Chasing Gods And Heroes

By Roger Wanless

As you journey through Greece with the author you will discover how Herakles created the Milky Way; why Aphrodite, the goddess of love, had no parents; and you will be amused to learn of the favourite party trick of Diogenes, the Cynic philosopher, as he strolled, stark naked, through the market place.

On Crete you will be intrigued to see how the ancient Greeks wrote both forwards and backwards. At the site of the ancient Olympics you will be surprised to learn how, in 564 BC, Arrhichion won the all-in wrestling even though he was dead; and you will blush to learn what wrestlers did with their willies before they competed.

All of that, and much, much more. So join the author as he wanders through a fabled and fabulous land, chasing gods and heroes, and having a whole lot of fun on the way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roger Wanless
• Release date: May 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781093379495

Book preview

PART 1

CENTRAL CRETE

Chapter 1

In Greece one has the desire to bathe in the sky. You want to rid yourself of your clothes, take a running leap, and vault into the blue.

Henry Miller – The Colossus of Maroussi

GOOD GRIEF, I SAID, you surely don’t think I’m leaving home?

She was sitting opposite me, my good wife, and staring at me intently. I had, on that balmy Sunday afternoon, just made a startling announcement.

There is something eating me up. I can’t help myself. I just have to do this. There will be financial implications but we will get by.

She was still staring at me.

What are you thinking? I asked.

She smiled.

I know, you fool. I know what this is about. I can see ‘GREECE’ written in capitals across your forehead.

I only needed a few weeks, maybe a little more, and asked whether she and Sarah would join me.

No, definitely not. I know what’s going on here. You need to do it by yourself. We would just be a distraction. Now go.

SO OFF I WENT, EXCITED and enthused beyond measure, to fulfill a long-held dream. Off, on what for me, was an adventure of a lifetime, following in the footsteps of gods and heroes.

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This had all started many, many decades earlier. I was six years old and had fallen in love twice, in quick succession. The cause of the first bout was a little pony-tailed cutie-pie named Linda who sat directly in front of me in class through many years of schooling. It was doomed from the start. Come to think of it, it had all the hallmarks of a Greek tragedy - unrequited love, hubris, hopeless expectations, self-delusion, temporary insanity, and finally, tears. It had almost everything in fact, except incest, miraculous conceptions, and murder. In any event, she was always top of the class whilst I was at the other end. For that reason alone she would have nothing whatever to do with me.

The second occasion was brought about by the very first thing that I remember learning; the initial bit of information to penetrate my dense little pre-pubescent brain. Our teacher told us of a magical island far, far away and long ago, where the king and queen lived in a great palace. The men were strong, tanned, and athletic whilst the women were beautiful and adorned with exquisite jewellery. He also mentioned that these gorgeous ladies went about bare-chested. That only served to add to my lust for Linda.

The youth indulged in fantastic sports such as leaping over the backs of charging bulls. But, horror of horrors, there lived in the basement a fierce monster. Half man, half bull, the Minotaur had been created by an indescribably disgusting act involving the queen and a real bull that the teacher was not at liberty to describe to us. And it gobbled up people on a regular basis. Good heavens, we nearly pooped ourselves!

Help was at hand however. A great hero named Theseus arrived and did the monster in. Well thank goodness for that. But I was in love again. That little episode planted in me a seed that grew over time into a mighty tree - an olive tree of course. It was only many years later that I discovered that the name of that fabulous island was Crete. I first set foot on it as a young man, and I have been back many times since. We are now old lovers.

I wonder whatever happened to Linda?

✽✽✽

Over twelve years later, that childhood infatuation with a magical island was rekindled. The thing is, you see, the study of Latin at school and university was compulsory in those days for students who wished to follow the arcane practice of the law. Now all that stuff about declensions and conjugations, amo, amas , amat and whatever, did not interest me in the slightest. What did get me going was delving into mythology. Our major set work (at least sections of it) was the epic poem, the ‘Metamorphoses’ by the great Roman poet, Ovid. That took me straight to Greek mythology and the wonderful stories of gods and heroes. On the way were names that will be familiar to my readers – Narcissus, Hyancinthus, Echo, Pygmalion, Hermaphroditus, and many more.

(The adoption by the Romans of Greek mythology is a complicated story and way beyond the scope of this book. Suffice to say that the Romans embraced Greek mythology, absorbed into their worship most of the Greek pantheon, and shamelessly copied many aspects of Greek culture.)

