amends? To be clear but humble, to accept uncertainty yet look for allies? Is there not a time and place to allow for dreaming, for welcoming back the stories that might help us shape our lives in a more ethical way? Is it time for the legacy of Prometheus to give way to his brother’s? Maybe Epimetheus was not “blundering and slow-witted”? Maybe, as his name suggests, he was the one who looked back and learned from the results of action—the one who refrained from folly that angered the Gods. His death, unlike his brother’s, is nowhere reported as a bloody, blazing glory. Maybe right up unto death, he lived in harmony with himself? How would one foster a place for reflection? Such an effort would need to be free to the imagination and without dogma. In this sense, we need only allow the wealth of stories that are part of Greece’s history to have free domain. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow are equal in what they can teach us. Most reflective and religious practices work toward a meditative state where time is set free. But we need to give such mental space a recognizable identity. It needs to be placed. You don’t have to be a poet like Cavafy to feel the spirit of the past living in the present over this island. For centuries, the Greeks have taken in the story of their Hellenic heritage. This presence is a gift to the Western world beyond politics or time. Greece is now emerging from the monoculture of the last 70 years, back into the light of cultural diversity, its ancient destiny. Surely it is time to allow the ancient imagination to reappear as well—to weave metaphors around the painful choices that must be made and to help us moderns understand the humility of doubt, the courage of inaction, the wisdom of restraint, and the beauty of abstention. Could it be that right here on Gioura we could make a first step to call on these ancient Greek allies by abstaining collectively from the environmental destruction our illogical and poetically thin culture seems so addicted to? * * * * * * ** As the poppies wink, I scribble down some laws for Gioura—Nine Steps To Claim the Greek Island of Gioura as a Precinct Sacred to the Twelve Gods: Remove the island of Gioura and the three small islands of Prasso from the jurisdiction and control of Mt. Athos, the Greek Orthodox Church, and the national state of Greece. Administer these islands as an International Trust in the European Parliament; this act would give the islands permanent identity as a sacred site dedicated to the Dodekatheo, the 12 Gods; the precinct would continue to operate within the rules of the surrounding Marine Park. Relocate all Gioura goats to other islands within the marine Park. Abandon all human residence on Gioura; no guards, no visitors, just walk away. Forever. Remove all watercraft facilities, including berthing aids. Forbid human access to Gioura; enforce by imposing severe penalties for trespass. Initiate GPS global monitoring of the islands. On the most western island of Prasso, promote an enclosure in honor of Demeter, allowing visitors to carry in one stone no heavier than five kilograms to be placed in the enclosure wall. Allow no temple honoring Demeter to be built on Prasso before the year 2115. I’m the last person left in the enclosure. With the day ending, the others descend the switchback path. Catching up, I look down on our boat as it sways suspended above the deep blue water, still ablaze with the last of the slanting sunlight. I wonder if Demeter would be pleased to be honored on this island? Or is it too late for Zeus and the two remaining Cyclopes? Or are they still waiting, making ready one last lightning bolt? Sources Quoted Callasso, Roberto. The Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony (NY: Vintage, 1994). Cavafy, Constantine. “Ionic” [“Ionikon”] in Complete Poems of Cavafy (NY: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1961) ______. Larousse World Mythology (London: Hamlyn, 1965). Servi, Katerina. Greek Mythology (Athens: Ekdotike Athenon, 1997).