In any event, for me it was like meeting up with my first love.

Six years later, and on my maiden voyage overseas, it was predestined that the first place I should set foot on in Europe was Crete. The Greeks call it ‘The Great Island’. Within twenty-four hours I had exited the main town, Irakleion, decamped to a small village near to where the Minotaur used to live and, in a manner quite fortuitous, had taken up employment as a labourer with a local farmer.

My job was to crawl, on all fours, along the length of a field, back and forth, extracting potatoes from the freshly ploughed earth. They had been thus exposed by an ox and plough. The work was hard. The stench from the ox as he contributed to greenhouse gas emissions was even harder.

Hesiod, the celebrated poet who wrote around 760 BC, has left us a precise description of this self-same agricultural activity in his day. He even describes the wood used for the plough – oak and elm. Nothing had changed.

The family and I would take our lunch of bread, cucumber, olives, feta and wine under the olive trees bordering the field. On a few evenings I was invited to their home for supper. They spoke no English. My only Greek at that time was: Hello, I am from South Africa. You have beautiful eyes. Yet we communicated perfectly.

I have never forgotten their humility and kindness. Several years ago I returned to where their modest farm and homestead had been. It was no more. Where I once listened to the jingle of goats’ bells, the braying of donkeys, and the dee-dah dee-dah of the bus as it lurched out of the village, and where I had inhaled the aromas of freshly-dug earth, various herbs, olive oil and retsina, was now a modern road flanked by ‘English’ pubs and fast-food joints.

And everywhere, crawling all over the place, like so many rats, were the ubiquitous package tourists who have increasingly come to pollute a beautiful corner of our planet. As Zorba would have said (albeit in another context) I spit on them!

✽✽✽

Which brings me back, after countless more visits to a country that I fancifully think of as a second home, to that afternoon on the patio. What set it all off was this: some months before, somewhere just after middle age, I had been required to take early retirement. The financial services company of which I was the chief executive was sold by the controlling shareholder in London to one of our local competitors. It was a case of ‘Take your pen and pencil set, off you go, and jolly good luck to you’. Well, stuff you too. In retrospect it was one of the best favours ever extended to me.

After a few months sitting in the garden reading newspapers and doing little else, I developed this craving. I had had a stomach-full of writing corporate statements, reports and strategies. Now I wanted to write about Greece; about the fabulous gods and heroes of old, the joy and suffering of the modern Greeks, my own wonderful experiences, and of a love affair that has now endured for over fifty years.

✽✽✽

A simple holiday would not do. This required a personal quest. I would follow in the footsteps of the likes of the divine Zeus, Aphrodite, Apollo, and Athena; of great mythical heroes such as Herakles, Jason, and Theseus; and of those statesmen, poets, sculptors, and philosophers of the classical era who have left an indelible, profound and everlasting mark on the entire course of western civilisation. As it turned out, my quest resulted in three separate but interlinked journeys.

I wanted once more to stand above the chasm at Delphi where the crazed priestesses of Apollo uttered their sometimes incomprehensible oracular prophesies; ferret around in the basement of the (partially restored) great Minoan palace at Knossos where the Minotaur, who scared the hell out of me as a six year old, is said to have lived; sprint the length of the stadium at Olympia where Exaentos and other famous athletes claimed their victories; rest on the spot where the great sculptor Pheidias created the forty-foot high gold and ivory statue of Zeus, one of the wonders of the ancient world; sit in the forum at ancient Corinth where the famed Cynic philosopher, Diogenes, rested, as he is said to have told Alexander (subsequently the Great) to go jump in the lake; stand on the plinth where Demosthenes, said by many classical scholars to be the most accomplished orator of all time, delivered his speeches. The list just goes on and on.

So off I went, with two spare sets of shirts, socks, and briefs, my toothbrush as well as my pen and notebook packed into a small rucksack that fitted neatly on by back. More importantly, I took with me my memories, my imagination, my dreams, my wonder and my hunger; almost all of me in fact. And I left my wife, but only temporarily.

And my first stop? Why, Crete of course. I had a wonderful time just getting there. And a funny thing happened on the way to the Forum.

Chapter 2

The older I get the wilder I become. The longer I live the more I rebel. I’m  not going to give in, I want to conquer the world.

Alexis Zorba

THAT’S WHAT I LIKE about Zorba. He shows so many of the characteristics of the great heroes of Greek mythology – never say die; nothing is impossible; what can possibly stop me? And also, quite often, a totally naïve understanding of the perils up ahead.

My destination was the ‘Great Harbour’ at Pireas but I decided to stop off at the ancient agora (translated as both ‘forum’ and ‘marketplace’). On the way I passed the remains of what had been the later Roman forum. It was still early, and with the gate locked I was obliged to stand on the sidewalk and peer down at the venerable old ruins.

Whilst wondering whether Julius Caesar, who I once read had helped finance the construction of the forum, had cracked open a bottle of bubbly at its opening, I was startled by the loud peeling of church bells directly behind me. A number of large stray dogs were lying nearby in the early morning sun. They were startled as well, for as one man, or dog, they all stood up and howled.

I LAUGHED OUT LOUD and punched the air in delight. Here I am, starting out on what I knew was going to be one of the most interesting journeys of my life and I am given a send-off by church bells and howling dogs. Now here’s the thing – we philhellenes, as did the ancient Greeks, pay particular attention to omens. This surely had to be propitious.

I was still laughing and waving my arms about when a fellow passing by asked "ti kanete? That is the usual greeting for how are you? but taken quite literally it translates as what are you doing?" Judging by his demeanor and tone, that is exactly what he meant.

This is fantastic. Here I am, about to start my personal quest and, quite unsolicited, I receive a triumphant parting gift from a musical ensemble comprising representatives from both humankind and the canine species.

Of course I said nothing of the sort. How the devil would I know how to say that in Greek? But it is what I wanted to say. I confined myself to a polite kala, ke seis (Fine, and you?)

✽✽✽

Then it was off to the classical era agora. I presented myself at the ticket office.

"Poo eeneh to anthropi?" I asked the attendant in my kitchen Greek. Where are all the people?

No one was about. The fellow either did not understand my attempt at his own tongue or he did not care. Either way, he said nothing and returned to his newspaper.

I stepped into what has been described as a ‘vast bombed site’. No matter, this would be the first of many occasions when I would conjure up memories and let my imagination run wild. This wonderful place, the classical era forum, was the commercial, administrative and social heart of Athens in the time of its greatest glory. In the fifth century BC there occurred in and around this space the greatest explosion and development of art, literature, philosophy, and intellectual thought that the planet had ever witnessed; a great, stupendous flowering, and given the timescale of human history, it happened in less than the blink of an eye.

The site today, not much more than a hundred metres in each direction, has only two standing structures. At one end is the Stoa of Attalus. Originally constructed in the second century BC by King Attalus of Pergamon in Asia Minor, a noted and generous philhellene, it was not long after destroyed together with most of the other buildings on the site. It was entirely rebuilt in the 1950’s courtesy of the American School of Archaeology. The ancient equivalent of a shopping mall, it had forty-two shops along the length of the rear wall. The front of the building was open, with elegant columns every few metres to support the roof. There would have been something for everyone – meat and fish, corn and vegetables, as well as household implements, fabrics and jewellery. Horses and slaves would also have been traded there, or at least in the vicinity.

There were several stoa in the agora, one of the most famous being the ‘Painted Stoa’ that was, according to eye-witness accounts that have come down to us, decorated with the most stunning wall paintings.

The word stoa, incidentally (probably best translated in English as ‘colonnade’), lives on in that language in the word ‘stoic’, for it was in one of the stoa in the agora that the Cynic philosophers held their meetings.

✽✽✽

I made my way to the opposite end of the precinct where stands the only other structure on the site – the small temple dedicated to Hephaestus, the smithy god. Built just before the great Parthenon, it was the first temple in Greece to be constructed entirely out of marble and is in a fairly good state of repair. The roof is still mostly intact, a rare achievement for an ancient Greek temple.

Hephaestus, although included in the pantheon of Olympic gods, was not one of the leading lights. He was lame and ugly, was rather colourless, and generally minded his own business, working all day at his mighty forge, fashioning the most fabulous armour and all manner of metallic works of art. Among his many wonderful creations was the armour that the greatest of all Greek warriors, Achilles, wore at Troy before he faced his doom.

Some said that Hephaestus’ parents were Zeus, the father and boss of the Olympians, and Hera, who was Zeus’ wife and sister. (The Greek gods had a habit of doing that sort of thing – which helps explain why many of them were occasionally deranged).  Others said that he had only one parent, namely Hera, in which case he is one of the earliest recorded cases of ‘parthenogenesis’ (virgin birth). The word is pure Greek